Evidence (11 page)

“What,
sir?”

“A
cult of the ignorant. Using recycled cardboard as if it is platinum. Exposing
ducts, planting grass on the roof, substituting raw wood for fine finishes.
Reprocessing sewer water entitles one to a badge of ascetic honor? A cult,
Lieutenant. Self-consciously ironic and aesthetically phony.”

“Smog
doesn’t bother you?”

Kotsos said,
“Ugly
will not solve
smog
.
There is
nothing
new under the sun. The only meaningful question is who
gets to hold the reflective lens.”

Passion
had propelled him closer to the edge of the chair. Pink had spread under his
tan.

Milo
said, “So you’ve never heard of Gemein, Holman, and Cohen.”

“I
have not. Where are they located?”

“Venice.”

“I go
to Venice,
Italy
. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“You’re
a large firm,” said Milo. “How many partners do you have?”

“I
have never counted.”

“There
are no names listed on your door.”

“This,”
said Kotsos, “is not a primary office.”

“What
is it?”

“We
interview clients from the West Coast here.”

“Would
dozens of partners worldwide be a fair estimate?”

“Quite
fair.”

“Toss
in a bunch of assistants and we’re talking a lot of people, Mr. Kotsos. So if
Desmond Backer applied for a job, you wouldn’t necessarily be aware of that.”

Kotsos
laced his fingers. “If he was hired by this office, I would know.”

“What
if you turned him down?”

Kotsos
tugged at his caftan. “One moment.”

Six
minutes later, he was back. “There is no record of anyone named Backer applying
for anything. However, in all honesty, I cannot eliminate the possibility. We
don’t keep paper records of rejects.” Crooked smile. “All in the interest of
saving trees, so that we may slice them up for veneer. Now if you’ll—”

“Do
any of your international projects include Germany, Mr. Kotsos?”

“It’s all on the website. I really need to go. There
is a plane to Athens departing tonight and I have not yet packed.”

“Rebuilding
the Acropolis?”

Kotsos
guffawed. “That would be a nice challenge, but no. I am traveling for Mama’s
cooking. Tomorrow is her birthday, she hates restaurants.”

“Spanakopita,
keftedes, skordalia?”

Kotsos’s
eyelids half lowered. “You are a gourmet, Lieutenant?”

“More
like a gourmand.”

Kotsos
regarded his own paunch. Two sumos, facing off. “I agree, Lieutenant, there is
no substitute for the occasional bacchanalia. Nice talking to you.”

“One
more thing.” Out came the death photo.

Markos
Kotsos narrowed his eyes. Placed gold-framed pince-nez on the bridge of a meaty
nose. Frowning, he reached into a pant pocket, brandished a white remote the
size of a matchbook.

Nothing
on the face but a single red button. He jabbed. The glass door clicked open.

“You
had best come in.”

We
followed Kotsos’s bouncy waddle up a Makassar ebony corridor lined with
mural-sized photos and renderings of Masterson’s projects. Resorts, office
complexes, government towers in Hong Kong, Singapore, the Emirates, oil-rich
sultanates like Brunei and Sranil. Despite all the talk of harmony, the
buildings were an ominous collection: looming megaliths, shark-nosed
sky-eaters, crenellated monsters armored with steel and gold plating, slathered
with quarriesful of marble, granite, onyx. In some cases the design aesthetic
began by recalling classical motifs but shifted quickly to a cold, brutal
forecast of a Darwinian future.

Spoils
to the victor, higher and wider is better, audacious is divine.

Against
all that, for all its palatial presumptions, the house on Borodi was puny
classical pretense that didn’t fit. Neither did a confidentiality
agreement to recover fees that would pale in comparison
with Masterson’s typical commissions.

Kotsos
picked up his pace, Jane’s photo still in hand, flapping against his hip. We
hurried past a dozen unmarked office doors. Silence behind each one. Maybe good
soundproofing, but it felt more like no-one-home. At the end of the hallway
blocking straight access to Kotsos’s corner suite sat a young, straw-haired woman
wearing a formfitted, plum-colored suit from the thirties. Black desk, pink
laptop. Her fingers kept moving before she deigned to look up.

“Elena,”
said Kotsos, showing her the picture, “what was this woman’s name?”

Not
missing a beat, Elena said, “Brigid Ochs.”

Milo
said, “You’ve got a good memory.”

“I
do,” said Elena. Brassy Slavic voice, edged with disdain.

Kotsos
said, “She is dead, Elena.”

“So I
gather.”

Milo
said, “Tell us about her.”

“What’s
to tell? She was a disaster.”

“How
so?”

“She
was hired for backup. Nothing complicated, just relief on the phone, and
all-purpose assistance when I travel with Mr. Kotsos or have to be away from my
desk for any reason. Her résumé was impressive. Executive sec at eBay and
Microsoft and two venture capital firms in Los Gatos, and she appeared bright
and eager. Later, we found out everything was forged. So much for
that
agency.”

Kotsos
looked stunned. “Elena, I never knew—”

“No
need. I protect you.”

Milo
said, “Which agency—”

“Kersey
and Garland. We no longer use them.”

“What
was their excuse for not vetting her properly?”

“They
were as much victims as we were.” Snort. “If they’d bothered to actually check
her references, a lot of trouble could’ve been avoided.”

“What, specifically, did Brigid do wrong, ma’am?”

Elena
turned to Kotsos. “Brace yourself: I caught her going places she shouldn’t be
going.” Tapping the rim of the laptop.

“Oh,
no,” said Kotsos.

“Not
to worry, she got nothing.”

“Cyber-snooping?”
said Milo.

“There
was no reason for her to be anywhere near the files. Her job was to meet my
needs.”

“How’d
you catch her?”

“Keystroke
buddy program,” she said. “Every move she made was traced. I do it routinely.
To ensure confidentiality.” Back to Kotsos. “You see? No worry.”

He
said, “Yes, yes, thank you.”

Milo
said, “Where’d she go other than company files?”

“Nowhere,”
said Elena. “And she got no further than addresses, which she could find anyway
in public records. Because I password-protect each and every file. But that was
not the point. She had no business sticking her nose in.”

“Who
was hired to replace her?”

“No
one. I don’t want help, it’s not worth the time and effort to train someone.”

Milo
said, “What else can you tell us about her?”

“Poor
taste in clothes,” said Elena. Taking in his rumpled poly tie, saggy chinos and
smiling. Kotsos’s wrinkled outfit didn’t draw a glance.

“Poor
taste, how?”

“Bad
fabrics, poor silhouette, careless fit. With outlets and the Internet, there’s
no excuse for not dressing well. I should’ve known her carelessness would
extend to work.”

“Sounds
like she was more devious than careless.”

“Yes,
I suppose you’re right.”

“What
about Desmond Backer?”

“Who?”

“An
architect who died with her.”

“An architect,” said Elena. “Perhaps she had some sort
of fixation.”

Markos
Kotsos said, “But of course. Architects are dashing fellows.”

Elena
smirked. “Your limo to LAX and your pickup in Athens are confirmed. I have
ordered irises for your mother. Blue, I assume that’s okay.”

“Perfect.
Thank you.”

Milo
said, “Could we please have an address for that agency?”

“Not
necessary,” said Elena. “Take the elevator to the ground floor.”

As we
waited by the elevator, a nervous fellow in pinstripes passed by, tugging at
his hair.

Milo
said, “Know anything about Masterson?”

The
banker stopped. Frowned. Muttered, “Ghost town,” and continued.

Ding
. We boarded. I said, “Masterson’s basically a West
Coast clearinghouse office.”

“Just
Kotsos and that little battleax. Maybe they launder money for an oil cartel or
run an international human smuggling ring or lobby for some cannibalistic
dictatorship. The question is, what was Brigid Ochs curious about?”

“DSD
used to be headquartered in D.C. The smell of international intrigue grows more
intense.”

He
rubbed his face. “With friends like you.”

Kersey
and Garland, Executive Search and Human Resource Consultants, was tucked into a
corner past the ground-floor snack bar, not far from the public restrooms.

The
weary older woman who sat at the front desk looked at Jane’s photo. “Oy, her
again.
Now
what?”

Jody
Millan
on her desk plaque. Framed
shots of face-painted, costumed grandchildren cluttered her desk.

Milo said, “Again?”

“That’s
Brigid Ochs. We dropped her.”

“She’s
been dropped permanently, ma’am.”

“Pardon?”

“Someone
murdered her.”

Jody
Millan went white. “My God … that’s a… whatever you call it… morgue shot? I
wasn’t wearing my glasses.”

“You
recognized her without them.”

“That
much I could see, but…” Out came half-specs. “Oh, my God, I’m getting nauseous.
Who did it?”

“That’s
what we’re here to find out, ma’am.”

“Then
you came to the wrong place. She hasn’t been with us for months.”

“After
lying about her credentials to get the job at Masterson.”

“She
sent you here,” said the woman. “The Russian,
should’ve figured. I’ll bet she enjoyed pointing the finger. One little
slip-up, she couldn’t wait to fire us.”

“Elena?”

“I
got her that job and it sure as hell paid off, didn’t it?”

“What
do you mean?”

“She
started as the boss’s secretary, ended up snagging him.”

“The
boss being Mr. Kotsos? She’s Mrs. Kotsos.”

“The
fourth,” said Millan. “And no doubt determined to be the last.” Wicked smile.
“Are you checking
her
out? She was furious at Brigid.”

“Is
there anything interesting in her past?”

Millan
picked up a pencil. “Honestly, no. She was crackerjack. Worked for a top exec
at Kinsey and did a bang-up job. And I suppose she had a right to be upset.
Still, Brigid was extremely convincing. It’s not as if Elena picked anything
up, herself.”

“Brigid
was a good actress?”

“This
town, we get plenty of that, you’d be amazed at the b.s. I get handed. But
Brigid didn’t come across that way, not at all.”

I
said, “She wasn’t theatrical.”

“Just the opposite, quiet, well mannered, didn’t play
herself up at all. Such a pretty girl but she didn’t make the most of it.
Almost like she wanted to avoid attention. I know we should’ve run a
background, but Elena was impatient, needed someone
now.”

“Could
we see the application?”

“Sorry,
we don’t keep records once they leave us.”

“Recycling?”

“There’s
no need to hold on to trash. I can tell you what she claimed, because I
interviewed her personally. Guess I shouldn’t claim credit for that. But I’m
not going to beat myself up, she came across bright, calm, articulate, eager to
please. I don’t get deeply into personal data but I do like to get a feel for
the person, so I asked her about her background, the basics of her social life.
She said she was single and happy to be so. I took that as maybe she was
recently divorced or out of a bad relationship. She said she grew up in the
Pacific Northwest, claimed to work for one of Bill Gates’s top assistants, then
said she moved to Los Gatos and spent some time at a tech venture capitalist,
then on to eBay, where she did website organization. Her skills seemed perfect
for what Elena claimed she needed.”

“Claimed?”

“Trust
me, nothing will make that woman happy,” said Millan. “Truth is, she doesn’t
want anyone else up there but her and Kotsos. Though, if you ask me, he’s gay.”

“Odd
couple,” said Milo.

“Hey,”
she said. “This is L.A.”

I
said, “Masterson’s office seems pretty laid-back.”