Evidence (3 page)

“Nah,
not really. About a year ago—maybe longer, year and a half, I come in one
morning and find dirt. Not up here, on the second floor.”

“Someone
tracked in soil.”

“Person
dirt. You know what I mean.”

“Someone
used the place for a toilet?”

“Right
in the middle of floor two, foot of the stairs. Gross. Also there was food
wrappers—Taco Bell, wax cups, greasy paper. Beans and sauce stains on the floor.
Someone was eating Mexican, then crapping all over.”

“What
a mess,” said Milo.

“I
called the company, they said clean it up. With what? There’s no water, one
broken hose bib out back but no pressure. I said screw that. Why bother,
anyway? What’s to stop the idiot from coming back the next day and doing the
same thing?”

“Did
he?”

“Nope.
But a little later, maybe a month later, some Mexicans came in and ate again.
Thank God they didn’t dump.”

“How
do you know they were Mexicans?”

“Taco
Bell wrappers. And too much for one person.”

“All
kinds of people eat at Taco Bell.”

“Yeah,
well,” said Bryczinski, “all kinds of people don’t leave behind Mexican money.
Idiot coins, pesos, whatever. I checked them out, not worth a thing so I gave
them to my niece, she’s four.”

“Any
other intruders?”

“Nah,
that’s it.”

“No
evidence anyone ever came up here to fool around?”

“Nope.
That second time, I figured some illegal working on one of the other rich-idiot
houses around here had nowhere to go so he slept here. Big surprise to me is
why more idiots don’t break in. I showed you that chain. Do you want to know
about animals?”

“What kind of animals?”

“Critters,”
said Bryczinski, savoring the word. “I find animal dirt all the time. Rats,
mice. Coyotes, I know it’s coyotes because their dirt is these little shriveled
things, look like dry Vienna sausage. I seen plenty of coyote dirt back when I
lived in Fallbrook.”

“Avocado
country,” said Milo.

“Huh?”

“Don’t
they grow avocados in Fallbrook?”

“My
dad was in the navy, we lived in an apartment.”

“Ah …
any visitors during the day, Doyle?”

“Never.
Place is dead.” Bryczinski flinched. “So to speak.”

“Don’t
get bothered by this but like I said I need to ask routine questions of
everyone associated with a homicide.”

The
guard’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“What
were you doing last night?”

“You’re
saying I’m in some kind of suspicion because I found them?”

“Not
at all, Doyle. I need to be thorough.”

Bryczinski
swiped his brow with a uniform sleeve. “Whatever. Last night, I was sleeping. I
get up at four, Mom wakes me up, I hit the hay by nine.”

“You’re
Mom’s sole caretaker.”

“Idiot
cat sure can’t do much.”

Milo
laughed.

The
guard said, “Glad someone thinks it’s funny.”

Milo
watched him hobble down the stairs, wincing. “And the diagnosis is…?”

I said,
“No shortage of pent-up anger, but probably not enough physical strength and
smarts to pull it off.”

“Even
with a gun?”

“You
find any kind of link between him and either one of your victims, I’ll change
my mind.”

“He
claims to have only a flashlight but he could’ve packed. I’ll have uniforms
check the entire property for discarded weapons.
Bryczinski’s
prints are on file because of the security job. Maybe they’ll show up where
they shouldn’t be. Like on the floor, right where they’re laying.”

Another
glance at the bodies. “Cute couple. Tough luck for Ken and Barbie.”

I
said, “Played with like dolls. Then discarded.”

He
re-read Desmond Backer’s business card. “Up for Venice? We’ll take your
gondola.”

Gemein,
Holman, and Cohen weren’t advertising.

Skimpy
oxidized-iron address numerals were placed low on the building’s façade, barely
a foot above the sidewalk. Under that:
GHC: CONCEPTS
.

This
was the south end of Main Street, where calculated edgy nudges random
do-your-thing and parking’s a challenge. Milo said, “Use that pay lot, on me.”

He
flashed his shield to the attendant, had to shell out seven bucks anyway. The
walk back took us past boutiques featuring the kind of clothes you never see
anyone wearing. Sunny weekday morning in Venice, only a scatter of pedestrians,
but a piercing parlor was doing brisk business. Back in his acting days, the
governor had bought up chunks of Main Street, accumulating rental income that
helped finance his new hobby.

Maybe
he owned the architectural firm’s avant-garde charmer.

A
pair of isosceles triangles jousted with each other in precarious tilt, the
larger one pumpkin-orange stucco, the other bluish green aluminum. A black
shroud of solar panel capped the roof. A cement
trough
running along the base was crowded with horsetails, plant-tops lopped with
neurosurgical care.

The
triangles overlapped just enough to provide walk-space for the non-obese.
Milo’s been working on his weight. At a relatively svelte two thirty or so,
there was no need to turn sideways, but he did so anyway. Body-memory runs
long.

Inside
was a courtyard roofed by corrugated metal, bordered by an inch-deep,
rectangular pond. Too shallow for fish; maybe microorganisms frolicked.

The
front door was an oxidized-iron slab. Milo’s knock produced no sound.

No
bell. He said, “Business is either real good or real bad.”

Pounding
harder evoked a sorry thud. He said, “This is gonna hurt,” and poised a foot to
kick. Before he made contact, the slab swung inward silently, catching him off
balance.

A
gorgeous woman with a shaved head watched him stabilize. “What is it?” All the
warmth of a voice-simulator.

She
was thirty-five or so, with some sort of Teutonic accent. Hemp disks the size
of saucers dangled from exquisitely shaped ears. Nothing overtly medical about
her hairlessness; lashes and brows were dark and luxuriant, the eyes below them
a spectacular aqua. Her skull was smooth, round, and tan, stubbled white-blond,
as if rubbed in salt. Like a minimal frame on a painting, the absence of coiffure
emphasized everything else about her. So did a clinging, white tank top,
ectodermal black tights, red spike-heeled boots.

Milo
flashed the badge. “Police, ma’am.”

She
said, “And?”

“We’d
like to speak to someone about Desmond Backer.”

“Des
is in trouble?”

“The
worst kind of trouble, Ms….”

“Desmond
did something illegal?”

“Desmond’s
dead.”

“Dead,”
she said. “And you want to come in.”

She marched back inside, left us to follow. Swinging
her hips and stepping high.

The
interior was one big space, unfurnished but for a black desk and a rolling
chair in a corner. White walls, high windows, carpeting that matched the bald
beauty’s hemp earrings. Skylights in odd places, some of them partially
blackened by the solar panel. Others bore the streaks and splotches of moisture
damage.

The
bald woman sat behind the desk, laid her palms flat. Charcoal-gray manicure,
some kind of mesh effect on the nails. “I have no chairs for you.”

“We’re
fine standing, ma’am.”

“Something
criminal happened to Des.”

“Sorry
to say, ma’am. Mr. Backer was murdered.”

“That
is bad.” Again, the lack of inflection.

“What
can you tell us about him, Ms….”

“Helga
Gemein.”

“You’re
one of the partners.”

“There
are no partners. We are dissolved.”

“As
of when?”

“Six
weeks ago. Don’t ask why.”

“Why?”

Helga
Gemein was in no mood to joke. “Who murdered Des?”

“That’s
what we’re trying to learn,” said Milo. “What can you tell us about him?”

“He
worked here from when we started the firm.”

“Which
was …”

“Twenty
months ago. He was a good draftsman with so-so design skills. He was hired
because he was green.”

“Fresh
out of school?”

“Pardon?”

“Green.”

“No,
no, no,” Helga Gemein scolded. “Green, environmental. Des got his degree at Cal
Poly San Luis Obispo, wrote a thesis on bioenvironmental synchrony.”

I thought of the warring triangles out front, water so
shallow it would evaporate within days.

“The
green approach didn’t work out,” said Milo.

“Of
course it works, why would you say that?”

“The
firm dissolved—”

“People
don’t work out,” said Helga Gemein. “Modern humanity—post-industrial
humanity is a criminal biomechanical disruption of the natural order.
That
is the point of green architecture: reshaping sustainable balance between
components of the life force.”

“Of
course,” said Milo. “So what kind of projects did the firm do?”

“We
planned our mission statement.”

“No
actual buildings?”

Helga
Gemein’s lovely mouth screwed up tight. “In Germany, architecture is a subset
of engineering. The emphasis is upon proper theory and flawless planning. We
saw ourselves as green consultants. What do these questions have to do with
Des?”

“He
was murdered at a construction site, ma’am. An unfinished house in Holmby
Hills.”

Reciting
the address on Borodi Lane.

“So?”

“I
was just wondering—”

“We
never intended to involve ourselves with private housing.”

“This
was large-scale housing, Ms. Gemein. Three-story mansion on a couple of acres.
Mr. Backer was found on the third floor—”

“That
sounds unspeakably vulgar. Id, ego, flashing of the penis. I’d rather design a
yurt.”

“When
did Des Backer leave the firm?”

“When
it dissolved.”

“Did
he find another job?”

“I
wouldn’t know.”

“He
never asked for a reference?”

“He
packed up his desk and left.”

“Was
he angry?”

“Why would he be?”

“Losing
his job.”

“Jobs
come and go.”

“While
he was here, what was he involved with?”

“Des
wanted
to be involved with the Kraeker.”

“What’s
that, ma’am?”

Helga
Gemein’s look said if you needed to ask, you didn’t deserve to know. “The
Kraeker is a performance art gallery scheduled to be built in Basel by the year
2013. My plan is to submit a proposal for heat and light sustainability that
would synchronize with the art itself. Des asked to be assigned to the
preliminary drawings. Obviously, a project of that scope would help his
career.”

“But
it never got that far.”

“That
is not clear. Once I clean up the mess my partners have left me, I may very
well assemble another team. Returning to Europe will be a welcome change.”

“Had
enough of L.A.”

“Quite.”

“Is
there anything you can tell us about Des that could be helpful?”

“His
sexual appetite was conspicuous.”

Milo
blinked. “By conspicuous, you mean—”

“What
I mean,” said Helga Gemein, “is that Des was highly motivated toward maximal
screwing. Was his death sexual in nature?”

“How
do you know that about him, ma’am?”