Evidence (4 page)

“If
you’re asking, in that peculiarly prudish American way, if I speak from
personal experience, the answer is no. My information comes from the other
women who worked here. Each of them discovered that Des had requested to screw
her.”

“Requested?”

“Des
was polite. He always said ‘please.’”

“You
didn’t fire him?”

“Why
would I?”

“That’s
pretty blatant workplace harassment.”

“Policeman,” she said, “one can only be harassed if
one contextualizes herself as helpless. Everyone said yes. Des is a handsome
man. In an immature way.”

“How
exactly did you learn about all this, Ms. Gemein?”

“That
is a voyeuristic question.”

“My
job can get that way.”

She
touched a hemp earring. “There was a staff meeting. Des was away from the
office on something or another and Judah Cohen was in Milan, so no men. If you
knew anything about women, you’d know that, plus alcohol loosens tongues. One
of them had seen another go off with Des after work and wondered out loud. It
didn’t take long to compare notes. Everyone agreed he was attentive and reasonably
endowed, but lacking in creativity.”

I
said, “How many women are we talking about?”

“Three.”

“Four
women at the meeting, but only three were propositioned.”

“If
you are asking in that American way if I am homosexual, I am not. Though I am
not opposed to homosexuality on moral grounds. Why did I not screw Des? He did
not appeal to me.”

“He
never came on to you?”

Blinking,
she caressed the top of her head. “We maintained a professional relationship.”

Milo
took out his pad. “Could I please have the other women’s names?”

Helga
Gemein smiled. “I will talk slowly: Number one, Sheryl Passant, our
receptionist.” Waiting until he’d copied. “Number two, Bettina Sanfelice, a
dull girl who served as an intern. Number three, Marjorie Holman.”

“Your
former partner.”

“Correct.”

“Des
didn’t see the need for a professional relationship with her.”

“Marjorie
and I disagree on many levels.”

“Marjorie
has no problem mixing business with pleasure.”

“You’re being simplistic, Policeman.
Everything
is business and
everything
is pleasure. It is Marjorie who fails to
integrate the two.”

“What
do you mean?”

“She
insists on drawing arbitrary boundaries—creates imaginary rules so that she can
delight in violating them.”

“Forbidden
fruit,” said Milo.

“Marjorie
is quite the nibbler.”

“Is
she married?”

“Yes.
Now I must go.”

Milo
asked her for addresses and phone numbers of the three women. Marjorie
Holman’s, she knew by heart. For the others, she consulted a BlackBerry.

“Now
I will walk you out.”

He
showed her the female victim’s death shot.

Helga
Gemein examined the image. “What is this?”

“A
woman who died along with Mr. Backer.”

“So
it was sexual.”

“Why
do you say that?”

“Des
with a woman. What else could it be?”

Milo
smiled. “Maybe a meaningful spiritual relationship?”

Helga
Gemein headed for the door.

We
tagged along. I said, “How well did Des do his job?”

“Adequately.
Before we dissolved, I’d contemplated letting him go.”

“Why?”

“The
pathetic state of our planet demands better than adequate.”

Helga
Gemein marched through the courtyard and continued north on Main.

“Good
stamina, considering those stilettos,” said Milo. “What a charmer.”

“Don’t
think of her as hostile,” I said. “Just philosophically consistent.”

“What’s
the philosophy?”

“Humanity
is a blot on nature.”

“That’s
kind of psychopathic—and she didn’t react emotionally to Backer’s death. Hang
out with her, no need for air-conditioning.”

“Personal
coolant,” I said. “There’s a green concept for you.”

“Backer
jumps anything with ovaries but doesn’t come on to her. Maybe the jealousy you
felt at the scene was anger at being rejected.”

“Woman
scorned? Those stilettos would set off clacks on plywood.”

He
sighted up Main. Crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Asking women to
screw. If Backer’s libido was really that over-the-top, it
expands
the potential suspect base to every hetero male in L.A. … wonderful.”

He
scanned the addresses Gemein had provided. “The receptionist and the intern are
both out in the Valley, but naughty Ms. Holman lives right here in Venice,
Linnie Canal.”

“That’s
about a mile in,” I said. “We could walk.”

“Oh,
sure. And I’m gonna wear spandex bicycle shorts.”

Finding
the nearest entrance to the canal district, and manipulating the byzantine
network of one-ways and dead-ends by car, turned a geographic hop into a
half-hour excursion. Once we got within eyeshot of Linnie Canal, the closest
parking spot was two blocks east.

The
canals are a century old, the product of a feverish mind devolving to yet
another patch of high-priced real estate. The visionary in question, an
eccentric named Abbot Kinney, had dug and dredged sinuous waterways, dreaming
of replicating the original island city. A hundred years later, most of the
quirky, original bungalows had been replaced by close-set McMansions high above
footpaths.

A
squared-off hedge echoed the curves of the canal. Nice place to stroll, but no
pedestrians in sight. The water was green and opaque, flecked with hyacinth and
the occasional bit of trash. Ducks floated by, pausing to bob for food. A
seagull faked a dive-bomb, changed course, landed on a nearby roof and squawked
a nasal, political diatribe. Maybe he felt the same as Helga Gemein about
humanity.

Milo
said, “Always liked it here. To visit, not to live.”

“What’s
wrong with living here?”

“Too
hard to escape.”

Marjorie
Holman’s residence was two steeply pitched stories of white-clapboard,
blue-shuttered chalet, eaves bearded by jigsawed trim, a porthole window over
the door suggesting the kind of seafood joint where deep-fry orders are placed
at the counter.

“Not exactly postmodern,” muttered Milo. “Whatever the
hell that means.”

A
wide, concrete ramp sloped up to a wooden deck. Rattan furniture was
distributed randomly. Potted geraniums sat on the rail. One corner was taken up
by a mammoth gas-powered barbecue with more controls than my Seville’s
dashboard. The goofy-looking dolphin riding the wall above the grill hadn’t
weathered well: aging Flipper on Quaaludes.

French
doors made up the wall facing the canal. All that glass meant lots of energy
loss; no solar panels in sight. A bell on a leather thong in lieu of an
electric buzzer was the sole nod to conservation.

Milo
tugged the thong. A deep male voice hollered, “Hold on.”

Seconds
later, a man rolled out in a motorized wheelchair. A navy T-shirt was stretched
tight over rhino shoulders and abdominal bulk. Khaki trousers were barely
defined by stick-legs. He looked to be sixty or so, with a full head of coarse
gray hair and a bushy beard to match.

“Help
you?”

“Police,
sir. Is Marjorie Holman in?”

“Police?
What’s going on?”

“Someone
who worked for Ms. Holman’s firm was murdered.”

“You’re
kidding.” Rapid eyeblink. “Who?”

“Desmond
Backer.”

“Des.”

“You
knew him.”

“He
came over a few times to show Marjie drawings. Murdered? That’s grotesque. How
did it happen?”

“He
was shot, Mr. Holman.”

“Ned.”
A meaty hand shot forward. His lips turned down. “Marjie’s going to be
extremely upset by this, I should be the one to tell her—why don’t you guys
come on in?”

He
reversed the wheelchair into the house, motored across a big, bright room to
the bottom of an ornate oak staircase. The entire ground floor was open space
that maximized light. Sparse furnishings allowed easy turns of the chair.

Ned Holman cupped a hand to his mouth. “Honey? Could
you please come down?”

“What
is it?”

“Please
come down, Marjie.”

“Everything
all right, Ned?” Footsteps thumped.

“I’m
fine, just come down, hon.”

Marjorie
Holman had bounced halfway down the stairs when she saw us and stopped. Tall
and angular with a blue-gray pageboy, she had long limbs and a smallish face
dominated by owlish, black-framed glasses. A baggy orange blouse and
straight-leg jeans said little about the body beneath. Barefoot. Pink nails.

“What’s
going on?”

“They’re
the police. It’s about Des Backer. He was murdered.”

A hand
flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

“Sorry,
hon,” said Ned Holman. “This was starting out as a nice day.”

Marjorie
Holman shook our hands limply, went into the kitchen and fortified herself with
a tall pour of Sapphire gin from a frosted blue bottle. Two long swallows
brought a flush to her cheeks. She stared out the window at a coral tree in
flaming bloom.

Her
husband rolled to her side, rubbed the small of her back.

“I’m
okay, Ned.” Turning and facing us: “Can I get you something?”

Wheeling
himself to the fridge, Ned Holman grabbed a handle retrofitted low, yanked the
door open, pulled out a bottle of Budweiser. A quick finger-flick popped the
cap. He caught it in one hand, rolled it between sausage fingers.

Milo
said, “No, thanks.”

Both
Holmans drank. He drained his beer first. She made it through half the gin
before setting the glass down. “I need some air—you’ll be okay if I take a
breather, Ned?”

“Of
course.”

She
motioned us out of the house, hurried down the ramp, turned
right on the footpath. Additional gulls had assembled in
the water, a grumpy quorum.

Marjorie
Holman set out at a slow pace, walked close to the hedge, brushing her hand
along the top. “I’m still in shock. My God, when did this happen?”

“Last
night, ma’am. He was carrying business cards, we just talked to Ms. Gemein.”

“Helga,”
she said. “That must have been interesting.”

“How
so, Ms. Holman?”

“Oh,
come on,” she said. “If you talked to her, you’re not seriously asking that.”

“She
is an interesting woman.”

“Do
you suspect her?”

“Should
we, Ms. Holman?”

“Well,”
she said, “Helga
is
devoid of normal human emotion, but I can’t say she
ever displayed any hostility to Des. In particular.”

“She
was hostile in general?”

“Utterly
asocial. That’s part of why we’re no longer partners. What exactly happened to
Des?”

“He
was shot by an unknown assailant.”

“Good
God.”

“Ma’am,
if there’s something to know about Helga Gemein—or anyone else—now’s the time
to tell us.”

“Plainly
put, Helga is a weirdo, Detective, but do I have a specific reason to think
she’s a murderer? No, I don’t. What I
can
tell you is she’s a fraud, so
anything she says is suspect. The firm never got off the ground because she
conned me and Judah Cohen—the third partner.”

“Conned
how?”

“There
was no
there
there.”

“No
real interest in green architecture?”

“To
use your terminology, there was
alleged
interest,” said Marjorie Holman.
“In Germany, architecture is a branch of engineering, and that’s what Helga is,
a structural engineer. With precious few
skills at
that. She doesn’t have to work because her father owns shipping companies, gets
to play intellectual and global thinker. Judah and I met her at a conference in
Prague where she claimed to have all sorts of backing for an integrated
approach to numerous projects. Judah and I are veterans, we’d both made partner
at decent-sized firms but felt it was time for a change. Helga claimed to
already own office space, right here in Venice, all we had to do was show up
and use our brains. Later we found out she’d sublet the building, had been
chronically late with the rent. Everything else she told us was baloney, as
well. All she wanted to do was talk about
ideas
. Judah and I had both
burned bridges, we’re stuck, it’s a mess. In architecture, you’re Gehry or
Meier, or you’re drafting plans for room additions in San Bernadino.”