Evidence (5 page)

Her
nostrils flared. “Helga tired of the game, walked in one day and announced we
were
kaput
. Quote unquote.”

“Theatrical,”
said Milo.

“You
better believe it.”

“That
explain the shaved head?”

“Probably,”
said Marjorie Holman. “When we met her in Prague, she had long blond hair,
looked like Elke Summer. She comes here, she’s Yul Brynner.” Head shake. “She’s
one big piece of performance art. I hate her guts, wish I could tell you she
was murderous but I honestly can’t say that.”

“Tell
us about Des.”

“Nice
kid, we hired him right out of school.”

“He
graduated at thirty,” I said. “Late bloomer?”

“That’s
this generation, adolescence lasts forever. I’ve got two sons around Des’s age
and both of them are still trying to figure it out.”

Milo
said, “The murder took place at a construction site on Borodi Lane in Holmby
Hills. That ring a bell?”

“No,
sorry. In Holmby it would have to be a house.”

“Your
basic thirty-room McPalace.”

“Had
Des found a job at another firm?”

“If he did, he wasn’t carrying their card.”

“If
he wasn’t working there, I can’t imagine what he’d be doing.”

A
plastic kayak lay across the walkway. We bypassed it. Milo said, “In terms of a
personal relationship between yourself and Mr. Backer …”

“There
was none.”

“Ms.
Gemein claimed otherwise, ma’am.”

Marjorie
Holman’s hands curled but her stride didn’t break.

“Ms.
Holman?”

“Nasty
bitch.”

“Nasty
lying
bitch, ma’am?”

Sharp
inhalation. “I have nothing to apologize for.”

“We’re
not judging, Ms. Holman—”

“Of
course you are, judging’s your job.”

“Only
as it applies to murder, ma’am.”

Marjorie
Holman’s laughter was brittle, unsettling. “Well, then, we’re all peachy-dandy
here, because whatever I did or
didn’t
do with Des has
nothing
to
do with murder.”

“We’re
more interested in did than didn’t, ma’am.”

She
didn’t answer. Milo let it ride and the three of us kept walking.

Five
houses later, she said: “You met my husband. He’s been that way for six years.
I’m not going to make tawdry excuses, but neither am I going to apologize for
having needs.”

“Of
course, ma’am.”

“Don’t
patronize me, Detective. I’m not a moron.”

Six
more houses. She picked up speed. A tear track darkened her cheek. “Once.
That’s all it was. Ned doesn’t know and there’s no reason to tell him.”

“I
agree, ma’am.”

“He
was tender, it was almost like being with another woman. Not that I’d know
about that … it was a crazy thing to do, I regret it. But at the time …” Drying
her tears with her sleeve. “One of my sons is the same age as Des and if you
don’t think that made me feel sleazy,
you’re wrong. It
was never going to happen again and I was not going to torture myself.”

She
stopped short, touched Milo’s wrist. “I want to make one thing clear,
Detective: Des did not exploit me, nor am I some desperate cougar. It just happened.”

“One
time,” said Milo.

“You
want me to take a lie detector, fine. Just as long as Ned doesn’t find out.”

“All
we want to do is find out who killed Des.”

“I
can’t help you with that.”

“Did
anyone at the firm have conflict with him?”

“No.”

“Not
Helga?”

“I
wish I could say yes but not even her.”

“She
told us she was never intimate with Des.”

“Are
you shocked? I doubt Helga has the capacity for intimacy.”

“She
also said Des slept with every other woman at the firm.”

“I
can’t speak to that.”

“She
said you could, Ms. Holman. That she learned about all of this because you and
Ms. Sanfelice and Ms. Passant talked about it openly. At a staff meeting.”

Marjorie
Holman rocked on her heels. Walked with her head down. “Oh, Jesus.” She let out
a strange giggle and threw up her hands. “Martinis and estrogen, what can I
say?”

“Staff
meeting with alcohol?”

“Staff
meeting at a restaurant.”

“Without
getting into details, if you could tell us where you and Des … trysted …”

“Why
is that your business?”

“We’re
searching for patterns, Ms. Holman.”

“What
kind of patterns?”

“Des
frequenting construction sites.”

She
went pale.

“Ma’am—”

“This is humiliating.” Another brittle laugh. “You
want the dirty details, fine: One night, three, four months ago, Des and I were
working late. Looking back, he probably planned it. He’d heard about the
Kraeker—that’s an art gallery in Switzerland we were supposedly going to be
involved in. Another of Helga’s fantasies, she never even filled out the
preliminary forms—you don’t care about that, you want sleaze. Des wanted me to
put in a good word for him with Helga, I said I would. We were hungry so we
went out to dinner. Des said he had a construction site he wanted me to see.
Because of its design. If that makes a pattern, fine.”

Milo
said, “Where was the site?”

“Oh,
Lord … Santa Monica, near the Water Gardens, off Twenty-sixth Street and
Colorado. Des said a film studio was beginning a project that was aiming for
complete sustainability, down to black-water and gray-water management. It was after
dark, we drove over in separate cars, I had no reason to think it would turn
out—when I got there, I was confused, it was just an open empty lot. There was
a trailer set up as an office, nothing educational design-wise, and I was
peeved at Des for dragging me out there. He said hold on, there’s something you
need to see, and took me behind the trailer.”

Her
hair hadn’t moved but she smoothed it. “I suppose I was ready to be led by the
nose. Des took hold of my shoulders and said, ‘I know this is wrong and it may
cost me my job, but I find you crushingly attractive, I’ve been thinking about
you since I met you, and, God help me, I’d love to screw you.’”

She
straightened her collar, adjusted her necklace, as if primping for a portrait.
“That sounds vulgar in the retelling, but you had to be there, guys. Trust me,
it was alluring.”

Ten
more minutes of strolling produced an easy-to-verify alibi for the previous
night. The Holmans had attended an experimental music concert at Disney Hall
with another couple, followed by a late dinner at Providence on Melrose.

“Seafood
orgy, guys. After we’d gorged ourselves silly, we headed
clear
across town to Vibrato, in Beverly Glen, thinking we’d catch some jazz, but the
show was over so we went home. I went to bed and Ned stayed up reading, the way
he usually does. He lives for books and language, he’s an esteemed linguist,
used to teach at the U. Used to do all sorts of things.” Frown. “That was my
pathetic play for sympathy. Not that I need any. It’s poor Des who does.”

“What
can you tell us about Des’s background?” said Milo. “Personal, not
professional.”

“We
never talked about things like that. Never talked much, period. He was a lovely
boy, gentle, considerate. I can’t see why anyone would want to kill him.”

Milo
showed her the dead woman’s picture.

“Who’s—my
God, she’s …”

“Do
you recognize her, Ms. Holman?”

“Absolutely
not.” Thrusting the photo back.

“The
other women at the firm—Sheryl and Bettina. Single or married?”

“Single.”

“Reason
I ask, ma’am, is we need to check out irate boyfriends, husbands.”

She
stared at us. “Ned? Not a chance. For a husband to be irate, he needs to be
aware, and Ned isn’t. Even if he did find out, he’s not exactly in a position
to do anything about it, is he?”

The
flippant cruelty of the last sentence hung in the air.

“Speaking
of which, I’d best be getting back, gentlemen. Ned might need freshening up.”

Marjorie
Holman sprinted up the ramp to her deck.

Milo
said, “Freshening him up. Hubby as houseplant. Some nest of vipers ol’ Des got
himself into.”

We
headed back to the car, crossed a footbridge above still, green water.

I
said, “Sounds like ol’ Des dove into the nest with enthusiasm. If he took
Passant and Sanfelice to construction sites, we’re talking predictable,
high-risk behavior.”

“Come
away with me to
le beeg deeg, mon amour
. Might as well wear a
Stalk
Me
sign. So maybe this
will
boil down to another jealous domestic
and no matter what Holman says, we coulda just met the main players. A mister
bitter over his plight. Missus thinks he’s greenery but there could be plenty
of animal left.”

“Charming
Helga called Holman a nibbler of forbidden fruit. It’s possible her flings
weren’t limited to Backer.”

“All
the more reason for pent-up anger, but right now the only lothario I care about
is Backer. Mr. Smooth. Coming out and asking
for it
ain’t exactly suave, let alone three women in the same office. But it worked,
so what do I know?”

I
said, “Sounds like Backer had a nose for emotional vulnerability. Think about
the Holmans’ house: Ned’s got no access to the second floor, where Marjie
sleeps. She’s an architect, if anyone could figure out a way to get him up
there, it’s her. They’ve chosen to live physically segregated lives. It’s not
just a matter of sex, it’s intimacy. And that’s what she says she got from
Backer.”

“He
tries a little tenderness, she falls right in.”

“My
question is, if her needs were being met, why limit it to a one-night stand?”

He
rolled his shoulders. “She lied to us and she and Backer had something serious
going on?”

“That
would threaten Ned Holman big-time. On top of being humiliated, he’s left alone
physically and emotionally. We’ve both seen enough domestic homicides to know
the pattern: The jealous spouse focuses first on eliminating the outside
threat. Maybe I was wrong about Jane Doe being the target. What if the goal was
to eliminate Backer, after all, and Jane was collateral damage?”

“Or,”
he said,
“Jane
was more than a fling for Backer. Or both she and Marjie
thought they were number one, meaning a woman scorned.” Grimacing. “Just what I
need, a bigger suspect pool… freshening the poor guy
up
. Why
wouldn’t
she design him an elevator or something?”

“Plus,”
I said, “her alibi for last night is meaningless. She went to sleep, got up.
The same goes for Ned’s physical limitations because he could’ve paid to get
the job done. Either of them could’ve. A pro job would also be consistent with
careful planning, positioning the bodies just so.”

He
worried a pendulous earlobe. “Stunningly Shakespearean, Alex. Now all I need is
something remotely close to evidence, say documentation of a torrid romance
between Marjie and Backer and either one of the Holmans paying a killer for
hire. Hell, long as we’re dreaming,
I wouldn’t mind a
warm spot in Warren Buffett’s heart. Right now, I’ll settle for finding out who
Jane Doe is.”

As I
drove away, he phoned the crypt, learned the bodies were still in the delivery
bay waiting processing. He squinted at his Timex. “Damn numerals keep getting
smaller … two fifteen, let’s see if we can find Bettina Sanfelice and Sheryl
Passant. If they’re working as well as living in the Valley, there’s time to
make it over the hill before the rush. Also, I know an Italian place. You up
for it?”

“Sure.”

As we
rolled out of the canal district, he said, “Some victim I’ve got. That mix of
glands and charisma, he shoulda run for office.”

The
clown-show that poses as the California legislature had finally bucked
phone-company lobbyists long enough to pass a hands-free law. The system I’d
installed delighted Milo, because he can sit back and smoke and grunt and
stretch and scan the streets for bad guys while he chats.

As I
approached Lincoln Avenue, he began punching in numbers. No one picked up at
Sheryl Passant’s Van Nuys apartment, but Bettina Sanfelice’s North Hollywood
landline was answered by a slurry-voiced woman who said, “Yeah?”

“Is
this Bettina?”

“No.”

“Does
Bettina live there?”

“Who’s
this?”

“L.A.
police lieutenant Milo Sturgis.”

“Who?”

He
repeated, taking pains to go slow.

“Police?”

“Yes,
ma’am.”

“Tina’s
okay?”