“You saw her twice.”
“But close together—like twice in the same week.”
“Walking,” said Milo.
“Not for exercise, she wasn’t dressed for that, had on heels. And a suit. Not a good one. A little tailoring would’ve improved it significantly.”
“What else can you remember?”
“Let me think ... the suit was... gray. The way it didn’t move with her said it had a lot of poly in it.”
“Walking but not for exercise.”
“Strolling past, then stopping and strolling back. Like she was waiting for someone. You have no idea at all who she is?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“Too bad,” she said. “No I.D. really messes you guys up, right? I TiVo C.S.I., Forensic Files, New Detectives.”
“Was there a car nearby?”
“Not that I noticed. Hmm, guess that’s another reason she stood out. What normal person doesn’t drive?”
We crossed the street, tried one more house. No one home.
Talking to four more maids, one genuine liveried butler, and two personal assistants on the next block produced no further recognition of Jane Doe.
Back in the unmarked, Milo gave Masterson and Associates another try, connected. “This is Lieutenant Sturgis, I called yesterday about a crime scene on Borodi La—a crime scene. A construction project and your firm is listed—Ma’am, this is a homicide case and I need to—yes, you heard me, correctly, homicide—what I need to know is—okay, I’ll wait.”
A minute passed. Two, three, six. Disconnection.
Gunning the engine, he drove, looked back at rutted dirt and curling plywood, the girdle of yellow tape. “Man’s home is his castle. Until it ain’t.”
CHAPTER 11
Masterson & associates: architecture. design. development. shared the sixth floor of a heartless tower on Century Park East with two investment firms.
The company’s lobby was a duet of pale wood and stainless steel sealed by a wall of glass. Poured cement floor. The seating was black denim cushions set into C-shaped, gray-granite cradles.
Milo said, “Kinda homey, Norman Rockwell would drool.”
A window on the other side of the glass offered a view clear to Boyle Heights and beyond. It took a while to find the call button: a tiny stainless-steel pimple blending mischievously with the surrounding segment of metallic wall.
Milo pushed. No sound.
A female voice, lightly accented, said, “Masterson.”
“Hi, again. Lieutenant Sturgis.”
“I gave your message to Mr. Kotsos.”
“Then it’s Mr. Kotsos I’ll talk to.”
“I’m afraid—”
“You should be. If I have to come back, it’ll be with a subpoena.” Hunching like an ape, he beat his chest.
“Sir—”
“And I’ll be needing your name for the paperwork.”
Silence. “One second.”
She’d underestimated, but not by much. Twelve seconds later, a pudgy little man came out, beaming.
“Gentlemen, so nice. Markos Kotsos.” Deep voice, starting somewhere in the digestive tract and emerging belch-like. Different accent from the receptionist. Thicker, Mediterranean.
Given the cold-blooded lobby and what he did for a living, I’d expected a wraith dressed in all-black, sporting Porsche-design eyeglasses and a complex wristwatch. Markos Kotsos had on an intensely wrinkled white caftan over baggy brown linen pants, sandals without socks, a steel Rolex. Middle-aged, five five, two hundred pounds, give or take, he wore his too-dark hair in a modified perm. Deep tan, too saffron around the edges not to be enhanced by bronzer.
He dropped into one of the granite chairs, folded his hands atop an ample lap. “Sorry for any inconvenience, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
Taking care of business in the lobby, because no visitors were expected.
Milo said, “We’re here because of a—”
“Elena told me, a murder on Borodi.” Kotsos sighed. “That project was ill fated from the beginning. Believe me, we regret taking it on.”
“Who was the client?”
“Who was murdered?”
Milo said, “I’d prefer to ask the questions, sir.”
“Ah, of course,” said Kotsos.
Silence.
“Sir?”
Kotsos shook his head, sadly. “I’m afraid I cannot help you with specifics. There was a confidentiality agreement.”
“Between?”
“The client and us. Following cessation of construction.”
Milo said, “Who sued who?”
Kotsos licked his lips. Stumpy fingers drummed a larded thigh. “It is extremely unusual for us to take on residential projects. Extremely. We are as much developers and conceptualizers as we are architects, thus the projects we choose to accept are massively scaled, complex, more often international than not.”
“Middle East international?”
Kotsos crossed a leg, held on to the heel of his sandal. “You’ve been to our website, yes? So you know that Dubai has been a major focus of our work because it is a fascinating locale where financial realities intersect with aesthetic adventurousness in a quite unique manner.”
“Good ideas and the bucks to make them happen.”
Kotsos smiled. “Which is why the Al Masri Majestic Hotel will be unique and spectacular, an awe-inspiring feat of structural engineering, ten stars and beyond. We are drilling a quarter mile into the Gulf in order to support pylons the size of buildings.”
“The rendering was pretty impressive,” said Milo.
Smoooth operator.
“The reality will be groundbreaking, Lieutenant. Literally and figuratively. We have found a way to support a carrying weight of unprecedented—but you don’t care about that, you’re here about a murder.” Transforming the word into something trivial. “At a project with which we haven’t been involved in years.”
Milo said, “Desmond Backer.”
Not an eyeblink. “Who?”
“One of our victims.”
“One? There is more?”
“Two, sir.”
“So sorry. No, I don’t know the name.”
“He was an architect.”
“There are many architects,” said Kotsos.
Milo said, “This one died at your project.”
“Former project.”
“The permit was pulled by DSD, Incorporated.”
“If that’s what the record says, then it is true.”
“Any reason for us to believe otherwise?”
Hesitation. “No.”
“Sir?”
“The record speaks for itself.”
“Tell us about DSD.”
Kotsos shook his head. “I’m sorry, as I told you, the terms of the confidentiality—”
“You can’t even say who they are?”
“I’m sorry.”
Milo said, “That was a civil agreement, this is criminal.”
“Lieutenant, I would truly love to help you, but the terms are absolute and the stakes are sizable.”
“Big money.”
Silence.
Milo said, “You sued DSD for a substantial unpaid balance. They settled but are paying in installments, will use any excuse to stop payment.”
Kotsos sighed again. “It is not simple.”
“Is there any reason we should suspect DSD—or anyone connected to DSD—of criminal behavior?”
Kotsos thought awhile, brightened and clapped his hands together. “Okay, I tell you this because I do not want you thinking I am hiding anything important. In terms of murder, I cannot honestly point a finger at anyone. Absolutely not, if I could, I would, no one likes murder, life is precious. If, on the other hand, you are investigating financial ...” Smiling and running a finger across his mouth. “I have said enough.”
Milo produced his notepad. “Homicide, Mr. Kotsos. Financial doesn’t interest me. Now, how about some names of peopl
e who worked for DSD?”
Kotsos’s head shake seemed genuinely rueful.
“Here’s another name for you, Mr. Kotsos: Helga Gemein.”
“Who is that?”
“Desmond Backer’s boss. The firm is Gemein, Holman, and Cohen.”
“Never heard of them,” said Kotsos.
“They’re into green architecture.”
Kotsos snorted. “Silly stuff.”
“Green is silly?”
“Isolating green as a profound concept, as if it’s new, Lieutenant, is pretentious and idiotic. The Greeks and the Romans—and the Hebrews and the Phoenicians and the Babylonians—every civilization of note has integrated natural elements into design, from Solomon’s Temple to the Mayan pyramids. That is the natural human way. It is in our chromosomes. And shall we discuss the Renaissance? Would you consider the tri-level church in Rome anything other than deliciously synchronous and organic, despite the unexpected turns of events that led to its sequential nature?”
“You took the words out of my mouth.”
Kotsos said, “What I am saying, Lieutenant, is that everything good about design relates to harmony. All this flabber about natural materials is ... air.” Waving pudgy hands. “Cement is natural, it comes from sand. Sandstone is natural. Does that mean cement and sandstone are the optimal materials for every purpose? Shall we use sandstone for our pylons in Dubai?” Throaty laugh. “Any architect deserving of his degree considers his surroundings and attempts to integrate.” Leaning toward us. “Do you know what ‘green’ has become, Lieutenant?”
“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.
Evidence Page 8
