otherwise.”
“That’s me,” I said. “Sexual Superman with the morals of a saint.”
“You laugh,” she said. “I smile.”
CHAPTER 10
We drove home well fed and watered. As I held the door open, Robin said, “Nice place you’ve got here, Don.” We disrobed in the dark, collapsed under the covers. Afterward, she said, “That was great, but next time platform shoes.”
I awoke at four eighteen, was at my desk five minutes later, pupils constricting as the computer screen filled with light. Plugging in the Borodi address produced a four-year-old squib in
“Masterson and Associates, Century City, will be the architects for a mammoth project planned in Holmby Hills this fall. The 28,000-square-foot residence sits on a 2.42-acre lot on Borodi Lane and will be the L.A. pied-a-terre for an unnamed foreign investor.”
Marjorie Holman’s dismissive comment about Helga Gemein flashed in my head. No need to work, Daddy was a German shipping tycoon.
A stretch, but you needed to be at that level for a project of that scope.
I searched some more, pairing Gemein and Borodi, found nothing.
Five hours later, I was in Milo ’s office and he was shaking his head. “Already checked the assessor, nada.”
“What about the building permit?”
“There’s a perfectly legit four-year-old permit on file. And that Century City outfit-Masterson- were the architects, but the property owner of record is a corporation called DSD Incorporated, Massachusetts Avenue, Washington, D.C., and for the last thirty-nine months, that address matches the headquarters of a soybean industry lobbyist who never heard of DSD. No corporate listings, anywhere. Maybe they were a sleazeball hedge fund that went poof.”
I said, “The article said foreign investor.”
“So DSD was a holding company set up as some kind of tax dodge. Does that bother me? Not unless it relates to two bodies in a turret.”
He opened a desk drawer, slammed it shut. Wheeled his chair back the three inches allotted and knuckled his eyelids. His windowless cell was ripe with stale tobacco and fumes from the burnt coffee cooked up in the big detective room. He’d fetched two cups, had finished his. Mine cooled, untouched. Life was too short.
I said, “Any word on the autopsy?”
“Bodies are stacked up in the fridge closet like firewood, coroner’s not seeing this as high priority because cause of death is pretty obvious. I bitched, but they’ve got a point. The X-ray of Backer’s head shows bullet frags in his brain, and Jane’s a clear strangulation. What they didn’t find was any sign of sexual assault. Oh, yeah, just in case I was getting the least bit cheerful, the only prints that show up in Backer’s car are his and Jane’s but since she’s not on record, big damn deal. She doesn’t have a single distinguishing scar, deformity, or tattoo. Though she did get a nose job, a long time ago. I’ve been trolling the Doe Network and every other missing persons database, but so far nothing, even allowing for a bigger schnoz. And Backer’s hard drive turned out to be more of the same: porn, ecology, architecture.”
“Sounds like a Woody Allen film,” I said.
“Sounds like a tragedy. I’ve already left two messages with those hooh-hah architects, still waiting to hear back. Let’s go see what the neighbors have to say.”
This time he drove. “In case the parking nazis return.”
“You’ve gotten yourself immunity?”
He produced the crumpled ticket. Tore it into shreds and dropped them in the trash. “I’m a scofflaw.”
But for the crime scene, Borodi Lane was stately and sun-splotched. He stopped to check the new chain. Snug.
“I still don’t get the point of a half-day patrol, nothing on the weekend.”
I said, “People capable of building houses like this rarely deal with the day-to-day. Being across the ocean would make it even harder to stay in touch. Some underling probably told a subordinate to order a plebe to maintain security but keep an eye on the budget. A peon lower down the ladder tried to earn brownie points by skimping. Besides, what was to steal? Rotten wood?”
“Unnamed foreign investor. Okay, let’s get to know the good folk of Borodi Lane.”
Six pushes of gate buzzers produced three no-answers and an equal number of Spanish housekeepers answering the intercom. Milo coaxed the maids outside, showed them Jane Doe’s picture.
Perplexed expressions, head shakes.
The seventh house was an unfenced brick Tudor, generous but not monumental, fronted by a cobbled motor court. Bentley, Benz, Range Rover, Audi. A young brunette in lavender velour sweats answered the door. Freckles struggled through matte foundation. Long silky hair was tied up carelessly. “Is this about the murder?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? I’m twenty-five.”
Milo smiled. “I vaguely remember being twenty-five.”
She extended a hand. “Amy Thal. This is my parents’ place. Before they left, they told me what happened. Mom didn’t even want me to stay but I told her to chill. I always house-sit the cats when they go to Paris.”
“When did your parents leave?”
“Early this morning.” Widening smile. “Don’t worry, they’re not fugitives from justice, the trip was planned months ago. But if you want to interrogate them, I can give you the number, even the address of their apartment. Ernest and Marcia Thal, Rue Saint-Honore. I guess it’s possible they’re traveling as Bonnie and Clyde.”
She giggled.
Milo didn’t.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to make light of it; to be honest, it’s a little scary. Though I guess it’s not hugely surprising.”
“A murder?”
“Something creepy happening there.”
“There’ve been problems before?”
“That entire dump is a problem. Just sitting there, gathering mold, no security lights at night, the chain’s wide open, anyone can walk in. Everyone hates it. My dad wanted to sue whoever owns it.”
“Who owns it?”
“I’ve heard some Arab,” she said. “Or maybe a Persian. Some Mideast type, I’m not sure. No one seems to be able to find out. It’s not that we’re prejudiced, we’re certainly not. That place”-pointing up the block-”that big apricot thing, is owned by the Nazarians and they’re Persians and they’re great people. I just don’t see the point of framing up and not following through for two whole years. No one does.”
“Any neighborhood rumors about why it’s just sitting there?”
“Sure. Money. Isn’t it always about money? So why not sell? As in to someone who’ll actually build something tasteful.”
“Yeah, it is a little over-the-top,” said Milo.
“A little?” said Amy Thal. “It’s gross. I’m not talking size-wise, who’re we kidding, this isn’t South Central. But the style, no one can figure it out, that stupid third floor stuck up there like a wart. I’m a design student-fashion, not interior-but you don’t need design training to recognize awkward and ostentatious and plain old
