Evidence

butt-ugly.”

“I don’t know design from badgers and chipmunks,” said Milo, “and even I can tell.”

Amy Thal smiled. “Badgers and chipmunks, that’s cute-coatis and raccoons, too? Anyway, that’s all I can tell you, Lieutenant. I’m just doing the parentals a favor because one of the felines is almost nineteen and we don’t want her stumbling into the pool.”

“Could I show you a picture?”

“Of who?”

“One of our victims.”

“There was more than one?”

“Two,” said Milo.

“Oh… you’re not saying it was some psycho Manson thing, are you?”

“Nothing like that.” Out came Jane Doe’s photo.

Amy Thal wrinkled her nose. “Oh, wow.”

“Ms. Thal?”

“I can’t be sure but I think I’ve seen her around. Not regularly, she doesn’t live here.”

“Could she work here?”

“I doubt it, everyone knows everyone else’s staff and I’ve only seen her twice and she just looked like she didn’t belong.” Taking another look. “It definitely could be her.”

“When and where did you see her?”

“When would that be… not recently. A month ago? I really can’t say. Where would be right there. Walking near that dump. That’s what caught my eye. No one walks here, there are no sidewalks.” Smile. “Which is the point, keep the riffraff out, God forbid it should be a real neighborhood. I didn’t grow up here, we used to live in Encino, my brothers and I had sidewalks for lemonade stands, rode our bikes. Once the parentals had empty nest they decided fourteen thousand square feet for two people was a nifty idea.” Shrug. “It’s their money.” Dropping her eyes to the photo, once more. “I’m really feeling it was her I saw. I remember thinking she was cute but her clothes weren’t.”

“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?”