Evidence

“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.”

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.”