Evidence

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 ca

“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 stu

“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.

“Not to worry, she got nothing.”

“Cyber-snooping?” said Milo.

“There was no reason for her to be anywhere near the files. Her job was to meet my needs.”

“How’d you catch her?”

“Keystroke buddy program,” she said. “Every move she made was traced. I do it routinely. To ensure confidentiality.” Back to Kotsos. “You see? No worry.”

He said, “Yes, yes, thank you.”

Milo said, “Where’d she go other than company files?”

“Nowhere,” said Elena. “And she got no further than addresses, which she could find anyway in public records. Because I password-protect each and every file. But that was not the point. She had no business sticking her nose in.”

“Who was hired to replace her?”

“No one. I don’t want help, it’s not worth the time and effort to train someone.”

Milo said, “What else can you tell us about her?”

“Poor taste in clothes,” said Elena. Taking in his rumpled poly tie, saggy chinos and smiling. Kotsos’s wrinkled outfit didn’t draw a glance.

“Poor taste, how?”

“Bad fabrics, poor silhouette, careless fit. With outlets and the Internet, there’s no excuse for not dressing well. I should’ve known her carelessness would extend to work.”

“Sounds like she was more devious than careless.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“What about Desmond Backer?”

“Who?”

“An architect who died with her.”

“An architect,” said Elena. “Perhaps she had some sort of fixation.”

Markos Kotsos said, “But of course. Architects are dashing fellows.”

Elena smirked. “Your limo to LAX and your pickup in Athens are confirmed. I have ordered irises for your mother. Blue, I assume that’s okay.”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

Milo said, “Could we please have an address for that agency?”

“Not necessary,” said Elena. “Take the elevator to the ground floor.”

As we waited by the elevator, a nervous fellow in pinstripes passed by, tugging at his hair.

Milo said, “Know anything about Masterson?”

The banker stopped. Frowned. Muttered, “Ghost town,” and continued.

Ding. We boarded. I said, “Masterson’s basically a West Coast clearinghouse office.”

“Just Kotsos and that little battleax. Maybe they launder money for an oil cartel or run an international human smuggling ring or lobby for some ca

“DSD used to be headquartered in D.C. The smell of international intrigue grows more intense.”

He rubbed his face. “With friends like you.”

Kersey and Garland, Executive Search and Human Resource Consultants, was tucked into a corner past the ground-floor snack bar, not far from the public restrooms.

The weary older woman who sat at the front desk looked at Jane’s photo. “Oy, her again. Now what?”

Jody Millan on her desk plaque. Framed shots of face-painted, costumed grandchildren cluttered her desk.