Evidence

CHAPTER 5

Helga Gemein marched through the courtyard and continued north on Main.

“Good stamina, considering those stilettos,” said Milo. “What a charmer.”

“Don’t think of her as hostile,” I said. “Just philosophically consistent.”

“What’s the philosophy?”

“Humanity is a blot on nature.”

“That’s kind of psychopathic-and she didn’t react emotionally to Backer’s death. Hang out with her, no need for air-conditioning.”

“Personal coolant,” I said. “There’s a green concept for you.”

“Backer jumps anything with ovaries but doesn’t come on to her. Maybe the jealousy you felt at the scene was anger at being rejected.”

“Woman scorned? Those stilettos would set off clacks on plywood.”

He sighted up Main. Crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Asking women to screw. If Backer’s libido was really that over-the-top, it expands the potential suspect base to every hetero male in L.A… wonderful.”

He sca

“That’s about a mile in,” I said. “We could walk.”

“Oh, sure. And I’m go

Finding the nearest entrance to the canal district, and manipulating the byzantine network of one-ways and dead-ends by car, turned a geographic hop into a half-hour excursion. Once we got within eyeshot of Li

The canals are a century old, the product of a feverish mind devolving to yet another patch of high-priced real estate. The visionary in question, an eccentric named Abbot Ki

A squared-off hedge echoed the curves of the canal. Nice place to stroll, but no pedestrians in sight. The water was green and opaque, flecked with hyacinth and the occasional bit of trash. Ducks floated by, pausing to bob for food. A seagull faked a dive-bomb, changed course, landed on a nearby roof and squawked a nasal, political diatribe. Maybe he felt the same as Helga Gemein about humanity.

Milo said, “Always liked it here. To visit, not to live.”

“What’s wrong with living here?”

“Too hard to escape.”

Marjorie Holman’s residence was two steeply pitched stories of white-clapboard, blue-shuttered chalet, eaves bearded by jigsawed trim, a porthole window over the door suggesting the kind of seafood joint where deep-fry orders are placed at the counter.

“Not exactly postmodern,” muttered Milo. “Whatever the hell that means.”

A wide, concrete ramp sloped up to a wooden deck. Rattan furniture was distributed randomly. Potted geraniums sat on the rail. One corner was taken up by a mammoth gas-powered barbecue with more controls than my Seville ’s dashboard. The goofy-looking dolphin riding the wall above the grill hadn’t weathered well: aging Flipper on Quaaludes.

French doors made up the wall facing the canal. All that glass meant lots of energy loss; no solar panels in sight. A bell on a leather thong in lieu of an electric buzzer was the sole nod to conservation.

Milo tugged the thong. A deep male voice hollered, “Hold on.”

Seconds later, a man rolled out in a motorized wheelchair. A navy T-shirt was stretched tight over rhino shoulders and abdominal bulk. Khaki trousers were barely defined by stick-legs. He looked to be sixty or so, with a full head of coarse gray hair and a bushy beard to match.

“Help you?”

“Police, sir. Is Marjorie Holman in?”

“Police? What’s going on?”

“Someone who worked for Ms. Holman’s firm was murdered.”

“You’re kidding.” Rapid eyeblink. “Who?”

“Desmond Backer.”

“Des.”

“You knew him.”

“He came over a few times to show Marjie drawings. Murdered? That’s grotesque. How did it happen?”

“He was shot, Mr. Holman.”

“Ned.” A meaty hand shot forward. His lips turned down. “Marjie’s going to be extremely upset by this, I should be the one to tell her-why don’t you guys come on in?”

He reversed the wheelchair into the house, motored across a big, bright room to the bottom of an ornate oak staircase. The entire ground floor was open space that maximized light. Sparse furnishings allowed easy turns of the chair.

Ned Holman cupped a hand to his mouth. “Honey? Could you please come down?”

“What is it?”

“Please come down, Marjie.”

“Everything all right, Ned?” Footsteps thumped.

“I’m fine, just come down, hon.”

Marjorie Holman had bounced halfway down the stairs when she saw us and stopped. Tall and angular with a blue-gray pageboy, she had long limbs and a smallish face dominated by owlish, black-framed glasses. A baggy orange blouse and straight-leg jeans said little about the body beneath. Barefoot. Pink nails.

“What’s going on?”

“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 co

“Co

“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.”