“A woman who died along with Mr. Backer.”
“So it was sexual.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Des with a woman. What else could it be?”
Milo smiled. “Maybe a meaningful spiritual relationship?”
Helga Gemein headed for the door.
We tagged along. I said, “How well did Des do his job?”
“Adequately. Before we dissolved, I’d contemplated letting him go.”
“Why?”
“The pathetic state of our planet demands better than adequate.”
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 scanned the addresses Gemein had provided. “The receptionist and the intern are both out in the Valley, but naughty Ms. Holman lives right here in Venice, Linnie Canal.”
“That’s about a mile in,” I said. “We could walk.”
“Oh, sure. And I’m gonna wear spandex bicycle shorts.”
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 Linnie Canal, the closest parking spot was two blocks east.
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 Kinney, had dug and dredged sinuous waterways, dreaming of replicating the original island city. A hundred years later, most of the quirky, original bungalows had been replaced by close-set McMansions high above footpaths.
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 welclass="underline" 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.