Alex Delaware: Evidence Part 12

"You can't even say who they are?"

"I'm sorry."

Milo said, "That was a civil agreement, this is criminal."

"Lieutenant, I would truly love to help you, but the terms are absolute and the stakes are sizable."

"Big money."

Silence.

Milo said, "You sued DSD for a substantial unpaid balance. They settled but are paying in installments, will use any excuse to stop payment."

Kotsos sighed again. "It is not simple."

"Is there any reason we should suspect DSD-or anyone connected to DSD-of criminal behavior?"

Kotsos thought awhile, brightened and clapped his hands together. "Okay, I tell you this because I do not want you thinking I am hiding anything important. In terms of murder, I cannot honestly point a finger at anyone. Absolutely not, if I could, I would, no one likes murder, life is precious. If, on the other hand, you are investigating financial ..." Smiling and running a finger across his mouth. "I have said enough."

Milo produced his notepad. "Homicide, Mr. Kotsos. Financial doesn't interest me. Now, how about some names of people who worked for DSD?"

Kotsos's head shake seemed genuinely rueful.

"Here's another name for you, Mr. Kotsos: Helga Gemein."

"Who is that?"

"Desmond Backer's boss. The firm is Gemein, Holman, and Cohen."

"Never heard of them," said Kotsos.

"They're into green architecture."

Kotsos snorted. "Silly stuff."

"Green is silly?"

"Isolating green as a profound concept, as if it's new, Lieutenant, is pretentious and idiotic. The Greeks and the Romans-and the Hebrews and the Phoenicians and the Babylonians-every civilization of note has integrated natural elements into design, from Solomon's Temple to the Mayan pyramids. That is the natural human way. It is in our chromosomes. And shall we discuss the Renaissance? Would you consider the tri-level church in Rome anything other than deliciously synchronous and organic, despite the unexpected turns of events that led to its sequential nature?"

"You took the words out of my mouth."

Kotsos said, "What I am saying, Lieutenant, is that everything good about design relates to harmony. All this flabber about natural materials is ... air." Waving pudgy hands. "Cement is natural, it comes from sand. Sandstone is natural. Does that mean cement and sandstone are the optimal materials for every purpose? Shall we use sandstone for our pylons in Dubai?" Throaty laugh. "Any architect deserving of his degree considers his surroundings and attempts to integrate." Leaning toward us. "Do you know what 'green' has become, Lieutenant?"

"What, sir?"

"A cult of the ignorant. Using recycled cardboard as if it is platinum. Exposing ducts, planting gra.s.s on the roof, subst.i.tuting raw wood for fine finishes. Reprocessing sewer water ent.i.tles one to a badge of ascetic honor? A cult, Lieutenant. Self-consciously ironic and aesthetically phony."

"Smog doesn't bother you?"

Kotsos said, "Ugly will not solve smog. There is nothing new under the sun. The only meaningful question is who gets to hold the reflective lens."

Pa.s.sion had propelled him closer to the edge of the chair. Pink had spread under his tan.

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 a.s.sistants 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 cannot eliminate the possibility. We don't keep paper records of rejects." Crooked smile. "All in the interest of saving trees, so that we may slice them up for veneer. Now if you'll-"

"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 subst.i.tute for the occasional baccha.n.a.lia. 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 b.u.t.ton. He jabbed. The gla.s.s door clicked open.

"You had best come in."

We followed Kotsos's bouncy waddle up a Maka.s.sar 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 cla.s.sical 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 cla.s.sical 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. Bra.s.sy 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 a.s.sistance when I travel with Mr. Kotsos or have to be away from my desk for any reason. Her resume 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 stunned. "Elena, I never knew-"

"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 pa.s.sword-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."