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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 fewskills 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,