The bald woman sat behind the desk, laid her palms flat. Charcoal-gray manicure, some kind of mesh effect on the nails. “I have no chairs for you.”

“We’re fine standing, ma’am.”

“Something criminal happened to Des.”

“Sorry to say, ma’am. Mr. Backer was murdered.”

“That is bad.” Again, the lack of inflection.

“What can you tell us about him, Ms….”

“Helga Gemein.”

“You’re one of the partners.”

“There are no partners. We are dissolved.”

“As of when?”

“Six weeks ago. Don’t ask why.”

“Why?”

Helga Gemein was in no mood to joke. “Who murdered Des?”

“That’s what we’re trying to learn,” said Milo. “What can you tell us about him?”

“He worked here from when we started the firm.”

“Which was …”

“Twenty months ago. He was a good draftsman with so-so design skills. He was hired because he was green.”

“Fresh out of school?”

“Pardon?”

“Green.”

“No, no, no,” Helga Gemein scolded. “Green, environmental. Des got his degree at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo, wrote a thesis on bioenvironmental synchrony.”

I thought of the warring triangles out front, water so shallow it would evaporate within days.

“The green approach didn’t work out,” said Milo.

“Of course it works, why would you say that?”

“The firm dissolved—”

“People don’t work out,” said Helga Gemein. “Modern humanity—post-industrial humanity is a criminal biomechanical disruption of the natural order. That is the point of green architecture: reshaping sustainable balance between components of the life force.”

“Of course,” said Milo. “So what kind of projects did the firm do?”

“We planned our mission statement.”

“No actual buildings?”

Helga Gemein’s lovely mouth screwed up tight. “In Germany, architecture is a subset of engineering. The emphasis is upon proper theory and flawless planning. We saw ourselves as green consultants. What do these questions have to do with Des?”

“He was murdered at a construction site, ma’am. An unfinished house in Holmby Hills.”

Reciting the address on Borodi Lane.

“So?”

“I was just wondering—”

“We never intended to involve ourselves with private housing.”

“This was large-scale housing, Ms. Gemein. Three-story mansion on a couple of acres. Mr. Backer was found on the third floor—”

“That sounds unspeakably vulgar. Id, ego, flashing of the penis. I’d rather design a yurt.”

“When did Des Backer leave the firm?”

“When it dissolved.”

“Did he find another job?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“He never asked for a reference?”

“He packed up his desk and left.”

“Was he angry?”

“Why would he be?”

“Losing his job.”

“Jobs come and go.”

“While he was here, what was he involved with?”

“Des wanted to be involved with the Kraeker.”

“What’s that, ma’am?”