“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.”

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.”