“This is humiliating.” Another brittle laugh. “You want the dirty details, fine: One night, three, four months ago, Des and I were working late. Looking back, he probably planned it. He’d heard about the Kraeker—that’s an art gallery in Switzerland we were supposedly going to be involved in. Another of Helga’s fantasies, she never even filled out the preliminary forms—you don’t care about that, you want sleaze. Des wanted me to put in a good word for him with Helga, I said I would. We were hungry so we went out to dinner. Des said he had a construction site he wanted me to see. Because of its design. If that makes a pattern, fine.”

Milo said, “Where was the site?”

“Oh, Lord … Santa Monica, near the Water Gardens, off Twenty-sixth Street and Colorado. Des said a film studio was beginning a project that was aiming for complete sustainability, down to black-water and gray-water management. It was after dark, we drove over in separate cars, I had no reason to think it would turn out—when I got there, I was confused, it was just an open empty lot. There was a trailer set up as an office, nothing educational design-wise, and I was peeved at Des for dragging me out there. He said hold on, there’s something you need to see, and took me behind the trailer.”

Her hair hadn’t moved but she smoothed it. “I suppose I was ready to be led by the nose. Des took hold of my shoulders and said, ‘I know this is wrong and it may cost me my job, but I find you crushingly attractive, I’ve been thinking about you since I met you, and, God help me, I’d love to screw you.’”

She straightened her collar, adjusted her necklace, as if primping for a portrait. “That sounds vulgar in the retelling, but you had to be there, guys. Trust me, it was alluring.”

Ten more minutes of strolling produced an easy-to-verify alibi for the previous night. The Holmans had attended an experimental music concert at Disney Hall with another couple, followed by a late dinner at Providence on Melrose.

“Seafood orgy, guys. After we’d gorged ourselves silly, we headed clear across town to Vibrato, in Beverly Glen, thinking we’d catch some jazz, but the show was over so we went home. I went to bed and Ned stayed up reading, the way he usually does. He lives for books and language, he’s an esteemed linguist, used to teach at the U. Used to do all sorts of things.” Frown. “That was my pathetic play for sympathy. Not that I need any. It’s poor Des who does.”

“What can you tell us about Des’s background?” said Milo. “Personal, not professional.”