A window on the other side of the glass offered a view clear to Boyle Heights and beyond. It took a while to find the call button: a tiny stainless-steel pimple blending mischievously with the surrounding segment of metallic wall.

Milo pushed. No sound.

A female voice, lightly accented, said, “Masterson.”

“Hi, again. Lieutenant Sturgis.”

“I gave your message to Mr. Kotsos.”

“Then it’s Mr. Kotsos I’ll talk to.”

“I’m afraid—”

“You should be. If I have to come back, it’ll be with a subpoena.” Hunching like an ape, he beat his chest.

“Sir—”

“And I’ll be needing your name for the paperwork.”

Silence. “One second.”

She’d underestimated, but not by much. Twelve seconds later, a pudgy little man came out, beaming.

“Gentlemen, so nice. Markos Kotsos.” Deep voice, starting somewhere in the digestive tract and emerging belch-like. Different accent from the receptionist. Thicker, Mediterranean.

Given the cold-blooded lobby and what he did for a living, I’d expected a wraith dressed in all-black, sporting Porsche-design eyeglasses and a complex wristwatch. Markos Kotsos had on an intensely wrinkled white caftan over baggy brown linen pants, sandals without socks, a steel Rolex. Middle-aged, five five, two hundred pounds, give or take, he wore his too-dark hair in a modified perm. Deep tan, too saffron around the edges not to be enhanced by bronzer.

He dropped into one of the granite chairs, folded his hands atop an ample lap. “Sorry for any inconvenience, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

Taking care of business in the lobby, because no visitors were expected.

Milo said, “We’re here because of a—”

“Elena told me, a murder on Borodi.” Kotsos sighed. “That project was ill fated from the beginning. Believe me, we regret taking it on.”

“Who was the client?”

“Who was murdered?”

Milo said, “I’d prefer to ask the questions, sir.”

“Ah, of course,” said Kotsos.

Silence.

“Sir?”

Kotsos shook his head, sadly. “I’m afraid I cannot help you with specifics. There was a confidentiality agreement.”

“Between?”

“The client and us. Following cessation of construction.”

Milo said, “Who sued who?”

Kotsos licked his lips. Stumpy fingers drummed a larded thigh. “It is extremely unusual for us to take on residential projects. Extremely. We are as much developers and conceptualizers as we are architects, thus the projects we choose to accept are massively scaled, complex, more often international than not.”

“Middle East international?”

Kotsos crossed a leg, held on to the heel of his sandal. “You’ve been to our website, yes? So you know that Dubai has been a major focus of our work because it is a fascinating locale where financial realities intersect with aesthetic adventurousness in a quite unique manner.”

“Good ideas and the bucks to make them happen.”