"Yeah, it is a little over-the-top," said Milo.

"A little?" said Amy Thal. "It's gross. I'm not talking size-wise, who're we kidding, this isn't South Central. But the style, no one can figure it out, that stupid third floor stuck up there like a wart. I'm a design student-fashion, not interior-but you don't need design training to recognize awkward and ostentatious and plain old b.u.t.t-ugly."

"I don't know design from badgers and chipmunks," said Milo, "and even I can tell."

Amy Thal smiled. "Badgers and chipmunks, that's cute-coatis and racc.o.o.ns, too? Anyway, that's all I can tell you, Lieutenant. I'm just doing the parentals a favor because one of the felines is almost nineteen and we don't want her stumbling into the pool."

"Could I show you a picture?"

"Of who?"

"One of our victims."

"There was more than one?"

"Two," said Milo.

"Oh ... you're not saying it was some psycho Manson thing, are you?"

"Nothing like that." Out came Jane Doe's photo.

Amy Thal wrinkled her nose. "Oh, wow."

"Ms. Thal?"

"I can't be sure but I think I've seen her around. Not regularly, she doesn't live here."

"Could she work here?"

"I doubt it, everyone knows everyone else's staff and I've only seen her twice and she just looked like she didn't belong." Taking another look. "It definitely could be her."

"When and where did you see her?"

"When would that be ... not recently. A month ago? I really can't say. Where would be right there. Walking near that dump. That's what caught my eye. No one walks here, there are no sidewalks." Smile. "Which is the point, keep the riffraff out, G.o.d forbid it should be a real neighborhood. I didn't grow up here, we used to live in Encino, my brothers and I had sidewalks for lemonade stands, rode our bikes. Once the parentals had empty nest they decided fourteen thousand square feet for two people was a nifty idea." Shrug. "It's their money." Dropping her eyes to the photo, once more. "I'm really feeling it was her I saw. I remember thinking she was cute but her clothes weren't."

"You saw her twice."

"But close together-like twice in the same week."

"Walking," said Milo.

"Not for exercise, she wasn't dressed for that, had on heels. And a suit. Not a good one. A little tailoring would've improved it significantly."

"What else can you remember?"

"Let me think ... the suit was... gray. The way it didn't move with her said it had a lot of poly in it."

"Walking but not for exercise."

"Strolling past, then stopping and strolling back. Like she was waiting for someone. You have no idea at all who she is?"

"Unfortunately not."

"Too bad," she said. "No I.D. really messes you guys up, right? I TiVo C.S.I., Forensic Files, New Detectives."

"Was there a car nearby?"

"Not that I noticed. Hmm, guess that's another reason she stood out. What normal person doesn't drive?"

We crossed the street, tried one more house. No one home.

Talking to four more maids, one genuine liveried butler, and two personal a.s.sistants on the next block produced no further recognition of Jane Doe.

Back in the unmarked, Milo gave Masterson and a.s.sociates another try, connected. "This is Lieutenant Sturgis, I called yesterday about a crime scene on Borodi La-a crime scene. A construction project and your firm is listed-Ma'am, this is a homicide case and I need to-yes, you heard me, correctly, homicide-what I need to know is-okay, I'll wait."

A minute pa.s.sed. Two, three, six. Disconnection.

Gunning the engine, he drove, looked back at rutted dirt and curling plywood, the girdle of yellow tape. "Man's home is his castle. Until it ain't."

CHAPTER.

11.

Masterson & a.s.sociates: architecture. design. development. shared the sixth floor of a heartless tower on Century Park East with two investment firms.

The company's lobby was a duet of pale wood and stainless steel sealed by a wall of gla.s.s. Poured cement floor. The seating was black denim cushions set into C-shaped, gray-granite cradles.

Milo said, "Kinda homey, Norman Rockwell would drool."

A window on the other side of the gla.s.s offered a view clear to Boyle Heights and beyond. It took a while to find the call b.u.t.ton: 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 eyegla.s.ses and a complex wrist.w.a.tch. 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 ma.s.sively 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."

Kotsos smiled. "Which is why the Al Masri Majestic Hotel will be unique and spectacular, an awe-inspiring feat of structural engineering, ten stars and beyond. We are drilling a quarter mile into the Gulf in order to support pylons the size of buildings."

"The rendering was pretty impressive," said Milo.

Smoooth operator.

"The reality will be groundbreaking, Lieutenant. Literally and figuratively. We have found a way to support a carrying weight of unprecedented-but you don't care about that, you're here about a murder." Transforming the word into something trivial. "At a project with which we haven't been involved in years."

Milo said, "Desmond Backer."

Not an eyeblink. "Who?"

"One of our victims."

"One? There is more?"

"Two, sir."

"So sorry. No, I don't know the name."

"He was an architect."

"There are many architects," said Kotsos.

Milo said, "This one died at your project."

"Former project."

"The permit was pulled by DSD, Incorporated."

"If that's what the record says, then it is true."

"Any reason for us to believe otherwise?"

Hesitation. "No."

"Sir?"

"The record speaks for itself."

"Tell us about DSD."

Kotsos shook his head. "I'm sorry, as I told you, the terms of the confidentiality-"