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.”

Marjorie Holman’s laughter was brittle, unsettling. “Well, then, we’re all peachy-dandy here, because whatever I did or didn’t do with Des has nothing to do with murder.”

“We’re more interested in did than didn’t, ma’am.”

She didn’t answer. Milo let it ride and the three of us kept walking.

Five houses later, she said: “You met my husband. He’s been that way for six years. I’m not going to make tawdry excuses, but neither am I going to apologize for having needs.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Don’t patronize me, Detective. I’m not a moron.”

Six more houses. She picked up speed. A tear track darkened her cheek. “Once. That’s all it was. Ned doesn’t know and there’s no reason to tell him.”

“I agree, ma’am.”

“He was tender, it was almost like being with another woman. Not that I’d know about that… it was a crazy thing to do, I regret it. But at the time…” Drying her tears with her sleeve. “One of my sons is the same age as Des and if you don’t think that made me feel sleazy, you’re wrong. It was never going to happen again and I was not going to torture myself.”

She stopped short, touched Milo ’s wrist. “I want to make one thing clear, Detective: Des did not exploit me, nor am I some desperate cougar. It just happened.”

“One time,” said Milo.

“You want me to take a lie detector, fine. Just as long as Ned doesn’t find out.”

“All we want to do is find out who killed Des.”

“I can’t help you with that.”

“Did anyone at the firm have conflict with him?”

“No.”

“Not Helga?”

“I wish I could say yes but not even her.”

“She told us she was never intimate with Des.”

“Are you shocked? I doubt Helga has the capacity for intimacy.”

“She also said Des slept with every other woman at the firm.”

“I can’t speak to that.”

“She said you could, Ms. Holman. That she learned about all of this because you and Ms. Sanfelice and Ms. Passant talked about it openly. At a staff meeting.”

Marjorie Holman rocked on her heels. Walked with her head down. “Oh, Jesus.” She let out a strange giggle and threw up her hands. “Martinis and estrogen, what can I say?”

“Staff meeting with alcohol?”

“Staff meeting at a restaurant.”

“Without getting into details, if you could tell us where you and Des… trysted…”

“Why is that your business?”

“We’re searching for patterns, Ms. Holman.”

“What kind of patterns?”

“Des frequenting construction sites.”

She went pale.

“Ma’am-”

“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.”

“We never talked about things like that. Never talked much, period. He was a lovely boy, gentle, considerate. I can’t see why anyone would want to kill him.”

Milo showed her the dead woman’s picture.

“Who’s-my God, she’s…”

“Do you recognize her, Ms. Holman?”

“Absolutely not.” Thrusting the photo back.

“The other women at the firm-Sheryl and Bettina. Single or married?”

“Single.”

“Reason I ask, ma’am, is we need to check out irate boyfriends, husbands.”

She stared at us. “Ned? Not a chance. For a husband to be irate, he needs to be aware, and Ned isn’t. Even if he did find out, he’s not exactly in a position to do anything about it, is he?”

The flippant cruelty of the last sentence hung in the air.

“Speaking of which, I’d best be getting back, gentlemen. Ned might need freshening up.”