Free Evidence by Jonathan Kellerman

head. No need to
work, Daddy was a German shipping tycoon.
    A
stretch, but you needed to be at that level for a project of that scope.
    I searched some more, pairing Gemein and Borodi, found
nothing.
    Five
hours later, I was in Milo’s office and he was shaking his head. “Already
checked the assessor, nada.”
    “What
about the building permit?”
    “There’s
a perfectly legit four-year-old permit on file. And that Century City outfit—Masterson—were
the architects, but the property owner of record is a corporation called DSD
Incorporated, Massachusetts Avenue, Washington, D.C., and for the last
thirty-nine months, that address matches the headquarters of a soybean industry
lobbyist who never heard of DSD. No corporate listings, anywhere. Maybe they
were a sleazeball hedge fund that went poof.”
    I
said, “The article said foreign investor.”
    “So
DSD was a holding company set up as some kind of tax dodge. Does that bother
me? Not unless it relates to two bodies in a turret.”
    He
opened a desk drawer, slammed it shut. Wheeled his chair back the three inches
allotted and knuckled his eyelids. His windowless cell was ripe with stale
tobacco and fumes from the burnt coffee cooked up in the big detective room.
He’d fetched two cups, had finished his. Mine cooled, untouched. Life was too
short.
    I
said, “Any word on the autopsy?”
    “Bodies
are stacked up in the fridge closet like firewood, coroner’s not seeing this as
high priority because cause of death is pretty obvious. I bitched, but they’ve
got a point. The X-ray of Backer’s head shows bullet frags in his brain, and
Jane’s a clear strangulation. What they didn’t find was any sign of sexual
assault. Oh, yeah, just in case I was getting the least bit cheerful, the only
prints that show up in Backer’s car are his and Jane’s but since she’s not on
record, big damn deal. She doesn’t have a single distinguishing scar,
deformity, or tattoo. Though she did get a nose job, a long time ago. I’ve been
trolling the Doe Network and every other missing persons database, but so far
nothing, even allowing for a bigger schnoz. And Backer’s hard drive turned out
to be more of the same: porn, ecology, architecture.”
    “Sounds
like a Woody Allen film,” I said.
    “Sounds
like a tragedy. I’ve already left two messages with thosehooh-hah
architects, still waiting to hear back. Let’s go see what the neighbors have to
say.”
    This
time he drove. “In case the parking nazis return.”
    “You’ve
gotten yourself immunity?”
    He
produced the crumpled ticket. Tore it into shreds and dropped them in the
trash. “I’m a scofflaw.”
    But
for the crime scene, Borodi Lane was stately and sun-splotched. He stopped to
check the new chain. Snug.
    “I
still don’t get the point of a half-day patrol, nothing on the weekend.”
    I
said, “People capable of building houses like this rarely deal with the
day-to-day. Being across the ocean would make it even harder to stay in touch.
Some underling probably told a subordinate to order a plebe to maintain
security but keep an eye on the budget. A peon lower down the ladder tried to
earn brownie points by skimping. Besides, what was to steal? Rotten wood?”
    “Unnamed
foreign investor. Okay, let’s get to know the good folk of Borodi Lane.”
    Six
pushes of gate buzzers produced three no-answers and an equal number of Spanish
housekeepers answering the intercom. Milo coaxed the maids outside, showed them
Jane Doe’s picture.
    Perplexed
expressions, head shakes.
    The
seventh house was an unfenced brick Tudor, generous but not monumental, fronted
by a cobbled motor court. Bentley, Benz, Range Rover, Audi. A young brunette in
lavender velour sweats answered the door. Freckles struggled through matte
foundation. Long silky hair was tied up carelessly. “Is this about the murder?”
    “Yes,
ma’am.”
    “Ma’am?
I’m twenty-five.”
    Milo
smiled. “I vaguely remember being