Free Evidence by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

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 assistants on
the next block produced no further recognition of Jane Doe.
    Back
in the unmarked, Milo gave Masterson and Associates 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 passed. 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
    M asterson
& associates: 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
glass. 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 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