Philip Kerr - Gridiron

Durham smiled. Sensing the detective's technophobia, he added for good measure, 'The fact is, Sergeant Curtis, we're swiftly approaching an era when it will no longer be possible to regard a photograph as something unquestionably probative.'

'As if the job wasn't already hard enough,' growled Curtis. 'Jumping Jesus, this is a fuck of a world we're building for ourselves here.'

Durham shrugged and looked at Seidler.

That all?'

'Frank?'

'Yeah, thanks a lot.'

When Durham had left Curtis returned to the pages of the p.m. and sifted through the photographs of Sam Gleig's body.

'As if someone dropped an object on his head you say, Janet?'

Doctor Bragg nodded.

'Like what?'

'A refrigerator. A TV set. A piece of the sidewalk. Like I said, something flat.'

'Well, that sure narrows it down.'

'On the other hand,' she sighed, 'well, it's just a thought, Frank, but you might check and see if that elevator car is working properly.'

For an architect there was only one place to live in LA and that was Pacific Palisades. It was not the exclusivity of the area, so much as the fact that it was the location for many of LA's more famous examples of modernist architecture. For the most part these were square, steel constructions, Mondrian-coloured, with lots of glass, and which resembled Japanese tea-houses or German worker bungalows. Mitch did not care for any of them, although as an architect he understood why they were significant: these were houses that had influenced multiple housing throughout the whole of the United States. For him they were fine to look at in books, but to actually live in one was a different matter. It was surely no accident that Frank Lloyd Wright's Ennis House in Griffith Park was virtually derelict. Just about the only house he thought he could have lived in around here was Pierre Koenig's house in the Hollywood Hills, although this preference owed more to the spectacular view than to the building's architectural merits. On the whole he preferred the quasi-rural houses that characterized that part of the Palisades known as Rustic Canyon, with its log cabins, horse paddocks and beautiful gardens.

Not that Rustic Canyon was without its own examples of modern architecture. On one of the uppermost slopes of the Canyon stood what Mitch considered to be one of the finest private houses ever built by Ray Richardson: his own.

Mitch drew his car into the curve of a honey-coloured concrete wall broken by a pedestrian entrance bridge that spanned a small creek and led up to the front door, facing the distant ocean.

A man and a woman whom Mitch vaguely recognized as English popmusic stars came down the lane on horses and wished him a good morning. That was another reason Mitch liked the Canyon. Up here money was friendlier, apparently unaffected by the obsession for defensible, post-holocaust-style architecture that characterized the rest of LA. There was not a security camera or a length of razor wire in sight. Up here people relied on the height of the hills, the distance from the inner city and discreet armed patrols to protect them against the perceived threat from LA's underclass.

Mitch crossed the footbridge. He disliked giving up his Sunday morning to talk about work, even if it meant a rare offer of brunch at Richardson's house. Ray had said they were just going to relax and spend some time together, but Mitch didn't buy that. The only time Ray Richardson ever relaxed was when he was asleep, and of this he seemed to require very little.

The invitation had also included Alison. But Alison's dislike of Richardson was so acute that she could not bear to be in the same room as him. At least, Mitch reflected, he would not have to spend his Sunday afternoon lying to her about where he had spent the morning.

Mitch knocked and slid the frameless panel of glass to one side. He found Ray Richardson in his study, kneeling on the blue slate floor, inspecting the drawings for yet another project that were still spilling out of the wide-body laser printer — a new heliport in the centre of London — and dictating notes to his green-eyed secretary, Shannon.

'Mitch,' he said brightly. 'Why don't you go upstairs to the living room? I won't be a minute. I just have to check these E-mail drawings from the London office for a meeting they've got tomorrow morning. Want a drink, buddy? Rosa will get it for you.'

Rosa was Richardson's Salvadorean maid. Mitch encountered her on his way back to the living room, a small, skinny woman wearing a pink uniform. He thought of orange juice. Then he thought of an afternoon at home.

'Rosa, could I have a pitcher of frozen margaritas, please?'

'Yes, sir, right away.'

In the living room Mitch looked for something to sit on. There were six plain white dining chairs grouped around a dining table. A leatherand-stainless steel recliner and, on two sides of a square glass table, two pairs of Barcelona chairs, twin acts of homage to the great Mies van der Rohe. Mitch tried the Barcelona chair and was immediately reminded of why he had got rid of his own.

He collected a copy of LA Living off the glass table and switched to the recliner. This was the issue he had heard about but not yet seen: the one with Joan Richardson lying naked on a sofa of her own design like some grande odalisque — with the accent on grande , he thought. The issue that had been the cause of her legal action against the publishers for failing to retouch away the large curl of pubic hair that was clearly visible at the base of her fat, Earth Motherish buttocks. With her small, delicate feet, legs swelling rapidly upwards to her Percheron mare's hips, narrowing to a small hoop of a waist, and then swelling once again into the formidable delta that was formed by the plastron of her breasts and her Hulk Hogan-sized shoulders, Joan Richardson bore a strong resemblance to the Fernando Bolero bronze outside the Gridiron. Los Angeles magazine had dubbed the fat lady bronze 'the Venus de Meatloaf'. But around the office they called it JR.

Rosa returned with the pitcher of margaritas and placed it and a tall glass on the table. Mitch sipped it slowly, but it was another hour before Richardson finished what he was doing, by which time the pitcher was finished. Mitch noticed that Richardson had changed into riding pants and boots. He looked like some tyrannical film director of the silent era: D. W. Griffith, or Eric von Stroheim. All he needed was a megaphone.

'OK, Mitch, let's have that brunch,' he said, rubbing his hands. 'Rosa!'

He placed an avuncular hand on Mitch's shoulder. 'So, how are you, buddy?'

Mitch smiled thinly. 'Fine,' he said, although he was angry at having been kept waiting for so long. 'Have you been riding?'

'Oh, you mean this get-up? No, I'm playing polo at twelve,' he said. Mitch glanced at his watch. 'It's eleven-fifteen, Ray,' he said with more than a hint of accusation.

'Damn. Those drawings took longer than I thought. Well, we can still have half an hour together, can't we? You know, we never talk any more. We should spend more time together. And now that the Yu building is almost out of the way, we will. I know we will. Our greatest achievements are ahead of us, I'm certain of it.'

'I've been thinking that I'd like to do more designing,' said Mitch.

'Maybe that factory the Yu Corporation is planning to build in Austin.'

'Sure, Mitch, sure.' Richardson sat down on a Barcelona chair. 'But, you know, anyone can design. It takes a special kind of architect to be a good technical coordinator. To translate those rarefied architectural concepts into practical instructions for the poor bastards who have to build them. Remember that idiot Grabel's design for the roof? A piece of shit. You were the one who fixed it, Mitch. To Grabel it looked like the same roof as before. He didn't understand how impractical the original design had been. It was you, Mitch, you who took it, who looked at the different ways you could do it and who came up with the best way of achieving that roof, practically. Most designers arejust frigging themselves. I know what I'm talking about. They design something because they think it looks nice, but you, you take what looks nice and make it look real. You're bored. I know you've been bored for a while now. It's always like this at the end of a job. But it'll be different when you start something fresh. And don't forget there's a substantial share of profit coming to you on this job, Mitch. Don't forget that, buddy. There's going to be a large cheque due to you at the end of the financial year.'