Chapter 1
She nearly killed an innocent man.
 
Creighton “Charley” Bondurant drove carefully because his life depended onit. Latigo Canyon was mile after mile ofneck-wrenching, hairpin twists. Charley had no use for government meddlers but the 15 mph signs posted along the road were smart.
He lived ten miles up from Kanan Dume Road, on a four-acre remnant of the ranch hisgrandfather had owned during Coolidge’s time. All those Arabians and Tennessee walkers and the mules Grandpa kept around because he liked the creatures' spirit. Charleyhad grown up with families like his. No-nonsense ranchers, a few rich folk whowere still okay when they came up to ride on weekends. Now all you had wererich pretenders.
Diabetic and rheumatoid and depressed, Charley lived in a two-room cabinwith a view of oak-covered crests and the ocean beyond. Sixty-eight, nevermarried. Poor excuse for a man, he'd scold himself on nights when the medicinesmixed with the beer and his mood sank low.
On happier days, he pretended to be an old cowboy.
This morning, he was somewhere between those extremes. His bunions hurt likehell. Two horses had died last winter and he was down to three skinny whitemares and a half-blind sheepdog. Feed and hay bills ate up most of his SocialSecurity. But the nights had been warm for October, and he hadn’t dreamed badand his bones felt okay.
It was hay that got him up at seven that morning, rolling out of bed,gulping coffee, chewing on a stale sweet roll, to hell with his blood sugar. Alittle time-out to get the internal plumbing going and by eight he was dressedand starting up the pickup.
Coasting in neutral down the dirt road that fed to Latigo, he looked bothways a couple of times, cleared the crust from his eyes, shifted into first,and rolled down. The Topanga Feed Bin was a twenty-minute ride south and hefigured to stop along the way at the Malibu Stop & Shop for a fewsix-packs, a tin of Skoal, and some Pringles.
Nice morning, a big old blue sky with just a few clouds from the east, sweetair blowing up from the Pacific. Switching on his eight-track, he listened toRay Price and drove slow enough to stop for deer. Not too many of the pestsbefore dark but you never knew what to expect up in the mountains.
The naked girl jumped out at him a lot faster than any deer.
Eyes full of terror, mouth stretched so wide Charley swore he could see hertonsils.
She ran across the road, straight in the path of his truck, hair blowingwild, waving her arms.
Stomping the brake pedal hard, Charley felt the pickup lurch, wobble, andsway. Then the sharp skid to the left, straight at the battered guardrail thatseparated him from a thousand foot of nothing.
Hurtling toward blue sky.
He kept hitting the brake. Kept flying. Said his prayers and opened the doorand prepared to bail.
His damn shirt stuck on the door handle. Eternity looked real close. What astupid way to go!
Hands ripping at his shirt fabric, mouth working in a combination of cursesand benedictions, Charley’s gnarled body tightened, his legs turned to ironbars, and his sore foot pressed that brake pedal down to the damn floorboard.
The truck kept going, fishtailed, slid, spattered gravel.
Shuddered. Rolled. Bumped the guard.
Charley could hear the rail groan.
The truck stopped.
Charley freed his shirt and got out. His chest was tight and he couldn’tsuck any breath into his lungs. Wouldn’t that be the shits: spared a free fallto oblivion only to drop dead of a damned heart attack.
He gasped and swallowed air, felt his field of vision grow black and bracedhimself against the truck. The chassis creaked and Charley jumped back, felthimself going down again.
A scream pierced the morning. Charley opened his eyes and straightened andsaw the girl. Red marks around her wrists and ankles. Bruises around her neck.
Beautiful young body, those healthy knockers bobbing as she came runningtoward him—sinful to think like that, she was scared, but with knockers likethat what else was there to notice?
She kept coming, arms wide, like she wanted Charley to hold her.
But screaming, those wild eyes, he wasn’t sure what to do.
First time in a long time he’d been this close to bare female flesh.
He forgot about the knockers, nothing sexy about this. She was a kid, youngenough to be his daughter. Granddaughter.
Those marks on her wrists and ankles, around her neck.
She screamed again.
“Ohgodohgoohgod.”
She was right up to him, now, yellow hair whipping his face. He could smellthe fear on her. See the goose bumps on her pretty tan shoulders.
“Help me!”
Poor kid was shivering.
Charley held her.
Chapter 2
L.A.’s whereyou end up when you have nowhere else to go.
A long time ago I’d driven west from Missouri,a sixteen-year-old high school graduate armed with a head full of desperationand a partial academic scholarship to the U.
Only son of a moody, hard drinker and a chronic depressive. Nothing to keepme in the flatlands.
Living like a pauper on work-study and occasional guitar gigs in weddingbands, I managed to get educated. Made some money as a psychologist, and a lotmore from lucky investments. Got The House In The Hills.
Relationships were another story, but that would’ve been true no matterwhere I lived.
Back when I treated children, I routinely took histories from parents andlearned what family life could be like in L.A.People packing up and moving every year or two, the surrender to impulse, thedeath of domestic ritual.
Many of the patients I saw lived in sun-baked tracts with no other kidsnearby and spent hours each day being bused to and from beige corrals thatclaimed to be schools. Long, electronic nights were bleached by cathode and thump-thumpedby the current angry music. Bedroom windows looked out to hazy miles ofneighborhoods that couldn’t really be called that.
Lots of imaginary friends in L.A.That, I supposed, was inevitable. It’s a company town and the product isfantasy.
The city kills grass with red carpets, worships fame for its own sake,demolishes landmarks with glee because the high-stakes game is reinvention.Show up at your favorite restaurant and you’re likely to find a sign trumpetingfailure and the windows covered with brown paper. Phone a friend and get adisconnected number.
No Forwarding. It could be the municipal motto.
You can be gone in L.A.for a long time before anyone considers it a problem.
 
When Michaela Brand and Dylan Meserve went missing, no one seemed to notice.
Michaela’s mother was a former truck-stop cashier living with an oxygen tankin Phoenix. Herfather was unknown, probably one of the teamsters Maureen Brand had entertainedover the years. Michaela had left Arizonato get away from the smothering heat, gray shrubs, air that never moved, no onecaring about The Dream.
She rarely called her mother. The hiss of Maureen’s tank, Maureen’s saggingbody, ragged cough, and emphysemic eyes drove her nuts. No room for any of thatin Michaela’s L.A.head.
Dylan Meserve’s mother was long dead from an undiagnosed degenerativeneuromuscular disease. His father was a Brooklyn-based alto sax player who’dnever wanted a rug rat in the first place and had died of an overdose fiveyears ago.
Michaela and Dylan were gorgeous and young and thin and had come to L.A. for the obviousreason.
By day, he sold shoes at a Foot Locker in Brentwood.She was a lunch waitress at a pseudo-trattoria on the east end of Beverly Hills.
They’d met at the PlayHouse, taking an Inner Drama seminar from Nora Dowd.
The last time anyone had seen them was on a Monday night, just after tenp.m., leaving the acting workshop together. They’d worked their butts off on ascene from Simpatico. Neither really got what Sam Shepard was aiming for but theplay had plenty of juicy parts, all that screaming. Nora Dowd had urged them toinject themselves in the scene, smell the horseshit, open themselves up to thepain and the hopelessness.
Both of them felt they’d delivered. Dylan’s Vinnie had been perfectly wildand crazy and dangerous, and Michaela’s Rosie was a classy woman of mystery.
Nora Dowd had seemed okay with the performance, especially Dylan’scontribution.
That frosted Michaela a bit but she wasn’t surprised.
Watching Nora go off on one of those speeches about right brain-left brain.Talking more to herself than to anyone else.
The PlayHouse’s front room was set up like a theater, with a stage andfolding chairs. The only time it got used was for seminars.
Lots of seminars, no shortage of students. One of Nora’s alumni, a formerexotic dancer named April Lange, had scored a role on a sitcom on the WB. Anautographed picture of April used to hang in the entry before someone took itdown. Blond, shiny-eyed, vaguely predatory. Michaela used to think: Why her?
Then again, maybe it was a good sign. If it could happen to April, it couldhappen to anyone.
Dylan and Michaela lived in single-room studio apartments, his on Overland, in Culver City, hers on Holt Avenue, south of Pico. Both theircribs were tiny, dark, ground-floor units, pretty much dumps. This was L.A., where rent couldcrush you and day jobs barely covered the basics and it was hard, sometimes,not to get depressed.
After they didn’t show up at work for two days running, their respectiveemployers fired them.
And that was the extent of it.
Chapter 3
Heard about it the way most everyone else did: third story on the eveningnews, right after the trial of a hip-hop star accused of assault and floods in Indonesia.
I was eating a solitary dinner and half listening to the broadcast. This onecaught my attention because I gravitate toward local crime stories.
Couple abducted at gunpoint, found naked and dehydrated in the hills of Malibu. I played with theremote but no other broadcast added details.
The following morning, the Times filled in a bit more: a pair of actingstudents had left a nighttime class in West L.A.and driven east in her car to the young woman’s apartment in the Pico-Robertsondistrict. Waiting at a red light at Sherbourne and Pico, they’d been carjackedby a masked gunman who stashed them both in the trunk and drove for more thanan hour.
When the car stopped and the trunk popped, the couple found themselves inpitch darkness, somewhere “out in the country.” The spot was later identifiedas “Latigo Canyon,in the hills of Malibu.”
The carjacker forced them to stumble down a steep hillside to a denselywooded area, where the young woman tied up the young man at gunpoint and wassubsequently bound herself. Sexual assault was implied but not specified. Theassailant was described as “white, medium height, and stocky, thirty to forty,with a Southern accent.”
Malibu wascounty territory, sheriff’s jurisdiction. The crime had taken place fifty milesfrom LASD headquarters, but violent whodunits were handled by major crimesdetectives and anyone with information was requested to phone downtown.
A few years back, when Robin and I were rebuilding the house in the hills,we’d rented a place on the beach in western Malibu. The two of us had explored thesinuous canyons and silent gullies on the land side of Pacific Coast Highway, hiked theoak-bearded crests that peaked above the ocean.
I remembered Latigo Canyon as corkscrew roadsand snakes and red-tailed hawks. Though it took a while to get abovecivilization, the reward was worth the effort: a wonderful, warm nothingness.
If I’d been curious enough, I could’ve called Milo,maybe learned more about the abduction. I was busy with three custody cases,two of them involving film-biz parents, the third starring a pair offrighteningly ambitious Brentwood plasticsurgeons whose marriage had shattered when their infomercial forFacelift-in-a-Jar tanked. Somehow they’d found time to produce aneight-year-old daughter, whom they now seemed intent on destroying emotionally.
Quiet, chubby girl, big eyes, a slight stammer. Recently, she’d taken tolong bouts of silence.
Custody evaluations are the ugliest side of child psychology and from timeto time I think about quitting. I’ve never sat down and calculated my successrate but the ones that work out keep me going, like a slot machine’sintermittent payoff.
I put the newspaper aside, happy the case was someone else’s problem. But asI showered and dressed, I kept imagining the crime scene. Glorious goldenhills, the ocean a stunning blue infinity.
It’s gotten to a point where it’s hard for me to see beauty without thinkingof the alternative.
My guess was this case would be a tough one; the main hope for a solve wasthe bad guy screwing up and leaving behind some forensic tidbit: a unique tiretread, rare fiber, or biological remnant. A lot less likely than you’d thinkfrom watching TV. The most common print found at crime scenes is the palm, andpolice agencies have only started cataloging palm prints. DNA can work miraclesbut backlogs are ferocious and the data banks are less than comprehensive.
On top of that, criminals are wising up and using condoms, and this criminalsounded like a careful planner.
Cops watch the same shows everyone else does and sometimes they learnsomething. But Milo and other people in hisposition have a saying: Forensics never solves crimes, detectives do.
Milo would be happy this one wasn’t his.
Then it was.
 
When the abduction became something else, the media started using names.
Michaela Brand, 23. Dylan Meserve, 24.
Mug shots do nothing for your looks but even with numbers around their necksand that trapped-animal brightness in their eyes, these two were soap-operafodder.
They’d produced a reality show episode that backfired.
 
The scheme unraveled when a clerk at Krentz Hardware in West Hollywood read the abduction story in the Times and recalled ayoung couple paying cash for a coil of yellow nylon rope three days before thealleged carjacking.
A store video confirmed the I.D. and analysis of the rope revealed a perfectmatch to bindings found at the scene and to ligature marks around Michaela andDylan’s limbs and necks.
Sheriff’s investigators followed the trail and located a Wilderness Outfittersin Santa Monicawhere the couple had purchased a flashlight, bottled water, dehydrated foodpackets designed for hikers. A 7-Eleven near Century Cityverified that Michaela Brand’s nearly depleted debit card had been used to buya dozen Snickers bars, two packets of beef jerky, and a six-pack of Miller Liteless than an hour before the reported time of the abduction. Wrappers and emptycans found a half mile up the ridge from where the couple had staged theirconfinement filled in the picture.
The final blow was the report of an emergency room physician at Saint John’s Hospital: Meserve and Brand claimed tohave gone without food for two days but their electrolyte tests were normal.Furthermore, neither victim exhibited signs of serious injury other than ropeburn and some “mild” bruising of Michaela’s vagina that could’ve beenconsistent with “self-infliction.”
Faced with the evidence, the couple broke down, admitted the hoax, and werecharged with obstructing officers and filing a false police report. Bothpleaded poverty, and public defenders were assigned.
Michaela’s D.P.D. was a man named Lauritz Montez. He and I had met nearly adecade ago on a particularly repellent case: the murder of a two-year-old girlby two preadolescent boys, one of whom had been Montez’s client. The uglinesshad resurfaced last year when one of the killers, now a young man, had phonedme out within days of his release from prison and turned up dead hours later.
Lauritz Montez hadn’t liked me to begin with and my digging up the past hadmade matters worse. So I was puzzled when he called and asked me to evaluateMichaela Brand.
“Why would I kid, Doctor?”
“We didn’t exactly hit it off.”
“I’m not inviting you to hang out,” he said. “You’re a smart shrink and Iwant her to have a solid report behind her.”
“She’s charged with misdemeanors,” I said.
“Yeah, but the sheriff’s pissed and is pushing the D.A. to go for jail time.We’re talking a mixed-up kid who did something stupid. She feels bad enough.”
“You want me to say she was mentally incapacitated.”
Montez laughed. “Temporary raving-lunacy-insanity would be great but I knowyou’re all pissy-anty about small details like facts. So just tell it like itwas: She was addled, caught in a weak moment, swept along. I’m sure there’ssome technical term for it.”
“The truth,” I said.
He laughed again. “Will you do it?”
The plastic surgeons’ little girl had started talking, but both parents’lawyers had phoned this morning and informed me the case had been resolved andmy services were no longer necessary.
“Sure,” I said.
“Seriously?” said Montez.
“Why not?”
“It didn’t go that smoothly on Duchay.”
“How could it?”
“True. Okay, I’ll have her call and make an appointment. Do my best to getyou some kind of reimbursement. Within reason.”
“Reason’s always good.”
“And so rare.”
Chapter 4
Michaela Brand came to see me four days later.
I work out of my house above Beverly Glen. In mid-November the whole city’spretty, nowhere more so than the Glen.
She smiled and said, “Hi, Dr. Delaware.Wow, what a great place, my name’s pronounced Mick-aah-la.”
The smile was heavy firepower in the battle to be noticed. I walked herthrough high, white, hollow space to my office at the back.
Tall and narrow-hipped and busty, she put a lot of roll-and-sway into herwalk. If her breasts weren’t real, their free movement was an ad for a greatscalpel artist. Her face was oval and smooth, blessed by wide-set aquamarineeyes that could feign spontaneous fascination without much effort, balancedperfectly on a long, smooth stalk of a neck.
Faint bruising along the sides of the neck were masked by body makeup. Therest of her skin was bronze velvet stretched across fine bones. Tanning bed orone of those spray jobs that last for a week. Tiny, mocha freckles sprinkledacross her nose hinted at her natural complexion. Wide lips were enlarged bygloss. A mass of honey-colored hair trailed past her shoulder blades. Somestylist had taken a long time to texturize the ’do and make it look careless.Half a dozen shades of blond aped nature.
Her black, stovepipe jeans hung nearly low enough to require a pubic wax.Her hip bones were smooth little knobs calling out for a tango partner. A blackjersey, cap-sleeved T-shirt rhinestone Porn Star ended an inch above a wrysmile of navel. The same flawless golden dermis sheathed a drum-tight abdomen.Her nails were long and French-tipped, her false lashes perfect. Plucked browsadded to the illusion of permanent surprise.
Lots of time and money spent to augment lucky chromosomes. She’d convincedthe court system she was poor. Turned out she was, the debit card finished, twohundred bucks left in her checking account.
“I got my landlord to extend me a month,” she said, “but unless I clear thisup soon and get another job, I’m going to get evicted.”
Tears welled in the blue-green eyes. Clouds of hair tossed and fluffed andresettled. Despite her long legs, she’d managed to curl up in the big leatherpatient’s chair and look small.
“What does clearing it up mean to you?” I said.
“Pardon?”
“Clearing it up.”
“You know,” she said. “I need to get rid of…this, this mess.”
I nodded and she cocked her head like a puppy. “Lauritz said you were thebest.”
First-name basis with her lawyer. I wondered if Montez had been motivated bymore than professional responsibility.
Stop, suspicious fellow. Focus on the patient.
This patient was leaning forward and smiling shyly, loose breasts cuppingblack jersey. I said, “What did Mr. Montez tell you about this evaluation?”
“That I should open myself up emotionally.” She poked at a corner of oneeye. Dropped her hand and ran her finger along a black-denim knee.
“Open yourself up how?”
“You know, not hold back from you, just basically be myself. I’m…”
I waited.
She said, “I’m glad it’s you. You seem kind.” She curled one leg under theother.
I said, “Tell me how it happened, Michaela.”
“How what happened?”
“The phony abduction.”
She flinched. “You don’t want to know about my childhood or anything?”
“We may get into that later, but it’s best to start with the hoax itself.I’d like to hear what happened in your words.”
“My words. Boy.” Half smile. “No foreplay, huh?”
I smiled back. She unfolded her legs and a pair of high-heeled blackSkechers alit on the carpet. She flexed one foot. Looked around the office. “Iknow I did wrong but I’m a good girl, Doctor. Ideally am.”
She crossed her arms over the Porn Star logo. “Where to start…I have to tellyou, I feel so exposed.”
I pictured her rushing onto the road, naked, nearly causing an old man todrive his truck off a cliff. “I know it’s tough to think about what you did,Michaela, but it could be really helpful to get used to talking about it.”
“So you can understand me?”
“That,” I said, “but also at some point you might be required to allocate.”
“What’s that?”
“To tell the judge what you did.”
“Confession,” she said. “It’s a fancy word for confession?”
“I guess it is.”
“All these words they use.” She laughed softly. “At least I’m learningstuff.”
“Probably not the way you wanted to.”
“That’s for sure…lawyers, cops. I don’t even remember who I told what.”
“It’s pretty confusing,” I said.
“Totally, Doctor. I have a thing for that.”
“For what?”
“Confusion. Back in Phoenix—inhigh school—some people used to think I was an airhead. The brainiacs, youknow? Truth is, I got confused a lot. Still do. Maybe it’s because I fell on myhead when I was a little kid. Fell off a swing and passed out. After that Inever really did too good in school.”
“Sounds like a bad fall.”
“I don’t remember much about it, Doctor, but they told me I was unconsciousfor half a day.”
“How old were you?”
“Maybe three. Four. I was swinging high, used to love to swing. Must’ve letgo or something and went flying. I hit my head other times, too. I was alwaysfalling, tripping over myself. My legs grew so fast, when I was fifteen I wentfrom five feet to five eight in six months.”
“You’re accident-prone.”
“My mom used to say I was an accident waiting to happen. I’d get her to buyme good jeans, and then I’d rip the knees and she’d get upset and promise neverto buy me anything anymore.”
She touched her left temple. Caught some hair between her fingers andtwisted. Pouted. That reminded me of someone. I watched her fidget and itfinally came to me: young Brigitte Bardot.
Would she know who that was?
She said, “My head’s been spinning. Since the mess. It’s like someone else’sscreenplay and I’m drifting through the scenes.”
“The legal system can be overwhelming.”
“I never thought I’d bein the system! I mean, I don’t even watch crime stuffon TV. My mom reads mysteries but I hate them.”
“What do you read?”
She’d turned aside, didn’t answer. I repeated the question.
“Oh, sorry, I spaced out. What do I read…Us magazine. People, Elle, youknow.”
“How about we talk about what happened?”
“Sure, sure…it was just supposed to be…maybe Dylan and I took it too far butmy acting teacher, her big thing is that the whole point of the training is tolose yourself and enter the scene, you really need to abandon the self, youknow, the ego. Just give yourself up to the scene and flow.”
“That’s what you and Dylan were doing,” I said.
“I guess I started outthinking we were doing that and I guess…I really don’tknow what happened. It’s so crazy, how did I get into this craziness ?”
She slammed a fist into an open hand, shuddered, threw up her arms. Begancrying softly. A vein throbbed in her neck, pumping through cover-up,accentuating a bruise.
I handed her a tissue. Her fingers lingered on my knuckles. She sniffled.“Thanks.”
I sat back down. “So you thought you were doing what Nora Dowd taught you.”
“You know Nora?”
“I’ve read the court documents.”
“Nora’s in the documents?”
“She’s mentioned. So you’re saying the false abduction was related to yourtraining.”
“You keep calling it false,” she said.
“What would you like me to call it?”
“I don’t know…something else. The exercise. How about that? That’s reallywhat it started out as.”
“An acting exercise.”
“Uh-huh.” She crossed her legs. “Nora never came out and told us to do an exercisebut we thought—she was always pushing us to get into the core of our feelings.Dylan and I figured we’d…” She bit her lip. “It was never supposed to go thatfar.”
She touched her temple again. “I must’ve been whack. Dylan and I were justtrying to be artistically authentic. Like when I tied him up and wrapped therope around myself, I held it around my neck for a while to make sure it wouldleave marks.” She frowned, touched a bruise.
“I see it.”
“I knew it wouldn’t take long. To make a bruise. I bruise real easily. Maybethat’s why I don’t do pain very well.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m a crybaby about pain so I stay away from it.” She touched a spot wherethe scoop neck of the T-shirt met skin. “Dylan feels nothing, I mean, he’s likestone. When I tied him up, he kept saying tighter, he wanted to feel it.”
“Pain?”
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Not his neck at first, just his legs and arms. Buteven that hurts when you go tight enough, right? But he kept telling metighter, tighter. Finally I screamed at him, I’m doing it as tight as I can.”She gazed up at the ceiling. “He just laid there. Then he smiled and said maybeyou should do my neck the same way.”
“Dylan has a death wish?”
“Dylan’s a freak…it was freaky up there, dark, cold, this emptiness in theair. You could hear things crawling around.” She hugged herself. “I said thisis too weird, maybe it wasn’t a good idea.”
“What did Dylan say?”
“He just laid there with his head to the side.” She closed her eyes anddemonstrated. Let her mouth grow slack and showed a half inch of pointed, pinktongue. “Pretending to be dead, you know? I said, ‘Cut it out, that’s gross,’but he refused to talk or move and finally it got to me. I rolled over to himand touched his head and he just flopped, you know?”
“Method acting,” I said.
Puzzled stare.
“It’s when you live a role completely, Michaela.”
Her eyes were somewhere else. “Whatever…”
“How soon into the exercise did you tie him up?”
“Second night, it was all the second night. He was okay before that, then hestarted punking me. I was letting him because I was scared. The whole thing…Iwas so, so stupid.”
She folded wings of golden hair forward, masking her face. I thought of ashow spaniel in the ring. Handlers manipulating the ears over the nose to offerthe judge a choice view of the skull.
“Dylan scared you.”
“He didn’t move for along time,” she said.
“Were you worried you’d tied him too tight?”
She released the hair but kept her gaze low. “Honestly, I can’t tell you,even now what his motivation was. Maybe he really was unconscious, maybe he waspunking me a hundred percent. He’s…it was really his idea, Doctor. I promise.”
“Dylan thought the whole thing up?”
“Everything. Like getting rope and where to go.”
“How’d he pick Latigo Canyon?”
“He said he hiked there, he likes to hike by himself, it helps him get incharacter.” The tongue tip glided across her lower lip, left behind asnail-trail of moisture.
“He also says one day he’s going to have a place there.”
“Latigo Canyon?”
“Malibu, buton the beach, like the Colony. He’s crazy intense.”
“About his career?”
“There are some people who put everything into a scene, you know? But laterthey know when to stop? Dylan can be cool when he’s just being himself, buthe’s got these ambitions. Cover of People, take the place of Johnny Depp.”
“What are your ambitions, Michaela?”
“Me? I just want to work. TV, big screen, episodic, commercials, whatever.”
“Dylan wouldn’t be happy with that.”
“Dylan wants to be number one on the Sexiest Man List.”
“Have you talked to him since the exercise?”
“No.”
“Whose decision was that?”
“Lauritz told me to stay away.”
“Were you and Dylan pretty close before?”
“I guess. Dylan said we had natural chemistry. That’s probably why Igot…swept along. The whole thing was his idea but he freaked me out up there.I’m talking to him and shaking him and he looks really…you know.”
“Dead.”
“Not that I’ve ever seen anyone really dead but when I was young I liked towatch splatter flicks. Not now, though. I get grossed out easily.”
“What’d you do when you thought Dylan looked dead?”
“I went crazy and started untying the neck rope, and he still wasn’t movingand he held his mouth open and was looking really…” She shook her head. “Theatmosphere up there, I was getting freaked out. I started slapping his face andyelling at him to stop it. His head just kept flopping back and forth. Like oneof those loosening exercises Nora has us do before a big scene.”
“Scary,” I said.
“Scary-terrifying. I’m dyslexic, not intense dyslexic, like illiterate orillegible, I can read okay. But it takes me a long time to memorize words. Ican’t sound anything out. I mean, I can memorize my lines but I really workhard.”
“Being dyslexic made it scarier to see Dylan like that?”
“Because my head felt all scrambled up and I couldn’t think straight. and then being scared blurred it. Like my thoughts weren’t making sense—like beingin another language, you know?”
“Disoriented.”
“I mean, look what I did,” she said. “Untied myself and climbed up that hilland ran out to the road without even putting my clothes on. I had to bedisoriented. If I was thinking normal, would I do that? Then, after that oldguy, the one on the road who…” Her frown made it as far as the left side of hermouth before retracting.
“The old man who…”
“I was going to say the old guy saved me but I wasn’t in real danger. Still,Was pretty terrified. Because I still didn’t know if Dylan was okay. By thetime the old guy called the rescue squad and they got there, Dylan was out ofthe ropes and standing there. When no one was looking, he gave a little smile.Like ha-ha, good joke.”
“You feel Dylan manipulated you.”
“That’s the saddest thing. Losing trust. The whole thing was supposed to beabout trust. Nora’s always teaching us about the artist’s life as constantdanger. You’re always working without a net. Dylan was my partner and I trustedhim. That’s why I went along with it in the first place.”
“Did it take him a while to talk you into it?”
She frowned. “He made it like an adventure. Buying all that stuff. He mademe feel like a kid having fun.”
“Planning was fun,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“Buying the rope and the food.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Careful plan.”
Her shoulders tightened. “What do you mean?”
“You guys paid cash and used several different stores in differentneighborhoods.”
“That was all Dylan,” she said.
“Did he explain why he’d planned it that way?”
“We really didn’t talk about it. It was like…we did so many exercises before,this was just another one. I felt I had to use my right side. Of my brain. Norataught us to concentrate on using the right side of the brain, just kind ofslip into right-brain stuff.”
“The creative side,” I said.
“Exactly. Don’t think too much, just throw yourself in.”
“Nora keeps coming up.”
Silence.
“How do you think she feels about what happened, Michaela?”
“I know how she feels. She’s pissed. After the police took me in, I calledher. She said getting caught was amateurish and stupid, don’t come back. Thenshe hung up.”
“Getting caught,” I said. “She wasn’t angry at the scheme itself?”
“That’s what she told me. It was stupid to get caught.” Her eyes moistened.
“Hearing that from her must’ve been tough,” I said.
“She’s in a power role vis-à-vis me.”
“You try talking to her again?”
“She won’t return my calls. So now I can’t go to the PlayHouse. Not that itmatters. I guess.”
“Time to move on?”
Tears ran down her face. “I can’t afford to study, ’cause I’m broke. Gonnahave to put my name in with one of those agencies. Be a personal assistant or ananny. Or flip burgers or something.”
“Those are your only choices?”
“Who’s gonna hire me for a good job when I need to go out on auditions? Andalso untilthis is over.”
I handed her another tissue.
“I sure wasn’t out to hurt anyone, believe me, Doctor. I know I should’vethought more and felt less, but Dylan…” She drew up her legs again. Negligiblebody fat allowed her to fold like paper. With that lack of insulation, two nightsup in the hills must’ve chilled her. Even if she was lying about her fear, theexperience hadn’t been pleasant: The final police report had cited fresh humanexcrement under a nearby tree, leaves and candy wrappers used for toilet paper.
“Now,” she said, “everyone will think I’m a dumb blonde.”
“Some people say there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
“They do?” she said. “You think so?”
“I think people can turn themselves around.”
She fixed her eyes on mine. “I was stupid and I’m so, so sorry.”
I said, “Whatever you guys intended, it ended up being a rough couple ofnights.”
“What do you mean?”
“Being out there in the cold. No bathroom.”
“That was gross, ” she said. “It was freezing and I felt likecreepy-crawlies were all over me, just eating me up. Afterward my arms and legsand my neck hurt. Because I tied myself too tight.” She grimaced. “I wanted tobe authentic. To show Dylan.”
“Show him what?”
“That I was a serious actor.”
“Were you out to please anyone else, Michaela?”
“What do you mean?”
“You had to figure the story would get exposure. Did you consider how otherpeople would react?”
“Like who?”
“Let’s start with Nora.”
“I honestly felt she’d respect us. For having integrity. Instead she’spissed.”
“What about your mother?”
She waved that off.
“You didn’t think about your mother?”
“I don’t talk to her. She’s not in my life.”
“Does she know about what happened?”
“She doesn’t read the papers but I guess if it’s in the Phoenix Sun and somebody shows it to her.”
“You haven’t called her?”
“She can’t do anything to help me.” She mumbled.
“Why’s that, Michaela?”
“She’s sick. Lung disease. My whole childhood she was sick with something.Even when I fell on my head it was a neighbor took me to the doctor.”
“Mom wasn’t there for you.”
She glanced to the side. “When she was stoned she’d hit me.”
“Mom was into drugs.”
“Mostly weed, sometimes she’d take pills for her moods. Mostly, she liked tosmoke. Weed and tobacco and Courvoisier. Her lungs are seriously burned away.She breathes with a tank.”
“Tough childhood.”
She mumbled again.
I said, “I missed that.”
“My childhood. I don’t like talking about it but I’m being totally honestwith you. No illusions, no emotional curtain, you know? It’s like a mantra. Ikept telling myself, ‘honesty honesty honesty.’ Lauritz told me to keep thathere, right in front.” A tapered finger touched a smooth, bronze brow.
“What did you figure would happen when the story got out?”
Silence.
“Michaela?”
“Maybe TV.”
“Getting on TV?”
“Reality TV. Like a mixture of Punk’d and Survivor and Fear Factor but withno one knowing what’s real and what isn’t. It’s not like we were trying to bemean. We were just trying to get a breakthrough.”
“What kind of breakthrough?”
“Mentally.”
“What about as a career move?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you think it might get you a part on a reality show?”
“Dylan thought it might,” she said.
“You didn’t?”
“I didn’t think, period…maybe down deep—unconsciously—I thought it mighthelp get through the wall.”
“What wall is that?”
“The success wall. You go on auditions and they look at you like you’re notthere, and even when they say they might call they don’t. You’re just astalented as the girl who gets called, there’s no reason anything happens. Sowhy not? Get yourself noticed, do something special or weird or terrific. Makeyourself special for being special.”
She got up, circled the office. Kicked one shoe with the other and nearlylost balance. Maybe she’d been telling the truth about being clumsy.
“It’s a suck life,” she said.
“Being an actor.”
“Being any kind of artist. Everyone loves artists but they also hate them!”
Grabbing her hair with both hands, she yanked, stretching her beautiful faceinto something reptilian.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is?” she said through elongated lips.
“What?”
She released the hair. Looked down on me as if I was thick.
“To. Get. Anyone. To. Pay. Attention! ”
Chapter 5
Saw Michaela for three more sessions. She spent most of the time driftingback to a childhood tainted by neglect and loneliness. Her mother’s promiscuityand various pathologies enlarged with each appointment. She recalled year afteryear of academic failure, adolescent slights, chronic isolation brought on by“looking like a giraffe with zits.”
Psychometric testing revealed her to be of average intelligence with poorimpulse control and a tendency to manipulate. No sign of learning disability orattention deficit, and her MMPI Lie Scale was elevated, meaning that she’dnever stopped acting.
Despite that, she seemed a sad, scared, vulnerable young woman. That didn’tstop me from asking what needed to be asked.
“Michaela, the doctor found some bruising around your vagina.”
“If you say so.”
“The doctor who examined you said so.”
“Maybe he bruised me when he was checking me out.”
“Was he rough?”
“He had rough fingers. This Asian guy. I could tell he didn’t like me.”
“Why wouldn’t he like you?”
“You’d have to ask him.” She glanced at her watch.
I said, “Is that the story you want to stick with?”
She stretched. Blue jeans, today, riding low on her hips, midriff-baringwhite lace V-top. Her nipples were faint gray dots.
“Do I need a story?”
“It could come up.”
“It could if you mention it.”
“It has nothing to do with me, Michaela. It’s in the case file.”
“Case file,” she said. “Like I did some big crime.”
I didn’t answer.
She plucked at lace. “Who cares about any of that? Why do you care?”
“I’d like to understand what happened up in Latigo Canyon.”
“What happened was Dylan getting crazy,” she said.
“Crazy physically?”
“He got all passionate and bruised me.”
“What happened?” I said.
“What usually happened.”
“Meaning…”
“It’s what we did. ” She wiggled the fingers of one hand. “Touching eachother. The few times.”
“The few times you were intimate.”
“We were never intimate. Once in a while we got horny and touched eachother. Of course he wanted more, but I never let him.” She stuck out hertongue. “A few times I let him go down on me but mostly it was finger timebecause I didn’t want to get close to him.”
“What happened in Latigo Canyon?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with…what happened.”
“Your relationship with Dylan is bound to—”
“Fine, fine,” she said. “In the canyon it was all fingers and he got toorough. When I complained he said he was doing it on purpose. For realism.”
“For when you were discovered.”
“I guess,” she said.
She looked away.
I waited.
She said, “It was the first night. What else was there to do? It was soboring, just sitting up there, getting talked out.”
“How soon did you get talked out?” I said.
“Real soon. ’Cause he was into this whole Zen silence thing. Preparing forthe second night. He said we needed to cook images in our heads. Heat up ouremotions by not crowding our heads with words.”
Her laughter was harsh. “Big Zen silence thing. Until he got horny. Then hehad no trouble telling me what he wanted. He thought being up there would makethings different. Like I’d do him. As if.”
Her eyes got hard. “I pretty much hate him now.”
 
I took a day before writing an outline of my report.
Her story boiled down to diminished capacity combined with that time-honoredtactic, the TODDI Defense: The Other Dude Did It.
Wondering if Lauritz Montez was her new acting coach, I phoned his office atthe Beverly Hillscourt building. “I’m not going to make you happy.”
“Actually, it doesn’t matter,” he said.
“The case settled?”
“Better. Sixty-day continuance, thanks to my colleague who’s representingMeserve. Marjani Coolidge—know her?”
“Nope.”
“She’s scheduled on a roots trip to Africa,asked to put everything off. Once the sixty days are up, we’ll get anothercontinuance. And another. The media scrutiny’s faded and the docket’s jammedwith serious felonies, no problem keeping trivial crap at bay. By the time weget to trial no one will give a shit. It’s all pressure from the sheriffs, andthose guys have the attention span of gnats on smack. I’m figuring the worstthe two of them will get is teaching Shakespeare to inner-city kids.”
“Shakespeare’s not her thing.”
“What is?”
“Improvisation.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure she’ll figure it out. Thanks for your time.”
“No report necessary?”
“You can send one but I can’t tell you it’ll ever get read. Which shouldn’tbother you because turns out all I can get you paid for is straight sessiontime at forty bucks per full hour, no portal-to-portal, no write-up fees.”
I kept silent.
“Hey,” he said, “budget cuts and all that. Sorry, man.”
“Don’t be.”
“You’re okay with it?”
“I’m not much for showbiz.”
Chapter 6
Two weeks after Michaela’s final session, I spotted a paragraph at the backof the Metro section.
Abduction Hoax Couple Sentenced
A pair of would-be actors accused of faking their own kidnapping in order togarner attention for their careers has been sentenced to community service aspart of a plea-deal arranged between the Sheriff’s Department, the DistrictAttorney, and the Public Defender’s Office.
Dylan Roger Meserve, 24, and Michaela Ally Brand, 23, had been charged witha series of misdemeanors that could have led to jail time, stemming from falseclaims of being carjacked in West Los Angeles and driven to Latigo Canyon inMalibu by a masked gunman. Subsequent investigation revealed that the duo hadset up the incident, going so far as to tie themselves up and simulate two daysof starvation.
“This was the best resolution,” said Deputy D.A. Heather Bally, in charge ofprosecuting the duo. She cited the couple’s youth and the absence of priorcriminal record, and emphasized the benefits Meserve and Brand could provide tothe “theater community,” citing two summer theater programs to which the pairmight be assigned: Theater Kids in Baldwin Hills and The Drama Posse in East Los Angeles.
Calls to the sheriff’s office were not returned.
One continuance had done the trick. I wondered if the two of them wouldbother to stay in town. Probably, if visions of stardom still stuffed theirheads.
I’d sent my $160 invoice to Lauritz Montez’s office, still hadn’t gottenpaid. I called him, left a polite message with a machine, and went aboutforgetting the case.
Lieutenant Detective Milo Sturgis had different ideas.
 
I’d spent New Year’s alone and the ensuing weeks had been nothing to warbleabout.
The dog I shared with Robin Castagna turned ancient overnight.
Spike, a twenty-five-pound French bulldog with fire-log physique and thediscerning eye of a practiced snob, had scoffed at the notion of joint custodyand gone to live with Robin. During his last few months of life, hisself-absorbed worldview had faded pathetically as he’d slipped into sleepypassivity. When he started to go downhill, Robin let me know. I began droppingby her house in Venice,sat on her saggy couch while she built and restored stringed instruments in herstudio down the hall.
Spike actually allowed me to hold him, rested his cement-block head under myarm. Looking up from time to time with eyes turned filmy gray by cataracts.
Each time I left, Robin and I smiled at each other for the briefest ofmoments, never discussed what was imminent, or anything else.
The last time I saw Spike, neither the tap-tap of Robin’s mallet nor thewhine of her power tools roused him and his muscle tone was bad. Offers of foodtreats dangled near his crusted nose evoked no response. I watched the slow,labored heave of his rib cage, listened to the rasp of his breathing.
Congestive heart failure. The vet said he was tired but not in pain, therewas no reason to put him down unless we couldn’t tolerate watching him go thisway.
He fell asleep in my lap and when I lifted his paw it felt cold. I rubbed itwarmer, sat for a while, carried him to his bed, placed him down gently, andkissed his knobby forehead. He smelled surprisingly good, like a freshlyshowered athlete.
As I saw myself out, Robin kept working on an old Gibson F5 mandolin.Six-figure instrument, heavy concentration required.
I stopped at the door and looked back. Spike’s eyes were closed and his flatface was peaceful, almost childlike.
The next morning, he gasped three times and passed away in Robin’s arms. Shephoned me and cried out the details. I drove to Venice, wrapped the body, called thecremation service, stood by as a nice man carried the pathetically small bundleaway. Robin was in her bedroom, still weeping. When the man left, I went inthere. One thing led to another.
 
During the time Robin and I were apart, she hooked up with another man and Ifell in and out of love with a smart, beautiful psychologist named AllisonGwynn.
I still saw Allison from time to time. Occasionally the physical pull we’dboth felt asserted itself. As far as I knew, she wasn’t seeing anyone else. Ifigured it was only a matter of time.
New Years she’d been in Connecticutwith her grandmother and a host of cousins.
She’d sent me a necktie for Christmas. I’d reciprocated with a Victoriangarnet brooch. I still wasn’t sure what had gone wrong. From time to time itbothered me that I couldn’t seem to hold on to a relationship. Sometimes Iwondered what I’d say if I was sitting in The Other Chair.
I told myself introspection could rot your brain, better to concentrate onother people’s problems.
It was Milo who ended up providingdistraction, at nine a.m. on a cold, dry Monday morning, one week after thehoax settlement.
“That girl you evaluated—Mikki Brand, the one who faked her abduction? Theyfound her body last night. Strangled and stabbed.”
“Didn’t know her nickname was Mikki.” The things you say when you’re caughtoff guard.
“That’s what her mother calls her.”
“She’d know,” I said.
 
I met him at the scene forty minutes later. The murder had taken placesometime Sunday night. By now, the area had been cleaned and scraped andanalyzed, yellow tape taken down.
The sole remnants of brutality were short pieces of the white rope thecoroner’s drivers use to bind the body after they wrap it in heavy-dutytranslucent plastic. Filmy gray plastic. Same hue, I realized, ascataract-dimmed eyes.
Michaela Brand had been found in a grassy area fifty feet west of Bagley Avenue, northof National Boulevard,where the streets cut under the 10 freeway. A faint, oblong gloss caught sunlightwhere the body had compressed the weeds. The overpass provided cold shade andrelentless noise. Graffiti boasted and raged on concrete walls. In some placesthe vegetation was waist high, crabgrass vying for nutrition with ragweed anddandelions and low, creeping things I couldn’t identify.
This was city property, part of the freeway easement, sandwiched between thetailored, affluent streets of Beverlywood to the north and the working-classapartment buildings of Culver Cityto the south. A few years back, there’d been some gang problems, but I hadn’theard of anything lately. Still, it wouldn’t be a place where I’d walk atnight, and I wondered what had brought Michaela here.
Her apartment on Holt was a couple of miles away. In L.A., that’s a drive, not a walk. Herfive-year-old Honda hadn’t been located, and I wondered if she’d been jacked.
For real, this time.
Too ironic.
Milo said, “What’re you thinking?”
I shrugged.
“You look contemplative. Let it out, man.”
“Nothing to say.”
He ran his hand over his big, lumpy face, squinted at me as if we’d justbeen introduced. He was dressed for messy work: rust-colored nylon windbreaker,wash-and-wear white shirt with a curling collar, skinny oxblood tie thatresembled two lengths of beef jerky, baggy brown trousers, and tan desert bootswith pink rubber soles.
His fresh haircut was the usual “style,” meaning skinned at the sides, whichemphasized all the white, thick and black on top, a cockscomb of competingcowlicks. His sideburns now drooped a half inch below fleshy earlobes,suggesting the worst type of Elvis impersonator. His weight had stabilized; myguess was two sixty on his seventy-four-inch frame, a lot of it abdomen.
When he stepped away from the overpass, sunlight amplified his acne pits andgravity’s cruel tendencies. We were months apart in age. He liked to tell me Iwas aging a lot more slowly than he was. I usually replied that circumstanceshad a way of changing fast.
He makes a big deal about not caring how he looks, but I’ve long suspectedthere’s a self-image buried down deep in his psyche: Gay But Not What YouExpect.
Rick Silverman’s long given up on buying him clothes that never get worn.Rick gets his hair trimmed every two weeks at a high-priced West Hollywood salon. Milo drives,every two months, to La Brea and Washington where he hands his seven bucks plustip to an eighty-nine-year-old barber who claims to have cut Eisenhower’s hairduring World War II.
I visited the shop once, with its gray linoleum floors, creaky chairs,yellowed Brylcreem posters featuring smiling, toothy white guys, and similarlyantique pitches for Murray’sstraightening pomade aimed at the majority black clientele.
Milo liked to brag about the Ikeconnection.
“Probably a one-shot deal,” I said.
“Why’s that?”
“So Maurice could avoid a court-martial.”
That conversation, we’d been in an Irish bar on Fairfax near Olympic, drinking Chivas andconvincing ourselves we were lofty thinkers. A man and a woman he’d beenpretending to look for had been nabbed at a traffic stop in Montana and were fighting extradition. They’dslain a vicious murderer, a predator who’d sorely needed killing. The law hadno use for moral subtlety and news of the capture led Miloto deliver a cranky, philosophical sermon. Downing a double, he apologized forthe lapse and changed the subject to barbering.
“Maurice isn’t courant enough for you?”
“Wait long enough, and everything becomes courant. ”
“Maurice is an artist.”
“I’m sure George Washington thought so.”
“Don’t be an ageist. He can still handle those scissors.”
“Such dexterity,” I said. “He should’ve gone to med school.”
His green eyes grew bright with amusement and grain alcohol. “Couple ofweeks ago, I was giving a talk to a Neighborhood Watch group in West Hollywood Park. Crime prevention, basic stuff. Igot the feeling some of the young guys weren’t paying attention. Later, one ofthem came up to me. Skinny, tan, Oriental tats on the arm, all that cut muscle.Said he dug the message but I was the stodgiest gay man he’d ever met.”
“Sounds like a come-on.”
“Oh, sure.” He tugged at a saggy jowl, released skin, took a swallow. “Itold him I appreciated the compliment but he should be paying more attention towatching his back when he cruised. He thought that was a double entendre andleft cracking up.”
“West Hollywood’s the sheriff,” I said. “Whyyou?”
“You know how it is. Sometimes I’m the unofficial spokesman for lawenforcement when the audience is alternative.”
“Captain pressured you.”
“That, too,” he said.
 
I walked over to where Michaela had been found. Miloremained several feet back, reading the notes he’d taken last night.
A flash of white stood out among the weeds. Another nub of coroner’s rope.The drivers had trimmed the bindings because Michaela had been a slim girl.
I knew what had happened at the scene: her pockets emptied, her nailscleaned of detritus, hair combed out, any “product” collected. Finally,attendants had packaged her and lifted her onto a gurney and wheeled her upinto a white coroner’s van. By now she’d be waiting, along with dozens of otherplastic bundles, stacked neatly on a shelf in one of the large, cool rooms thatline the gray hallways of the basement crypt on Mission Road.
They treat the dead with respect at Mission Road, but the backlog—the sheervolume of bodies—can’t help but leach out the dignity.
I picked up the rope. Smooth, substantial. As it had to be. How did itcompare to the yellow binding Michaela and Dylan had purchased for their“exercise”?
Where was Dylan now?
I asked Milo if he had any idea.
He said, “First thing I did was call the number on his arrest form.Disconnected. Haven’t located his landlord. Michaela’s, either.”
“She told me she was running out of money, had a month’s grace beforeeviction.”
“If she did get evicted, be good to know where she’s been crashing. Thinkthey could’ve moved in together?”
“Not if she was leveling with me,” I said. “She blamed the whole thing onhim.”
I scanned the dump site. “Not much blood. Killed somewhere else?”
“Looks that way.”
“Who found the body?”
“Woman walking her poodle. Dog sniffed it out, pronto.”
“Strangled and stabbed.”
“Manual strangulation, hard enough to crush the larynx. The follow-up wasfive stab wounds to the chest and one to the neck.”
“Nothing around the genitalia?”
“She was fully clothed, nothing overtly sexual about the pose.”
Strangulation itself can be a sexual thing. Some lust killers describe it asthe ultimate dominance. It takes a long time to stare into the face of astruggling, gasping human being and watch the life force seep out. One monsterI interviewed laughed about it.
“Time goes quickly when you’re having fun, Doc.”
I said, “Anything under her nails?”
“Nothing overly interesting, let’s see what the lab comes up with. No hairfibers, either. Not even from the dog. Apparently, poodles don’t shed much.”
“Any of the wounds defensive?”
“No, she was dead before the cutting started. The neck wound was a littlestick to the side, but it got the jugular.”
“Five’s too many for impulse cuts but less than you’d expect from anoverkill frenzy. Any pattern?”
“With her clothes on, it was hard to see much of anything except wrinklesand blood. I’ll be at the autopsy, let you know.”
I stared at the glossy spot.
Milo said, “So she blamed Meserve for thehoax. Lots of love lost?”
“She said she’d come to hate him.”
“Hatred’s a fine motive. Let’s try to locate this movie star.”
Chapter 7
Dylan Meserve had cleared out of his Culver City apartment six weeks ago, failing to give noticeto the company that owned the place. The firm, represented by a pinch-featuredman named Ralph Jabber, had been more lax than Michaela’s landlord: Dylan owedthree months back rent.
We encountered Jabber walking through the empty flat and jotting notes on aclipboard. The unit was one of fifty-eight in a three-story complex the colorof ripe cantaloupe. The Seville’stripometer put it three miles from where Michaela’s body had been found. Thatplaced the murder scene roughly equidistant from the couple’s respectiveapartments and I said so to Milo.
“What, the two of them reaching some kind of common ground?”
“I’m pointing out, not interpreting.”
He grunted and we walked through unguarded double glass doors into amusty-smelling lobby done up in copper foil wallpaper, pumpkin-coloredindustrial carpet, and U-build Scandinavian furniture made of something yellowthat yearned to be wood.
Dylan Meserve’s unit was on the far end of a dark, narrow hallway. From tenyards away I could see the open door, hear the supercharged whine of anindustrial vacuum cleaner.
Milo said, “So much for trace evidence,”and walked faster.
 
Ralph Jabber motioned to the dark little woman pushing the vacuum. Sheflipped a switch that quieted but didn’t silence the machine.
“What can I do for you?”
Milo flashed the badge and Jabber loweredhis clipboard. I caught a glimpse of the checklist.1. FLOORS: A. Normal Wear B.Tenant Liability 2.WALLS…
Jabber was sallow, short, and sunken-chested, in a shiny black four-buttonsuit over a white silk T-shirt, brown mesh loafers without socks. He hadnothing to offer about his former tenant, other than the outstanding rent.
Milo asked the woman what she knew and gotan uncomprehending smile. She was less than five feet tall, sturdily built,with a carved-teak face.
Ralph Jabber said, “She doesn’t know the tenants.”
The vacuum idled like a hot rod. The woman pointed to the carpet. Jabbershook his head, glanced at a Rolex too huge and diamond-encrusted to begenuine.“Elotro apartmente.”
The woman wheeled the machine out of the apartment.
Dylan Meserve had lived in a rectangular white room, maybe three hundredsquare feet. A single aluminum window set high on one of the long walls granteda view of gray stucco. The carpeting was coarse and oat-colored. Thevest-pocket kitchenette sported orange Formica counters chipped white alongvarious corners, prefab white cabinets smudged gray near the handles, a brownspace-saver refrigerator left open.
Empty fridge. Bottles of Windex and Easy-Off and a generic brand ofdisinfectant sat on the counter. Scuff marks bottomed some of the walls. Littlesquare indentations compressed the carpet where furniture had sat. From thenumber of dents, not much furniture.
Ralph Jabber’s clipboard lay flat against his thigh now. I wondered how he’dscored the scene.
“Three months back rent,” said Milo. “Youguys are pretty flexible.”
“It’s business,” said Jabber, without enthusiasm.
“What is?”
“We don’t like evictions. Prefer to keep the vacancy rate low.”
“So you let him ride.”
“Yeah.”
“Anyone talk to Mr. Meserve about it?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“How long would Mr. Meserve have had to go before you threw him out?”
Jabber frowned. “Every situation is different.”
“Mr. Meserve asked for an extension?”
“It’s possible. Like I said, I don’t know.”
“How come?”
“I don’t handle the rents. I’m the termination-transition manager,” saidJabber.
That sounded like a euphemism for mortician.
Milo said, “Meaning…”
“I fix the place up when it’s vacant, get it ready for the new tenant.”
“Got a new tenant for this one?”
Jabber shrugged. “It won’t take long. The place is high-demand.”
Milo looked around the small dismal room.“Location, location, location.”
“You got it. Close to everything, Lieutenant. The studios, the freeways, thebeach, Beverly Hills.”
“I know it’s not your area of expertise, sir, but I’m trying to trace Mr.Meserve’s activities. If he hadn’t asked for an extension, would there be somereason you’d simply let him go for three months?”
Jabber’s eyelids half closed.
Milo moved closer, used his height and bulkto advantage. Jabber stepped back. “Off the record?”
“Is it a sensitive topic, Mr. Jabber?”
“No, no, not that…to be honest, this is a big building and we’ve got otherseven bigger. Sometimes things get…overlooked.”
“So maybe Meserve got lucky and just sneaked by.”
Jabber shrugged.
“But eventually,” said Milo, “his failureto pay rent would’ve caught up with him.”
“Of course, yeah. Anyway, we got at least his first month and damagedeposit. He’s not getting nothing back ’cause he didn’t give notice.”
“How’d you find out he was gone?”
“Phone and electricity got shut off for nonpayment. We pay the gas but theutilities notify us when the other stuff goes.”
“Kind of an early warning system.”
Jabber smiled uneasily. “Not early enough.”
“When did the phone and electricity get shut off?”
“You’d have to call the main office.”
“Or you could.”
Jabber frowned, pulled out a cell phone, punched an auto-dial three-digitcode. “Samir, there? Hey, Sammy, Ralph. I am, yeah, the usual…tell me, when didthe juice get squeezed off at Overland D-14? Why? ’Cause the cops wanna know.Yeah…who knows, Sammy, they’re here now, want to talk to them yourself…okay,then, just tell me so I can get them outta—so they can find out what they wannaknow. Listen, I got six more to deal with, Sammy, including two in the Valleyand it’s already eleven…yeah, yeah…”
Ninety seconds passed. Phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder, Jabberwalked into the kitchenette, opened cabinets, ran his finger inside drawers.“Fine. Yeah. Okay. Yeah, I will, yeah.”
He clicked off. “Utilities went four weeks ago. One of our inspectors saidthere’d been no mail for six weeks.”
“Four weeks ago and you just came by today.”
Jabber colored. “Like I said, it’s a big company.”
“You the owner?”
“I wish. My father-in-law.”
“That him you were talking to?”
Jabber shook his head. “Brother-in-law.”
“Family affair,” said Milo.
“By marriage,” said Jabber. His lips twisted into a tight, pale blossom.“Okay? I gotta lock up.”
“Who’s the inspector?”
“My sister-in-law. Samir’s wife. Samir has her come around, check thingsout. She’s not too bright, never told anyone about the no-mail.”
“You have any idea where Mr. Meserve went?”
“I wouldn’t know him if he walked in right now. Why all the questions?What’d he do?”
Milo said, “Would anyone at the companyhave information about him?”
“No way,” said Jabber.
“Who rented to him?”
“He probably used one of the services. Rent-Search, or one of them. It’son-line or you can call, mostly people do it on-line.”
“How’s it work?”
“Applicant submits an application to the service, service passes it along tous. Applicant qualifies, he puts down the deposit and the first month and movesin. Once we get occupancy, we pay a commission to the service.”
“Meserve have a lease?”
“Month to month, we don’t do leases.”
“Leases don’t keep the vacancy rate down?”
“You get a bum,” said Jabber, “doesn’t matter what’s on paper.”
“What does it take to qualify as a tenant?”
“Hey,” said Jabber. “Lots of homeless would kill for a place like this.”
“You ask for references?”
“Sure.”
“Who did Meserve give?”
“Like I said, I’m just the—”
“Call your brother-in-law. Please.”
 
Three references: a previous landlord in Brooklyn, the manager of the FootLocker where Dylan Meserve had worked before getting arrested, and Nora Dowd,Artistic Director of the PlayHouse, in West L.A.,where the young man had been listed as a “creative consultant.”
Jabber examined what he’d written down before passing it along to Milo.
“Guy’s an actor?” He laughed.
“You rent to a lot of actors?”
“Actor means bum. Samir’s stupid.”
 
I followed Milo to the West L.A. station, where he parked his unmarked inthe staff lot and got into the Seville.
“Meserve stopped his mail soon after he got busted,” he said. “Probablyplanning to rabbit if things didn’t work out in court.” He searched his notepadfor the acting school’s address. “What do you think of that ‘creativeconsultant’ business?”
“Maybe he apprenticed to earn extra money. Michaela blamed Dylan for thehoax but obviously Nora Dowd didn’t.”
“How’d Michaela feel about that?”
“She didn’t talk about Nora’s reaction to Dylan. She was surprised at Nora’sangry reaction to her.”
“Dowd boots her but keeps him on as consultant?”
“If it’s true.”
“Meserve faked the reference?”
“Meserve’s been known to embellish.”
Milo phoned Brooklyn, located the landlordDylan had cited as a reference. “Guy said he knew Dylan’s father because he’s apart-time musician himself and they used to gig. He has a vague memory of Dylanas a kid but never rented him an apartment.”
“Creative consultant,” I said.
“Let’s talk to the consultee.”
Chapter 8
The PlayHouse was an old one-story Craftsman house on an oversized lot, justnorth of Venice Boulevard, in West L.A. Plank siding painted deep green withcream trim, low-set bulk topped by sweeping eaves that created a small, dimporch. The garage to the left had old-fashioned barn doors but looked freshlypainted. The landscaping was from another age: a couple of four-story cocoapalms, indifferently pruned bird of paradise grown ragged, agapanthus, andcalla lilies surrounding a flat, brown lawn.
The neighborhood was working-class rental residential, mostly boxymulti-units and boxy houses awaiting demolition. Nothing denoted the actingschool’s function. The windows were dark.
Milo said, “Guess she doesn’t need toadvertise. Or keep daytime hours.”
I said, “If most of the aspirants have day jobs, it’s an evening business.”
“Let’s check it out, anyway.”
We walked up to the porch. Floored with green board, thickly varnished. Thewindow in the paneled oak door was blocked with opaque lace. A hand-hammeredcopper mailbox perched to the right. Miloflipped the lid and peered inside. Empty.
He pushed a button and chimes sounded.
No answer.
Two doors down an old Dodge Dart backed out toward the street. Hispanic manaround thirty at the wheel, leaving a pale blue bungalow. Milowalked over, rolled his arm.
No badge, but people tend to obey him. The man lowered his window.
“Morning, sir. Know anything about your neighbor?”
Big shrug. Nervous smile.” No hablo Ingles.”
Milo pointed. “The school. La Escuela. ”
Another shrug. “No se.”
Milo looked into his eyes, waved him away.As the Dart sped off, we returned to the porch, where Milojabbed the button several more times. A chime sonata went unanswered.
“Okay, I’ll try again tonight.”
As we turned, footsteps sounded from inside the PlayHouse. Lace wiggled inthe window but didn’t part.
Then nothing.
Milo swiveled and rapped the door hard.Scratches, as a bolt turned. The door swung open and a heavy man holding abroom and looking distracted said, “Yeah?” Before the word was out of hismouth, his eyes tightened and distraction gave way to calculation.
This time Milo had the badge out. The heavyman barely glanced at it. His second “Yeah?” was softer, wary.
He had a splotchy, pie-tin face, a meaty, off-kilter nose, brambles of curlygraying hair that flew from his temples, muttonchops that petered to acolorless grizzle. The mustache atop parched lips was the sole bit ofdisciplined hair: clipped, precise, a gray-brown hyphen. Tight eyes the colorof strong tea managed to be active without moving.
Wrinkled gray work shirt and matching pants, open sandals, thick whitesocks. Dust and sweepings flecked white cotton toes. The tattoos thatembroidered his fleshy hands promised to snake up under his sleeves. Blue-blackskin art, crude and square-edged. Hard to decipher, but I made out a tinylittle grinning demon’s head, more impish than satanic, leering at a puckeredknuckle.
Milo said, “Is Nora Dowd here?”
“Nope.”
“What about Dylan Meserve?”
“Nope.”
“You know Mr. Meserve?”
“I know who he is.” Low, slurred voice, slight delay before formingsyllables. His right hand gripped the broom handle. The left had gathered shirtfabric and stretched it over his substantial belly.
“What do you know about Mr. Meserve?” said Milo.
The same hesitation. “One of the students.”
“He doesn’t work here?”
“Never saw that.”
“We were told he’s a creative consultant.”
No answer.
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
Small yellow teeth made a play at a cracked upper lip. “A while.”
“Days?”
“Yeah.”
“Weeks?”
“Could be.”
“Where’s Ms. Dowd?”
“Dunno.”
“No idea?”
“Nossir.”
“She’s your boss.”
“Yessir.”
“Want to guess where she might be?”
Shrug.
“When did you see her last?”
“I work days, she’s here at night.”
Out came Milo’s pad. “Your name, please.”
No answer.
Milo edged closer. The man stepped back,just as Ralph Jabber had.
“Sir?”
“Reynold.”
“First name, please.”
“Reynold. Last name’s Peaty.”
“Reynold Peaty.”
“Yessir.”
“Is that Peaty with two e’s or e-a?”
“P-E-A-T-Y.”
“You work here full-time, Mr. Peaty?”
“I do the clean up and the lawn mowing.”
“Full-time?”
“Part-time.”
“Got another job?”
“I clean buildings.”
“Where do you live, Mr. Peaty?”
Peaty’s left hand flexed. Gray shirt fabric shimmied. “Guthrie.”
“Guthrie Avenuein L.A.?”
“Yessir.”
Milo asked for the address. Reynold Peatythought for a moment before giving it up. Just east of Robertson. A short walkfrom Michaela Brand’s apartment on Holt. Close to the death scene, too.
“Know why we’re here, Mr. Peaty?”
“Nossir.”
“How long have you been working here?”
“Five years.”
“So you know Michaela Brand.”
“One of the girls,” said Peaty. His bushy eyebrows twitched. The fabric overhis gut vibrated harder.
“Seen her around?”
“Coupla times.”
“While you were working days?”
“Sometimes it stretches,” said Peaty. “If I get here late.”
“You know her by name.”
“She was the one did that thing with him.”
“That thing.”
“With him,” Peaty repeated. “Pretending to be kidnapped.”
“She’s dead,” said Milo. “Murdered.”
Reynold Peaty’s lower jaw jutted like a bulldog’s, rotated as if chewinggristle.
“Any reaction to that, sir?” said Milo.
“Terrible.”
“Any idea who’d want to do something like that?”
Peaty shook his head and ran his hand up and down the broom shaft.
“Yeah, it is terrible,” said Milo. “Such apretty girl.”
Peaty’s small eyes narrowed to pupil-glint. “You think he did it?”
“Who?”
“Meserve.”
“Any reason we should think that?”
“You asked about him.”
Milo waited.
Peaty rolled the broom. “They did that thing together.”
“That thing.”
“It was on TV.”
“You think that might be connected to Michaela’s murder, Mr. Peaty?”
“Maybe.”
“Why would it be?”
Peaty licked his lips. “They didn’t come here together no more.”
“For acting lessons.”
“Yessir.”
“Did they come separately?”
“Just him.”
“Meserve kept coming but not Michaela.”
“Yessir.”
“Sounds like a lot of your days stretch into nights.”
“Sometimes he’s here in the day.”
“Mr. Meserve?”
“Yessir.”
“By himself?”
Head shake.
“Who’s he with?”
Peaty shifted the broom from hand to hand. “I don’ wanna get in trouble.”
“Why would you?”
“You know.”
“I don’t, Mr. Peaty.”
“Her. Ms. Dowd.”
“Nora Dowd comes here during the day with Dylan Meserve.”
“Sometimes,” said Peaty.
“Anyone else here?”
“Nossir.”
“Except you.”
“I leave when she tells me I done enough.”
“What do she and Meserve do when they’re here?”
Peaty shook his head. “I work.”
“What else can you tell me?” said Milo.
“About what?”
“Michaela, Dylan Meserve, anything else that comes to mind.”
“Nothing,” said Peaty.
“The hoax Michaela and Dylan tried to pull off,” said Milo.“What’d you think about that?”
“It was on TV.”
“What do you think of it?”
Peaty tried to chew on his mustache but the clipped hair was too short for atooth hold. He tugged at his right muttonchop. I tried to think of the lasttime I’d seen a set that overgrown. College days? Portrait of Martin Van Buren?
Peaty said, “It ain’t good to lie.”
“I agree with you there. My job, people are always lying to me and it reallygets on my nerves.”
Peaty’s eyes dropped to the porch planks.
“Where were you last night, Mr. Peaty, say between eight p.m. and two a.m.?”
“Home.”
“Your place on Guthrie.”
“Yessir.”
“Doing what?”
“Eating,” said Peaty. “Chicken fingers.”
“Takeout?”
“Frozen. I heat ’em up. I had a beer.”
“What brand?”
“Old Milwaukee.I had three. Then I watched TV, then I went to sleep.”
“What’d you watch?”
“Family Feud.”
“What time did you pop off?”
“Dunno. The TV was goin’ when I woke up.”
“What time was that?”
Peaty curled a muttonchop. “Maybe three.”
One hour past the bracket Milo had givenhim.
“How do you know it was three?”
“You asked so I said something.”
“Anything special about three?”
“Sometimes when I get up I look at the clock and it’s three, or three thirty.Even if I don’t drink a lot, I gotta get up.” Peaty looked at the floor again.“To piss. Sometimes twice or three times.”
“Let’s hear it for middle age,” said Milo.
Peaty didn’t answer.
“How old are you, Mr. Peaty?”
“Thirty-eight.”
Milo smiled. “You’re a young guy.”
No answer.
“How well did you know Michaela Brand?”
“I didn’t do it,” said Peaty.
“I didn’t ask you that, sir.”
“This other stuff you’re asking. Where was I.” Peaty shook his head. “Idon’t wanna talk no more.”
“Just routine,” said Milo, “no reason toget—”
Shaking his head, Peaty backed away, toward the door.
Milo said, “Here we were having a niceconversation, then I ask you how well you knew Michaela Brand and all of asudden you don’t want to talk. That’s only gonna make me wonder.”
“It ain’t,” said Peaty, groping for the door handle. He’d left the oak panelslightly ajar and the handle was inches out of reach.
“Ain’t what?” said Milo.
“Right. Talking like I did something.” Peaty edged back, found the handle, andshoved, revealing oak floors and walls, a glimmer of stained glass. “I had abeer and went to sleep.”
“Three beers.”
No answer.
“Listen,” said Milo. “No offense intended,but it’s my job to ask questions.”
Peaty shook his head. “I eat and watch TV. That don’t mean nothing.”
He stepped into the house, started to close the door. Milochecked it with his shoe. Peaty tensed but let go. His grip on the broom handleswelled his knuckles. He shook his head and stray hairs floated free, landingon thick, rounded shoulders.
“Mr. Peaty—”
“Leave me alone.” More whimper than demand.
“All we’re trying to do is get some basic facts. So how about we come inand—”
Peaty’s hand grabbed the door’s edge. “Not allowed!”
“We can’t come in?”
“No! The rules!”
“Whose rules?”
“Ms. Dowd’s.”
“How about I call her? What’s her number?”
“Dunno.”
“You work for her but don’t—”
“Dunno!”
Peaty danced backward and shoved the door hard. Milolet it slam.
We stood on the porch for a few moments. Cars drove up and down the street.
Milo said, “For all I know he’s got ropeand a bloody knife in there. But no damn way to find out.”
I said nothing.
He said, “You could argue with me.”
“There is the fact that he’s weird,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Guy lives on Guthrie off Robertson. You visualizingthe same map I am?”
“Blocks from Michaela. Not much farther to the crime scene.”
“And he’s weird.” He glanced back at the door. Rang the bell several times.
No response.
“Wonder what time he got to work this morning.” Another bell-push. Wewaited. He put his pad away. “I’d love to check this place out but I’m not evengonna think about heading round back and giving some lawyer an illegal entryangle.”
He grinned. “One day in and I’ve got trial fantasies. Okay, let’s see whatwe can do within the boundaries of The Law.”
We descended the porch and headed for the car.
“It’s probably no big deal,” he said. “Not getting inside. Even if Peaty isthe bad guy, why would he bring evidence to work? What do you think of himprobability-wise?”
“A definite maybe,” I said. “Talking about Michaela clearly made himnervous.”
“Like he had a crush on her?”
“She was a beautiful girl.”
“And way out of his league,” he said. “Working around all those starletwannabes could be frustrating for a guy like that.”
We got into the Seville.
I said, “When Peaty shook his head, stray hairs fell out. Fellow thathirsute and unruly, you’d think he’d have left some trace on the body, or atleast at the scene.”
“Maybe he had time to clean up.”
“Guess so.”
“There was some wind last night,” he said. “The body coulda been there awhile before the poodle came by. For all we know, the damned dog licked uptrace evidence.”
“The owner let it nose the body?”
Milo rubbed his face. “The owner claims sheyanked it away the minute she saw what it was. Still…”
I started up the car.
He said, “I need to be careful not to tunnel in on anyone too quickly.”
“Makes sense.”
“Sometimes I do that.”
Chapter 9
ADMV check revealed no vehicles currently registered to Reynold Peaty. No California driver’slicense. Ever.
“Hard to transport a body without wheels,” I said.
Milo said, “Wonder how he gets to work.”
“The bus. Or a stretch limo.”
“Your attempt at humor is refreshing. If he bears further watching, I’llcheck out the bus routes, see if he’s a regular.” He laughed.
I said, “What?”
“He comes across dumb and weird but think about it: He sweeps up at anacting school.”
“He was playing us?”
“The world’s a stage,” he said. “Sure be nice to have the script.”
“If he was performing, why would he put on a weird act?” I said.
“True…let’s head back.”
I drove toward the West L.A. station as hephoned the MTA and learned which buses Peaty would’ve taken from Pico-Robertsonto the PlayHouse. Transfers and the need to cover several blocks on footstretched a half-hour car trip to at least a ninety-minute journey.
I said, “Michaela’s Honda show up yet?”
“Nope…you’re thinking Peaty coulda jacked her?”
“The hoax might’ve given him ideas.”
“Life imitating art.” He punched numbers on his cell, talked briefly, hungup. “No sign of it yet. But we’re not talking conspicuous. A Civic, black noless. If the plates are off or replaced, it could take a long time to spot it.”
“If Peaty is the bad guy,” I said, “maybe he decided to drive to work thismorning and ditched it within walking distance of the PlayHouse.”
“That would be pretty damned stupid.”
“Yes, it would.”
He chewed his cheek. “Mind turning around?”
 
We cruised the half-mile radius surrounding the acting school, peering upand down streets and alleys, driveways and parking lots. Taking more than anhour, then expanding to another half mile and spending another hundred minutes.Spotting lots of Civics, three of them black, all with plates that checked out.
On the way back to the station, Milo tried the coroner’s office and learnedthat Michaela’s autopsy was scheduled in four days, maybe longer if the bodycount stayed high. “Any way to prioritize? Yeah, yeah, I know…but if there’sanything you can do. Appreciate it, this one could get complicated.”
 
I sat in the spare chair of Milo’s tiny,windowless office as he tried to plug Reynold Peaty into the data banks. Hiscomputer took a long time to sputter to life, even longer for icons to fill thescreen. Then they disappeared and the screen went black and he started all overagain.
Fourth PC in eight months, yet another hand-me-down, this one from a prepschool in Pacific Palisades. The last few donated machines had enjoyed theshelf life of raw milk. In between Clunkers Two and Three, Milohad paid for a high-priced laptop with his own money, only to see some glitchin the station’s electrical system fry his hard drive.
As the disk drives ground on, he sprang up, muttering about “advanced middleage” and “plumbing,” and left for a few minutes. Returning with two cups ofcoffee, he handed one to me, drank his, snatched a cheap cigarillo from hisdesk drawer, unwrapped it, and jammed the unlit cylinder between his incisors.Tapping his fingers as he stared at the screen, he bit down too hard,splintered the cigar, wiped tobacco shreds from his lips. Tossing theNicaraguan pacifier, he got himself another.
Smoking’s prohibited anywhere in the building. Sometimes he lights up,anyway. Today he was too antsy to enjoy the fruits of misdemeanor. As thecomputer struggled to resuscitate, he sorted through his messages and Ireviewed the prelim on Michaela Brand, studied the crime scene photos.
Beautiful golden face turned a familiar green-gray.
Milo grimaced as the screen flashed anddimmed and flashed. “If you want to translate War and Peace, feel free to doso.”
I tasted the coffee, put it aside, closed my eyes, and tried to think ofnothing. Sound came through the walls, too murky to classify.
Milo’s space is at the end of a hall on thesecond floor, set well apart from the detectives’ room. Not an overcrowding issue;he’s set apart. Listed on the books as a lieutenant, but he’s got noadministrative duties and continues to work cases.
It’s part of a deal he made with the former police chief, a cozy bit ofpolitics that allowed the chief to retire rich and unbothered by criminalcharges and Milo to remain in the department.
As long as his clearance rate stays high, and he doesn’t flaunt his sexualpreferences, no one bothers him. But the new chief’s big on drastic change and Milo keeps waiting for the memo that will disrupt hislife.
Meanwhile, he works.
Whir-whir, burp, click-click. He sat up. “Okay, here we go…” He typed. “Nostate record, too bad…let’s try NCIC. C’mon baby, give it to Uncle Milo…yes!”
He pushed a button and the old dot-matrix printer near his feet beganscrolling paper. Yanking out the sheets, he tore on the perforated line, read,handed them to me.
Reynold Peaty had accumulated four felony convictions in Nevada. Burglary thirteen years ago in Reno,a Peeping Tom three years later in that same city pled down to publicintoxication/disturbing the peace, two drunk driving violations in Laughlin,seven and eight years ago.
“He’s still drinking,” I said. “Three beers he admits to. A long-standingalcohol problem would account for no driver’s license.”
“Booze-hound peeper. You see those tattoos?”
“Jailbird. But no felonies on record since he crossed the border five yearsago.”
“That impress you mightily?”
“Nope.”
“What impresses me, ” he said, “is the combination of burglary andvoyeurism.”
“Breaking in for the sexual thrill,” I said. “All those DNA matches that endup turning burglars into rapists.”
“Booze to lower inhibitions, young sexy girls parading in and out. It’s alovely combination.”
 
We drove to Reynold Peaty’s place on Guthrie Avenue, clocking the route fromthe dump site along the way. In moderate traffic, only a seven-minute traverseof Beverlywood’s impeccable, tree-lined streets. After dark, even shorter.
On the first block east of Roberston the neighborhood was apartments and themaintenance was sketchier. Peaty’s second-floor unit was one of ten in anash-colored two-story box. The live-in manager was a woman in her seventiesnamed Ertha Stadlbraun. Tall, thin, angular, with skin the color of bittersweetchocolate and marcelled gray hair, she said, “The crazy white fellow.”
She invited us into her ground-floor flat for tea and sat us on alemon-colored, pressed-velvet, camelback couch. The living room wascompulsively ordered, with olive carpeting, ceramic lamps, bric-a-brac on openshelves. A suite of what used to be called Mediterranean furniture crowded thespace. An airbrushed portrait of Martin Luther King dominated the wall over thecouch, flanked by school photos of a dozen or so smiling children.
Ertha Stadlbraun had come to the door wearing a housecoat. Excusing herself,she disappeared into a bedroom and came back wearing a blue shift patternedwith clocks, matching pumps with chunky heels. Her cologne evoked the cosmeticscounter at some midsized department store from my Midwestchildhood. What my mother used to call “toilet water.”
“Thanks for the tea, ma’am,” said Milo.
“Hot enough, gentlemen?”
“Perfect,” said Milo, sipping orange pekoeto demonstrate. He eyed the school pictures. “Grandchildren?”
“Grandchildren and godchildren,” said Ertha Stadlbraun. “And two neighborchildren I raised after their mother died young. Sure you don’t want sugar? Orfruit or cookies?”
“No, thanks, Mrs. Stadlbraun. Nice of you.”
“What is?”
“Taking in a neighbor’s kids.”
Ertha Stadlbraun waved away the praise and reached for the sugar bowl. “Myglucose level, I shouldn’t do this, but I’m going to, anyway.” Two heapingteaspoons of white powder snowed into her cup. “So what is it you want to knowabout the crazy fellow?”
“How crazy is he, ma’am?”
Stadlbraun sat back, smoothed the shift over her knees. “Let me explain whyI pointed out he was white. It’s not because I resent him for that. It’sbecause he’s the only white person here.”
“Is that unusual?” said Milo.
“Are you familiar with this neighborhood?”
Milo nodded.
Ertha Stadlbraun said, “Then you know. Some of the single houses are goingwhite again but the rentals are Mexican. Once in a while you get a hippie typewith no credit rating wanting to rent. Mostly we’ve got the Mexicans coming in.Waves of them. Our building is me and Mrs. Lowery and Mr. and Mrs. Johnson,who’re really old, on the black side. The rest are Mexican. Except for him.”
“Does that pose problems?”
“People think he’s strange. Not because he raves and rants, because he’s tooquiet. You can’t communicate with the man.”
“Never talks at all?”
“Person won’t look another person in the eye,” said Ertha Stadlbraun, “makeseveryone nervous.”
“Antisocial,” I said.
“Someone walks your way, you say hello because when you were a child, youlearned proper manners from your mama. But this person didn’t learn and doesn’thave the courtesy to reply. He lurks around—that’s the word for it. Lurk. Likethat butler on that old TV show. He reminds me of that fellow.”
“The Addams Family,” said Milo. “Lurch.”
“Lurch, lurk, same difference. The point is, he’s always got his head down,staring at the ground, like he’s looking for some treasure.” She pushed herhead forward, turtlelike, bent her neck sharply and gawked at her carpet. “Justlike this. How he sees where he’s going is a mystery to me.”
“He do anything else that makes you nervous, ma’am?”
“These questions of yours are making me nervous.”
“Routine, ma’am. Does he do—”
“It’s not what he does. He’s just an odd one.”
“Why’d you rent to him, ma’am?”
“I didn’t. He was already here before I moved in.”
“How long is that?”
“I arrived shortly after my husband died, which was four years ago. I usedto have my own house in Crenshaw, nice neighborhood, then it got bad, now it’sgetting nice again. After Walter passed on, I said who needs all this space, abig yard to take care of. A fast-talking real estate agent offered me what Ithought was a good price so I sold. Big mistake. At least I’ve got the moneyinvested, been thinking about getting another house. Maybe out in Riverside, where mydaughter lives, you get more for your money there.”
She patted her hair. “Meanwhile, I’m here, and what they pay me to managecovers my expenses and then some.”
“Who’s they?”
“The owners. Couple of brothers, rich kids, inherited the building fromtheir parents along with a whole lot of other buildings.”
“Does Mr. Peaty pay his rent on time?”
“That’s one thing he does do,” said Stadlbraun. “First day of the month,postal money order.”
“He go to work every day?”
Stadlbraun nodded.
“Where?”
“I have no idea.”
“Does he ever entertain visitors?”
“Him?” She laughed. “Where would he entertain? If I could show you hisplace, you’d see what I mean, teeny-weeny. Used to be a laundry room until theowners converted it to a single. There’s barely room for his bed and all he’sgot besides the bed is a hot plate and a little TV and a dresser.”
“When were you inside last?”
“Must’ve been a couple of years ago. His toilet backed up and I called arooter service to snake it. I was ready to blame it on him—you know,overstuffing the commode like some fools do?” Regret made her eyes droop.“Turns out it was lint. When they converted it, no one had the sense to cleanthe traps and somehow the lint got wadded up and moved round and caused agodawful mess. I remember thinking what a teeny little place, how can anyone livelike this.”
Milo said, “Sounds like a cell.”
“That’s exactly what it is.” Stadlbraun squinted. Sat back. Folded her armsacross her chest. “You should’ve told me from the beginning, young man.”
“Told you what, ma’am?”
“Like a cell? He’s an ex-con, right? What’d he do that sent him to prison?More important, what’d he do to bring you around now?”
“Nothing, ma’am. We just need to ask a few questions.”
“Come on, now,” said Ertha Stadlbraun. “No shilly-shallying.”
“At this point—”
“Young man, you are not asking me questions because that one’s thinking ofrunning for president. What’d he do ?”
“Nothing that we know of. That’s the truth, Mrs. Stadlbraun.”
“You don’t know anything for certain, but you sure suspect something.”
“I really can’t say more, Mrs. Stadlbraun.”
“This is not right, sir. Your job is to protect citizens so you should say.He’s a crazy person and an ex-con living in the same building with normalfolks.”
“Ma’am, he’s done nothing. This is part of a preliminary investigation andhe’s one of several people we’re talking to.”
She folded her arms across her dress. “Is he dangerous? Tell me yes or no.”
“There’s no reason to think that—”
“That’s a lawyer answer. What if he’s one of those ticking time bombs youhear about on the news, real quiet until he explodes? Some of the Mexicans havekids. What if he’s one of those perverts and you didn’t tell me?”
“Why would you think that, ma’am?”
“He is?” said Stadlbraun. “A pervert ?That’s what this is about?”
“No, ma’am, and it would be a real bad idea—”
“It’s in the news every day, all these perverts. It wasn’t like that in myday. Where did they all come from?”
Milo didn’t answer.
Ertha Stadlbraun shook her head. “He gives me the willies. And now you’retelling me he’s an ex-con child molester.”
Milo leaned in closer. “I am definitely nottelling you that, ma’am. It would be a terrible idea to spread those kinds ofrumors.”
“You’re saying he could sue me?”
“I’m saying that Mr. Peaty is not suspected of anything. He may be amaterial witness and we’re not even sure of that. This is what we call abackground check. We do it all the time to be thorough. Mostly it ends up goingnowhere.”
Ertha Stadlbraun considered that. “Some job you’ve got.”
Milo suppressed a smile. “If you were indanger, I’d tell you. I promise, ma’am.”
Another hair pat. “Well, I’ve got nothing more to tell you. Wouldn’t want tobe careless and spread rumors. ”
She stood.
Milo said, “May I ask a few morequestions?”
“Such as?”
“When he comes home from work, does he ever leave again?”
Her chest heaved. “He’s an innocent lamb but you want to know about hisschedule…oh, never mind, you’re clearly not going to tell me the truth.”
She turned her back on us.
“Does he ever leave once he’s home?” said Milo.
“Not that I’ve seen but I don’t keep tabs.”
“What about last night?”
She faced us again, shot a disgusted look. “Last night I was busy cooking.Three whole chickens, green beans with onions, yams, coleslaw with baconshreds, four pies. I freeze early in the week so I can relax on Sunday when thekids come to visit. That way I can defrost Sunday morning before church, getback and heat up and we have a real dinner, not that greasy fast food.”
“So you didn’t notice what time Mr. Peaty came in.”
“I never notice,” she said.
“Never?”
“I might see him come in occasionally.”
“What time does he usually get here from work?”
“Six, seven.”
“And weekends?”
“Far as I can tell, weekends he stays inside all day. But I’m not going topromise you he never leaves. It’s not like he’d stop by to say hello, him withthose eyes aiming down like he’s counting ants on a hill. I certainly can’ttell you about last night. While I cooked, I had music on, then I watched thenews, then I watched the Essence Awards, then I did a crossword and went tosleep. So if you’re looking for me to alibi that nut, forget it.”
Chapter 10
Much has been made of geographical profiling—criminals remaining within acomfort zone. Like any theory, sometimes it pans out, sometimes it doesn’t andyou get killers prowling the interstate or venturing far from home so they canestablish a comfort zone far from prying eyes.
With any alleged rules about human behavior, you’re lucky if you do betterthan chance. But the four-minute drive from Peaty’s apartment to MichaelaBrand’s place on Holt was hard to ignore.
Her building was a mint-green fifties dingbat. The front was an open carportset behind oil-specked concrete. Six parking slots, unoccupied but for a dustybrown Dodge minivan. The facade was spanned by two olive-green diamonds.Speckles in the stucco caught afternoon light. Way too giddy.
A bank of key-lock mailboxes set into the wall just south of the parkingarea bore no names, only unit numbers. No manager designation. Michaela’scompartment was shut tight. Milo squintedthrough the slot. “Lots of stuff inside.”
Her apartment was at the back. Louvre windows as old as the building were aburglar’s dream. The glass slats were folded shut but green curtains had beenleft slightly parted. Dark inside, but the outlines of furniture were clear.
Milo began knocking on doors.
 
The only tenant at home was a woman in her twenties wearing a stiff,brandy-colored wig and a calf-length denim jumper over a white, long-sleevedsweater. The wig made me wonder about chemotherapy, but she was buxom and hergray eyes were clear. The same kind of lightly freckled complexion MichaelaBrand had been blessed with. Open face tightened by surprise.
I saw the side curls and yarmulke on the squirming blond boy she was holdingand got it: Some Orthodox Jewish women covered their natural hair out ofmodesty.
The badge made her press her son to her chest. “Yes?”
The boy’s arms and feet shot out simultaneously and she nearly lost hergrip. He looked to be three or so. Stocky and sturdy, twisting and turning,emitting little growly noises.
“Calm down, Gershie Yoel!”
The boy waved a fist. “Hero hero Yehudah ! Fall the elephant!”
He squirmed some more and she gave up and set him down. He rocked on hisfeet and growled some more. Eyed us and said, “Fall!”
“Gershie Yoel, go in the kitchen and take a cookie—but only one. And don’twake up the babies!”
“Hero-hero! Yehudah HaMa kawbee gonna spear you bad Greek!”
“Go now, good boy, or no cookie!”
“Grr!” Gershie Yoel ran off, past walls covered with bookshelves. Books onevery table and the couch. Any remaining space was filled with playpens andtoys and packages of disposable diapers.
The boy’s shouts diminished.
“He’s still celebrating the holidays,” said the young woman.
“Hanukkah?” said Milo.
She smiled. “Yes. He thinks he’s Yehudah—Judah Maccabee. That’s a big heroin the Hannukah story. The elephant is from a story about one of his brothers—”She stopped, blushed. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re here about one of your neighbors, Mrs….”
“Winograd. Shayndie Winograd.”
Milo had her spell it and wrote it down.
She said, “You need my name?”
“Just for the record, ma’am.”
“Which neighbors, the punk rockers?”
“Which punk rockers are those?”
She pointed to an upstairs unit two doors down. “Over there, Unit Four.Three of them, they think they’re musicians. My husband tells me they’re punkrockers, I don’t know from such things.” She held her ears.
“Noise problem?” said Milo.
“There was before,” said Shayndie Winograd. “Everyone complained to theowner and it’s been okay…excuse me a second, I need to check on the babies,please come in.”
We cleared books from a brown corduroy couch. Leatherette-bound volumesgold-embossed with Hebrew titles.
Shayndie Winograd returned. “Still sleeping, boruch —thank God.”
“How many babies?” said Milo.
“Twins,” she said. “Seven months ago.”
“Mazeltov,” said Milo. “Three’s a lot tohandle.”
Shayndie Winograd smiled. “Three would be easy. I’ve got six, five areschool-age. Gershie Yoel should be in school but he was coughing this morningand I thought maybe he had a cold. Then, wouldn’t you know, he got miraculouslybetter.”
Milo said, “The Lord works in mysteriousways.”
Her smile widened. “Maybe I should have you talk to him about honesty…so isthe problem the punk rockers?”
“This is about Ms. Brand, the tenant in Unit Three.”
“The model?” said Shayndie Winograd.
“She modeled?”
“I call her that because she looks like a model. Pretty, very skinny? What’sthe problem?”
“Unfortunately, ma’am, she was murdered last night.”
Shayndie Winograd’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God—oh, no.” She reachedback for an armchair, removed a toy truck, and sat down. “Who did it?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Mrs. Winograd.”
“Maybe her boyfriend?”
“Who’s that?”
“Another skinny one.”
Out of Milo’s attaché came Dylan Meserve’sbook shot from the hoax.
Winograd glanced at the photo. “That’s him. He was arrested? He’s acriminal?”
“He and Ms. Brand were involved in a situation. It was in the papers.”
“We don’t read the papers. What kind of situation?”
Milo gave her a summary of the phonyabduction.
She said, “Why would they do such a thing?”
“It seems to have been a publicity stunt.”
Shayndie Winograd’s stare was blank.
“To help their acting careers,” said Milo.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s hard to understand, ma’am. They thought the attention might help themget noticed in Hollywood.So why would you think Mr. Meserve would hurt Ms. Brand?”
“Sometimes they screamed at each other.”
“You heard it up here on the second floor?”
“It was loud.”
“What did they scream about?”
Shayndie Winograd shook her head. “I didn’t hear the words, just the noise.”
“Were these fights frequent?”
“Is he a bad person? Dangerous?”
“You’re not in any danger, ma’am. How often did he and Ms. Brand scream ateach other?”
“I don’t know—he didn’t live here, he just came over.”
“How often?”
“Once in a while.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
She thought. “Weeks.”
“When’s the last time they had an argument?”
“Even longer…I’d say a month, maybe more?” She shrugged. “I’m sorry. I trynot to notice things.”
“Not wanting to pry,” said Milo.
“I don’t want nahrish —foolish things in my life.”
“So Mr. Meserve hasn’t been here for a few weeks.”
“At least,” said Shayndie Winograd.
“And when did you last see Ms. Brand?”
“Her…let me think…not recently. But she used to come in late. The only timeI ever noticed her was when I was out late with my husband and that’s notoften.”
“The children.”
“The children get up early, everyone’s always needing something.”
“Don’t know how you do it, ma’am.”
“You concentrate on what’s important.”
Milo nodded. “So you haven’t seen Ms. Brandrecently. Could you think back, maybe come up with something more specific?”
The young woman pushed back a lock of tight-sprayed, supplementary hair.“Maybe two weeks, three. I really can’t say more than that. Don’t want to giveyou false testimony.”
Milo suppressed a smile. The young womanshook her head. “I go out. To work. I just don’t look at things that aren’timportant.”
“With six kids you have time to work?”
“At the preschool, I stay half a day. What happened to her, it’s terrible.Was it the way she lived?”
“What do you mean, ma’am?”
“I’m not insulting her, but we live one way, they live another way.”
“They?”
“The outside world.” Shayndie Winograd reddened. “I shouldn’t be talkinglike this. My husband says each person should pay attention to their ownactions, not what other people do.”
“Your husband’s a rabbi?”
“He hassmicha —he’s a rabbi but he doesn’t work as a rabbi. Half a day hedoes bookkeeping, the rest of the time he learns.”
“Learns what?”
Shayndie Winograd smiled again. “Torah, Judaism. He goes to akollel —it’slike a graduate school.”
“Working on an advanced degree,” said Milo.
“He learns for the sake of learning.”
“Ah…anyway, sounds like you guys have your hands full…so, tell me aboutMichaela Brand’s way of life.”
“She was the normal way. What’s the American way now.”
“Meaning?”
“Tight clothes, short skirts, going out all the time.”
“Going out with who?”
“The only one I saw was the one in the picture. Sometimes she went outalone.” Shayndie Winograd blinked. “A few times we said hello. She said mychildren were cute. Once she offered Chaim Sholom—my six-year-old—a candy bar.I took it because I didn’t want to insult her but it wasn’t kosher so I gave itto a Mexican lady who works at the day care…she always smiled at the children.Seemed like a nice girl.” Deep sigh. “So terrible for her family.”
“She ever talk about family?”
“No, sir. We never really had a conversation, just to say hello and smile.”
Milo put his pad away. He hadn’t writtenanything down. “Anything else you can tell me, ma’am?”
“Like what?”
“Whatever comes to mind.”
“No, that’s it,” said Shayndie Winograd. Another deep blush. “She wasbeautiful but I felt sorry for her. Showing a lot of…herself. But she was nice,smiled at the babies, one time I let her hold one because I was getting intothe car and had lots of packages.”
“So you had no problems with her.”
“No, no, not at all. She was nice. I felt sorry for her, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“Living by herself. All the going out. People think they can go out and doanything they want but the world is dangerous. This proves it, no?”
Squalls sounded from a bedroom. “Uh-oh.” We followed her into a ten-by-tenroom taken up by two cribs. The occupants were a pair of infants, purple withindignation and, from the aroma, freshly soiled. Gershie Yoel bounced like aSlinky toy and tried to butt his mother as she changed diapers.
“Stop it! These men are policemen and if you don’t behave they can take youto the Beis Hasohar like Yosef Aveenu. ”
The little boy growled.
“Beis Hasohar, I mean it, you good boy.” To us: “That’s jail. Yosef—Joseph,from the Bible, he ended up there, seven years until Pharaoh took him out.”
“What’d he do?” said Milo.
“Nothing,” she said. “But he was accused. By a woman.” She rolled up afilthy diaper, wiped her hands. “Bad things. Even then there were bad things.”
 
Milo left his card at the other apartments.When we got to the ground floor the mail carrier was distributing envelopes.
“Afternoon,” said Milo.
The postman was a gray-haired Filipino, short and slight. His U.S. PostalService van was parked at the curb. His right hand grasped one of several keyson a chain attached to his belt as the left pressed bound stacks of mailagainst his torso.
“H’lo,” he said.
Milo identified himself. “What’s thesituation in Box Three?”
“What do you mean?”
“When’s the last time she emptied it?”
The carrier opened Michaela’s compartment. “Looks like not for a while.” Helet the keychain drop and used both hands to separate the stacks. “Two for hertoday. It’s not my regular route…lucky this is all she got, not much roomleft.”
Milo pointed to the two envelopes. “Can Itake a look at those?”
The mailman said, “You know I cannot do that.”
“I don’t wanna open them,” said Milo. “Shegot murdered last night. I just wanna see who’s writing to her.”
“Murdered?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s not my regular route.”
“You already said that.”
The carrier hesitated, handed over the envelopes.
Bulk solicitation to apply for a low-interest home loan and a “Last Chance!”pitch to resubscribe to InStyle magazine.
Milo handed them back.
“How about the stuff inside?”
“That’s private property,” said the mailman.
“What happens when you come back in a few days and there’s no more room?”
“We leave a notice.”
“Where does the mail go?”
“Stays in the station.”
“I can get a warrant and come by and open it all up.”
“If you say.”
“I say I just wanna look at the envelopes that are in there. Seeing as thebox is already open.”
“Privacy—”
“When she got killed she lost her privacy.”
 
The carrier made a show of ignoring us as he went about delivering mail tothe other tenants. Milo reached into BoxThree, removed a thick stack wedged so tightly he had to ease it out, andthumbed through.
“Mostly junk…a few bills…urgent one from the gas company meaning she wasoverdue…same deal with the phone company.”
He inspected the postmarks. “Ten days’ worth. Looks like she was gone wellbefore she died.”
“A vacation’s not likely,” I said. “She was broke.”
He looked at me. Both of us thinking the same thing.
Maybe someone had kept her for a while.
Chapter 11
We sat in the car, in front of Michaela’s building.
I said, “Dylan Meserve cleared out of his place weeks ago. The neighborheard him and Michaela arguing and Michaela told me she hated him.”
“Maybe he came and got her,” said Milo.
“Took her on another adventure.”
“What about Mr. Sex Criminal Peaty? Maybe he snatched both of them.”
“If Peaty did abduct anyone, he didn’t take them to his place,” I said. “Noway to keep that from Mrs. Stadlbraun and the other tenants.”
“Too small to entertain.”
“Still, he’s the one with the record.”
“And he’s weird. So now I’ve got two high-priority bins.”
 
As we drove away, he said, “Coffee would prop my eyelids.”
I stopped at a place on Santa Monica near Bundy. Scrawled the possibilities as I sawthem on a napkin and slid it across the table as Miloreturned from making some calls.
1. Dylan Meserve abducts and murders Michaela, then flees.
2. Reynold Peaty abducts and murders Michaela and Dylan.
3. Reynold Peaty abducts and murders Michaela and Dylan’s disappearance is acoincidence.
4. None of the above.
“It’s that last one I love.” Milo waved forthe waitress, ordered pecan pie à la mode. Finishing most of the wedge in threegulps, he nibbled the rest with excruciating care, as if that provedself-restraint.
“I called Michaela’s mother again, it was all about her, big time woe-is-me.Too sick to come out to claim the body. The way she was gasping I figure it’sprobably true.”
I summarized Michaela’s account of her childhood.
“Ugly duckling?” he said. “Every gorgeous girl says that…what that Jewishlady said, the lifestyle issue, maybe she had a point.”
“Michaela got caught up in the Hollywoodthing.”
“You know what that does to the ninety-nine-point-nine percent who fall ontheir asses. The question is, did it snag her or was it just one of thosebad-luck deals.”
“Like running into Peaty.”
He ate the last bit of pie, wiped his mouth, put way too much money on thetable, and extricated himself from the booth. “Back to the salt mine. Lots ofboring stuff to do.”
Boring was his code word for I need to be alone. I drove him to the stationand went home.
That evening Michaela’s murder was the lead story on every local broadcast,blow-dried news readers half smiling as they intoned about the “shocking crime”and exhumed mock-solemn memories of Michaela and Dylan’s “publicity stunt.”
Dylan was cited as “a person of interest, not a suspect.” The implicationwas clear, as it always is when the police phrase it that way. I knew Milo hadn’t given them the quote. Probably some publicrelations officer, issuing yet another boilerplate release.
Next morning’s paper ran a page-three story with five times the ink spacethe hoax had merited, graced by two pictures of Michaela: a sultry, airbrushedhead-shot taken by a photographer who churned them out for Hollywood hopefuls,and her LAPD booking photo. I wondered if either or both would resurface in thetabloids or on the Internet.
One way to get famous is to die the wrong way.
I didn’t hear from Milo that day, figuredthe tips would be pouring in and he’d either learn a lot or nothing. I filledmy time polishing up reports, thought about getting a dog, took a new referralfrom an attorney named Erica Weiss.
Weiss had filed suit against a Santa Monica psychologist named Patrick Hauser for molestingthree female patients who’d attended his encounter groups. Chances were itwould settle and there’d be no court appearance. I negotiated a high hourly feeand felt pretty good about the deal.
I looked up Hauser’s office address. Santa Monica and Seventh. Allison also practiced in Santa Monica, a few miles away on Montana. I wondered if she knew Hauser,thought about calling her. Figured she might see it as an excuse to get in touchand decided against it.
At a quarter to six, when she was likely to be between patients, I changedmy mind. Her private line was still on speed dial.
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Hi,” she said. “How’ve you been?”
“Fine. You?”
“Fine…I was about to say, ‘How’ve you been, handsome.’ Got to watch thoselittle slips.”
“All compliments will be received with gratitude, oh Gorgeous One.”
“Listen to this smarmy mutual admiration society.”
“If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”
Silence.
I said, “I’m actually calling on a professional matter, Ali. Do you know anesteemed colleague named Patrick Hauser?”
“I’ve seen him at a few meetings. Why?”
I told her.
She said, “I guess I’m not surprised. Rumor has it he drinks. An encountergroup, huh? That does surprise me.”
“Why?”
“He seems more the corporate consultant type. How many patients are wetalking about?”
“Three.”
“That’s pretty damning.”
“Hauser claims it’s a group delusion. There’s no physical evidence, so itboils down to a he said/they said. The State Board’s been sitting on it formonths, still hasn’t handed down a disposition. The women got impatient andcontacted a lawyer.”
“All three have one lawyer?”
“They’re framing it as a mini-class action, hoping others will hear about itand come forward.”
“How’d they find out they’d had similar experiences with Hauser?”
“They hung around after session, went for drinks, it came out.”
“Not too smart of Hauser to put them in the same room.”
“Fondling patients is no act of genius.”
“So you think he did it.”
“I’m open-minded but all three were seeing Hauser for mild depression,nothing delusional.”
“Like I said, he’s known to imbibe. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Thanks…so how’s it been?”
“Life in general?” she said. “It’s been okay.”
“Want to join me for dinner?”
Where had that come from?
She didn’t answer.
I said, “Sorry. Rewind the tape.”
“No,” she said. “I’m thinking about the offer. When did you mean?”
“I’m open. Including tonight.”
“Hmm…I’ll be free in an hour, have to eat anyway. Where?”
“You name it.”
“How about that steak place?” she said. “The one where we met the firsttime.”
 
I asked for a booth away from the mahogany bar with its low-pitched alkiechatter and sports on TV. By the time Allison showed up ten minutes later, I’dfinished my Chivas, was working on my second glass of water.
The restaurant was dim and she stood there for a few seconds letting hereyes adjust. Her long, black hair swung free and her ivory face was serious. Ithought I saw tension around the shoulders.
She stepped forward, revealed color. An orange pantsuit hugged her trimlittle body. Tangerine-orange. With that hair of hers, Halloween Costumecould’ve been a problem but she made it work.
She spotted me, strode forward on high heels. The usual adornments sparkledat earlobes, wrists, and neck. Gold and sapphire; the stones brought out thedeep blue of her eyes and played off the orange. Her makeup was perfect and hernails were French-tipped. The smile that parted her lips was hard to read.
A substantive woman but she takes a long time getting herself together.
The kiss on my cheek was quick and cool. She slid into the booth, just closeenough to make conversation feasible but too distant for easy touching. Beforewe could talk the waiter had planted himself in front of us. Eduardo, thefeisty one. Eighty-year-old Argentinian immigrant who claimed he could cookseafood better than the chef.
He bowed before Allison. “Evening, Dr. Gwynn. The usual?”
“No, thanks,” she said. “It’s a little chilly outside, so I think I’ll havean Irish coffee. Make it decaf, Eduardo, or I’ll be calling you up at threea.m. to play cards.”
His smile said that wasn’t a dreaded outcome. “Very good, Doctor. AnotherChivas, sir?”
“Please.”
He marched off. I said, “Been coming here a lot?”
“No. Why?”
“He used your name.”
“I guess I’m here every three weeks or so.”
Alone or with another guy?
She said, “The T-bone made a lasting impression on me.”
Eduardo returned with drinks and menus. Extra whipped cream for Allison’sIrish coffee. Bowing again, he left.
We touched glasses and drank. Allison licked foam from her upper lip. Herface was smooth and white as fresh cream. She’s thirty-nine but when she easesup on the jewelry, she can pass for ten years younger.
She pushed her drink away. “How’s Robin?”
I worked at a casual shrug. “I guess she’s okay.”
“Haven’t seen her much?”
“Not much.”
“Sleeping with her?”
I put my scotch down.
She said, “That means yes.”
When in doubt, revert to shrink tactics. I kept quiet.
“Sorry, that was totally inappropriate.” She smoothed hair away from herface. “I knew it and felt like asking, anyway.”
Bending over her coffee, she inhaled steam. “You’re entitled to sleep withanyone you want, I just yearned to be bitchy. Sometimes I wouldn’t mindsleeping with you myself.”
“Sometimes is better than never.”
“On the face of it, why shouldn’t we?” she said. “Two healthy, libidinouspeople. We were great together.” Faint smile. “Except when we weren’t…not veryprofound, is it?”
We drank in silence. The second Chivas brought on a nice warm buzz. Maybethat’s why I said, “So what the hell happened?”
“You tell me.”
“I’m asking you.”
“And I’m asking you back.”
I shook my head.
She drank, laughed. “Not that anything’s funny.”
Eduardo came over to take the food order, saw the looks on our faces, andturned heel.
Allison said, “Maybe nothing went wrong, it was just evolution.”
“Devolution.”
“Alex, when we started out, there was this rush of feeling every time I sawyou. All I had to do was hear your voice and this sympathetic nervous systemthing kicked in—this incredible flood of emotion. Sometimes when the doorbellrang and I knew it was you there’d be this heat—like a hot flash. I started toworry I was going through early menopause.” She looked into her Irish coffee.“Sometimes I’d get sopping wet. That was something.”
I touched her hand. Cool.
She said, “Maybe we just had some kind of hormonal thing going on and itfaded. Maybe every damn thing boils down to hormones and we’re in the wrongdamn field.”
She turned away. Grabbed for her purse, fumbled for a tissue, and poked ather eyes. “One drink and my filter goes bye-bye.”
Her mouth set in a way that thinned her lips. “I’ll probably regret sayingthis but what really bothered me when I felt things diminishing was that itwasn’t that way with Grant.”
Her dead husband. Wharton grad, rich kid, successful financial type. He’dsuccumbed young to a freakishly rare cancer. Even when Allison loved me she’dtalked about him adoringly.
“You had something great with him,” I said.
“You weren’t a replacement, Alex. I swear.”
“Worse things to be.”
“Don’t be noble,” she said. “It makes me feel worse.”
I said nothing.
She said, “I just lied big time. It did fade with Grant. After I buried himhe stopped being physical to me and turned into a…a…wraith. I felt—still feelguilty about that.”
I groped for a reply. Every option sounded like shrinky cant. Coming herehad been a mistake.
Suddenly, Allison’s hip was touching mine and she was taking my face in herhands, kissing me hard. She retreated, ended up even farther down the booth.
We sat there.
“Alex, what I felt about you in the beginning was every bit as intense aswith Grant. More intense on the physical level. Which also made me feel guilty.I started to think about us in a long-term sense. Wondering what it would belike. Then we had that problem on the Malley case and things just started tochange. I know that alone couldn’t have done it, there must’ve been…oh, listento me, I sound like every other talky broad…it’s confusing. The work stuff waspart of what turned me on, and then all of a sudden it repulsed me.”
The Malley case was the eight-year-old child murder. One of Allison’spatients—a fragile young woman—had been drawn in. I’d deceived her. All in thename of truth, justice…
Robin had never liked hearing about the work stuff. Allison had chased gorydetails with a vengeance.
I said, “Things change.”
“They do. Dammit.” She looked away. “If I said your place or mine, would youfeel manipulated?”
“Maybe for a nanosecond.”
“I’m not going to say it. Not tonight. I’m feeling really unattractive.”
“There’s a delusion for you.”
“Inside I’m unattractive,” she said. “I wouldn’t be good, believe me.”
I raised my glass. “To brutal honesty.”
“Sorry. Want to forget about dinner?”
“Dinner wasn’t a ploy to get you in the sack.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t know…maybe a ploy to get you in the sack.”
She smiled. I smiled.
Eduardo had positioned himself across the room, spying on us whilepretending to be above it all.
I said, “I could eat.”
“I could, too.” She waved him over. “Dinner with a former lover. Howcivilized in that French-movie kind of way.”
Shifting closer, she lifted my left hand, traced the outline of mythumbnail. “Still here.”
“What is?”
“That split in the crescent—the little Pac-Man growing out of your nail. Ialways thought it was cute.”
My body part, I’d never noticed it.
She said, “It’s the same you.”
Chapter 12
I spent the next day interviewing the three women who’d filed suit againstDr. Patrick Hauser. Individually, they came across vulnerable. As a group theywere calmly credible.
Time for Hauser’s insurance company to settle and cut its losses.
The following morning, I got to work on my report, was still in the thinkingphase when Milo called.
“How’s it going, big guy?”
“It’s going nowhere at warp speed. Still haven’t gotten into Michaela’splace, landlord doesn’t like leaving La Jolla.If he doesn’t get here soon, I’m popping the lock. I talked to the Reno detective who nabbedReynold Peaty for peeping. The story was Peaty was in an alley behind anapartment building, drunk as a skunk, looking through the drapes of a rear unitbedroom. The objects of his affliction were three college girls. Some guywalking his dog saw Peaty wagging his weenie and yelled. Peaty ran, the guygave chase, knocked Peaty to the ground, called the cops.”
“Brave citizen.”
“Defensive tackle on the U. Nevada football team,” he said, “Studentneighborhood.”
“Ground-floor rear unit?” I said.
“Just like Michaela’s. The girls were a little younger than Michaela but youcould make a case for victim similarity. What got Peaty off light was thatthese three had a history of being less than careful about the drapes. Also,the prosecutors never got word of Peaty’s burglary conviction years before.That was a daylight break-in, cash and ladies’ undies.”
“Voyeur meets up with exhibitionists and everyone goes home happy?”
“Because the exhibitionists didn’t want to testify. The girls’ exuberanceextended to getting creative with videotape. Their main concern was theirparents finding out. Peaty’s a definite creep and I’ve promoted him to thepenthouse of the high-priority bin.”
“Time for a second interview.”
“I tried. No sign of him or anyone else at the PlayHouse this morning, dittofor his apartment. Mrs. Stadlbraun wanted to have tea again. I drank enough toconstipate a rhino and she talked about her grandkids and her godkids and thelamentable state of modern morality. She said she’d started watching Peaty moreclosely but he’s gone most of the day. I’m gonna have Binchy tail him.”
“Any decent phone tips?”
“Mostly the usual Martians and maniacs and morons, but there was one I’mfollowing up on. That’s why I called. Wire service picked up the Times story andsome guy in New Yorkphoned me yesterday. Couple of years ago his daughter went missing out here.What got me interested was she was going to acting school, too.”
“The PlayHouse?”
“Father has no idea. There seems to be lots he doesn’t know. An MP reportwas filed on this girl—Tori Giacomo—but it doesn’t look like anyone pursued it.No surprise, given her age and no sign of foul play. The guy insisted on flyingout so I figure I can spare him some time. We’re scheduled at three p.m., hopehe likes Indian food. If you’ve got time, I could use some supplementaryintuition.”
“About what?”
“Ruling his daughter out. Listen to him but don’t tell me what I want tohear.”
“Do I ever?”
“No,” he said. “That’s why you’re my pal.”
 
--- oOo ---
 
Pink madras curtains separate Café Moghul’s interior from the traffic andlight of Santa Monica Boulevard.The shadowy storefront is walking distance from the station and when Milo needs to bolt the confines of his office, he uses itas an alternative work site.
The owners are convinced the presence of a large, menacing-looking detectiveserves the same purpose as a well-trained rottweiler. Once in a while Milo obliges them by handling homeless schizophrenics whowander in and try to sample the all-you-can-eat lunch buffet.
The buffet’s a recent introduction. I’m not convinced it wasn’t put in placefor Milo.
When I got there at three p.m., he was seated behind three plates heapedwith vegetables, rice, curried lobster, and some kind of tandoori meat. Abasket of onion naan was half full. A pitcher of clove-flavored tea sat at hisright elbow. Napkin tied around his neck. Only a few sauce specks.
Off-hour for lunch and he was the only diner. The smiling, bespectacledwoman who runs the place said, “He’s here, sir,” and led me to his usual tableat the rear.
He chewed and swallowed. “Try the lamb.”
“A little early for me.”
“Chai tea?” said the bespectacled woman.
I pointed to the pitcher. “Just a glass.”
“Very good.”
Last time I’d seen her, she’d been trying out contact lenses.
She said, “I had allergies to the cleaning solution. My nephew’s anophthalmologist, he says LASIK’s safe.”
Milo tried to hide his wince but I caughtit. He lives with a surgeon but blanches at the thought of doctor visits.
“Good luck,” I said.
The woman said, “I’m still not sure,” and left to get my glass.
Milo wiped his mouth and pulled a bluefolder from his attaché. “Copy of Tori Giacomo’s missing person file. Feel freeto read but I can summarize in a minute.”
“Go ahead.”
“She was living in North Hollywood, alone in a single, working as a waitressat a seafood place in Burbank.She told her parents she was coming out to be a star but no one’s aware of anyparts she got and she had no agent. When she disappeared, the landlord storedher junk for thirty days then dumped it. By the time MP got around to checking,there was nothing left.”
“The parents weren’t notified when she skipped?”
“She was twenty-seven, didn’t leave their number on her rental application.”
“Who did she give as a reference?”
“File doesn’t say. We’re talking two years ago.” He consulted his Timex.“Her father phoned from the airport an hour ago. Unless there was some disasteron the freeway, he shoulda been here already.”
He squinted at numbers he’d scrawled on the cover of the folder, punched hiscell phone. “Mr. Giacomo? Lieutenant Sturgis. I’m ready for you…where? What’sthe cross street? No, sir, that’s Little Santa Monica, it’s a short street thatstarts in Beverly Hills,which is where you are…three miles east of here…yes, there are two of them.Little and Big…I agree, it doesn’t make…yeah, L.A. can be a little strange…justturn around and go north to Big Santa Monica…there’s some construction but youcan get through…see you, sir.”
He hung up. “Poor guy thinks he’s confused now.”
 
Twenty minutes later a compact, dark-haired man in his fifties pushed therestaurant door open, sniffed the air, and walked straight toward us as if hehad a score to settle.
Short legs but big strides. Racewalking to what?
He wore a brown tweed sportcoat that fit around the shoulders but was tooroomy everywhere else, a faded blue plaid shirt, navy chinos, bubble-toed workshoes. The dark hair was flat-black with reddish tints that betrayed the use ofdye. Dense at the sides but sparse on top—just a few strands over a shiny dome.His chin was oversized and cleft, his nose fleshy and flattened. Brooding eyeslooked us over as he approached. No taller than five nine but his hands werehuge, sausage-fingered, furred at the knuckles with more black hair.
In one hand was a cheap red suitcase. The other shot out. “Lou Giacomo.”
Choosing me first. I introduced myself, minus the doctorate, and he shiftedquickly to Milo.
“Lieutenant.” Going for rank. Military experience or plain old logic.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Giacomo. Hungry?”
Giacomo’s nose wrinkled. “They got beer?”
“All kinds.” Milo summoned the bespectacledwoman.
Lou Giacomo told her, “Bud. Regular, not Light.” Removing his jacket, hedraped it over the back of his seat, tweaked the arms and the shoulders and thelapel until it hung straight. The plaid shirt was short-sleeved. His forearmswere muscled, hirsute cudgels. Producing a billfold, he withdrew a pale bluebusiness card and handed it to Milo.
Milo passed it over.
 
LOUISA. GIACOMO,JR.
Appliance and Small Engine Repair
You Smash ’Em, We Patch ’Em
 
Red wrench logo in the center. Address and phone number in Bayside, Queens.
Giacomo’s beer arrived in a tall, chilled glass. He looked at it but didn’tdrink. When the bespectacled woman left, he wiped the rim of the glass with hisnapkin, squinted, swabbed some more.
“Appreciate you meeting with me, Lieutenant. Learn anything about Tori?”
“Not yet, sir. Why don’t you fill me in?”
Giacomo’s hands clenched. He bared teeth too even and white to be anythingbut porcelain. “First thing you gotta know: No one looked for Tori. I calledyour department a bunch of times, talked to all these different people, finallyI reached some detective—some guy named Mortensen. He told me nothing but Ikept calling. He got sick of hearing from me, made it real clear Tori wasn’thigh-priority, it was missing kids he was into. Then he stopped answering mycalls, so I flew out but by that time he’d retired and moved to Oregon or somewhere. Ilost my patience, said something to the detective they transferred me to, tothe effect of what’s wrong with you, you care more about traffic tickets thanpeople? He had nothing to say.”
Giacomo frowned into his beer. “Sometimes I lose my patience. Not that itwoulda made a difference. I coulda been the nicest guy in the world, no one wasgonna do anything to find Tori. So I have to go back and tell my wife I gotnothing and she goes and has a nervous breakdown on me.”
He pinged a thumbnail on the side of his glass.
Milo said, “Sorry.”
“She got over it,” said Giacomo. “Doctors gave her antidepressants,counseling, whatever. Plus, she had five other kids to deal with—the baby’sthirteen, still in the house. Keeping busy, that’s the best thing. Helps hernot think about Tori.”
Milo nodded and drank tea. Giacomo finallylifted his glass and drank.
“Tastes like Bud,” he said. “What is this place, Pakistani?”
“Indian.”
“We got those where I come from.”
“Indians?”
“Them and their restaurants. I never been.”
“Bayside,” said Milo.
“Grew up there, stayed there. Hasn’t changed that bad except now on top ofyour Italians and your Jews you get Chinese and other Orientals and Indians. Ifixed a coupla their washing machines. Ever been to Bayside?”
Milo shook his head.
Giacomo looked at me.
I said, “Been to Manhattan,that’s it.”
“That’s the city. The city’s for the filthy rich people and homeless poorpeople, you got no room for the normal people in between.” He took a generousswallow of beer. “Definitely Bud.” Rolling a fist on the table, he flexed hisforearms. Tendons jumped. The big, white teeth again. Eager to bite something.
“Tori wanted to be noticed. Since she was a little girl, my wife told hershe was special. Taking her to these baby beauty contests, sometime she won aribbon, it made the wife happy. Dancing and singing lessons, all these schoolplays. Problem was, Tori’s grades weren’t so great, one semester theythreatened her she’d have to drop out of theater arts unless she passed math.She passed with a D, but that’s what it took, threats.”
I said, “Acting was her main thing.”
“Her mother was always telling her she could be this big movie star.Encouraging her, for the whatchmacallit, the self-esteem. Sounds good but italso put ideas in Tori’s head.”
“Ambitions,” I said.
Giacomo pushed his glass away. “Tori shoulda never come out here, what didshe know about being on her own? It was the first time she was ever on a plane.This is a crazy place, right? You guys tell me if I’m wrong.”
Milo said, “It can be rough.”
“Crazy,” Giacomo repeated. “Tori never worked a day in her life before shecame out here. Until the baby came along she was the only girl, it’s not likeshe’s gonna work with me. Right?”
“Did she live at home before she came out here?”
“Always, with her mother doing everything for her. She never made her ownbed. That’s why it was crazy, picking up out of the blue.”
“Was it a sudden decision?” I said.
Giacomo frowned. “Her mother was putting it in her head for years, but,yeah, when she announced it, it was sudden. Tori was nine years outta highschool but she done nothing except for getting married and that didn’t last.”
“When’d she get married?” said Milo.
“When she was nineteen. A kid she dated in high school, not a bad guy butnot too bright.” Giacomo tapped his head. “At first, Mikey worked for me, I wastrying to help out. Kid couldn’t figure out how to use a frickin’ Allen wrench.So he went to work with his uncle instead.”
“Doing what?”
“Sanitation Department, like the rest of his family. Good pay and benefits,you get in the union, it’s all about who you know. Used to do it myself but youcome home stinkin’ and I got tired of that. Tori said Mikey stunk when he camehome, it wouldn’t wash off. Maybe that’s why she got it annulled, I dunno.”
“How long did the marriage last?” said Milo.
“Three years. Then she’s back at home sitting around, doing nothing for fiveyears except going out on auditions for commercials, modeling, whatever.”
“She ever get anything?”
Giacomo shook his head. Bending, he unzipped a compartment of the redsuitcase and drew out two head-shots.
Tori Giacomo’s face was millimeters longer than the perfect oval. Huge darkeyes were topped by feathery, fake lashes. Too-dark eye shadow from anotherera. Same cleft chin as her father. Pretty, maybe borderline beautiful. It hadtaken me a few seconds to come to that conclusion, and in a world of flashimpressions that wouldn’t be enough.
In one photo, her hair was long, dark, and wavy. In the other, she’dswitched to a shoulder-length, feathery platinum cut.
“She’s always been a gorgeous kid,” said Lou Giacomo. “But that ain’tenough, right? You gotta do immoral stuff to get ahead. Tori’s a good girl,never missed mass on Sunday and that’s not ’cause we forced her. My oldestsister became a nun and Tori was always close to Mary Agnes. Mary Agnes pulledstrings with the monsignor to get the annulment through.”
“Tori had a spiritual side,” I said.
“Very, very spiritual. When I was out here I found out where the churcheswere near her apartment and went to all of them.” Giacomo’s eyes narrowed. “Noone knew her, not the priests, the secretaries, no one. So right away I knewsomething was wrong.”
His expression said he meant that on more than one level.
I said, “Tori’d stopped going to church.”
Giacomo sat up straighter. “Some of those churches, they weren’t much tolook at, not like St. Robert Bellarmine, where my wife goes, that’s a church.So maybe Tori wanted a nice church, like she was used to, I dunno. I went tothe biggest one you guys got, downtown. Talked to an assistant to the assistantto the cardinal or whatever. Thinking maybe they had some records. No one knewa damn thing there, either.”
He sat back. “That’s it. Ask me whatever you want.”
Milo began with the usual questions,starting with Tori’s ex-husband, the not-too-bright, odiferous Mikey.
Lou Giacomo said, “Mortensen wanted to know the same thing. So I’ll tell youwhat I told him: No way. First off, I know the family and they’re good people.Second, Mikey’s a good kid, the soft type, you know? Third, he and Tori stayedfriendly, there was no problem, they were just too young. Fourth, he never beenout of New York.”
He huffed, glanced over his shoulder. “Not much business in this place. Thefood got a problem?”
“How often did Tori call home?”
“Coupla times a week she talked to her mother. She knew I wasn’t real happyabout her picking up and leaving. She thought I didn’t understand nothing.”
“What’d she tell her mother?”
“That she was making a living on tips and learning how to act.”
“Learning where?”
Giacomo frowned. “She never said. I double-checked with the wife after Italked to you. You can call her and ask any questions you like, but all she’sgonna do is cry, believe me.”
“Give me Mikey’s last name,” said Milo.“For the record.”
“Michael Caravanza. Works at the Forest Hillsbranch. He and Tori looked happier split up than at the wedding. Like both ofthem were free, or something.” He snorted. “Like you can ever be free. Goahead, ask me more.”
Ten more minutes of questioning revealed a sad truth: Louis Giacomo Juniorknew precious little about his daughter’s life since she’d come out to L.A.
Milo said, “The article on Michaela Brandcaught your attention.”
“The acting thing, you know.” Giacomo’s shoulders dropped. “I read it, gotsick in the stomach. I don’t wanna think the worst but it’s been two years. Nomatter what her mother says, Tori woulda called.”
“What does her mother say?”
“Arlene gets crazy theories in her head. Tori met some billionaire and she’soff on some yacht. Stupid stuff like that.” The whites of Giacomo’s eyes hadpinkened around the edges. He choked back a surge of emotion with a furiousgrowl.
“So what do you think?” he demanded of Milo.“This dead girl have something to do with Tori?”
“I don’t know enough to think anything yet, sir.”
“But you figure Tori’s dead, right?”
“I couldn’t say that either, Mr. Giacomo.”
“You couldn’t say but you know it and I know it. Two years. No way shewouldn’t call her mother.”
Milo didn’t answer.
“The other girl,” said Giacomo. “Who killed her?”
“The investigation just opened.”
“You get a lot of those? Girls wanna be movie stars getting into bigtrouble?”
“It happens—”
“Bet it happens plenty. What’s the name of the acting school the other girlwent to?”
Milo rubbed his face. “Sir, it reallywouldn’t be a good idea for you to go over there—”
“Why not?”
“Like I said, it’s a new investigation—”
“All I wanna do is ask if they knew Tori.”
“I’ll ask for you, sir. If I learn something, I’ll call you. That’s apromise.”
“Promises, promises,” said Giacomo. “It’s a free country. Nothing illegalabout going over there.”
“Interfering with an investigation’s illegal, sir. Please don’t complicateyour life.”
“That a kinda threat?”
“It’s a request not to interfere. If I learn anything about Tori, I’ll tellyou.” Milo put money on the table and stood.
Lou Giacomo got up, too. Picked up his red suitcase and fished in a rearpants pocket. “I’ll pay for my own beer.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I don’t worry, worrying’s a waste of time. I’ll pay for my own beer. ”Giacomo pulled out a wallet stuffed so thick it was nearly round. Taking out afive, he tossed it near Milo’s cash.
“If I call your medical examiners, ask about unclaimed bodies, what’re theygonna tell me?”
“What makes you think that happened to Tori, Mr. Giacomo?”
“I was watching this show on cable. Forensics detectives, something likethat. They said bodies don’t get claimed, sometimes you do a DNA, solve an oldcase. So what would they tell me if I asked?”
“If a decedent is identified and someone offers proof of familyrelationship, they’re given forms to fill out and the body can be released.”
“Is it one of those long pain-in-the-ass red-tape things?”
“It can usually be done in two, three days.”
“How long do they keep ’em around?” said Giacomo. “Unclaimed bodies.”
Milo didn’t answer.
“How long, Lieutenant?”
“Legally, the maximum’s a year but it’s usually sooner.”
“How much sooner?”
“It can be thirty to ninety days.”
“Whoa. In and out, huh?” said Giacomo. “What, you got a dead body trafficjam?”
Milo was impassive.
“Even if it’s a murder?” pressed Giacomo. “For a murder they got to keep itaround, right?”
“No, sir.”
“Don’t they need to hold on to it for all that forensic stuff?”
“Evidence is collected and stored. What’s not…necessary isn’t kept.”
“What, some union flunky’s getting paid off to ditch bodies?” said Giacomo.
“There’s a space issue.”
“Same deal even with murder?”
“Same deal,” said Milo.
“Okay, then what? Where does the body go if nobody claims it?”
“Sir—”
“Just tell me.” Giacomo buttoned his jacket. “I’m one of those people, meetscrap face-to-face, don’t do no running away. I never fought in no wars but themarines trained me to deal. What’s the next step?”
“The county crematorium.”
“They burn it…okay, what happens to the ashes?”
“They’re placed in an urn and kept for two years. If a verified relativesteps forward and pays $541 to cover transportation costs, they get the urn. Ifno one claims the urn, the ashes are scattered in a mass grave at the Evergreen MemorialCemetery in BoyleHeights—that’s East L.A., near the coroner’s office. The graves are marked withnumbers. It’s a group scattering, no individual identification is possible. Notall the unclaimed bodies are kept at the main crypt. Some are out in Sylmar,which is a suburb north of L.A., and others are even farther out in Lancaster,which is a city in the Antelope Valley—the high desert, maybe seventy mileseast.”
Rattling off the facts in the low, emotionless voice of a reluctantpenitent.
Giacomo took it without flinching. Seemed almost to revel in the details. Ithought about the cheap plastic urns the county used. Bundles stacked in roomafter room of the cold-storage basement on Mission Road, bound by sturdy white rope.The inevitable rot that sets in because refrigeration slows decomposition butdoesn’t stop it.
During my first visit to the crypt, I hadn’t thought that through andexpressed surprise to Milo at the greenishpatches mottling a corpse lying on a gurney in the basement hallway.
Middle-aged man with a John Doe designation, awaiting transfer to thecrematorium. Paperwork laid across his decaying torso, listing the meagerdetails known.
Milo’s answer had been painfully glib:“What happens to steak when you leave it in the fridge too long, Alex?”
Now he told Lou Giacomo: “I’m really sorry for your situation, sir. Ifthere’s anything else you want to tell us about Tori, I’d like to hear it.”
“Like what?”
“Anything that would help find her.”
“The restaurant she worked, her mother thinks it had something with‘Lobster’ in it.”
“The Lobster Pot,” said Milo. “Riverside Drive, inBurbank. Itwent out of business eighteen months ago.”
“You checked it out,” said Giacomo, surprised. “You’re looking for Toribecause you do think it had something to do with the other girl.”
“I’m exploring all the possibilities, sir.”
Giacomo stared at him. “You got something you’re not telling me?”
“No, sir. When are you going back home?”
“Who knows?”
“Where are you staying?”
“Same answer,” said Giacomo. “I’ll find something.”
“There’s a Holiday Inn on Pico past Sepulveda,” said Milo.“Not far from here.”
“Why would I wanna be close to here?” said Giacomo.
“No reason.”
“What, you wanna keep tabs on me?”
“No, sir. Got plenty to do.” Milo motionedto me. The two of us headed for the door.
The bespectacled woman said, “Was everything tasty, Lieutenant?”
Milo said, “Great.”
Lou Giacomo said, “Yeah, everything’s fantastic.”
Chapter 13
Giacomo’s rental Escort was parked in a loading zone ten yards from Café Moghul,the predictable ticket secured by a wiper blade. Miloand I watched him snatch the citation and rip it into confetti. Paper snowfloated to the curb.
He shot Milo a defiant look. Milo pretended not to notice.
Giacomo stooped, picked up the shreds, put them in his pocket. Rolling hisshoulders, he got in the Escort and drove off.
Milo said, “Every time I start off in oneof those situations I tell myself to be sensitive. Somehow, it gets messed up.”
“You did fine.”
He laughed.
I said, “With all his frustration and grief it couldn’t have gone anydifferently.”
“That’s exactly what you were supposed to say.”
“At least something in life’s predictable.”
We walked east on Santa Monica, passed anAsian import shop where Milo stopped andpretended to be fascinated by bamboo.
When we resumed walking, I said, “Think Giacomo’s right about Tori beingdead?”
“It’s a distinct possibility, but maybe her mother’s right and she’s offpartying in Capri or Dubai.What do you think of the acting-school angle?”
“Lots of those in L.A.,”I said.
“Lots of young waitpersons aiming for bigger and better. Be interesting ifTori took classes at the PlayHouse but short of that you see any stunningparallels?”
“A few similarities but more differences. Michaela’s body was left out inthe open. If Tori was murdered, the killer sure didn’t want her discovered.”
We turned right and walked south on Butler.
“What if we’re looking at an escalation thing, Alex? Our bad boy started offhiding his handiwork but acquired confidence and decided to advertise?”
“Someone like Peaty moving from peeping to assault,” I said. “Gettingprogressively more violent and brazen.”
“That does come to mind.”
“A sexual aspect to Michaela’s killing would support it. There was nopositioning and she was left fully clothed. But maybe she was played with atthe kill-spot, tidied up before being transported. Autopsy’s due soon, right?”
“It just got kicked up another day or two. Or four.”
“Busy time at the crypt.”
“Always.”
“Are they really moving the bodies out that fast?”
“If only the freeways worked as well.”
“Wonder how many Jane Does are in storage?” I said.
“If Tori ever was there, she’s long gone. As her daddy will learn soonenough. What are the odds he’s calling them right now?”
“If she was my daughter, that’s what I’d be doing.”
He sniffed, cleared his throat, scratched the side of his nose. Raised apink, wormy welt that faded as quickly as it had materialized.
“Got a cold?” I said.
“Nah, air’s been itching me, probably some crap blown in by the Santa Susannas…yeah,I’d be hounding them, too.”
 
--- oOo ---
 
Back at his office, he tried the coroner’s office again and asked for arundown on young Caucasian Jane Does in the crypt. The attendant said thecomputer was down, they were short-staffed, a hand search of the records wouldtake a long time.
“Any calls from a guy named Louis Giacomo? Father of a missing girl…well, heprobably will. He’s having a hard time, go easy…yeah, thanks, Turo. Let me askyou something else: What’s the average transfer time to cremation nowadays?Just an estimate, I’m not gonna use it in court. That’s what I thought…when youdo check the inventory, go back a couple of years, okay? Twenties, Caucasian,five five, a hundred twenty. Giacomo, first name Tori.” He spelled it. “Shecould be a blonde or brunette or anything in between. Thanks, man.”
He hung up, swiveled in his chair. “Sixty, seventy days and it’s off to thefurnace.” Spinning back to his phone, he called the PlayHouse again, listenedfor a few seconds, slammed the receiver down. “Last time, it just rang. Thistime I got sultry female voice on tape. The next class—something called‘Spontaneous Ingathering’—is tomorrow night at nine.”
“Nocturnal schedule, like we guessed,” I said. “Sultry, huh?”
“Think Lauren Bacall getting over the flu. Maybe it’s Ms. Dowd. If she’s anactor herself, velvety pipes wouldn’t hurt.”
“Voice-overs are a mainstay for unemployed actors,” I said. “So are coachinggigs, for that matter.”
“Those who can’t do, teach?”
“Entire universities operate on that premise.”
He laughed. “Okay, let’s see what DMV has to say about the golden-throatedMs. Dowd.”
 
Nora Dowd’s DOB made her thirty-six, five two, a hundred and ten pounds,brown and brown. One registered vehicle, a six-month-old, silver Range Rover MKIII. Home address on McCadden Place in Hancock Park.
“Nice neighborhood,” he said.
“Bit of a drive to the school. Hollywood’sjust across Melrose from HancockPark, you’d think a Hollywoodaddress would attract screen-hopefuls.”
“Maybe Dowd got a break on the rent. Or she owns the place. McCadden and herwheels says she’s got bucks.”
“A wealthy dilettante who does it for fun,” I said.
“Hardly a rare bird,” he said. “Let’s see if this one sings.”
 
Wilshire Boulevardnear Museum Mile was disrupted by filming and we sat with the engine idling, anaudience for nothing. Half a dozen triple-sized trailers filled an entireblock. A fleet of carelessly parked smaller vehicles choked an eastbound lane.A squadron of cameramen, sound techs, gaffers, gofers, retired cops, andunionized hangers-on laughed and loafed and stalked the catered buffet. Twolarge men walked past, each carrying a lightweight, folding director’s chair.Stenciled names on the canvas backs that I didn’t recognize.
Public space commandeered with the usual insouciance. The motoring public onWilshire wasn’t happy and tempers flared in the single open lane. I managed toescape onto Detroit Street,hooked a right on Sixth Street,cruised across La Brea. A few blocks later: Highland,the western border of Hancock Park.
The next block was McCadden, wide and peaceful and sunny. A vintage Mercedesrolled out of a driveway. A nanny walked a baby in a navy blue, chrome-platedstroller. Birds swooped and settled and chirped gratitude. Cold winds had beenwhipping the city for a couple of days but the sun had broken through.
Nora Dowd’s address put her half a block south of Beverly. Most of the neighboring residenceswere beautifully maintained Tudors and Spanish revivals set behind brilliantemerald lawns.
Dowd’s was a two-story Craftsman, cream with dark green trim.
Inverse color scheme of her acting school and, like the PlayHouse, girded bya covered porch and shadowed by generous eaves. A low rock wall at the curb wascentered by an open gate of weathered iron grillwork. Splitting the lawn was awide flagstone walkway. Similar old-school landscaping: birds of paradise,camellias, azaleas, fifteen-foot eugenia hedges on both sides of the property,a monumental deodor cedar fringing the double garage.
Barn doors on this garage, too. Nora Dowd’s house was twice the size of herschool but anyone scoring above nine on the Glasgow Coma Scale could see theparallels.
“Consistent in her taste,” I said. “An oasis of stability in this hazy,crazy town.”
“Mr. Hollywood,” he said. “You should write for Variety. ”
“If I wanted to lie for a living, I’d have gone into politics.”
 
This porch was nicely lacquered, decorated with green wicker furniture andpotted ferns. The pots were hand-painted Mexican ceramics and looked antique.The double doors were quarter sawn oak stained dark brown.
Milky white leaded panes comprised the door window. Miloused his knuckles on the oak. The doors were hefty and his hard raps diminishedto feeble clicks. He tried the bell. Dead.
He muttered, “So what else is new?” and stuck his business card in the splitbetween the doors. As we returned to the Seville,he yanked his phone from his pocket as if it were a saddle burr. Nothing toreport on Michaela’s Honda, or Dylan Meserve’s Toyota.
We returned to the car. As I opened the driver’s door, a sound from thehouse turned our heads.
Female voice, low, affectionate, talking to something white and fluffy,cradled to her chest.
She stepped out to the porch, saw us, placed the object of her affection onthe floor. Looked at us some more and walked toward the sidewalk.
The physical dimensions fit Nora Dowd’s DMV stats but her hair was ablue-gray pageboy, the back cut high on the neck. She wore an oversized plumsweater over gray leggings and bright white running shoes.
Bouncy step but she faltered a couple of times.
She gave us a wide berth, started to walk south.
Milo said, “Ms. Dowd?”
She stopped. “Yes?” One single syllable didn’t justify a diagnosis ofsultry, but her voice was low and throaty.
Milo produced another card. Nora Dowd readit, handed it back. “This is about poor Michaela?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Under the shiny gray cap of hair, Nora Dowd’s face was round and rosy. Hereyes were big and slightly unfocused. Bloodshot; not the pink of Lou Giacomo’sorbs, these were almost scarlet at the rims. Elfin ears protruded past fine,gray strands. Her nose was a pert button.
Middle-aged woman trying to hold on to a bit of little girl. She seemed wellpast thirty-six. Turning her head, she caught some light and a corona of peachfuzz softened her chin. Lines tugged at her eyes, puckers cinched both lips.The ring around her neck was conclusive. The age on her driver’s license was afantasy. Standard Operating Procedure in a company town where the product wasfalse promises.
The white thing sat still, too still for any kind of dog I knew. Maybe a furhat? Then why had she talked to it?
Milo said, “Could we speak to you aboutMichaela, ma’am?”
Nora Dowd blinked. “You sound a little like Joe Friday. But he was asergeant, you outrank him.” She cocked a firm hip. “I met Jack Webb once. Evenwhen he wasn’t working, he liked those skinny black ties.”
“Jack was a prince, helped finance the Police Academy.About Michae—”
“Let’s walk. I need my exercise.”
She surged ahead of us, swung her arms exuberantly. “Michaela was all rightif you gave her enough structure. Her improv skills left something to bedesired. Frustrated, always frustrated.”
“About what?”
“Not being a star.”
“She have any talent?”
Nora Dowd’s smile was hard to read.
Milo said, “The one big improv she trieddidn’t work out so well.”
“Pardon?”
“The hoax she and Meserve pulled.”
“Yes, that.” Flat expression.
“What’d you think of that, Ms. Dowd?”
Dowd walked faster. Exposure to sunlight had irritated her bloodshot eyesand she blinked several times. Seemed to lose balance for a second, caughtherself.
Milo said, “The hoax—”
“What do I think? I think it was shoddy.”
“Shoddy how?”
“Poorly structured. In terms of theater.”
“I’m still not—”
“Lack of imagination,” she said. “The goal of any true performance isopenness. Revealing the self. What Michaela did insulted all that.”
“Michaela and Dylan.”
Nora Dowd again surged forward. Several steps later, she nodded.
I said, “Michaela thought you’d appreciate the creativity.”
“Who told you that?”
“A psychologist she talked to.”
“Michaela was in therapy?”
“That surprises you?”
“I don’t encourage therapy,” said Dowd. “It closes as many channels as itopens.”
“The psychologist evaluated her as part of her court case.”
“How silly.”
“What about Meserve?” said Milo. “He didn’tfail you?”
“No one failed me. Michaela failed herself. Yes, Dylan should have knownbetter but he got swept along. And he comes from a different place.”
“How so?”
“The gifted are allowed more leeway.”
“Was the hoax his idea or Michaela’s?”
Five more steps. “No sense speaking ill of the dead.” A beat. “Poor thing.”Dowd’s mouth turned down. If she was trying to project empathy, her chops wererusty.
Milo said, “How long did Michaela takeclasses with you?”
“I don’t give classes.”
“What are they?”
“They’re performance experiences.”
“How long was Michaela involved in the experiences?”
“I’m not sure—maybe a year, give or take.”
“Any way to fix that more precisely?”
“Pree-cise-lee. Hmm…no, I don’t think so.”
“Could you check your records?”
“I don’t do records.”
“Not at all?”
“Nothing ’tall,” Dowd sang. She rotated her arms, breathed in deeply, said,“Ahh. I like the air today.”
“How do you run a business without records, ma’am?”
Nora Dowd smiled. “It’s not a business. I don’t take money.”
“You teach—present experiences for free?”
“I avail myself, provide a time and place and a selectively judgmentalatmosphere for those with courage.”
“What kind of courage?”
“The kind that enables one to accept selective judgment. The balls to digdeep inside here.” She cupped her left breast with her right hand. “It’s allabout self-revelation.”
“Acting.”
“Performing. Acting is an artificial word. As if life is here”—cocking herhead to the left—“and performance is out here, on another galaxy. Everything’spart of the same gestalt. That’s a German word for the whole being bigger thanthe sum of the parts. I’m blessed.”
Milo said, “With teaching—availing talent?”
“With an uncluttered consciousness and freedom from worry.”
“Freedom from record-keeping’s pretty good, too.”
Dowd smiled. “That, as well.”
“Does not charging mean freedom from financial worry?”
“Money’s an attitude,” said Nora Dowd brightly.
Milo pulled out the photo of Tori Giacomoand held it in front of her face. Her pace didn’t falter and he had to speed upto keep it in her line of vision.
“Not bad looking in a Saturday Night Fever kind of way.” Dowd fended off thephoto and Milo dropped his arm.
“You don’t know her?”
“I really can’t say. Why?”
“Her name is Tori Giacomo. She came to L.A.to be an actress, took lessons, disappeared.”
Nora Dowd said, “Disappeared? As in poof?”
“Did she ever avail herself at the PlayHouse?”
“Tori Giacomo…the name doesn’t ring a bell but I can’t give you a yes or nobecause we don’t take attendance.”
“You don’t recognize her but you can’t say no?”
“All sorts of people show up, especially on nights when we do groupexercises. The room’s dark and I certainly can’t be expected to remember everyface. There is a sameness, you know.”
“Young and eager?”
“Young and oh-so hungry.”
“Could you take another look, ma’am?”
Dowd sighed, grabbed the photo, stared for a second. “I simply can’t say yesor no.”
Milo said, “Big crowds show up but you didknow Michaela.”
“Michaela was a regular. Made sure to introduce herself to me.”
“Ambitious?”
“High level of hunger, I’ll give her that. Without serious want there’s nochance of reaching the bottom of the funnel.”
“What funnel is that?”
Dowd stopped, faltered again, regained her balance, and shaped a cone withher hands. “At the top are all the strivers. Most of them give up right away,which allows those who remain to sink down a little more.” Her hands dropped.“But there are still far too many and they bump against each other, collide,everyone hungry for the spout. Some tumble out, others get crushed.”
Milo said, “More room in the funnel forthose with balls.”
Dowd looked up at him. “You’ve got a Charles Laughton thing going on. Everthink of performing?”
He smiled. “So who gets to the bottom of the funnel?”
“Those who are karmically destined.”
“For celebrity.”
“That’s not a disease, Lieutenant. Or should I call you Charles?”
“What’s not?”
“Celebrity,” said Dowd. “Anyone who makes it is a gifted winner. Even if itdoesn’t last long. The funnel’s always shifting. Like a star on its axis.”
Stars didn’t have axes. I kept that nugget to myself.
Milo said, “Did Michaela have the potentialto make it all the way to the spout?”
“As I said, I don’t want to diss the dead.”
“Did you get along with her, Ms. Dowd?”
Dowd squinted. Her eyes looked raw and inflamed. “That’s a strange question.”
“Maybe I’m missing something, ma’am, but you don’t seem too shaken up by hermurder.”
Dowd exhaled. “Of course I’m sad. I see no reason to reveal myself to you.Now if you’ll let me complete my—”
“In a sec, ma’am. When’s the last time you saw Dylan Meserve?”
“Saw him?”
“At the PlayHouse,” said Milo. “Or anywhereelse.”
“Hmm,” said Dowd. “Hmm, the last time…a week or so? Ten days? He helps outfrom time to time.”
“Helps how?”
“Arranging chairs, that sort of thing. Now I need to get some cleansingexercise, Charles. All this talk has polluted the good air.”
She jogged away from us, moving fast, but with a choppy, knock-kneed stride.The quicker she ran, the more pronounced was her clumsiness. When she was halfa block away, she began shadowboxing. Swung her head from side to side.
Clumsy but loose. Oblivious to any notion of imperfection.
Chapter 14
Milo said, “Don’t need you for a diagnosis.She’s loony. Even without the dope.”
“What dope?”
“You didn’t smell it on her? She stinks of devil weed, dude. Those eyes?”
Red rims, lack of coordination, answers that seemed just a bit off-time. “Imust be slipping.”
“You didn’t get close enough to smell it. When I handed her my business card,she reeked. Must’ve just finished toking.”
“Probably why she didn’t answer the door.”
He gazed down the block. The speck that was Nora Dowd had vanished. “Nutsand stoned and doesn’t keep records. Wonder if she married money or inheritedit. Or maybe she had her time at the bottom of the funnel and invested well.”
“Never heard of her.”
“Like she said, the axis shifts.”
“Planets have axes, stars don’t.”
“Whatever. Not very sympathetic to Michaela, was she?”
“Not even faking it. When Dylan Meserve came up she bolted. Maybe because heavails himself in all sorts of ways.”
“Creative consultant,” he said. “Yeah, they’re doing the nasty.”
“Situation like that,” I said, “a gorgeous young woman could be a threat toa woman of her age.”
“Couple of good-looking kids, up in the hills, naked…Dowd’s gotta be what,forty-five, fifty?”
“That would be my guess.”
“Rich lady gets her strokes playing guru to the lean and hungry andpretty…she picks Dylan out of the fold, he goes and fools with Michaela. Yeah,it’s a motive, ain’t it? Maybe she told Dylan to clean things up. For all weknow, he’s right there, holed up in that big house of hers, got his wheelsstashed in her garage.”
I glanced back at the big, cream house. “It would also be a nice quiet placeto keep Michaela while they figured out what to do with her.”
“Load her in the Range Rover and dump her near her apartment to distancethemselves.” He crammed his hands in his pockets. “Wouldn’t that be ugger-ly.Okay, let’s see what the neighbors have to say about Ms. Stoner.”
 
Three bell rings brought three cleaning ladies to the door, each one intoning,“Senora no esta en la casa.”
At the well-kept brick Tudor three doors north of Nora Dowd’s house, anelderly man wearing a bright green cardigan, a red wool shirt, gray plaidpants, and burgundy house slippers studied us over the rim of hisold-fashioned. The toes of his slippers were embroidered with black wolves’heads. The dim marble entry behind him gave off a whiff of eau de codger.
He took a long time to examine Milo’sbusiness card. Reacted to Milo’s inquiry aboutNora Dowd with, “That one? Why?” A voice like gravel under heavy footsteps.
“Routine questions, sir.”
“Don’t give me that malarkey.” Tall but bent, he had foxed-paper skin,coarse white hair, and clouded blue eyes. Stiff fingers bent the card in halfand palmed it. A fleshy, open-pored nose dipped toward a lopsided twig of anupper lip. “Albert Beamish, formerly of Martin, Crutch, and Melvyn andninety-three other partners until the mandatory out-to-pasture clause kicked inand they sentenced me to ‘emeritus.’ That was eighteen years ago so do thearithmetic and choose your words efficiently. I could drop dead right in frontof you and you’d have to lie to someone else.”
“Till a hundred and twenty, sir.”
Albert Beamish said, “Get on with it, kiddo. What’d that one do?”
“One of her students was murdered and we’re getting background informationfrom people who knew the victim.”
“And you spoke to her and you saw what a lunatic she is.”
Milo chuckled.
Albert Beamish said, “Students? They let her teach? When did that start?”
“She runs her own acting school.”
Beamish’s laughter was jagged. It took a while for his cocktail to reach hislips. “Acting. That’s just more of the same.”
“The same what?”
“Being the indolent, spoiled brat she’s always been.”
Milo said, “You’ve known her for a while.”
“She grew up in that overgrown log cabin. Her grandfather built it back inthe twenties, a blight on the neighborhood then, just as it is now. Doesn’tfit, should be in Pasadenaor some place where they like that kind of thing.” Beamish’s filmy irises aimedacross the street. “You see any others like it around here?”
“No, sir.”
“There’s a reason for that, kiddo. Doesn’t fit. Try telling that to BillDowd Senior—the grandfather. No sophistication. Came from Oklahoma, made money in groceries, drygoods, something of that sort. His wife was low-class, uneducated, thought shecould buy her way in spending money. Same with the daughter-in-law—that one’smother. Blond tramp, always throwing ostentatious parties.”
Beamish drank some more. “Damned elephant.”
Milo said, “Sir?”
“One time they brought in a damned elephant. For one of their birthdays,don’t remember which one. Filthied up the street, the stench lasted for days.”His nostrils quivered. “Bill Junior never worked a day in his life, fooledaround on his daddy’s money, married late. Woman just like his mother, noclass. Now you’re telling me that one teaches acting. Where does this travestytake place?”
“West L.A.,” said Milo. “The PlayHouse.”
“I never venture that far from civilization,” said Beamish. “A play house?Sounds damned frivolous.”
“It’s a Craftsman building, same as the house,” I said.
“Does it fit in over there?”
“The neighborhood’s pretty hetero—”
“Piles of logs. All that gloomy wood and stained glass belongs in a church,where the intent is to simultaneously impress and depress. Bill Dowd Seniormade his fortune with canned peas, whatever, nailed up that heap of timber.Probably got the idea when he was buying up properties in Pasadena, SouthPasadena, Altadena, Lord knows what other ’denas. That’s what they’ve all beenliving off. She and her brothers. None of them worked a day in their lives.”
“How many brothers?” I said.
“Two. Bill the Third and Bradley. One’s a fool and the other’s shifty. Theshifty one sneaked into my yard and stole my persimmons.” Pinpoints of angerlivened the milky blue eyes. “Stripped the damn tree bare. He denied it buteveryone knew.”
Milo said, “How long ago was this, sir?”
“Thanksgiving of ’72. Delinquent never owned up to it but my wife and I knewit was him.”
“Why’s that?” said Milo.
“Because he’d done it before.”
“Stole from you?”
“From others. Don’t ask me the who and what, never heard the details, justgeneral woman’s talk. They must have believed it, too. They boarded him out.Some sort of military academy.”
“Because of the persimmons?”
“No,” said Beamish, exasperated. “We never told them about the persimmons.No sense being obtrusive.”
‘What about Nora Dowd?” said Milo. “Anyproblems with her?”
“She’s the youngest and the most spoiled. Always had those ideas. ”
“What ideas, sir?”
“Being an actress. ” Beamish’s lips curled. “Running around trying to getparts in movies. I always thought her mother was the one behind all that.”
“She ever get any parts?”
“Not that I heard. Do fools actually pay to hear what she has to say at herplay house?”
“Seems to be that way,” said Milo. “Did sheever marry?”
“Negative.”
“Does she live with anyone?”
“She’s got that heap of sticks all to herself.”
Milo showed him the snap of Dylan Meserve.
Beamish said, “Who’s that?”
“One of her students.”
“Looks like a delinquent, himself. Are they fornicating?”
Milo said, “What about visitors?”
Beamish snatched the picture from between Milo’sfingers. “Numbers around his neck. He’s a damned felon?”
“Misdemeanor arrest.”
Beamish said, “Nowadays, that could include homicide.”
“You don’t like Ms. Dowd.”
“Don’t have use for any of them,” said Beamish. “Those persimmons. I’mtalking the Japanese variety, tart, firm, nothing like those gelatinousabominations you get in the market. When my wife was alive she loved making compotefor Thanksgiving. She was looking forward to Thanksgiving. That wastrel filchedevery one. Stripped the tree naked. ”
He returned the photo. “Never seen him but I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Thanks, sir.”
“What’d you think of that pet of hers?”
“What pet, sir?”
Albert Beamish laughed so hard he began coughing.
Milo said, “You okay, sir?”
Beamish slammed the door.
Chapter 15
The white fluffy thing Nora Dowd had left on her porch was a stuffed toy.Some sort of bichon or Maltese. Flat brown eyes.
Milo picked it up, had a close look. Said,“Oh, man,” and handed it over.
Not a toy. A real dog, stuffed and preserved. The pink ribbon around itsneck supported a heart-shaped, silver pendant.
Stan
Birth and death dates. Stan had lived thirteen years.
Blank look on the white fluffy face. Maybe it was the glass eyes. Or thelimits of taxidermy.
I said, “Could be Stan as in Stanislavsky. She probably talks to it andtakes it with her on walks. Saw us and thought better of it.”
“What does that mean?”
“Eccentric rather than psychotic.”
“I’m so impressed.” He took the dog and put it back on the floor.“Stanislavsky, eh? Let’s method act the hell out of here.”
As we drove past Albert Beamish’s Tudor, the drapes across the living roomwindow fluttered.
Milo said, “Neighborhood crank, love it.Too bad he didn’t recognize Meserve. But with his vision, that means nothing.He sure hates the Dowds.”
I said, “Nora has two brothers who own a lot of property. Ertha Stadlbraunsaid Peaty’s landlords are a pair of brothers.”
“So she did.”
 
By the time we reached Sixth Street and La Cienega, he’d confirmed it. WilliamDowd III, Nora Dowd, and Bradley Dowd, doing business as BNB Properties, ownedthe apartment building on Guthrie. It took several other calls to get an ideaof their holdings. At least forty-three properties registered in L.A. County.Multiple residences and office buildings and the converted house on theWestside where Nora availed herself to would-be stars.
“The school’s probably a concession to Crazy Sister,” he said. “Keeps herout of their hair.”
“And far from their other properties,” I said. “Something else: All thosebuildings mean lots of janitorial work.”
“Reynold Peaty looking in all kinds of windows…if he’s moved from peeping toviolence, lots of potential victims. Yeah, let’s check it out.”
 
Corporate headquarters for BNB Properties was on Ocean Park Boulevard near the Santa Monica Airport. Not one of the Dowd sibs’properties, this one was owned by a national real estate syndicate that ownedhalf of downtown.
“Wonder why?” said Milo.
“Maybe some sort of tax dodge,” I said. “Or they held on to what theirfather left them, didn’t add more.”
“Lazy rich kids? Yeah, makes sense.”
It was four forty-five and the drive at this hour would be brutal. Milo called the listed number, hung up quickly.
“‘You’ve reached the office, blah blah blah. If it’s a plumbing emergency,press 1. Electrical, press 2.’ Lazy rich kids are probably drinking at thecountry club. You up for a try, anyway?”
“Sure,” I said.
 
--- oOo ---
 
Olympic Boulevard seemed the optimal route. The lights are timed and parkingrestrictions keep all six lanes open during L.A.’s ever-expanding rush hour. Theboulevard was designed back in the forties as a quick way to get from downtownto the beach. People old enough to remember when that promise was kept getteary-eyed.
This afternoon, traffic was moving at twenty miles per. When I stopped atDoheny, Milo said, “The love-triangle anglefits, given Nora’s narcissism and nuttiness. This woman thinks her dog’sprecious enough to be turned into a damned mummy.”
“Michaela insisted she and Dylan weren’t lovers.”
“She’d want to keep that from Nora. Maybe from you, too.”
“If so, the hoax was really stupid.”
“Two naked kids,” he said. “The publicity wouldn’t have thrilled Dowd.”
“Especially,” I said, “if she really doesn’t feel that blessed.”
“Never made it to the bottom of the funnel.”
“Never made it, lives alone in a big house, no stable relationships. Needsto smoke up before greeting the world. Maybe clinging to a stuffed dog is justmassive insecurity.”
“Playing a role,” he said. “Availing herself. Okay, let’s see if we cantête-à-tête with the rest of this glorious family.”
 
The site was a two-story strip mall on the northeast corner of Ocean Parkand Twenty-eighth, directly opposite the lush, industrial park that fronted Santa Monica’s privateairport. BNB Properties was a door and window on the second floor.
Cheaply built mall, lemon-yellow sprayed-stucco walls stained by rust aroundthe gutters, brown iron railings rimming an open balcony, plastic tile roofpretending to evoke colonial Spain.
The ground floor was a take-out pizza joint, a Thai café and its Mexicancounterpart, and a coin-op laundry. BNB’s upstairs neighbors were achiropractor touting treatment for “workplace injuries,” Zip TechnicalAssistance, and Sunny Sky Travel, windows festooned by posters in bright,come-on colors.
As we climbed pebble-grained steps, a sleek, white corporate jet shot intothe sky.
“Aspen or Vail or Telluride,” said Milo. “Someone’s having fun.”
“Maybe it’s a business trip and they’re going to Podunk.”
“That tax bracket, everything’s fun. Wonder if the Dowd brothers are in thatleague. If they are, they’re skimping on ambience.”
He pointed at BNB’s plain brown door. Chipped and gouged and cracking towardthe bottom. The corporate signage consisted of six U-stick, silver foilparallelograms aligned carelessly.
 
BNB inc
 
A single, aluminum-framed window was blocked by cheap, white mini-blinds.The slats tilted to the left, left a triangle of peep-space. Milotook advantage, shading his eyes with his hands and peering in.
“Looks like one room…and a bathroom with the light on.” He straightened.“Some guy’s in there peeing, let’s give him time to zip up.”
Another plane took off.
“That one’s Aspenfor sure,” he said.
“How can you tell?”
“Happy sound from the engines.” He knocked and opened the door.
A man stood by a cheap, wooden desk staring at us. He’d forgotten to zip thefly of his khaki Dockers and a corner of blue shirt peeked out. The shirt wassilk, oversized and baggy, a stone-washed texture that had been fashionable adecade ago. The khakis sagged on his skinny frame. No belt. Scuffed brown pennyloafers, white socks.
He was short—five five or six—looked to be around fifty, with down-slantedmedium brown eyes and curly gray hair cut in a tight Caesar cap. White fuzz onthe back of his neck said it was time for a trim. Same for a two-day growth ofsalt-and-pepper beard. Hollow cheeks, angular features, except for his nose.
Shiny little button that gave his face an elfin cast. Either he’d used thesame surgeon as his sister or stingy nasal endowment was a dominant Dowd trait.
Milo said, “Mr. Dowd?”
Shy smile. “I’m Billy.” The badge made him blink. His hand brushed thecorner of shirttail and he stiffened. Zipped his fly. “Oops.”
Billy Dowd breathed into his hand. “Need my Altoids…where did I put them?”
Turning four pockets inside out, he produced nothing but lint that landed onthin, gray carpet. A check of his shirt pocket finally located the mints.Popping one in his mouth and chewing, he held out the tin. “Want some?”
“No, thanks, sir.”
Billy Dowd perched on the edge of his desk. Across the room was a larger,more substantial work station: carved oak replica of a rolltop, flat-screencomputer monitor, the rest of the components tucked out of view.
Brown walls. The only thing hanging a Humane Society calendar. Trio of tabbykittens staking a claim on ultimate cute.
Billy Dowd chewed another mint. “So…what’s happening?”
“You don’t seem surprised we’re here, Mr. Dowd.”
Billy blinked some more. “It’s not the only time.”
“That you’ve spoken to police?”
“Yup.”
“When were the others?”
Billy’s brow creased. “The second I’d have to say was last year? One of thetenants—we’ve got a lot of tenants, my brother and sister and me, and last yearone of them was stealing computer stuff. A policeman from Pasadena came over and talked to us. We saidokay, arrest him, he pays late anyway.”
“Did they?”
“Uh-uh. He ran away and escaped. Took the lightbulbs, messed the place up,Brad wasn’t happy. But then we got another tenant pretty soon and he got happy.Real nice people. Insurance agents, Mr. and Mrs. Rose, they pay on time.”
“What was the name of the dishonest tenant?”
“I’d have to say…” Slowly spreading smile. “I’d have to say I don’t know.You can ask my brother, he’ll be here soon.”
“What was the other time the police visited?” said Milo.
“Pardon me?”
“You said the second was last year. When was the first?”
“Oh. Right. The first was long ago, I’d have to say five years, could beeven six?”
He waited for confirmation.
I said, “What happened a long time ago?”
“That was different,” he said. “Someone hit someone else in the hallway, sothey called the police. Not tenants, two visitors, they got into a fight orsomething. So what happened this time?”
“A student of your sister’s was murdered and we’re looking into people whoknew her.”
The word “murdered” drew Billy Dowd’s hand to his mouth. He held it thereand his fingers muffled his voice. “That’s awful !” The hand dropped to hischin, clawed the stubbly surface. Nails gnawed short. “My sister, she’s okay?”
“She’s fine,” said Milo.
“You’re sure ?”
“Absolutely, sir. The murder didn’t take place at the PlayHouse.”
“Phew.” Billy drew a hand across his brow. “You scared me, I nearly pissedmy pants.” He laughed nervously. Looked down at his crotch, verifyingcontinence.
A voice from the doorway said, “What’s going on?”
Billy Dowd said, “Hey, Brad, it’s the police again.”
The man who walked in was half a foot taller than Billy and solidly built.He wore a well-cut navy suit and a yellow shirt with a stiff spread collar,soft brown calfskin loafers.
Mid forties but his hair was snow-white. Dense and straight and clippedshort.
Crinkly dark eyes, full lips, square chin, beak nose. Nora and Billy Dowdhad been modeled from soft clay. Their brother was hewn from stone.
Bradley Dowd stood next to his brother and buttoned his jacket. “Again?”
“You remember,” said Billy. “That guy, the one who stole computers and tookall the lights—what was his name, Brad? Was he Italian?”
“Polish,” said Brad Dowd. He looked at us. “Edgar Grabowski’s back in town?”
“It’s not about him, Brad,” said Billy. “I was just explaining why I wassurprised but not totally surprised when they came in here, because it wasn’tthe first—”
“Got it,” said Brad, patting his brother’s shoulder. “What’s up, gentlemen?”
Milo said, “There’s been a murder…one ofyour sister’s students—”
“My God, that’s horrible —Nora’s okay?”
Same protective reflex as Billy.
“I already asked him that, Brad. Nora’s good.”
Brad must’ve put some weight on Billy’s shoulder because the smaller mansagged.
“Where did this happen and who exactly did it happen to?”
“West L.A. The victim’s a young woman namedMichaela Brand.”
“The one who faked being kidnapped?” said Brad.
His brother stared up at him. “You never told me about that, Bra—”
“It was in the news, Bill.” To us: “Did her murder have something to do withthat?”
“Any reason it would?” said Milo.
“I’m not saying it did,” said Brad Dowd. “I’m just asking—it’s a naturalquestion, don’t you think? Someone garners publicity, it has the potential tobring out the weirdos.”
“Did Nora talk about the hoax?”
Brad shook his head. “Murdered…terrible.” He frowned. “It must’ve hit Norahard, I’d better call her.”
“She’s okay,” said Milo. “We just talked toher.”
“You’re sure?”
“Your sister’s fine. We’re here, sir, because we need to talk to anyone whomight’ve had contact with Ms. Brand.”
“Of course,” said Brad Dowd. He smiled at his brother. “Billy, would you dome a favor and go down and get a sandwich from DiGiorgio’s—you know how I likeit.”
Billy Dowd got off the desk and looked up at his brother. “Peppers, egg,eggplant, and tomato. A lot of pesto or just a medium amount?”
“A lot, bro.”
“You got it, bro. Nice to meet you guys.” Billy hurried off.
When the door closed, Brad Dowd said, “He doesn’t need to hear about thiskind of thing. What else can I help you with?”
“Your janitor, Reynold Peaty. Anything to say about him?”
“You’re asking because of his arrests?”
Milo nodded.
“Well,” said Brad, “he was up-front about them when he applied for a job. Igave him points for honesty and he’s been a good worker. Why?”
“Just routine, sir. How’d you find him?”
“Agency. They weren’t up-front about his past, so we dropped them.”
“How long’s he been working for you?”
“Five years.”
“Not that long after his last arrest in Nevada.”
“He said he’d had a drinking problem and had gotten clean and sober. Hedoesn’t drive, so any DUI problems aren’t going to happen.”
Milo said, “Are you aware of his arrest forpeeping through a window?”
“He told me about everything,” said Brad. “Claimed that was also thedrinking. And the only time he’d done something like that.” He flexed hisshoulders. “Many of our tenants are women and families with children, I’m notnaive, keep my eyes out on all the employees. Now that the Megan’s Law databaseis up and operating, I check it regularly. I assume you do, too, so you knowReynold isn’t on there. Is there some reason you’re asking about him, otherthan routine?”
“No, sir.”
Brad Dowd inspected his fingertips. Unlike his brother’s, beautifullymanicured. “Please be up-front, Detective. Do you have the slightest bit ofevidence implicating Reynold? Because he circulates among lots of our buildingsand as much as I’d like to trust him, I’d hate to incur any liability. Not tomention the human cost.”
“No evidence,” said Milo.
“You’re sure.”
“That’s the way it looks, so far.”
“So far,” said Brad Dowd. “Not exactly encouraging.”
“There’s no reason to suspect him, sir. If I hear otherwise, I’ll let youknow.”
Dowd fiddled with a hand-stitched lapel. “There’s no subtext here, is there,Detective? You’re not suggesting I fire him?”
“I’d prefer that you don’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“No sense stirring things up, Mr. Dowd. If Peaty’s turned his life around,more power to him.”
“That’s how I feel…that poor girl. How was she killed?”
“Strangled and stabbed.”
Dowd winced. “Any idea by who?”
“No, sir. Here’s another routine question: Do you know Dylan Meserve?”
“I’m aware of who he is. Is there any sense asking why he’s part of yourroutine?”
“He hasn’t been seen for a while and when we tried to talk to your sisterabout him, she ended the conversation.”
“Nora,” said Brad wearily. His eyes shot to the doorway. “Hey, bro. Smellsgood, thanks.”
Billy Dowd toted an open cardboard carton, using both hands, as if his cargowas precious. Inside was a hero-sized sandwich wrapped in orange paper. Aromasof tomato paste, oregano, and basil filled the office.
Brad turned so his brother couldn’t see and slipped Miloa yellow business card. Perfect match to his shirt. “Anything I can do to help,Detective. Feel free to call me if you have any further questions—that smellsfantastic, Billy. You’re the man.”
“You’re the man,” said Billy gravely.
“You, too, Bill.”
Billy Dowd’s mouth screwed up.
Brad said, “Hey, we can both be the man.” He took the sandwich and cuffedhis brother’s shoulder lightly. “Right?”
Billy considered that. “Okay.”
Chapter 16
By the time we made it to the door, Brad Dowd had his dinner unwrapped andwas saying, “This hits the spot, Bill.”
As we climbed down to the strip mall’s first level, Milosaid, “That sandwich smelled good.”
 
We parked near the far west end of the airport. The coffee from Café DiGiorgiowas dark and strong. Milo pushed the seat backas far as it would go and got to work on his meatball and pepper sandwich.
After four ferocious bites, he stopped to breathe. “Looks like ol’ Bradleywatches out for his sibs.”
“Looks like they both bear watching.”
“What’s your diagnosis on Billy?”
“The best word’s probably ‘simple.’”
“And Nora’s a spacey doper.”
“You’re ready to take the state boards,” I said.
He scanned blue sky. No sleek white jets to feed his fantasies. He fishedout Brad Dowd’s yellow business card and handed it over.
Crisp, substantial paper. Bradley Dowd’s name embossed in chocolate italics,above a phone number with an 825 prefix.
“Gentleman’s calling card,” I said. “You don’t see that too often.”
“Once a rich kid, always a rich kid. I’ll call him tonight, find out what hedidn’t want to talk about in front of his brother.”
 
I got home at six, cleared a tapeful of junk messages, listened to one fromRobin that had come in ten minutes ago.
“I could tell you this is about shared grief for our late pooch but it’sreally…a booty call. I guess. Hopefully, you’re the only one listening to this.Please erase it. Bye.”
I called her back. “I erased it.”
“I’m lonely,” she said.
“Me, too.”
“Should we do something about it?”
“I think so.”
“That’s not exactly rabid desire, but I’ll take what I can get.”
 
I was at her house in Veniceby seven. We spent the next hour in bed, the rest of the evening reading thepaper and watching the last third of Humoresque on The Movie Channel.
When the film was over, she got up without a word and left for her studio.
I tried to sleep, didn’t have much success until she returned to bed. I wasup just after seven when western light streaming through her curtains couldn’tbe denied.
She stood naked, by the window, holding a cup of tea. She’d always been acoffee drinker.
I croaked something that approximated “Morning.”
“You dreamed a lot.”
“I was noisy?”
“Active. I’ll get you some coffee.”
“Come back to bed, I’ll get it.”
“No, relax.” She padded out and returned with a mug, stood by the bed.
I drank and cleared my throat. “Thanks. You’re into tea, now?”
“Sometimes.”
“How long have you been awake?”
“Couple of hours.”
“My activity?”
“No, I’ve turned into an early riser.”
“Cows to milk, eggs to collect.”
She smiled, put on a robe, sat on the bed.
I said, “Come back in.”
“No, once I’m up, I’m up.” She forced a smile. I could smell the effort.
“Want me to leave?”
“Of course not,” she said too quickly. “Stay as long as you like. I don’thave much for breakfast.”
“Not hungry,” I said. “You’ve got work to do.”
“Eventually.”
She kissed my forehead, got up, and moved to her closet and began gettingdressed. I went to shower. By the time I was out and dried and dressed, herband saw was humming.
 
I had breakfast at John O’Groats on Pico, going out of my way because I wasin the mood for Irish oatmeal, and the company of strangers seemed like a goodidea. I sat at the counter and read the paper. Nothing on Michaela. No reasonfor there to be.
Back home, I did some paperwork and thought about Nora Dowd’s flat responsesto Milo’s questions.
Not bothering to fake sympathy or interest in Michaela’s murder. The samefor Tori Giacomo’s disappearance.
But Dylan Meserve’s name had pulled out some emotion and Brother Brad didn’twant to talk about Dylan in front of the most vulnerable Dowd sib.
I got on the computer. Nora’s name pulled up a single citation: inclusion ina list of acting workshops listed by city that appeared on a site calledStarHopefuls.com.
I printed the list, called all the West Coast programs, fabricated acasting-director cover story and asked if Tori Giacomo had ever been a student.Mostly, I got confusion. A few times, I got hang-ups, meaning I could use someacting lessons myself.
By noon, I had nothing. Better to stick with what I was getting paid to do.
I finished the report on Dr. Patrick Hauser and took a run down to thenearest mailbox. I was back at my desk, clearing paper, when Milorang the doorbell.
“I called first,” he said.
“Out jogging.”
“I envy your knees.”
“Believe me, don’t. What’s up?”
“Michaela’s landlord promises to be there tomorrow morning, I got subpoenasfor her phone records but my contact at the phone company says I’m wasting mytime. Account was shut off for nonpayment weeks before she died. If she had acell account, I can’t find it. On the positive side, God bless the angels atthe coroner’s.” He stomped in. “Your knees really hurt?”
“Sometimes.”
“If you weren’t my buddy, I’d gloat.”
I followed him into the kitchen. Instead of raiding the fridge he sat downand loosened his tie.
“Michaela’s autopsy was prioritized?” I said.
“Nope, more interesting. My buddies at the crypt looked through the Doefiles, found some possibles and traced one of ’em to a bone analyst doingresearch on identification. Forensic anthropologist on a grant, what she doesis collect samples from various cases and try to classify them ethnically. Inher trove was an intact skull with most of the teeth still embedded. Young,Caucasian female homicide victim found nineteen months ago, the rest of thebody was incinerated six months after discovery. Their forensic odontologistsaid the dentition was distinctive. Lots of cosmetic bridgework, unusual forsomeone that young.”
“Someone trying to look their best. Like an aspiring actress.”
“I got the name of Tori Giacomo’s dentist in Bayside and thanks to the magicof digital photography and e-mail, we had a positive I.D. within the hour.”
“How’s her dad taking it?”
“Don’t know,” he said. “I had no way to reach him here in L.A., so I called his wife. Contrary to whatGiacomo told us, she comes across like a sensible, stable lady. Has beenexpecting the worst for a while.” He slumped. “Prince that I am, I didn’tdisappoint her.”
He got up, filled a glass with water from the tap. “Got any lemon?”
I sliced one, dropped a wedge into his glass.
“Rick says I should keep my kidneys hydrated but plain water tastes likeplain water…anyway, Tori is no longer Jane Doe 342-003. Wish I had the rest ofthe body but she was listed as an unsolved Hollywoodhomicide and the D’s report spelled things out pretty clearly.”
He drank some more, put the glass in the sink.
“She was found four months after she disappeared, dumped in some brush onthe L.A. side of Griffith Park.All that was left were scattered bones. Coroner thought he spotted damage tosome of the cervical vertebrae and there are definitely some relativelysuperficial knife cuts in her sternum and a couple in the thoracic ribs.Tentative cause of death is strangulation/stabbing.”
I said, “Two young, female acting students, similar wounds and Nora Dowddidn’t rule out Tori attending her classes.”
“No answer at Nora’s home or the school. I’ll be at the PlayHouse tonight,mingling with the beautiful people. After I meet with Brad Dowd. He called,apologized for cutting off the conversation, invited me to his house.”
“Eager to talk about Dylan,” I said. “Where does he live?”
“Santa Monica Canyon. Care to join me? I’ll drive.”
 
Bradley Dowd lived on Gumtree Lane, a mile north of Channel Road, just east of where Channeldescends steeply to Pacific Coast Highway.
A darkening sky and a tree canopy brought early night. The air was still andunseasonably warm and no ocean aroma brined the canyon.
Usually it’s ten degrees cooler near the coast. Maybe it’s me, but patternsseem to be shaking up more often.
The house was a one-story redwood and glass box set in a low spot along theleafy road, well back from the street. The wealth of vegetation made it hard tomake out where the property began and ended.
High-end box, with polished-copper trim and a porch supported by carvedbeams. Carefully placed spots illuminated flower beds and luxuriant ferns. Thewooden address plate imbedded in the fieldstone gatepost was hand-painted. Agray or beige Porsche sat in the front of the gravel driveway. Hangingsucculents graced the porch, which was set up with Adirondackchairs.
Brad Dowd stood near one of the chairs, one leg bent so that his shoulderssloped to the right. He wore a T-shirt and cutoffs, held a long-necked bottlein one hand.
“Park right behind me, Detective.”
When we got to the porch, he hoisted the bottle. Corona. The T-shirt said Hobie-Cat. His feetwere bare. Muscular legs, knobby, misshapen knees. “Join me?”
“No, thanks.”
Dowd sat, gave another wave. We repositioned two chairs and faced him.
“Any problem finding me?”
“None,” said Milo. “Thanks for calling.”
Dowd nodded and drank. Crickets chirped. A hint of gardenia blew by anddissipated.
“Pretty out here, sir.”
“Love it,” said Brad. “Nothing like peace and quiet after a day dealing withleaks, short circuits, and various other minor disasters.”
“Trials and tribulations of being a landlord.”
“Are you one, too, Detective?”
“God forbid.”
Brad laughed. “It beats honest labor. The key is to keep things organized.”
He’d left the front door cracked six inches. Serape throws on chairs, akilim ottoman, lots of leather. Propped in a corner was a white surfboard.Longboard, the type you don’t see much anymore.
The knobs on Dowd’s knees made sense. Surfer’s knots.
Milo said, “There was something about DylanMeserve you wanted to tell us.”
“Thanks for waiting. I didn’t want Billy to hear.”
“Protecting Billy,” I said.
Dowd turned to me. “Billy needs protection. Sometimes it’s hard for him toput things in perspective.”
“Something about Meserve bother him?” said Milo.
Brad Dowd’s brow creased. “No, I just like to keep him away from what hedoesn’t need to know…sure I can’t get you guys one of these?”
“We’re fine,” said Milo. “You take care ofBilly.”
“He doesn’t need special care—he’s not retarded or anything like that. Whenhe was born, there was an oxygen problem. We used to live together, then acouple of years ago I realized he needed his independence, so I got him his ownplace. A nice lady lives upstairs. Billy thinks they’re just neighbors, but shegets paid to be there for him. Anyway, about Meserve, it’s no big deal. Mysister had a thing for him and I consider him a first-class sleazeball.”
“A mutual thing?”
Dowd stretched his legs, pointed his toes, massaged a knot. Maybe calciumexplained the wince. “In some ways, Nora can be a bit of an adolescent. All thetime she spends with young people doesn’t help.”
I said, “Dylan wasn’t her first thing?”
“I didn’t say that.”
I smiled.
Brad Dowd drank beer. “No sense bullshitting. You know how it is, a woman getsto a certain age, the whole youth culture thing. Nora’s entitled to her fun.But with Meserve it was getting a little out of hand, so I talked to her andshe realized I was right.”
“You didn’t want Billy to hear this because…”
Brad Dowd’s mouth got tight. “It was a bit of a hassle. Convincing Nora.She’d have been a lot more upset if Billy got involved. If he tried to comforther or something like that.”
“Why’s that?” said Milo.
“Nora and Billy aren’t close…the truth is, when we were kids, Billy was asource of embarrassment to Nora. But Billy thinks they’re close—” He stopped.“This is family stuff you don’t need to know.”
Milo said, “So Nora broke up with Meserve?”
“It didn’t require a formal declaration because the two of them were neverofficially…” He smiled. “I almost said ‘going steady.’”
“How’d Nora end it with Meserve?”
“By keeping her distance. Ignoring him. Eventually, he got the point.”
“How was their relationship getting out of hand?” I said.
Brad frowned. “Is this really relevant to that poor girl’s murder?”
“Probably not, sir. We ask all sorts of questions and hope for the best.”
“Is Meserve a suspect?”
“No, but close friends of the victim are considered individuals of interest,and we haven’t been able to locate Meserve to talk to him.”
“I understand, Detective. But I still don’t see why my sister’s private lifeneeds to be aired.”
I said, “Was there something about Meserve that bothered you more than herother ‘things’?”
Dowd sighed. “In the past, Nora’s relationships were short-lived. Mostlybecause the men who interest Nora aren’t the type with long-term plans. Meserveseemed different to me. Manipulative, as if he was planning something. Thathoax he pulled proves it, right?”
Milo said, “Planning what?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“You suspected he was out for Nora’s money.”
“I started to get concerned when Nora gave him a paid job at the PlayHouse.Creative consultant.” Dowd snorted. “You need to understand: Nora doesn’t chargea penny for her classes. That’s a crucial point, tax-wise, because thePlayHouse—the building, the upkeep, any supplies—is funded by a foundation weset up.”
“You and your sibs.”
“Basically, I did it for Nora, because acting’s her passion. We’re not talkingsome huge financial undertaking, there’s just enough endowment to keep theclasses going. The building’s one of many we inherited from our parents and therent we forego is a nice deduction against the profit from some other rentalsin our portfolio. I’m the nominal head of the foundation so I approveexpenditures. Which is why when Nora came to me wanting salary for Meserve, Iknew it was time to talk. There was simply nothing in the budget to accommodatethat. And it confirmed my suspicions that Meserve was out for something.”
“How much did she want to pay him?”
“Eight hundred a week.”
“Very creative consultant,” said Milo.
“No kidding,” said Dowd. “That’s my point. Nora has no concept of finances.Like a lot of artistic folk.”
“How long ago did she ask for the money?”
“After she offered him the job. A week or so before Meserve and the girlpulled that stunt. Maybe that’s why he did it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Trying to win Nora’s affections with a creative performance. If that wasthe idea, it backfired.”
“Nora wasn’t pleased.”
“I’d say not.”
“Was she upset at the hoax or something else?”
“Such as?”
“Meserve being with another woman.”
“Jealous? I seriously doubt it. By that time Nora was finished with him.”
“She gets over ‘things’ quickly.”
“Nothing to get over,” said Brad Dowd. “She saw my point, stopped payingattention to him, and he stopped hanging around.”
“What bothered Nora about the hoax?”
“The exposure.”
“Most actresses like publicity.”
Brad placed his beer on the porch deck. “Detective, the extent of Nora’sacting career was a single walk-on part on a sitcom thirty-five years ago whenshe was ten. She got the part because a friend of our mother’s was connected.After that, Nora went on audition after audition. When she decided to channelher efforts into teaching, it was a healthy move.”
“Adapting,” said Milo.
“That’s what it’s all about, Detective. My sister has talent but so do ahundred thousand other people.”
I said, “So she prefers to stay out of the public eye.”
“We’re a private bunch.” Dowd took a long swallow and finished his beer. “Isthere anything else, guys?”
“Did Nora ever talk about Michaela Brand?”
“Not to me. No way she was jealous. Gorgeous young people stream in and outof Nora’s world. Now, I really think I should stop talking about her personallife.”
“Fair enough,” said Milo. “Let’sconcentrate on Meserve.”
“Like I said, a gold digger,” said Dowd. “I meddled but sometimes meddlingis called for. In the end my sister was grateful not to get involved withsomeone like that. Maybe you should be looking at him for the girl’s murder.”
“Why’s that, sir?”
“His view of women, he had a relationship with the victim, and you just saidhe’s missing. Doesn’t running away imply guilt?”
“What view of women are we talking about?” said Milo.
“You know the type. Easy smile, cruising on looks. He flirted with my sistershamelessly. I’ll be blunt: He kissed up and Nora bought it because Nora’s…”
“Impressionable.”
“Unfortunately. Any time I’d drop by the PlayHouse, he’d be there alone withNora. Following her around, flattering her, sitting at her feet, shooting heradoring glances. Then he began giving her cheap little gifts—doodads, tackytourist junk. A snow globe, do you believe that? Hollywoodand Vine, for God’s sake, when’s the last time there was snow in Hollywood?” Dowd laughed.“I’d love to think it was Nora’s soul and inner beauty that attracted him, butlet’s get real. She’s naive, menopausal, and financially independent.”
I said, “How’d you convince her Meserve’s intentions weren’t pure?”
“I was calm and persistent.” He stood. “I hope you catch whoever killed thatgirl, but please don’t involve my brother and sister in it. You couldn’t findtwo more harmless people on the face of the earth. In terms of Reynold Peaty,I’ve been asking tenants and the only complaints I’ve received are along thelines of not emptying garbage in a timely manner. He shows up diligently, mindshis own business, has been a first-class worker. I’ll keep my eyes open,though.”
He cocked his head toward the open door. “Coffee or a soft drink for theroad?”
“We’re good,” said Milo, getting up.
“Then I’m hitting the sack. Buenas noches. ”
“Early to bed?”
“Busy day ahead.”
“Beats honest labor,” Milo said.
Brad Dowd laughed.
Chapter 17
Milo took Channel Road down toward the coastline.“There’s time till the class at the PlayHouse. How about we grab a couple ofbeers at a place I know.”
“Coronas?”
“Good brand.”
“As long as Brad Dowd’s not offering.”
“Never fraternize with the citizenry. What’d you think of our grown-upsurfer dude?”
“You saw the knots, too.”
“And the board.”
“He’s the family guardian, takes well to the job.”
He reached PCH, stopped at the long red light that can keep you there forwhat seems to be hours. The ocean’s always changing. Tonight the water was flatand gray and infinite. Slow, easy tide, steady and metallic as a drum machine.
“Maybe I’m making too big a deal out of this, Alex, but Brad’s parting wordsseemed off: asking me to keep both Nora and Billy out of the investigation.We’d been focused on Nora, why bring in Billy?”
“Could be force of habit,” I said. “He lumps the two of them togetherbecause they both need protection.”
“Maybe that’s it.”
“Billy interests you?”
“Adult male with immature social skills who needs to be supervisedcovertly?” As we waited, he ran a DMV check on William Dowd III, hung up beforethe light changed. “Wanna guess how many vehicles are registered to Billy?”
“None.”
“And just like Peaty, never had a license.”
“Tagging along with Brother Brad,” I said. “When Brad drops in at thePlayHouse, Billy’s right there with him. All those good-lookingstarlets-in-training.”
“Getting an eyeful of girls like Michaela and Tori Giacomo, could beoverstimulating.”
“Billy seemed gentle,” I said. “But crank up the id and who knows?”
“What if the real reason Brad didn’t want to talk to us in front of Billywas because he was afraid Billy would give something away? And here’s somethingelse: Billy lives in an apartment in Beverly Hills. Reeves Drive, just off Olympic.”
“Couple of miles from Michaela’s place.”
“A guy with no wheels could walk it.”
“Same problem as Peaty,” I said. “How to transport a body. And I don’t seeBilly getting away with an unregistered ride. Not with Brad that protective.”
That turned him silent until we reached Santa Monica’s gold coast. Beachsidemansions, once private enclaves, were now exposed to the clamor and the realityof the public sand that fronted them. The clapboard monster William Hearst hadbuilt for Marion Davies was ready to crumble after years of Santa Monica city council dithering. A momentlater, the exoskeleton of the pier came into view, lit up like Christmas. TheFerris wheel rotated, slow as bureaucracy.
Milo drove the ramp up to Ocean Front, continued onto Pacific Avenue, crossed into Venice. “So now I’ve gottwo strange guys with access to the PlayHouse.”
I thought about that. “Billy stopped living with Brad two years ago, rightbefore Tori’s disappearance.”
“Why would Brad get Billy out of his house at this point in their lives?These guys are middle-aged, all of a sudden it’s time for a change?”
“Brad wanted to keep his distance from Billy? But if he suspected something,he’d tighten the leash.”
“So what’s the answer?”
“Don’t know.”
“For all we know,” he said, “Brad did try to clamp down and Billy’s a lotmore difficult than he seems. Hell, maybe Billy insisted on breaking away. Bradpays some nice lady to ‘look after him,’ because he knows Billy bears watching.Meanwhile, if something does happen, he’s across town in Santa Monica Canyon.”
“Less liability,” I said.
“He thinks in those terms—foundations, tax breaks, keeping things organized.That rung of the social ladder, it’s a whole different world.”
He looked at his watch. “Let’s see how Nora reacts when I push her a bit.How long it takes for her to cry to Brother Brad.”
 
Over the years I’ve accompanied Milo tolots of taverns and beer joints and cocktail lounges. A couple of gay bars aswell. It’s an illuminating experience watching him function in that sphere.
This was a new dive, a narrow, dark tunnel of a place called Jody Z’s, atthe southern edge of Pacific, just above the Marina. Arena rock on the jukebox, silentfootball rerun on TV, tired men at the urethane bar, rough paneling andfishnets and glass globes.
Plastic sawdust on the floor. What was the point of that?
A short drive to Robin’s house on Rennie. In another time and place, Milo might have mentioned that. The set of his jaw saidthe only things on his mind were the murders of two young women.
Once we’d finished a couple of beers and rehashed what we knew, there waslittle to talk about and he started to blend in with the dispirited clientele.
Phoning Michaela’s landlord in La Jolla, heconfirmed the appointment tomorrow morning. Ground his teeth. “Bastard’s doingme a big, freaking favor.”
He looked over at the blackboard. Three specials, including the promise offresh clam chowder. He chanced it.
“Not too bad,” he said, spooning.
“‘Not too bad’ and ‘seafood’ shouldn’t be uttered in the same sentence,” Isaid.
“If I die, you get the first eulogy. I wonder if Nora really gave in whenBrad asked her to cool it with Meserve. Brad did raise one good point:Meserve’s nowhere to be found.”
“He seemed eager to steer you to Meserve as a suspect,” I said. “That’s inhis best interest if he’s covering for Billy, but it doesn’t mean he’s wrong.Michaela told me she hated Meserve and Mrs. Winograd heard them fighting morethan once.”
“Any theory about Dylan’s motive? For Michaela and Tori.”
“Maybe he’s just a bad guy who picks off girls at acting class. He playeddeath games with Michaela up in Latigo and if Michaela was being at alltruthful, he planned a calculated hoax. Toss in Brad’s suspicions about golddigging and it doesn’t add up to a character reference.”
“Michaela tell you why she went from being naked in the hills with him toseeing him as the enemy?”
“At the time, I assumed she was dumping the blame on him as trial strategy.”
“Lawyer games.”
“Guess who her lawyer was. Lauritz Montez.”
“That guy from the Malley case? Thought you two had friction.”
“We did but I’m the biggest, baddest, smartest shrink in the whole wildworld. Gee willikers.”
“He schmeared you and you bought it?”
“The case interested me.”
“That’s a good reason.”
“As good as any.”
“Mind talking to Montez again, see if Michaela had more to say about herpartner in crime?”
“Don’t mind at all,” I said. I’d been thinking of doing it, anyway.
He pushed aside a half bowl of chowder. Waved for another beer, then alteredit to a Coke.
The sixty-five-year-old barmaid laughed. “When did you ever haveself-control?”
Milo said, “Don’t be cruel,” and shelaughed some more and left.
I realized all the patrons were men. Wondered about that as Milo ticked an index finger. “Meserve, Peaty, BrotherBilly. Investigation 101 teaches you to narrow the suspect pool. I seem to bedoing just the opposite.”
“The search for truth,” I said.
“Ah, the agony.”
Chapter 18
By eight fifty-three p.m., we were parked four blocks west of the PlayHouse.As we headed to the school on foot, Milo’sbulk slanted forward, as if marching into a blizzard.
Scoping out streets and driveways and alleys for Michaela Brand’s littleblack Honda.
The alert for the car had been expanded statewide. Miloand I had cruised these same streets just a few days ago, no reason to looknow.
The ability to put logic aside sometimes makes for a great detective.
 
We got to the building at five after nine, found people milling.
Dim porch light allowed me to count as we neared the front steps. Eightfemales, five males. Each one slim, young, gorgeous.
Milo muttered, “Mutants,” as he bounded upthe stairs. Thirteen pairs of eyes turned to watch. A few of the women shrankback.
The men occupied a narrow height range: six to six two. Broad, squareshoulders, narrow hips, angular faces that seemed curiously static. The womenvaried more in stature but their body shape was uniform: long legs, flatbellies, wasp waists, high-tucked butts, high puffy bosoms.
Manicured hands gripped plastic bottles of water and cell phones. Widehungry eyes questioned our presence. Milostepped into the middle of the porch and the acting students cleared space. Thelight played up every crease, pit and pucker and pore. He looked heavier andolder than ever.
“Evening, folks.”
Dubious stares, general confusion, smirks and side glances of the kind yousee in middle-school cafeterias.
One of the young men said, “What’s up,” with practiced slur.
Brando in On the Waterfront ? Or was that ancient history?
“Crime’s up, friend.” Milo moved the badgeso that it caught light.
Someone said, “Whoa.” Snickers petered to silence.
Milo checked his Timex. “Wasn’t classsupposed to start ten minutes ago?”
“Coach not here,” said another Adonis. He jiggled the front door handle.
“Waiting for Nora,” said Milo.
“Better than Godot.”
“Hopefully, unlike him, she’ll show up.” Milo’swolf-grin caused a reflexive tooth-bare from the young man. The guy threw backhis head and a sheet of dark hair billowed, then flapped back in place.
“Nora late a lot?”
Shrug.
“Sometimes,” said a young woman with curly yellow hair and lips so bulbousthey resembled tiny buttocks. That and blue saucer eyes gave her a stunnedmien. Inflatable doll barely come to life.
“Well,” said Milo, “this gives us time to chat.”
Swigs from water bottles. Flips of cell phone covers nursed forth a seriesof electronic mouse-squeaks.
Milo said, “I assume you guys heard aboutMichaela Brand.”
Silence. A nod, then two. Then ten.
“Anybody has something to say, it would be much appreciated.”
A car drove west. Several of the acting students followed its diminishingtaillights, grateful for distraction.
“Anything, people?”
Slow head shakes.
“Nothing at all?”
“Everyone’s freaked out,” said a dark, pointy-chinned girl with coyote eyes.Deep sigh. Her breasts rose and fell as a unit.
“I saw her a couple of times but didn’t know her,” said a man with a shavedhead and bone structure so pronounced he seemed carved out of ivory.
“That’s ’cause you just started, Juaquin,” said the pillowly-lipped,curly-haired girl.
“That’s what I’m saying, Brandy.”
“Briana.”
“Whatever.”
“You knew her, Briana?” said Milo.
“Just from here. We didn’t hang out.”
“Any of you know Michaela outside of here?” said Milo.
Head shakes.
“She was, like, quiet,” said a redheaded woman.
“What about Dylan Meserve?”
Silence. Notable edginess.
“None of you knew Dylan?”
“They were friends,” said the redhead. “Her and him.”
“Any of you see Dylan recently?”
The red-haired girl pulled a watch out of her purse and squinted at it.
“Nine sixteen,” said Milo. “Nora generallythis late?”
“Sometimes,” said Curly Blonde.
Someone else said, “Nora’s Nora.”
Silence.
Milo said, “What’s on the agenda tonight?”
“There is no agenda,” said the hair-flipper. He wore a plaid flannel shirttailored tight to his V-frame, faded jeans, clean, crisp hiking boots that hadnever encountered mud.
“Nothing’s planned?” said Milo.
“It’s free-form.”
“Improv?”
Impish smile from Plaid. “Something like that, Officer.”
“How often you guys come here?”
No answer.
“Once a week for me,” said Briana Pillowlips. “For other people it’s more.”
“Same here,” said Plaid.
“Once a week.”
“More when I have time. Like I said, it’s free form.”
And free.
I said, “No rules.”
“No constrictions.”
Milo said, “There are no constrictionshelping the police, either.”
An olive-skinned guy with a face that managed to be reptilian and handsomesaid, “No one knows anything.”
Milo handed out business cards. A few ofthe beautiful people bothered to read them.
 
We left them waiting on the porch, walked halfway down the block untildarkness concealed us, and watched the building.
Milo said, “It’s like they’re extruded frommachines.”
We waited in silence. By nine twenty-three Nora Dowd still hadn’t showed andher students began to drift away. When the young woman named Briana headedtoward us, Milo said, “Karma.”
We stepped out of the shadows well in time for her to see us.
Despite that, she jumped. Gripped her purse, held on to her balance. “Youscared me!”
“Sorry. Have a minute?”
Inflated lips parted. How much collagen had it taken for them to get thatway? She hadn’t reached thirty, but tuck lines around her ears said she wasn’trelying on youth. “I have nothing to say and you really scared me.” She walkedpast us to a battered white Nissan, headed for the driver’s door, groped forher keys.
Milo followed her. “We really are sorry,it’s just that we haven’t learned much about Michaela’s murder and you seemedto know her best.”
“All I said was I knew who she was.”
“Your fellow students didn’t know her at all.”
“That’s because they’re new.”
“Freshmen?”
Curls shook. “It’s not like college—”
“I know, free-form,” said Milo. “What’s theproblem helping us, Briana?”
“There’s no problem, I just don’t know anything.” She unlocked the driver’sdoor.
“Is there some reason you don’t want to help?”
She looked at him. “Like what?”
“Someone told you not to help?”
“Of course not. Who would do that?”
Milo shrugged.
“No way,” she said. “I just don’t know anything and I don’t want anyhassle.”
“No hassle involved. I’m just trying to solve a murder. Pretty nasty one, atthat.”
Big lips trembled. “I’m really sorry. But we weren’t tight. Like I saidbefore, she kept to herself.”
“She and Dylan.”
“Right.”
“And now she’s dead and he’s gone. Any idea where he might be?”
“Definitely not.”
“Definitely not?”
“I definitely don’t know. He could be anywhere.”
Milo edged closer, pressed his hip againstthe hinges of the driver’s door. “What surprises me is the lack of curiosity.All you guys. Someone you know gets killed, you’d think there’d be someinterest.” He sliced air horizontally. “Zippo, no one cares. Is it somethingabout actors?”
She frowned. “Just the opposite. You need to be curious.”
“To act.”
“To learn about our feelings.”
“Nora tells you that.”
“Anyone who knows anything tells you that.”
“Let me get this,” said Milo. “You’recurious about playing parts, but not about real life?”
“Look,” said the girl, “sure, I’d like to know. It scares me. The wholemurder thing. Just talking about it. I mean, come on.”
“Come on?”
“If it happened to Michaela, it could happen to anyone.”
I said, “You see it as a random crime?”
She turned to me. “What do you mean?”
“As opposed to something that had to do with Michaela.”
“I—she was—I don’t know, maybe.”
Milo said, “Was there something aboutMichaela that made her a likely victim?”
“That thing she—they did. Her and Dylan. Lying.”
“Why would that put her in danger?”
“Maybe they ticked someone off.”
“Are you aware of someone that angry?”
“Nope.” Too quickly.
“No one, Briana?”
“No one. I got to go.”
“In a sec,” said Milo. “What’s your lastname?”
She looked ready to cry. “Do I have to say?”
Milo tried for a soft smile. “It’s routine,Briana. Address and phone number, too.”
“Briana Szemencic.” She spelled it. “Can this be off the record?”
“Don’t worry about that. Live around here, Briana?”
“Reseda.”
“Bit of a drive.”
“I work in Santa Monica.With the traffic it’s easier to stay in the city and go back later.”
“What kind of work do you do, Briana?”
“Shitty work.” Rueful smile. “I’m an assistant at an insurance agency. Ifile, I get coffee, I gofer. Beaucoup excitement.”
“Hey,” said Milo, “pays the bills.”
“Barely.” She touched her lips.
“So who was pissed off about the hoax, Briana?”
Long pause. “No one that much.”
“But…”
“Nora was a little frosted.”
“How could you tell?”
“When someone asked her about it she got this real tight look and changedthe subject. Can you blame her? It sucked, using the PlayHouse like that.Nora’s a private person. When Michaela never came back, I figured Nora gave herthe boot.”
“Dylan came back.”
“Yeah,” she said. “That was the funny thing. She wasn’t mad at Dylan, kepttreating him nice.”
Milo said, “Even though the hoax was mostlyhis idea.”
“That’s not what he said.”
“Dylan blamed it on Michaela?”
“Totally, he said she really worked on him. Nora must’ve believed himbecause she…like you said, he came back.”
“Does Nora like Dylan more than the other guys?”
Fragile shoulders rose and fell. Briana Szemencic gazed up the block. “Idon’t think I should go there.”
“Touchy business?”
“Not my business,” said Briana. “Anyway, Nora would never hurt anyone. Ifyou’re thinking that, you’re totally wrong.”
“Why would we be thinking that?”
“You’re asking was she mad. She was but not that type of mad.”
“Not the jealous type of mad?”
Briana didn’t answer.
Milo said, “Nora and Dylan, Dylan andMichaela. But no jealousy.”
“Nora had the hots for Dylan, okay? It’s no crime, she’s a woman. ”
“Had or has?”
“I don’t know.”
“Same question, Briana.”
“Has. Okay?”
“How’d Nora feel about Dylan and Michaela hanging out?”
Briana shook her head. “She never said anything. It’s not like we weretight. Can I go now? Please? ”
“Nora didn’t like Dylan and Michaela hanging but she wasn’t really pissedoff about it.”
“She’d never hurt Michaela. Never, ever. You need to understand Nora,she’s…she’s kind of, really, like, she’s not, you know…she’s here. ” Tappingher pretty forehead.
“Intellectual?”
Tush lips struggled to form words. Finally, she said, “That’s not what Imean, I’m talking more, like, you know, she’s intensely right brain.Intuitionalistic. That’s the point of the workshops, she shows us how to tapinto ourselves, free the inner…” Pillow lips wriggled as she struggled forvocabulary. “Nora’s all about scenes, she’s always telling us to breakeverything into scenes, that way it’s not so huge, you can deal with it untilyou get the whole gestalt—that means the big picture. I think she kind of livesthat way herself.”
“Scene by scene,” said Milo.
“She’s not paying attention to down here.” Pointing to the asphalt.
“Reality.”
The word seemed to bother Briana Szemencic. “All the crap below the rightbrain, whatever you want to call it. Nora would never hurt anyone.”
“You like her.”
“She’s helped me. A lot.”
“As an actor.”
“As a person.” Sharp little lower teeth got hold of gluteal lip and held on.
I said, “Nora’s supportive.”
“Not—it’s not that. I was real shy, okay? She helped me step out of myself.Sometimes it wasn’t fun. But it helped—can I go now?”
Milo nodded. “Reseda, huh? Valley girl?”
“Nebraska.”
“Flatlands,” said Milo.
“You know Nebraska?”
“Been to Omaha.”
“I’m from Lincolnbut same difference,” said Briana Szemencic. “You stare at forever and there’snothing at the end. Can I go now? I’m really tired.”
Milo stepped back. “Thanks for stepping outof that silent thing your friends were into.”
“They’re not my friends.”
“No?”
“No one’s anyone’s friend over there.” She glanced back at the PlayHouse.The empty porch looked gloomy. Staged for gloomy, like a movie set.
“Not a friendly atmosphere?” said Milo.
“We’re supposed to concentrate on the work.”
“So when Dylan and Michaela started hanging out they broke a rule.”
“There are no rules. Michaela was being stupid.”
“How so?”
“Hooking up with Dylan.”
“Because Nora liked him?”
“Because he’s totally shallow.”
“You don’t share Nora’s enthusiasm.”
A beat. “Not really.”
“How come?”
“He’s hanging with Michaela but he’s also been getting into Nora? Gimme abreak.”
“But no jealousy on Nora’s part.”
Yellow curls shook violently. She reached for the Nissan’s door handle. Milo said, “What about Reynold Peaty?”
“Who?”
“The janitor.”
“The fat guy?” Her arm dropped. “What about him?”
“He ever bother you?”
“Like perve-bother? No. But he stares, it’s creepy. He’s sweeping, mopping,whatever, and out of the corner of your eye you can see him staring. If youlook at him, he turns away fast, like he knows he shouldn’t be doing it.” Sheshuddered. “Is he, like, serious-creepy? Like America’s Most Wanted creepy?”
“I couldn’t say that.”
Briana Szemencic’s slender frame stiffened. “But you couldn’t say no?”
“I have no evidence he’s ever done something violent, Briana.”
“If he’s not a perve, how come you asked about him?”
“My job is asking questions, Briana. Most of them turn out to be useless butI can’t take chances. Guess it’s kinda like acting.”
“What do you mean?”
“A little improv, a lot of hard work. Does Peaty hang out at the PlayHouse alot?”
“When he’s cleaning.”
“Days as well as nights?”
“I’m only there nights.”
“Anyone else drop by?”
“Just people applying for workshops. Mostly Nora turns them away but therecan still be crowds.”
“No talent.”
Another lip bite. “Yeah.”
“Any other reason she turns them away?”
“You’d have to ask her.”
Milo said, “Well, thanks again—it’s a coolthing, Nora giving away her skills for free.”
“Very cool.”
“Guess she can do that because her brothers fund the PlayHouse.”
“Her brothers and her,” said Briana Szemencic. “It’s like a whole familything. They’re filthy rich but they’re artistic and generous.”
“The brothers ever drop by to see how it’s spent?”
“I’ve seen them a few times.”
“Sitting in?”
“More like walking around. Dropping by to visit Nora.” She gripped her pursewith both hands. “Tell me the truth about that fat guy.”
“I already have, Briana.”
“He’s not a perve? You can guarantee me that?”
“He really scares you.”
“Like I said, he’s staring all the time.”
“I told you the truth, Briana.”
“But you were punking me about the other stuff.”
“What other stuff?”
“What you said about cop stuff being like acting. That was b.s., right?”
“You know a girl named Tori Giacomo?” said Milo.
“Who’s that?”
“Maybe a student here once.”
“I’ve only been here a year. You didn’t answer my question. That was totalbullshit, right?”
“Nope, I meant it,” said Milo. “There areall kinds of similarities between cop work and acting. Like frustration. It’s abig part of my job just like it is for you.”
Big blue eyes filmed with confusion.
“I start off with a new case, Briana, all I can do is ask my questions, seeif something takes shape. It’s just like reading a brand-new script.”
“Whatever.” She opened her car door.
“We both know one thing, Briana. It’s all about the work. You do your best,try to make it to the bottom of the funnel, but no guarantees.”
“I guess.”
Milo smiled. “Thanks for talking to us.Drive safely.”
As we began to walk away a high, tight voice from the Nissan said, “What’sthe funnel?”
“A kitchen implement.”
 
She drove away. He pulled out his pad and jotted.
I said, “Off the record, huh?”
“She must’ve confused me for a reporter…guess Nora didn’t share the funnelanalogy with her flock.”
I said, “Too anxiety-provoking. One thing Nora didn’t keep to herself washer attraction to Meserve. Past and present. Looks like Brad overestimated hiscontrol. Nora and Dylan still being together means when Dylan blamed the hoaxon Michaela, Nora would’ve believed it. The question is, does that haveanything to do with Michaela ending up in a pile of weeds.”
“No matter what that little genius just said, I think the jealousy thing’sworth looking into.”
“It does, but other scenarios come to mind. If Nora resented Michaela, Dylanmight have taken it upon himself to keep Nora happy. Or Michaela became athreat to Dylan by threatening to go to Brad and telling him bad stuff aboutDylan. Or to Nora herself—spinning some erotic details of her nights up inLatigo with Dylan.”
“Spin? The two of them were naked up there for two nights.”
“Michaela told me they never had intercourse.”
“You’re a trusting soul. Either way, why would Michaela threaten Dylan likethat?”
“Maybe more trial strategy,” I said. “Pressuring him to shoulder all theblame for the hoax. In the end, the case settled. But if he stayed angry, hemight’ve acted out.”
“And the motive for doing Tori is his just being a nasty guy?”
“That or he and Tori also had something going and it went bad.”
“He does her, finds it easier the second time around…he is gone as hell. AndNora knows where—or she’s hiding him. That would explain her getting squirrelywhen we brought him up. Okay, enough theory for one night.”
We walked to the car.
He said, “There’s still Peaty.”
“Stare at the girls and make them cry.”
“Got him in trouble before. Let’s see if Sean’s surveillance pulled upanything.”
 
He drove with one hand, phoned Binchy with the other. The young detectivewas still parked a few feet up from Reynold Peaty’s apartment. The janitor hadcome home at seven and had stayed inside.
“Three hours watching a building,” said Milo,hanging up. “I’d be out of my mind. Sean’s as happy as if he’s playing hisbass.”
Sean Binchy was a former ska punk who’d embraced religion and lawenforcement simultaneously.
“How is he at working his own cases?” I said.
“He’s great at the routine but it’s hard to get him to think independently.”
“Send him to Nora. Get him to open up his right side.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Meanwhile, my brain hurts. Gonna check for messages andcall it a night.”
 
Two messages, no respite.
The expected call from Lou Giacomo and a request to phone Mister AlbertBeamish.
“Maybe he wants compensation for his persimmons.” He punched the number,waited, clicked off. “No answer.” He sighed. “Okay, now for the fun.”
 
Lou Giacomo was staying at the Holiday Inn Milo had suggested. Milo washoping for a brief condolence chat but Giacomo wanted to meet and Milo lacked the will to refuse him.
Giacomo was standing outside the hotel wearing the same clothes he’d had onyesterday. When we pulled up, he said, “Can we go somewhere, maybe get a drink?This place is driving me up the wall.”
“The hotel?” said Milo.
“Your frickin’ city.”
Chapter 19
Our second drinking hole tonight, this one a dank, would-be Irish tavern onPico.
Lou Giacomo took in the décor. “This could be Queens.”
The three of us settled in a stiff-backed booth with Naugahyde cushions. Milo asked for a Diet Coke and I had coffee.
Giacomo said, “Bud, not Light, regular.”
This barmaid was young, with a lip-pierce. “I’d never take you for a Lightguy.”
Giacomo ignored her. She shot him a sharp look and left.
He said, “You guys reformed drunks or something?”
Milo spread his shoulders and took up morespace in the booth.
Giacomo massaged a thick wrist. “No offense intended, I’m not at my best,okay?”
“Sorry about Tori,” said Milo. “I meanthat.”
“Like I told you the first time, I already knew. Now the wife claims sheknew, too.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She wants me home a-sap. Probably gonna greet me with another nervousbreakdown. I ain’t going back until I’m sure Tori gets a proper burial.”
His eyes watered. “What a stupid thing to say, it’s a fuckin’ skull, how thefuck can it get a proper burial ? I went over there, to your coroner. Theydidn’t wanna show it to me, gave me all this bullshit, it ain’t like TV, youdon’t have to see it. I made ’em show it to me.”
Spade-shaped hands shaped a shaky oval in the air. “Fuckin’ thing. Onlyreason they even had it was some lady was working with it, some fuckin’ scienceproject, she’s putting holes in it, digging out the…”
His loss of composure was sudden as a stroke. Pale and sweating, he pressedhimself against the seat, gasping as if he’d been sucker punched.
Milo said, “Mr. Giacomo?”
Giacomo clenched his eyes shut and waved him off.
When the young barmaid brought the drinks, he was still sobbing and she wasmature enough to look the other way.
 
“Sorry about that faggy shit.”
“Don’t be,” said Milo.
“Well I fuckin’ am. ” Giacomo rubbed his eyes, ran his jacket sleeve overthe lids. The tweed left red trails across his cheeks. “What they told me is Igotta fill out forms so I can take it with me. After that, I’m outta here.”
He gazed at his beer as if it were a urine sample. Drank anyway.
“I got this to tell you: The few times Tori called, her mother buggedher—getting any parts, sleeping enough, dating anyone. I try to tell Arlene.Don’t bug her. She says ‘I do it ’cause I care. ’ Meaning I don’t. ”
Giacomo swallowed more beer. “Now all of a sudden, she’s telling me Tori wasmaybe dating someone. How does she know? Tori didn’t say so but she didn’t denyit.”
“Any details?”
Giacomo’s lip curled. “Mother’s intuition.” He rotated his mug. “That placestinks. Your coroner’s. Smells like garbage left out for a month. Any way youcan use what I just told you?”
“Not without some kind of evidence.”
“Figures—I’m not trying to bust your balls, but what I got to look forwardto when I get home ain’t no picnic. Dealing with the church, who knows what thepope’s position is on burying—my sister’s gonna talk to the monsignor, we’llsee.”
Milo sipped his Diet Coke.
Lou Giacomo said, “I keep telling myself Tori’s in a better place. If Ican’t convince myself of that, I might as well…”
Milo said, “If I call your wife, is itpossible she can tell me more?”
Giacomo shook his head. “But suit yourself. She was always bugging Tori—areyou eating, are you exercising, how’re your teeth. What she never got was Torifinally wanted to grow up. So what do you think, is Tori connected to thatother girl?”
Milo’s lie was smooth. “I can’t say that,Mr. Giacomo.”
“But you’re not not saying it.”
“Everything’s an open issue at this point.”
“Meaning you don’t know shit.”
“That’s a pretty accurate appraisal.”
Giacomo’s smile was queasy. “You’re probably gonna get pissed but I didsomething.”
“What’s that?”
“I went over there. To Tori’s apartment. Knocked on all the doors and askedif they remembered Tori, or seen any guy hanging around. What a dump. Mostlyyou got Mexicans living there, I’m gettin’ all these confused looks, no speakyEnglish. You could get hold of the landlords and ask ’em to pull their rentalrecords.”
“Seeing as you already tried and they said no?”
“Hey—”
Milo said, “Don’t worry about it, just tellme what they said.”
“They said diddly.” Giacomo handed over a scrap of paper. Holiday Inn stationery.A name and a 323 number.
Milo said, “Home-Rite Management.”
Giacomo said, “Bunch of Chinese, I talked to some woman with an accent. Sheclaimed they didn’t own the building two years ago. I try to explain to herthis is important but I got nowhere.” He ran his hands along the sides of hishead. “Stupid bitch—it’s like my brain’s gonna explode. I’m bringing Tori backhome in a fuckin’ carry-on. ”
 
We drove him back to the Holiday Inn, let the engine idle, and walked him tothe hotel’s glass doors.
“I’m sorry about that alkie crack, okay? That other time, that Indian place,you guys had tea, I was just…” He shrugged. “Out of line, none of my business.”
Milo placed a hand on his shoulder. “Noapologies necessary. What you’ve gone through, I couldn’t hope to understand.”
Giacomo didn’t repel the contact. “Be straight with me: Would you considerthis a bad one? Compared to most of them that you get?”
“They’re all bad.”
“Yeah, of course, sure. Like someone else’s kid ain’t as important as mine.But my kid’s what I’m thinking about—think I’ll ever be able to not think aboutit?”
Milo said, “People tell me it gets easier.”
“Hope so. You find anything, you’ll let me know?”
“Of course.”
Giacomo nodded and shook Milo’s hand. “Youguys are all right.”
We watched him enter the hotel lobby, pass the desk without word, and standfidgeting in front of the elevator without touching the button. Thirty secondslater, he slapped his temple and pushed. Turned around, saw us, and mouthed theword “stooopid.”
Milo smiled. We got back in the car anddrove off.
“‘People tell me it gets easier’,” said Milo.“Pretty therapeutic, huh? Speaking of lies, I need to get to the office, chartall that stuff Little Brie thought was off the record. Don’t wanna bore you.”
“Want me to meet you at Michaela’s apartment tomorrow morning?”
“Nah, that could be boring, too. But how about you phone Tori’s mom, see ifa Ph.D. helps. The ex-husband, too. Here’s the numbers.”
 
I made the calls the following morning. Arlene Giacomo was a thoughtful, sanewoman.
She said, “Lou drive you nuts?”
“Not yet.”
“He needs me,” she said. “I want him home.”
I let her talk for a while. Eulogizing Tori but providing nothing new. WhenI brought up the dating issue, she said, “A mother can tell, believe me. ButI’ve got no details, Tori was really into being free, no more girl talk withMama. That was something her father couldn’t grasp, he always bugged her.”
I thanked her and punched in Michael Caravanza’s number. A woman answered.
“Hold on—Mii-keee!”
Moments later a slurred, “Yeah?”
I explained why I was calling. He said, “Hold on—one second, babe. This isabout Tori? You found her?”
“Her remains were identified yesterday.”
“Remains—oh, shit, I don’t wanna tell Sandy,she knew Tori.”
“Did she know her well?”
“Nah,” said Caravanza, “just from church. What happened?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Did you have contact with her aftershe moved to L.A.?”
“We were divorced, but we were getting along, you know? Like they say,amicable. She called me a coupla times, maybe the first month. Then itstopped.”
“No more loneliness.”
“I figured she hooked up with someone.”
“She say that?”
“Nah, but I know—knew Tori. When she had that voice it meant she was excitedabout something. And it sure wasn’t her acting career, she wasn’t getting shit.That she told me.”
“No idea who she was seeing?”
“You think he did it to her?”
“Any lead would be helpful.”
“Well,” said Michael Caravanza, “if she did what she said she was gonna do,she hooked up with some movie star. That was the plan. Go to Hollywood, the right clubs, whatever, meetsome movie star and show him she could be a star, too.”
“Ambitious.”
“Ambitious is what split us up. I’m a working guy, Tori thought her shitwas—she thought she was gonna be Angelina Jolie or something—what’s that—holdon, babe, just a sec—sorry, Sandy’smy fiancée.”
“Congratulations,” I said.
“Yeah, I’m gonna try the marriage thing again. Sandy’s nice and she wants kids. No bigchurch deal, this time, we’re just gonna do it with some judge then go off to Aruba or something.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Hope so. Don’t get me wrong, Tori was a nice girl. She just thought shecould be someone else.”
“The few times she did call,” I said, “did she say anything that could helpus?”
“Let me think,” said Caravanza. “It was only three times, four,whatever…what did she say…mostly she said she was lonely. That was basicallyit, lonely. In some shitty little apartment. She didn’t miss me or want to getback together, nothing like that. She just wanted to tell me she was feelingshitty.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing, I listened. Mostly that’s what I did when I was married. Shetalked, I listened.”
 
I reached Milo’s cell and reported bothconversations.
“Hooking up with a movie star, huh?”
“Maybe she settled for someone who looked like one.”
“Meserve or another PlayHouse Adonis.”
“With her level of naiveté, someone who’d been around just a bit longercould’ve seemed impressive.”
“Wonder how long Meserve’s been getting insight from Nora Dowd.”
“Longer than two years,” I said. “He was there before Michaela arrived.”
“And when Tori showed up. So where the hell is he…okay, thanks, let me tossthis around while I wait for Michaela’s landlord.”
 
The day floated by with all the importance of a cork in the ocean. Iconsidered calling Allison, then Robin, then Allison again. Settled for neitherand filled Saturday by running and sleeping, doing scutwork around the house.
Sunday’s balm and glorious blue skies made matters worse; this was a day tobe with someone.
I drove to the beach. The sun had brought people and cars to the coastline.Golden-haired girls promenaded in bikini tops and sarongs, surfer dudes peeledin and out of wetsuits, tourists gawked at natural wonders of all types.
On PCH, a conspicuously crawling highway patrol car lowered the pace torace-walk from Carbon Beach to Malibu Road. Thesouthern entry to Latigo Canyon was closer butthat meant more miles of winding road. I kept going to Kanan Dume and turnedoff.
Alone.
I tooled up the canyon, both hands on the wheel as the twists tested the Seville’s mushysuspension. Despite being up here years ago, the sharpness of the curves and the dead drops if you steered wrong surprised me.
Not a spot for a leisurely cruise and after dark the route would betreacherous unless you knew it well. Dylan Meserve had hiked up here andreturned to play out a fraudulent kidnapping.
Maybe because of the isolation. I had yet to encounter another vehiclechallenging the mountains.
I drove another few miles, managed to turn around on a skinny ribbon ofasphalt, hooked right on Kanan, and drove into the Valley.
Tori Giacomo’s last known address was a dingy white multiplex. Old cars andtrucks filled the street. True to her father’s description, the people I sawwere mostly brown-skinned. Some were dressed for church. Others looked as iffaith was the last thing on their minds.
Laurel Canyonsouth led me back into the city and Beverly Boulevard east took me to Hancock Park.No Range Rover in Nora Dowd’s driveway and when I walked up to the door andknocked, no response.
Go west, aimless man.
 
The weeds where Michaela had been dumped had fluffed, obscuring any historyof violence. I stared at plants and dirt, got back in the car.
On Holt Avenue,I spotted Shayndie Winograd and a young, sparsely bearded man in a black suitand a broad-brimmed hat walking four small children and steering a doublestroller north toward Pico. The allegedly ailing Gershie Yoel was the pictureof health as he tried to shinny up his father’s trousers. Rabbi Winograd fendedhim off, finally lifted the boy and slung him over his shoulder like a sack offlour. The kid loved it.
A short drive away, on Reynold Peaty’s block of Guthrie, I looked for SeanBinchy but couldn’t find him. Was the guy that good? Or had born-againobligations prevailed on Sunday?
As I coasted past Peaty’s building, a young Hispanic family came down thestairs and headed for a dented blue van. Definite church garb, including threechubby kids under five. These parents looked even younger than theWinograds—barely out of their teens. The father’s shaved head and stone-facedswagger were at odds with his stiff gray suit. He and his wife were heavy. Shehad tired eyes and blond-streaked hair.
Back in my intern days, the psych staff had favored a smug, knowing line:Kids having kids. The unspoken tsk-tsk.
Here I was, driving around by myself.
Who was to say?
I’d stopped without meaning to in front of Peaty’s building. One of thelittle kids waved at me and I waved back and both parents turned. Shaved-headDad glared. I sped off.
No action at the PlayHouse, same for the big cantaloupe-painted complex on Overland that DylanMeserve had left without notice.
Shabby place. Rust streaks beneath the gutters I hadn’t noticed the firsttime. Front grid of stingy little windows, no hint anyone lived behind them.
That exhumed memories of my student days living on Overland, alone andfaceless and so full of self-doubt that entire weeks could slog by in anarcotic haze.
I pictured Tori Giacomo mustering the courage for a cross-country move and endingup in a small, sad room on a street full of strangers. Fueled by ambition—ordelusions. Was there a difference?
Lonely, everyone lonely.
I recalled a line I’d used on girls back then.
No, I don’t do drugs, more into the natural low.
Mr. Sardonic. Every so often, it had worked.
 
Monday morning at eleven, Milo phoned fromhis car. “Damn landlord stood me up Saturday, too much traffic from La Jolla. Finally, he tells me I can get a key from hissister who lives in Westwood. Asshole. I waited for the techies, just finisheddoing my own toss.”
“Learn anything?”
“She wasn’t living large. No food in the fridge, granola bars and canneddiet shakes in the pantry. Mydol, Advil, Motrin, Pepto-Bismol, Tums, a littlemarijuana in her nightstand. No birth control. Not much of a reader, the extentof her library was back issues of Us and People and Glamour. TV but no cablehookup and the phone was dead. My subpoena for her calls is paying off in a fewdays but like I said her land line was disconnected for nonpayment and I can’tfind any cell account. One thing she did have was nice clothes. Not a lot, butnice, she probably spent all her dough on duds. Manager of the restaurant sheworked at said she was fine, no problems, didn’t make much of an impression. Noguys he remembers seeing her with. Meserve’s shoe-store boss said Meserve wasunreliable and could be snotty to customers. Anyway, we’ll see if anyinteresting prints come up. No signs of violence or struggle, doesn’t look asif she was killed there. How was your weekend?”
“Quiet.”
“Sounds nice.”
I told him about driving up to Latigo, left out the rest of my motor tourand the memories it had evoked.
He said, “No kidding. I was up there myself, early in the morning. Pretty,no?”
“And out of the way.”
“I talked to a few neighbors, including the old guy Michaela scared when shejumped out naked. No one had ever seen her or Meserve there before. Also, I gotMr. Albert Beamish on the phone this morning. Saturday and Sunday he spends athis place in Palm Desert. Sunshine didnothing for his disposition. What he was itching to tell me was he spottedNora’s Range Rover leaving her house Friday around nine.”
“Right after our meeting at Brad’s house.”
“Maybe Brad advised her to take a vacation. Or she just felt like some downtime and didn’t bother to tell her students because she’s an indolent richgirl. I asked Beamish to keep an eye out, thanked him for being observant. Hebarks back at me, ‘Show your gratitude by doing your job with minimalcompetence.’”
I laughed. “Did his powers of observation lead to checking the Rover’soccupants?”
“If only. Meserve’s car still hasn’t shown up but if he’s with Nora, the twoof them could be using hers and stashing his. As in Nora’s garage, or the oneat the PlayHouse. Maybe I can pry a door and take a peek. On a whole othertack, Reynold Peaty is being true to his loser-loner self. Stayed in hisapartment all weekend. I gave Sean Sunday off because he’s religious, so it’spossible we missed something. But I did watch the place in the afternoon aroundfour.”
Missing me by a couple of hours. Again.
“Last and possibly least,” he said, “Tori Giacomo’s building has changedownership twice since she lived there. The original owners were a couple ofnonagenarian sisters who passed on naturally. The property went to probate, aspeculator from Vegas picked it up cheap then resold to a consortium ofbusinessmen from Koreatown. No records of any old tenants, the aroma offutility fills the air.”
“When are you heading over to Nora’s?”
“Pulling up as we speak…” A car door slammed. “I am now heading for herdoor. Knock knock—” He raised his voice to an androgynous alto: “Who’s there?Lieutenant Sturgis. Lieutenant Sturgis who?…Hear that, Alex?”
“Hear what?”
“Exactly. Okay, now I’m at the garage…no give, locked…where’s a batteringram when you need it? Tha-tha-that’s all, folks, this has been a presentationof the Useless Travel Channel.”
Chapter 20
Tuesday morning, I called Robin, got her machine, hung up.
In my office, a dusty stack of psych journals beckoned. A twenty-pagetreatise on the eye-blink reflex in schizophrenic Hooded rats lowered myeyelids.
I went down to the pond and fed the koi. For fish, they’re smart, havelearned to swarm the moment I come down the stairs. It’s nice to be wanted.
Warm air and sloshing water put me under again. The next thing I saw was Milo’s big face crowding my visual field.
Smile as wide as a continent. Scariest clown in the known world. I mumbledsome kind of greeting.
“What’s with you?” he said. “Snoozing midday like a codger?”
“What time is it?”
He told me. An hour had vanished. “What’s next, white shoes and dinner atfour?”
“Robin naps.”
“Robin has a real job.”
I got to my feet and yawned. The fish sped toward me. Milohummed the theme from Jaws. In his hand was a folder. Unmistakable shade ofblue.
“A new one?” I said.
Instead of answering, he climbed back up to the house. I cleared my head andfollowed.
 
He sat himself at the kitchen table, napkin tucked into his collar, dishesand utensils set for one. Half a dozen slices of toast, runny Vesuvius ofscrambled eggs, sixteen-ounce glass of orange juice, half emptied.
He wiped pulp from his lips. “Love this place. Breakfast served any time.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to rob you blind if such were my intention. Why can’t Iconvince you to lock your door?”
“No one drops in but you.”
“This isn’t a visit, it’s business.” He stabbed the egg mound, slid the bluefolder across the table. A second file separated from the first. “Read ’em andwake.”
A pair of missing persons cases. Gaidelas, A. Gaidelas, C.
Consecutive case numbers.
“Two more girls?” I said. “Sisters?”
“Read.”
Andrew and Catherine Gaidelas, forty-eight and forty-five, respectively, haddisappeared two months after Tori Giacomo.
The couple, married twenty years with no children, were owners of a beautyparlor in Toledo, Ohio, called Locks of Luck. In L.A. for a springvacation, they’d been staying in Sherman Oaks with Cathy’s sister andbrother-in-law, Dr. and Mrs. Barry Palmer. On a clear, crisp Tuesday in Aprilthe Palmers went to work and the Gaidelases left to go hiking in the Malibu mountains. Theyhadn’t been seen since.
Identical report in both files. I read Catherine’s. “Doesn’t say where in Malibu.”
“Doesn’t say a lot of things. Keep going.”
The facts were sketchy, with no apparent links to Michaela or Tori. Was Imissing something? Then I came to the final paragraph.
Subject C. Gaidelas’s sister, Susan Palmer, reports Cathy and Andy said theywere coming out to Califfor vacation but after they got there talked about staying for a while so theycould “break into acting.” S. Palmer reports her sister did some “modeling and theater” after high school and used to talk about becoming an actress. A.Gaidelas didn’t have acting experience but everyone back home thought he was ahandsome guy who “looked like Dennis Quaid.” S. Palmer reports Andy and Cathywere tired of running a beauty parlor and didn’t like the cold weather in Ohio. Cathy said shethought they could get some commercials because they looked “all-American.” Shealso talked about “getting serious and taking acting lessons” and S. Palmerthinks Cathy contacted some acting schools but doesn’t know which ones.
At the rear were two color head-shots.
Cathy and Andy Gaidelas were both fair-haired and blue-eyed with disarmingsmiles. Cathy had posed in a sleeveless black dress trimmed with rhinestonesand matching pendant earrings. Full-faced, with plump shoulders, she had teasedplatinum hair, a strong chin, a thin, straight nose.
Her husband was a tousled gray-blond, long-faced and craggy in a whitebutton-down shirt that exposed curls of pale chest hair. I supposed hisoff-kilter grin had a Dennis Quaid charm. Any other similarities to the actoreluded me.
All-American couple well into middle age. They might qualify for Mom and Dadparts on commercials. Pitches for dog food, TV dinners, garbage bags…
I shut the file.
Milo said, “Wannabe stars and now they’regone. Am I reaching?”
“How’d you come across it?”
“Checking out other MP cases with either an acting connection or a Malibu link. As usual,the computer flagged nothing, but a sheriff’s detective remembered theGaidelases as would-be thespians. In his mind, no homicide, two adultsrabbiting. I reached the brother-in-law, plastic surgeon. The Gaidelases arestill missing, family got fed up with the sheriffs, tried the P.I. route, wentthrough three investigators. The first two gave them zilch, the third turned upthe fact that the Gaidelases’ rental car had showed up five weeks after thedisappearance, sent them a big bill and said that’s all she could do.”
“The sheriffs never thought to tell the family about the car?”
“Venturapolice auto-recovery case, sheriffs weren’t even aware of it.”
“Where was it found?”
“Camarillo.One of the parking lots at that big discount shopping outlet they’ve gotthere.”
“Huge place,” I said.
“You shop there?”
Twice. With Allison. Waiting as she tried on outfits at Ralph Lauren andVersace. “Five weeks and no one noticed the car?”
He said, “For all we know, it was stashed somewhere and moved. TheGaidelases’ rental contract was for two weeks and when they didn’t return it,the company started phoning the number on the form, got no answer. When thecompany tried to bill for late charges, they found out the Gaidelases’ creditcard and cell phone had been canceled the day after they disappeared. Companykept tacking on fees at a usurious rate of interest. The bill compoundedseriously and after thirty days, the debt got assigned to a collection agency.The agency found out the Gaidelases’ number in Ohio, got another disconnect. What’s itsound like to you?”
“A skip.”
“Ten points. Anyway, a lien got put on the Gaidelases’ assets, screwed uptheir credit rating. Private Sleuth Number Three pulled a credit check and backtraced. The Palmers say no way the Gaidelases skipped, the two of them werehyped up about making it as actors, loved California.”
“Did the car get checked for evidence?”
He shook his head. “No reason to check a recovered rental. By now, no oneknows where it is. Probably put up for auction and shipped to Mexico.”
“The Camarillo outlet’s miles up the coastfrom Malibu,” Isaid. “The Gaidelases could’ve gone hiking and followed up with a shoppingtrip—duds for auditions. Or they never got out of the hills.”
“Shopping’s unlikely, Alex. The last credit card purchase they made beforethe account was canceled was lunch at an Italian place in Pacific Palisades theday before. My vote’s for a nature walk turned nasty. Couple of touristsdigging the view, never figuring on a predator.”
He pushed eggs around his plate. “Never liked nature. Think it’s worthpursuing?”
“Malibu anda possible acting school link say it needs to be.”
“Dr. Palmer said he’d ask his wife if she was willing to talk. Two minuteslater, Dr. Susan Palmer’s secretary phones, says the sooner the better. Susan’sgot a dental practice in Brentwood. I’mmeeting her for coffee in forty minutes. Let me finish my breakfast. Am Iexpected to wash my own dishes?”
 
Dr. Susan Palmer was a thinner, plainer version of her sister. More subduedshade of blond in her short, layered hair, true-blue eyes, a frame that lookedtoo meager for her wide face. She wore a ribbed white silk turtleneck, navyslacks, blue suede loafers with golden buckles. Worry lines framed the eyes andtugged at her mouth.
We were in a Mocha Merchant on San Vicente, in the heart of Brentwood. Sleek people ordered complex six-dollar lattesand pastries the size of an infant’s head. Reproductions of antique coffeegrinders hung from cedar-paneled walls. Smooth jazz alternated with Peruvianflute on tape-loop. The scorched smell of overdone beans bittered the air.
Susan Palmer had ordered a “half-caf iced Sumatran Vanilla Blendinesse, partsoy, part whole milk, make sure it’s whole, not low-fat.”
My request for a “medium coffee” had confused the kid behind the counter.
I scanned the menu board. “Brew of the day, extra-hot, Medio.”
Milo said, “The same.”
The kid looked as if he’d been cheated out of something.
We brought our drinks to the pine table Susan Palmer had selected at thefront of the coffeehouse.
Milo said, “Thanks for meeting with us, Doctor.”
Palmer looked down at her iced drink and stirred. “I should thankyou—finally someone’s interested.”
Her smile was abrupt and obligatory. Her hands looked strong. Scrubbed pink,the nails trimmed close and smooth. Dentist’s hands.
“Happy to listen, ma’am.”
“Lieutenant, I’ve come to accept that Cathy and Andy are dead. Maybe thatsounds terrible, but after all this time, there’s no other logical explanation.I know about the credit card cancellation and the utilities back in Toledo, but you have tobelieve me: Cathy and Andy did not run away to start a new life. No way wouldthey do that, it’s not in either of their characters.” She sighed. “Cathy wouldhave no idea where to run.”
“Why’s that, Doctor?”
“My sister was the sweetest person. But unsophisticated.”
“Escape isn’t always sophisticated, Dr. Palmer.”
“Escape would be beyond Cathy. And Andy.” More stirring. The beigeconcoction foamed unpleasantly. “Let me give you some family background. Ourparents are retired professors. Dad taught anatomy at the Medical College ofOhio and Mom taught English at the University of Toledo. My brother,Eric, is an M.D.-Ph.D. doing bioengineering research at Rockefeller U.,and I’m a cosmetic orthodontist.”
Another sigh. “Cathy barely made it out of high school.”
“Not a student,” I said.
“Cathy had what I now realize were learning disabilities and with that cameall the self-esteem issues you’d expect. Back then we just thought she was…notas sharp as the rest of us. We didn’t mistreat her, just the opposite, wecoddled her. She and I had a great relationship, we never fought. She’s twoyears older but I always felt like the big sister. Everyone in the family wasloving and kind but there was this…Cathy had to feel it. Way too much sympathy.When she announced her plans to learn to be a cosmetologist, our parents madesuch a big deal you’d think she’d gotten into Harvard.”
She tasted her drink, nudged the cup a few inches away. “Mom and Dad are notebullient people. When my brother did get into Harvard, their reaction was low-key.Cathy had to know she was being patronized.”
Milo said, “She and her husband ran abusiness. In terms of her ability to plan—”
Susan Palmer moved her head rapidly, more quiver than shake. “In any otherfamily, Cathy would’ve been able to think of herself as successful. But inours…the business came about after a long…how can I say this…Cathy got intodifficulties. When she was younger.”
“Teenage difficulties?” said Milo.
“Cathy had an extended adolescence. Drugs, drinking, hanging with the wrongcrowd. Eight years after high school she still lived at home and did nothingbut sleep late and party. A couple of times, she ended up in the E.R. That’swhy my parents were thrilled when she went to beauty school. That’s where shemet Andy. Perfect match.”
“Andy wasn’t a student, either?” said Milo.
“Andy also struggled through high school,” said Susan Palmer. “He’s niceenough—nice to Cathy, that’s what’s important. They both got jobs as stylistsat local salons. But their incomes never progressed much and after ten years,they were still living in a cruddy little apartment. So we set them up. Barryand I, my brother and his wife, Mom and Dad. We found an old commercialbuilding, renovated it, bought beauty equipment. Officially it was a loan butno one’s ever discussed repayment.”
“Locks of Luck,” I said.
“Corny, no? That was Andy’s inspiration.”
“They make money?” said Milo.
“The last few years they were turning a small profit. Mom and Dad stillhelping out.”
“Mom and Dad are in Toledo?”
“Geographically in Toledo.Psychologically in Denial.”
“They think Cathy and Andy are alive.”
“I’m sure sometimes they even believe it,” said Susan Palmer. “Othertimes…let’s just say it’s been tough. Mom’s health has deteriorated and Dad’saged terribly. If you could learn anything, you’d be helping some really nicepeople.”
Milo said, “Do you have any theories aboutwhat happened?”
“The only one that makes sense is that Cathy and Andy went hiking and metsome psycho.” Susan Palmer shut and opened her eyes. “I can only imagine. I don’twant to imagine.”
“The morning they went hiking, did anything unusual occur?”
“No, it was just a regular morning. Barry and I both had a full day ofpatients, we were really rushed. Cathy and Andy were just waking up when wewere about to leave. All excited about exploring nature. Barry and I were sohurried, we didn’t pay much attention.” Her eyes misted. “How could I know itwould be the last time I’d see my sister?”
She tasted her drink. “I Specifically said whole milk, this is low -fat.Idiots. ”
Milo said, “I’ll get you another.”
“Forget it,” she snapped. On the brink of tears. Her face softened. “No,thanks, Lieutenant. What else can I tell you?”
“Did Cathy and Andy mention where in Malibuthey were headed?”
“Barry and I thought they’d enjoy the ocean, but they had a Triple-A bookand wanted to hike somewhere at the top of Kanan Dume Road.”
“Where atop Kanan Dume?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” said Susan Palmer. “I just remember them showing us amap in the book. It looked pretty curvy but that’s what they wanted. We toldthe sheriffs all this and they said they drove up and checked the area.Frankly, I don’t trust them, they never took us seriously. Barry and I havespent hours driving all over land-side Malibu.”She exhaled. “So much space.”
I said, “Their car was found around twenty-five miles north of Kanan Dume.”
“Which is why I’ve come to believe whatever happened was up in the hills. Ithad to be that way, right? Why else would someone cancel Cathy and Andy’scredit card if they weren’t trying to cover up something terrible? Same forditching the car. It was to throw us off the trail.”
“Were Cathy and Andy aware of the discount outlets?”
“We never told them about it, but maybe from the Triple-A book.” She placedboth elbows on the table. “My sister and brother-in-law were simple, directpeople. If they said they were going hiking up in Malibu,they went hiking up in Malibu.No way would they just disappear and go off on some crazy adventure.”
“They did have one fantasy,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Acting.”
“That,” she said. “During those eight years after high school Cathy managedto convince herself she was going to be an actress. Or a model, depending onwhat day it was. Not that she ever did anything to pursue those goals beyondreading fan magazines. My mother knew the owner of Dillman’s department storeand they gave Cathy a runway job modeling spring fashions. Cathy’s pretty, whenshe was young she was gorgeous. But by that time a few years older and notexactly anorexic.”
She sniffed and held her breath for several seconds. “I flew out to attendthe show. Mom and I sat in the front row and we both bought clothing we didn’tneed. The following spring, Dillman’s didn’t ask Cathy back.”
“How’d she react?” I said.
“She didn’t. Which was Cathy’s way, she’d just take every bit of indignityas if she deserved to be disappointed. We all hated when Cathy gotdisappointed. That’s why Mom encouraged her to take some acting lessons. AdultEd at the community center, musical revivals, that kind of thing. Mom wanted Cathyengaged in something and Cathy finally agreed. She seemed to be having a goodtime. Then she stopped and announced she was going to become a cosmetologist.That’s why Barry and I were shocked when she and Andy got here and announcedthey’d come to pursue acting.”
“Was it Andy’s dream, as well?”
“It was Cathy’s dream but Andy got with the program, like he always did.”
Milo said, “That can make for a goodmarriage.”
“Andy and Cathy were best friends. It was almost…I don’t want to sayplatonic, but the truth is, I’ve always wondered, and so did my husband and mybrother and anyone who’s met Andy.”
“Wondered about what?”
“His being gay.”
“Because he’s a hairdresser,” said Milo.
“It’s more than that. Andy has a definite feminine side to him. He’s reallygood at clothes and decorating and cooking and that sounds prejudiced but ifyou met him, you’d understand.” She blinked. “Maybe he was one of thoseeffeminate straight men. It doesn’t matter, does it? He loved my sister. Theyadored each other.”
Milo said, “The missing persons filementioned something about acting schools.”
“It did?”
“You’re surprised, Doctor?”
“I told the sheriff that but I had no idea he actually wrote it down. Is itimportant?”
“Anything that fills in Cathy and Andy’s activities during their trip to L.A. could be important.They mention specific schools?”
“No, the only thing they talked about was tourist stuff. Disneyland,Universal City Walk, Hollywood and Vine—theywent to the Hollywood museum on Vine, the oldMax Factor building. That they loved, because of the emphasis on hair andmakeup. Andy kept talking about the Blonde Room, the Brunette Room—” Shebrightened. “Maybe they found an acting school in Hollywood. There’s bound to be some there,right?”
“More than a few.”
“I’d be willing to check, Lieutenant. I’ll call every single one.”
“I’ll do it, Dr. Palmer.”
She eyed him warily.
“Cross my heart.”
“Sorry, it’s just…I need to relax and trust someone. I get a good feelingabout you, Lieutenant.”
Milo’s turn to blush.
“I hope I’m right,” said Susan Palmer.
Chapter 21
Milo talked to Susan Palmer for another tenminutes, easing into open-ended questions, putting pauses and silences to work.
Good technique but it didn’t produce. She talked about how much she missedher sister, lapsed into exclusive past tense. When she shot to her feet, hereyes looked bruised. “Got an office full of malocclusions. Please stay intouch.”
We watched her cross the parking lot and get into a silver BMW740. Thelicense plate read: I STR8 10.
Milo said, “Her office is two blocks awaybut she drove.”
“Californiagirl,” I said. “Something her sister wanted to be.”
“Acting lessons and a hike above Kanan Dume. Can’t be coincidence. Thequestion is how do the Gaidelases figure in with a couple of pretty-face femalevictims?”
“That girl we spoke to—Briana—said Nora rejected applicants for reasonsother than talent.”
“Wanting ’em young and pretty,” he said. “Cathy and Andy were both too oldand Cathy was too fat. So what, they got turned away from the Playhouse andkilled? Talk about flunking an audition.”
“Maybe their obvious vulnerability got a predator sniffing.”
“Someone at the school spots ’em and stalks ’em?” He gazed out the windowand back at me.
I said, “Could be the same way Tori Giacomo was spotted. If her ex is rightabout her dating someone, you’d think that person would’ve surfaced when shewent missing. Unless he had something to do with her death.”
“A good-looking predator. As in Meserve. What, he proposed a three-way tothe Gaidelases and the party went bad?”
“Or he just offered to help them with their careers.”
“Yeah,” he said, “that would work.”
“On the other hand,” I said, “Reynold Peaty had plenty of opportunity tocheck out the flock at the PlayHouse.”
“Him…let’s see if Sean’s seen anything.” He tried Binchy’s number, scowled,clicked off. “No connection. Maybe the cell waves are upset by environmentallyconscious mochalicious fumes.”
I said, “Nora’s attachment to youth is interesting.”
“Why? That just makes her like everyone else in showbiz.”
“But she has no profit motive. The school’s a make-work project, so why getpicky? Unless what she really wanted was a personal dating pool.”
“Sample the studs,” he said.
“And when they get too close, Brother Brad chases them off. Or thinks hedoes.”
“Okay, she’s a middle-aged horn-dog. How do the Gaidelases figure in withthat?”
“I don’t know, but when Susan Palmer was describing her family situation, Iwas struck by parallels between Cathy and Nora. Both floundered well intoadulthood. Family connections got Cathy a runway gig that she couldn’t hold onto. Nora’s got her a single sitcom walk-on that went nowhere. Cathy hadlong-standing drug problems. Nora smokes dope to get her day going. Eventually,both women were set up in business. Cathy’s salon had been making a profitrecently. Meaning it lost money for years. The Dowd family fortune has relievedNora from any financial pressure, but bottom line, we’ve got a couple ofprodigal daughters. Maybe Cathy showing up at the PlayHouse evoked something inNora that Nora didn’t want to see.”
“Cathy’s too much like her, so she kills her? That’s a little abstract,Alex. Why would Nora even know about Cathy’s history if she turned her away?”
“What if Cathy did have a chance to audition?” I said. “Nora’s a big one foropening the soul.”
“Cathy emoted and it made Nora squirm? Fine, but I don’t see flashpointepiphany as a motive for murder. All Nora has to do is send her and Andy awayand move on to the next stud. And if uncomfortable memories are the issue, howdoes Michaela fit in? Or Tori Giacomo who disappeared before the Gaidelases?This feels more like a sexual thing, Alex. Just what you said: Some psychopathscopes out the herd and picks off the weak ones. Cathy may have been over thehill for a starlet, but she wasn’t a bad-looking woman. To a guy like Peaty shecoulda looked downright sexy, no?”
“Peaty was caught peeping at college girls. Michaela and Tori would fit,but—”
“Cathy wouldn’t. So maybe he’s not as limited as that oafish demeanorsuggests. Or Cathy set something off—fond memories of a barroom floozy whorejected him back in Reno.Hell, maybe Cathy reminded him of his mother and he snapped. You guys stillbelieve in the Oedipal thing?”
“It has its place.”
“No telling what goes on in the old cranio, right?” He got up and paced. “Ifit’s a sexual thing, there could be more victims out there. But let’sconcentrate on the victims we know about. What they have in common is actingschool and/or the Malibuhills.”
“One person with links to both is Meserve,” I said. “He picked Latigo forhis hoax allegedly because he’d hiked up there. Nora was angry at the hoax, butinstead of kicking him out, she promoted him. Maybe she wasn’t clueless afterall.”
“Dylan and Nora planned the hoax together? Why?”
“The real performance game. Two failed actors writing a script. Discardingthe bit players—that sounds like Hollywood.”
“Nora choreographs, Meserve acts it out.”
“Nora directs. It’s what everyone in the industry aims for.”
 
--- oOo ---
 
The coffeehouse got warmer and noisier as every table filled. Sleek peoplebegan milling at the entrance. Lots of peeved glances aimed our way.
Milo hooked his finger and we left. A womanmuttered, “Finally.”
We drove to the station and ran into Sean Binchy exiting Milo’soffice. Binchy’s Doc Martens gleamed as shiny as his rusty, gelled hair.
“Hey, Loot. I just took a call for you.”
“I tried to call you, ” said Milo.“Anything new on Peaty?”
Binchy beamed. “We can arrest him if you want. Driving without a license.”
“He has a car?”
“Red Datsun minivan, old and messed-up looking. He parks it on the street,three blocks from his apartment. Which shows intent to conceal, right? Theplates are inactive, originally came from a Chrysler sedan that was supposed tobe junked ten years ago. Your basic little old lady from Pasadena. Literally, Loot. And guess what,that’s exactly where Peaty drove this morning. Ten East to the 110 North, offat Arroyo Parkway,and then he took surface streets.”
“Where?”
“Apartment building on the east side of town. He pulled mops and cleaningstuff out of the van and went in there to work. I tried to call you but yourcell wasn’t receiving.”
“Designer coffee messed up the air,” said Milo.
“Pardon?”
“Go back to Peaty’s tonight, Sean. See if you can get a VIN number from thevan and trace it.”
“Sure,” said Binchy. “Did I do wrong by terminating the surveillance, Loot?There were a few things I needed to do back here.”
“Like what?” said Milo.
Sean shifted his weight. “Captain called me in yesterday, I’ve been wantingto tell you. He wants me to work a new case with Hal Prinski, liquor storerobbery and pistol-whipping on Sepulveda. Robberies aren’t my thing but Captainsays I need breadth of experience. I’m not sure what Detective Prinski willwant from me. All I can say is I’ll do my best to get back to Peaty.”
“Appreciate it, Sean.”
“I’m really sorry, Loot, if it was up to me, I’d be doing nothing but yourstuff. Your stuff’s interesting.” He shrugged. “That illegal car buttressesPeaty being lowlife.”
“Buttresses,” said Milo.
Binchy’s freckles receded as the skin behind them deepened. “New word a day.Tasha’s idea. She read somewhere the brain starts deteriorating afterpuberty—like we’re all rotting, you know? She’s into crosswords, word games, tostay mentally challenged. To me, reading the Bible’s plenty challenging.”
Milo said, “The van buttresses, Sean. Ifyou can’t spend any more time on Peaty, don’t sweat it but let me know rightaway.”
“For sure. About that call, the one that just came in? It’s related toPeaty, too. Individual named Bradley Dowd. Name’s in the Michaela Brand file.He’s Peaty’s boss.”
“What’d he want?”
“Wouldn’t say, just that it might be important. He sounded real rushed,wouldn’t talk to me, only you. The number he left’s a cell, not in the file.”
“Where is it?”
“Next to your computer. Which I noticed was turned off.”
“So?”
“Well,” said Binchy, “I don’t want to tell you how to operate, but sometimesit’s better to just leave it on all the time, especially with an outmodedmachine. ’Cause booting up by itself can cause power surges and—”
Milo edged past him. Slammed his door.
“—drain energy.” Binchy smiled at me.
I said, “He’s had a busy day.”
“He usually does, Dr. Delaware.”Shooting a French cuff, Binchy examined a bright orange Swatch watch. “Whoa,noon already. All of a sudden, I got a burrito Jones. Hello, vending machine.Have a nice day, Doc.”
I opened Milo’s door, nearly collided withhim as he stormed out. He kept walking and I hurried to keep pace.
“Where to?”
“The PlayHouse. Just got a call from Brad Dowd. He’s got something to showus. Talking fast but he didn’t sound rushed to me. More like scared.”
“He say why?”
“Something about Nora. I asked if she was hurt and he said no, then he hungup. I figured I’d wait till we were face-to-face before applying my powers ofdetection.”
Chapter 22
The gate to the PlayHouse property was open. A sky heavy with marine fogbrowned the grass and deepened the house’s green siding to mustard.
Bradley Dowd stood in front of the garage. One of the barn doors was ajar.Dowd wore a black cashmere crewneck over fawn slacks and black sandals. The fogturned his white hair sooty.
No sign of his Porsche on the street. A red, split-windowed, sixtiesCorvette was parked up a bit. All the other vehicles in sight were as glamorousas oatmeal.
Dowd waved as we pulled to the curb. Something metallic glinted in his hand.When we reached the garage, he flung the door open. The structure’s agedexterior was deceiving. Inside were black cement floors polished to a gloss andcedar-plank walls adorned with racing posters. Halogen lights glinted from theceiling rafters.
Triple garage, all three spaces occupied.
To the left was an impeccably restored green Austin Healy, low-slung,waspishly aggressive. Next to that, another Vette, white, happily chromed.Softer body style than the one on the street. Nipple taillights. One of my gradschool profs had tooled around in a car like that. He’d bragged about it beinga ’53.
A dust filter hummed between the two sports cars. It hadn’t done much forthe dented brown Toyota Corolla in the right-hand slot.
Brad Dowd said, “I got here an hour ago, bringing my ’63 Sting Ray back fromvalve work.” The shiny thing in his grip was a combination padlock. “This pieceof crap was sitting where the Stinger’s supposed to go. The doors were unlockedso I checked the reg. It’s Meserve’s. There’s something on the front seat thatspooks me a little.”
Milo walked past him, circled the Corolla,squinted inside the car, returned.
“See it?” said Brad Dowd.
“Snow globe.”
“It’s the one I told you about. When Nora broke off with him she must’vegiven it back. Don’t you think it’s a little weird that he kept it in hisdamned heap? And parked the heap in my space?” Dowd’s jaw trembled. “I calledNora yesterday, no answer. Same thing today. She doesn’t have to inform me ofher comings and goings, but usually she returns calls. I’m going over to herhouse but first I wanted you to see this.”
Albert Beamish had spied Nora driving away four days ago. Milosaid nothing about that. “Meserve ever leave his car here before, Mr. Dowd?”
“Hell, no. Nora uses the main building for the school but the garage ismine. I’m always in a space crunch.”
“Lots of cars?”
“A few. Sometimes I set aside slots in my buildings, but it’s not alwaysenough. I used to keep a hangar at the airport, which was perfect because it’sright near the office. Then all the demand from the jet owners drove therentals up.”
He jiggled the padlock. “What bothers me is that only Nora and I know thecombination. I wanted her to have it in case of fire or some other disaster.She wouldn’t give it out to him. ”
“You’re sure of that,” said Milo.
“What do you mean?”
“Nora’s an adult, sir. Maybe she chose to disregard your advice.”
“About Meserve? No way, Nora agreed with me about that lowlife.” Bradlowered his hand and swung the padlock. “What if he forced her to open up?”
“Why would he do that, sir?”
“To hide that thing, ” said Dowd. He eyed the Toyota. “Leaving that stupid globe,there…there’s something off about it. What are you going to do about it?”
“Any idea how long the car’s been here?”
“No more than two weeks because that’s when I took the Stinger in for valvework.”
Milo circled the car again. “Doesn’t seemto be much in here other than the globe.”
“There isn’t,” said Dowd, wringing his hands. The padlock clicked. He hungit on the door hasp and returned, shaking his head. “I warned her about him.”
Milo said, “All we’ve got is his car.”
“I know, I know—think I’m overreacting?”
“It’s normal to worry about your sister but let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“What do I do with the heap?”
“We’ll have the heap towed to the police impound lot.”
“When?”
“I’ll phone right now.”
“Thanks.” Brad Dowd tapped his foot as Milomade the call.
“Within half an hour, Mr. Dowd.”
“Fine, fine—you know what else is bothering me? That girl—the Brand girl.She got mixed up with Meserve and look what happened to her. Nora’s too damnedtrusting, Lieutenant. What if he showed up and she let him in and he gotviolent?”
“We’ll check the car for signs of violence. Are you sure your sister andyourself are the only ones with the combination?”
“Damned sure.”
“No way Nora could’ve given it to Meserve? Back when she was stillinterested in him?”
“She was never interested in him—we’re talking a brief flirtation.” Dowdchewed his lip. “She’d never give him the combination. I explicitly forbade herto give it out. It’s not logical, anyway. If she wanted to open the garage, shecould do it herself. Which she wouldn’t, because she knew the Stinger would becoming back.”
“Did she know when?”
“That’s what I was calling her about yesterday. To tell her I’d be drivingit back. She didn’t answer.”
“So she didn’t know,” said Milo.
“Let me try her house again.” He produced a shiny black cell phone, puncheda two-digit speed-dial code. “Still no answer.”
“Could Reynold Peaty have learned the combination, sir? From working here?”
Dowd’s eyes widened. “Reynold? Why would he want it? Is there something youhaven’t told me about him?”
“Turns out he does drive. Has an unregistered vehicle.”
“What? Why the hell would he do that? I pay for a van pool to pick him upand take him to work.”
“He drove himself to a job in Pasadenatoday.” Milo read off the address from hispad.
“Yeah, that’s one of mine. Oh, Jesus—you’re sure—of course you are, you’veobviously been watching him.” Dowd ran a thumb through his white hair. Hisother hand clenched. “I asked you the first time if I should worry about him.Now you’re telling me I should.” Brad shaded his eyes with a shaky hand. “He’sbeen alone with my sister. This is a nightmare—I can’t tell Billy.”
“Where is Billy?”
“Waiting for me at the office—the key is to find Nora. What the hell are yougoing to do about that, Lieutenant?”
Milo eyed the PlayHouse. “Have you checkedin there?”
“There? No—oh, man!” Brad Dowd bolted toward the building, running aroundthe porch rails with long, smooth strides, fumbling in his pockets as hevaulted steps two at a time. Milo went after him and when Dowd turned the key, Milo stilled his hand.
“Me first, sir.”
Dowd stiffened, then backed away. “Fine. Go. Hurry.”
 
He positioned himself on the east end of the porch where he leaned on therail and stared at the garage. Sun peeked out from under the marine layer.Foliage was green again. Dowd’s red Corvette took on an orange sheen.
Six silent minutes passed before the door opened. Milosaid, “Doesn’t appear to be any crime scene, but I’ll call the techs and havethem take a look if you’d like.”
“What would that entail? Would they tear the place up?”
“There’d be fingerprint dust but no structural damage unless something cameup.”
“Like what?”
“Signs of violence.”
“But you don’t see any?”
“No, sir.”
“You need my permission to bring in your people?”
“With no probable cause I do.”
“Then I don’t see the point. Let me go in, I’ll tell you right away ifanything’s off.”
 
Polished oak, everywhere.
Paneled walls, broad-plank flooring, beamed ceilings, window casements.Vigorously grained, quarter-sawn wood milled a century ago, mellowed the colorof old bourbon and held together by mortise and tenon joints. Darker wood—blackwalnut—had been used for the pegs. Fringed brown velvet drapes covered some ofthe windows.
Others had been left clear, revealing stained glass insets. Flowers andfruit and greenery, high-quality work, maybe Tiffany.
Not much natural light flowed in. The house was dim, silent, smaller than itappeared from the street with a modest entry hall centering two front rooms.What had once been the dining room was set up with old overstuffed thrift-shopchairs, vinyl beanbags, rolled up futons, rubber exercise pads. An open doorwayoffered a glimpse of a white kitchen.
A stage had been constructed at the rear of the former parlor. Raggedplywood affair on raw fir joists made even cruder by its contrast to theprecision joinery and gleaming surfaces everywhere else. Three rows of foldingchairs for the audience. Photos taped to the outer wall, many of themblack-and-white. What looked to be stills from old movies.
Brad Dowd said, “Everything looks normal.” His eyes shifted to an open door,stage right. “Did you check in back?”
Milo nodded. “Yup, but feel free.”
Dowd went in there and I followed. A short, dark hallway led to two smallrooms with an old lav between them. Once-upon-a-time bedrooms paneled with beadboard below the chair rail, painted pea green above. One chamber was vacant,the other stored additional folding chairs and was decorated with more moviestills. Both closets were empty.
Brad Dowd moved in and out quickly. The aging-surfer insouciance I’d seen athis house had given way to gamecock jumpiness.
Nothing like family to shake you up.
He left. I lingered and glanced at the photos. Mae West, Harold Lloyd, JohnBarrymore. Doris Day and James Cagney in Love Me or Leave Me. Veronica Lakeand Alan Ladd in The Blue Dahlia. Voight and Hoffman in Midnight Cowboy.Black-and-white faces I didn’t recognize. A section devoted to youth acts. TheLennon Sisters. The Brady Bunch. The Partridge Family. The Cowsills. A quartetof grinning kids in bell-bottoms called the Kolor Krew.
I returned to the front room. Milo and BradDowd sat at the edge of the stage. Dowd’s head was down. Milowas saying, “You can help by trying to remember where your sister goes when shetravels.”
“She wouldn’t let that thing in the garage and just go off somewhere.”
“Covering bases, Mr. Dowd.”
“Traveling…okay, she flies to Parisevery year. Later in the year, mid-April. She stays at the Crillon, costs afortune. Sometimes she goes on to the south, rents a little chateau. Thelongest she’s been away is a month.”
“Anywhere else?”
“She used to go everywhere—England,Italy, Germany—but France is the only place she reallylikes. She speaks high school French, never had any of those problems you hearabout.”
“What about here in the States?”
“She’s been to a health spa in Mexico a few times,” said Dowd.“Down in Tecate. I think she also goes to a place in Ojai. Or Santa Barbara, somewhere in that vicinity.She likes the whole spa thing—you think that could be it? She just wanted to bepampered and I’m worrying about nothing? Hell, maybe Meserve did learn thecombination and stashed that piece of shit and Nora knows nothing about it andis getting a mud pack or whatever.”
His fingers drummed his knees. “I’ll get on the horn, call every damn spa inthe state.”
“We’ll do that, sir.”
“I want to do something. ”
“Help me by thinking back,” said Milo. “DidNora mention anything about traveling recently?”
“Definitely not.” Brad bounded up. “I’m going to check on Billy, then it’sover to Nora’s house, Lieutenant. She doesn’t like me using my key but what ifshe fell and needs help?”
Milo said, “When’s the last time youremember seeing her with Meserve?”
“After Meserve pulled that stunt and she assured me it was over.”
Milo said nothing.
Dowd’s laugh was bitter. “So what’s his damn car doing here, right? Youthink I’m clueless.”
“Your sister’s an adult.”
“So to speak,” said Brad Dowd softly.
“It’s tough being in charge,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s a day at the beach.”
Milo said, “So you have a key to Nora’shouse.”
“In my safe at the office but I’ve never used it. She gave it to me yearsago—same reason I gave her the combination to the garage. If she’s not home,maybe I’ll look around just a little. See if I can find her passport. I’m notsure where she keeps it but I can try. Though I guess you could find outfaster—just call the airlines.”
“After Nine-Eleven, it’s a little complicated,” said Milo.
“Bureaucratic bullshit?”
“Yes, sir. I can’t even go into your sister’s house with you, unless sheexplicitly gave you permission to bring in guests.”
“Guests,” said Brad Dowd. “Like we’re having a goddamn party—no, she neverdid that. Truth is, I’ve never gone in there myself without Nora. Never thoughtI’d need to.”
He brushed invisible dust from his sweater. “I’m firing Reynold.”
“Please don’t,” said Milo.
“But—”
“There’s no evidence against him, Mr. Dowd, and I don’t want to alert him.”
“He’s a goddamn pervert, ” said Brad Dowd. “What if he does something on thejob? Who gets sued for liability? What else haven’t you told me?”
“Nothing, sir.”
Dowd stared at Milo. “Lieutenant, I’m sorryif it messes up your case, but I am going to fire him. Once I’ve talked to mylawyer and my accountant, make sure everything’s by the book. It’s myprerogative to handle my business any—”
“We’re watching Peaty,” said Milo, “so thelikelihood of his stepping out of line is next to nil. I’d strongly prefer youto hold off.”
“You’d prefer, ” said Dowd. “I’d prefer not having to deal with everyoneelse’s shit.”
He left us, passed the rows of folding chairs. Kicked a metal leg. Cursedunder his breath.
Milo remained on the stage, chin in hand.
One-man show. The Sad Detective.
Brad Dowd made it to the entry hall and looked back. “You planning onsleeping here? C’mon, I need to lock up.”
Chapter 23
Milo toed the curb and watched as theCorvette sped off.
I said, “You wanted Brad to take Peaty more seriously.”
He reached behind and slapped his rear. “C.Y.A. time. If it turns outsomething bad happened to Nora, he’ll be looking for someone to blame.”
“You didn’t tell him Nora left Friday night.”
“There are limits to my honesty. First of all, Beamish never saw who was inthe car. Second, there’s no law keeping her inside her house. She coulda beengoing out for drinks. Or she did have travel plans. Or she got abducted byaliens.”
“If Meserve snatched her, why would he leave his wheels at her school andbroadcast the fact? And if the snow globe’s some kind of trophy, he’d take itwith him.”
“If?” he said. “What else could it be?”
“Maybe a defiant message to Brad from Dylan and Nora: ‘We’re stilltogether.’ That also fits with planting the Toyota in one of Brother’s Treasured Spaces.Is there some reason you don’t trust Brad?”
“Because I didn’t tell him everything? No, I just don’t know enough to besharing. Why, does he bug you?”
“No, but I think his value as a source of data is limited. He clearlyoverestimates his authority with Nora.”
“Not so take-charge sib.”
“He assumed the caretaker role because Billy and Nora aren’t competent. Thatallowed them to remain adult children. Nora’s more of a perpetualadolescent—self-centered, casually sexual, smokes up. And what do rebelliousteens do when they’re cornered? They resist passively or fight back. When Bradinsisted she break off with Meserve, Nora chose passive.”
“Tooling off in her Range Rover and leaving lover boy’s heap behind so theycan travel in style? Yeah, could be. So what do we have, just a road trip?Bonnie and Clyde in fancy wheels cutting townbecause they’ve been doing bad things.”
“Don’t know,” I said. “People who attend Nora’s school keep disappearing,but now that we know Peaty’s got wheels he’s got to remain center focus.”
“A van. Your basic psycho meat wagon. And soon he’s gonna be unemployed. IfSean’s yanked off surveillance and that bastard sneaks away, I’m further backthan when I started.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “I screwed up by telling Brad aboutPeaty’s van.”
“Peaty cleans lots of buildings,” I said. “It was the right thing to do,morally.”
“Weren’t you listening? I was covering my own ass.”
“Sorry, can’t hear you.”
While we waited for the LAPD tow truck to arrive, Milotried phoning Binchy. Again no connection. He said something about the“high-tech big lie” and paced up and down the block.
The truck appeared, moving slowly as the driver searched for the address. Milo’s wave went unheeded. Finally, the rig pulled up anda sleepy-looking driver around nineteen got out.
“In there, the Toyota,” Milotold him. “Consider it a crime scene and take it directly to the forensicsgarage.”
The driver rubbed his eyes and shuffled paper. “Them wasn’t my orders.”
“Them is now.” Milo handed him gloves. Thedriver slipped them on and slouched toward the little car’s driver’s door.
Milo said, “There’s a snow globe on theseat. It’s evidence.”
“A wha?”
“One of those doohickeys that snows when you turn it upside down.”
The driver looked baffled. Opened the door and drew out the globe. Upendingthe toy, he watched plastic flakes flutter. Peered at the writing at the baseand wrinkled his brow.
Milo gloved up, snatched it away, anddropped it in an evidence bag. His face was flushed.
The driver said, “I’m supposed to take that in?”
“No, Professor, I keep it.”
“Snow,” said the driver. “Hollywoodand Vine? Never seen no snow there.”
 
As I drove back to the station, Milo said,“Do me a favor and contact that lawyer—Montez—soon as you can. Find out ifMichaela told him anything about Meserve and Nora that she didn’t tell you. Anyidea who Meserve’s P.D. was?”
“Marjani Coolidge.”
“Don’t know her.”
“Me neither, but I can try.”
“Try is great.”
The second call to Binchy connected. Milotold him, “Check out your phone, Sean. You still on him? Nah, don’t worry aboutit, he’s probably working. I’ll figure something out for nights. What you cando for me is start calling health spas from Santa Barbara County down tomid-Baja and see if Nora Dowd or Dylan Meserve have checked in…spas—like inmassages and health food. What?…no, it’s fine, Sean.”
He jammed the phone in his pocket.
“Stuck on robbery detail?” I said.
“Seems to be.” He beat a fast cha-cha rhythm on the dashboard. I could feelthe vibrations through the steering wheel.
“Better get over to Peaty’s place myself tonight. The unregistered van’sgrounds to arrest him. Maybe we can chat in his apartment so I get a look atthe dump. Meanwhile, I make those spa calls myself—hello, ear cancer.”
“I can do that. Leave the big-strong-guy detective work to you.”
“Such as?”
“Finding out if Nora used her passport. Is it really tougher postNine-Eleven? I’d think there’d be more interagency communication.”
“What a sage,” he said. “Yeah, I fibbed to Bradley, figuring he’d bemotivated to get into Nora’s house, let me know if anything’s off. Technically,nothing’s changed, you still need a search warrant to access passenger lists.And the airlines, being busy figuring out ways to torment their passengers,still take their sweet time complying. But there is more buddy-buddy stuff.Remember that granny shooting I closed last year?”
“Sweet old lady subbing for her son at the liquor store.”
“Alma Napier. Eighty-two years old, perfect health, some meth addleddungball unloads a shotgun on her. The search of said dungball’s dump turns upa carton of video cameras from Indonesiahollowed out inside with pistol-shaped compartments. I thought the Federal AirMarshals might want to hear about that, got to know one of the supervisorsthere.”
He retrieved the phone, asked for Commander Budowski.
“Bud? Milo Sturgis…fine. You? Terrific.Listen, I need a favor.”
 
Fifteen minutes after we got to his office, a civilian clerk brought in thefax. We’d split the task of locating and phoning spas, were coming up empty.
Milo read Budowski’s report, handed it tome, got back on the phone.
Nora Dowd hadn’t used her passport for foreign travel since the previousApril. Three-week trip to France,just as Brad had said.
Dylan Meserve had never applied for a passport.
Neither Nora nor Dylan’s name appeared on any domestic flights out of LAX, Long Beach, Burbank, JohnWayne, Lindbergh, or Santa Barbara.
Budowski had left a handwritten note at the bottom. If Nora had sprung for aprivate jet, that fact might never emerge. Some air-charter companies were lessthan meticulous checking I.D.s.
Milo said, “There’s everyone. Then there’sthe rich.”
He made a few more calls to resorts, broke for coffee at two p.m. Instead ofcontinuing, he leafed through his notepad, found a number, and phoned.
“Mrs. Stadlbraun? Detective Sturgis, I was by last week to talk about…he is?How so? I see. No, that’s not very polite…yes, it is. Has there been anythingbeyond that…no, there’s nothing new but I was figuring to stop by and talk tohim. If you could call me when he gets in, I’d appreciate it. Still have mycard? I’ll hold…yes, that’s perfect, ma’am, either of those numbers. Thanks…no,ma’am, there’s nothing to worry about, just routine follow-up.”
He clicked off, rotated the phone receiver, twisting the cord and letting itrecoil.
“Ol’ Ertha says Peaty’s been acting ‘even weirder.’ He used to just keep hishead down, pretended not to hear. Now he looks her in the eye with what sheclaims is ‘nastiness.’ What do you make of that?”
“Maybe he spotted Sean watching him and is getting nervous,” I said.
“I suppose, but one thing Sean’s an ace at is not getting made.” He wheeledhis chair the few inches the cramped space permitted. “Would ‘nervous’ makePeaty more dangerous?”
“It could.”
“Think I should caution Stadlbraun?”
“I don’t know what you could say that wouldn’t cause panic. No doubt Bradwill evict Peaty in addition to firing him.”
“So we’ve got ourselves a homeless, jobless, angry guy with illegal wheels.Time to grovel and ask the captain for help with surveillance.”
He disappeared, came back, shaking his head. “At a meeting downtown.”
I was on the line with the Wellness Inn of Big Sur, enduring a voice mailmessage about seaweed wrap and Ayurvedic massage and waiting for a human voice.
By three thirty, we were both finished. Nora Dowd hadn’t checked into anyposh retreat we could find under her name or Dylan Meserve’s.
I tried Lauritz Montez at the Beverly Hills Public Defender’s office.
In court, expected back in half an hour.
Too much sitting around. I got up and told Milowhere I was going. His reply was a finger wave. I didn’t bother to reciprocate.
 
--- oOo ---
 
I reached the Beverly Hillscourt building by five to four. Closing time for most sessions. The hallwayswere filled with attorneys, cops, defendants, and witnesses.
Montez was in the middle of it, pushing a black leather case on wheels. Thinand sallow as ever, gray hair drawn back in a ponytail. Giant drooping mustacheand wispy chin-beard whitening around the edges. The lenses of his glasses werehexagonal and cobalt blue.
Walking alongside him was a pallid young woman in a filmy pink granny dress.Long black hair, beautiful face, old woman’s stoop. She kept talking to Montez.If he cared about what she had to say, he wasn’t showing it.
I blended with the crowd, managed to get behind the two of them.
Every time I’d seen Montez he’d gone for foppery. Today’s costume was afitted, black velvet suit with an Edwardian cut, wide, peaked lapels trimmedwith satin. The pink of his shirt brought painful memories of childhoodsunburns. His peacock-blue bowtie was glossy silk.
The pallid girl said something that made him stop. The two of them veered tothe right and stepped behind an open courtroom door. I edged closer to theother side and pretended to study a wall directory. The crowd had thinned, andI could make out their conversation through the jamb.
“What the continuance means, Jessica, is I bought some time for you to getclean and stay clean. You can also find yourself a job and try to con the judgeinto thinking you want to be a solid citizen.”
“What kinda job?”
“Anything, Jessica. Flip burgers at McDonalds.”
“What about Johnny Rockets? It’s, like, close by.”
“If you can get a job at Johnny Rockets, that would be great.”
“I never flipped burgers.”
“What have you done?”
“I danced.”
“Ballet?”
“Topless.”
“I’m sure you were great on the pole, Jessica, but that’s not going to helpyou.”
He walked away. The girl didn’t.
I moved from behind the door and said, “Afternoon.”
Montez turned. The girl had her back to the wall, as if pressed there by anunseen hand. “Go look for a job, Jessica.”
She flinched and left.
I said, “Did Michaela say anything about Dylan and Nora Dowd having arelationship?”
“You stalking me, Doc? Or is this happy coincidence?”
“We need to talk—”
“I need to go home and forget about work. That includes you.” He took holdof his luggage rack.
“Meserve’s missing,” I said. “Given the fact that your client was murderedlast week, you might reconsider being a glib wiseass.”
His jaw tightened. “It sucks, okay? Now leave me alone.”
“Meserve could be in danger or he could be a bad guy. Did Michaela tell youanything that would clarify the situation?”
“She blamed him for the hoax.”
I waited.
“Yeah, he was fucking Dowd. Okay?”
“How’d Michaela feel about that?”
“She thought Meserve had lost it,” said Montez. “Going for a senior citizen.I believe her precise phrase was ‘tired meat.’”
“Jealous?”
“No, she had no feelings for Meserve, just thought it was gross.”
“Was there any indication Nora was in on the hoax?”
“Michaela never said so but I wondered. Because she was fucking Meserve andhe didn’t get kicked out of her school. You think he killed Michaela?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Would you look at that,” he said. “Finally I get a shrink to be direct.”
“Is Marjani Coolidge back from her trip to Africa?”
“She’s right there.” Pointing down the hall to a short, thin black woman ina powder-blue suit. Two tall, gray-haired men were listening to what she had tosay.
“Thanks.” I turned to leave.
Montez said, “Just to show you I’m not the asshole you think I am, here’sanother tidbit: Dowd called me right after I got the case. Offered to pay anybills the county wasn’t covering. I told her the county could handle it, askedher why the generosity. She said Meserve was a gifted artist, she wanted tohelp him and if that meant clearing Michaela, she’d do it. I could smell thehormones through the phone. She good-looking?”
“Not bad.”
“For her age?”
“Something like that,” I said.
He laughed and wheeled his cart away and I walked toward Marjani Coolidge.The two men had left and she was examining the contents of her ownlawyer-luggage. Double-case, scuffed brown leather, stuffed so tight thestitching was unraveling.
I introduced myself, told her about Michaela’s murder.
She said, “I heard about that, the poor kid,” then interrogated me about myassociation with LAPD. Appraising my words and my body language with huge browneyes. Her hair was elaborately braided, her skin smooth and taut.
I said, “Did Meserve tell you anything that could shed light on the murder?”
“You’re serious.”
“Something non incriminating,” I said. “Anything that could help locatehim.”
“Is he a suspect?”
“He could turn out to be a victim.”
“Of the same person who killed Brand?”
“Maybe.”
She smoothed her skirt. “Non incriminating. Last I heard that animal wasextinct.”
“How about this,” I said. “Without divulging content, can you tell me ifMeserve’s someone to be scared of?”
“Was I scared of him? Not in the least. Not the brightest star in theconstellation but he did what he was told. That girlfriend of his, on the otherhand…”
“Which girlfriend is that?”
“The acting teacher—Dowd.”
“She caused problems?”
“Battleax,” said Coolidge. “Phoned me right at the outset, said she’d hire aprivate attorney if I didn’t give Pretty Boy high priority. I felt like saying,‘Is that a threat or a promise?’”
“What did you tell her?”
“‘Do what you want, ma-dame,’ then I hung up. Never heard from her again. Irepresented Meserve the way I do any other client. Turned out just fine,wouldn’t you say?”
“Meserve’s codefendant’s dead and he’s missing.”
“Irrelevant,” she said. “We settled, my obligations are over.”
“Just like that,” I said.
“You better believe it. My job, you learn to stay in your own orbit.”
“Orbit, constellation. You have an interest in astronomy?”
“Majored in it at Cornell. Then I moved here for law school and found outyou can’t see anything because of all the light pollution.” She smiled.“Civilization, I think you call it.”
Chapter 24
I exited the courthouse parking lot and took Rexford Drive through the Beverly Hills municipalcomplex. The light at Santa Monica was longenough for me to leave a message on Milo’scell.
Driving home, I wondered about the affair between Meserve and Nora. Partnersin the worst kind of crime or just another May-December romance?
Wouldn’t it be nice if Reynold Peaty got caught doing something nasty,confessed to multiple murder, and we could all move on.
I realized I was driving too fast and slowed down. Switching on a CD, Ilistened to Mindy Smith’s clear, sweet soprano. Waiting for her man to arriveon the next train.
The only thing waiting for me was mail and an unread newspaper. Maybe it wastime to get another dog.
As I turned off Sunset, a brown Audi Quattro parked on the east side ofBeverly Glen pulled behind me and stayed close. I sped up and so did the Audi,as it rode my tail close enough for a rear-view of bird dirt on the four-ringgrille. A tinted windshield prevented further clarity. I swung to the right.Instead of passing, the Audi downshifted, drove alongside to my left for asecond, then sped off in nasal acceleration. I made out a driver, nopassengers. A rear bumper sticker sported red letters on a white background.Too brief for me to read the whole message but I thought I’d seen the word“therapy.”
When I reached the bridle path that leads to my street, I looked for thecar. Nowhere.
Just another friendly day on the roads of L.A. I’d been an obstruction and he’d feltcompelled to tell me.
 
The phone was ringing as I walked into the house.
Robin said, “Sorry I missed your call.”
That threw me for a second. Then I remembered I’d called her this morning,hadn’t left a message.
She understood the pause, said, “Caller I.D. What’s up?”
“I was just saying hi.”
“Want to get together? Just to talk?”
“Sure.”
“How about talk and eat?” she said. “Nothing too intense, name the place.”
Long time since she’d been in the house that she’d designed. I said, “Icould make something here.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather go out.”
“When should I pick you up?”
“How about seven—seven thirty? I’ll wait outside.”
Meaning don’t come in? Or did she crave fresh air after hours of sawdust andvarnish?
Did it matter?
 
Rose Avenuesported a few more boutiques and cute cafés tucked among the laundromats andfast food stands. The ocean air that blew through windows was sour but notunpleasant for that. The night sky was a swirl of gray and indigo, textured likepigments mixed haphazardly on a palette. Soon the cute cafés would beoverflowing, pretty people fortified by margaritas and possibilities spillingout to the curb.
Robin lived minutes from that scene. Did she ever participate?
Did that matter?
 
--- oOo ---
 
Her block on Rennie was quiet and inconsistently lit, lined with neatlytended little houses and side-by-side duplexes. I spotted the flower beds she’dplanted out front before I saw her step out of the shadows.
Her hair bounced as she beelined to the car. Nighttime turned auburn rosy.Her curls reminded me, as they always did, of grapes on the vine.
She wore a second-skin top in some dark shade, form-fitted light jeans,boots with nasty looking heels that clump-clumped. As she opened the door thedome light told all: chocolate brown tank top, textured silk, one shade lighterthan her almond eyes. The jeans were cream, the boots mocha. Silvery pink glossripened her lips. Blush on her cheekbones created something feline.
Those curves.
She flashed a wide, ambiguous smile and put on her seat belt. The strap cutdiagonally between her breasts.
“Where to?” she said.
I’d taken her at her word about “nothing intense.” Haute cuisine meantritual and high expectations and we could do with neither.
Allison liked haute. Loved rolling the stem of a wineglass between manicuredfingers as she engaged in earnest discussion of an elegant menu with snootywaiters, her toes trailing up my trousers…
I mentioned a seafood joint in the Marinathat Robin and I had patronized back before the Ice Age. Spacious, dockside,no-sweat parking, nice view of a harbor full of big white boats, most of whichseemed never to go anywhere.
She said, “That place. Sure.”
We got a table outdoors, near the glass wall that keeps the wind out. Thenight had turned cool and butane heaters were switched on. The sports bar upfront was packed but it was still early for the Marina dinner crowd and more than half thetables were empty. A chirpy waitress who looked around twelve took our drinkorder and brought Robin’s wine and my Chivas before we had a chance to getawkward.
Drinking and gazing at the yachts postponed that a while longer.
Robin put her glass down. “You look fit.”
“You look gorgeous.”
She studied the water. Black and sleek and still, under a sky streaked withamethyst. “Must’ve been a great sunset.”
“We had a few of those,” I said. “That summer we lived at the beach.”
The year we’d rebuilt the house. Robin had served as the contractor. Did shemiss the place?
She said, “We had some spectacular ones at Big Sur. That crazy Zen place that wassupposed to be luxurious, then they stuck us with chemical toilets and thatterrible smell?”
“Rustic living.” I wondered if the place had been on the resort list Milo and I had just run down. “What was it called?”
“The Great Mandala Lodge. Closed down last year.” She looked away and I knewwhy. She’d gone back. With him.
She drank wine and said, “Even with the smell and the mosquitoes and thatsplinter in my toe from that stupid pinecone, it was fun. Who knew a pineconecould be lethal.”
“You’re forgetting my splinters,” I said.
Oversized incisors flashed. “I didn’t forget, I chose not to remind you.”Her hand made circular motions in the air. “Rubbing that ointment into yourcute butt. How could we know that other couple would be watching? All thatother stuff they could see from their cabin.”
“Should’ve charged them tuition,” I said. “Crash course in Sex Ed for thehoneymooners.”
“They did seem pretty inept. All that tension at breakfast. Think themarriage lasted?”
I shrugged.
Robin’s eyes turned down a bit. “The place deserved to tank. Charge thatkind of money and smell like a cesspool.”
More alcohol for both of us.
I said, “Nice to be with you.”
“Just before you called this morning, I was thinking.” Brief smile. “Alwaysa risky thing, no?”
“Thinking about what?”
“The challenge of relationships. Not you and me. Me and him.”
My gut twinged. I drained my scotch. Looked around for the baby-facedwaitress.
Robin said, “Me and him as in What Was I Thinking.”
“That’s rarely useful.”
“You don’t engage in self-doubt?”
“Sure I do.”
“I find it good for the soul,” she said. “That old Catholic girlresurfacing. All I could come up with was he convinced himself that he loved meand his intensity half convinced me. I was the one who broke it off, you know.He took it really hard—but that’s not your problem. Sorry for bringing it up.”
“He’s not a bad guy.”
“You never liked him.”
“Couldn’t stand him. Where is he?”
“You care?”
“I’d like him to be far.”
“Then you got your wish. London,teaching voice at the Royal Academy of Drama. His daughter’s living withhim—she’s twelve, wanted the switch.” She tugged at her curls. “It was rude,bringing him up.”
“He’s a twit,” I said. “But the problem wasn’t you and him, it was you and notme. ”
“I don’t know what it was,” she said. “All this time and I still can’tfigure it out. Just like the first time.”
Breakup number one, years ago. Neither of us had wasted time finding new bedpartners.
I said, “Maybe that’s the way it has to be with us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Eons together, centuries apart.”
Somewhere out in the open water a ship’s horn sounded.
She said, “It was mutual but for some reason I feel I should ask yourforgiveness.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“How’s Allison?”
“Doing her thing.”
Soft voice: “You two are really kaput?”
“That would be my bet.”
“You’re making it sound like you have no control,” she said.
“In my limited experience,” I said, “it’s rarely been necessary to make aformal announcement.”
“Sorry,” she said.
I drank.
“You really see it as mutual, Alex, and not my fault?”
“I do. And I don’t understand it any more than you do.” Ditto for the breakwith Allison. Maybe with any other woman I’d find…
“You know I was never untrue to you. Didn’t touch him until you and I wereliving apart.”
“You don’t owe me any explanation.”
“Everything we’ve been through,” she said, “I can’t figure out what I oweyou.”
Footsteps approaching the table rescued me from having to answer. I lookedup, expecting Ms. Chirpy. More than ready for another drink.
A man loomed over us.
Big-bellied, ruddy, balding, fifty or so. Black-framed eyeglasses slightlyaskew, sweaty forehead. He wore a maroon V-neck over a white polo shirt, grayslacks, brown loafers. Florid jowls settled over the shirt’s soft collar.
Swaying, he placed broad, hairless hands on our table. Sausage digits, somekind of class ring on his left index ring finger.
He leaned down and his weight made the table rock. Bleary eyes behind thespecs stared down at us. He gave off a beery odor.
Some joker who’d wandered over from the sports bar.
Keep it friendly. My smile was wary.
He tried to straighten up, lost balance, and slapped a hand back on thetable, hard enough to slosh water out of our glasses. Robin’s arm shot outbefore her wine toppled.
The drunk looked at her and sneered.
I said, “Hey, friend—”
“I. Am. Not. Your. Friend.”
Hoarse voice. I looked around for Ms. Perky. Anyone. Spotted a busboy up aways, wiping tables. I arched my eyebrows. He continued wiping. The nearestcouple, two tables down, was engaged in an eye-tango.
I told the drunk, “The bar’s back in there.”
He leaned in closer. “You. Don’t. Know. Who. I. Am?”
I shook my head.
Robin had room to back away. I motioned her to leave. When she started toget up, the drunk roared, “Sit. Slut!”
My brain fired.
Conflicting messages from the prefrontal cortex: rowdy young guys shouting: “We’repumped, dude! Pound him to shit!” A reedy old man’s voice whispering: “Careful.The consequences.”
Robin sank back.
I wondered how much karate I remembered.
The drunk demanded, “Who. Am. I?”
“I don’t know.” My tone said the old man was losing out to the prefrontalbad boys. Robin gave me a tiny head shake.
The drunk said, “What. Did. You. Say?”
“I don’t know who you are and I’d appreciate—”
“I. Am. Doctor. Hauser. Doctor. Hauser. And. You. Are.A. Fucking Liar. ”
The old man whispered:” Self-control. It’s all about control.”
Hauser drew back his fist.
The old man whispered,” Scratch all that.”
 
I caught him by the wrist, twisted hard and followed up with a heel-jabunder his nose. Hard enough to stun him, well short of driving bone into hisbrain.
As he tumbled back I sprang up and took hold of his shirt, breaking his fallto give him a soft landing.
My reward was a face full of beery spittle. I let go just before his ass hitthe deck. Tomorrow, his tailbone would hurt like hell.
He sat up for a moment, frothing at the mouth and rubbing his nose. The spotwhere I’d hit him was pink and just a little bit swollen. He worked his mouthto gather more spit, closed his eyes and flopped down and rolled over andstarted to snore.
A perky voice said, “Wow. What happened?”
A nasal voice said, “That dude tried to hit the other dude and the otherdude protected his lady.”
The busboy, standing next to the waitress. I caught his eye and he smileduneasily. He’d been watching all along.
“You were righteous, man. I gonna tell the cops.”
The cops showed up eleven long minutes later.
Chapter 25
Patrol Officer J. Hendricks, stocky, clean-cut, black as polished ebony.
Patrol Officer M. Minette, curvy, clean-cut, beige hair ponytailed.
Hendricks eyed the spot where Patrick Hauser had fallen. “So both of you aredoctors?” He stood just out of arm’s reach, notepad in hand. My back was to theglass wall. The diners who’d remained in the restaurant pretended not to stare.
An ambulance had come for Hauser. He’d greeted the EMTs by cursing andspitting and they’d restrained him on the gurney. Change had fallen out of hispocket. Two quarters and a penny remained on the deck.
“We’re both psychologists,” I said, “but as I said, I’ve never seen himbefore.”
“A total stranger assaulted you.”
“He was drunk. A brown Audi Quattro followed me home this afternoon. If youfind one in the parking lot, he stalked me, too.”
“All ’cause of this…” Hendricks consulted his notes, “this report you wrotehim up on.”
I retold the story, kept my sentences short and clear. Dropped Milo’s name. Again.
Hendricks said, “So you’re saying you hit him once under the nose with yourbare fist.”
“Heel of my hand.”
“That’s kind of a martial arts move.”
“It seemed the best way to handle it without inflicting serious damage.”
“That kind of blow could’ve inflicted real serious damage.”
“I was careful.”
“You a martial arts guy?”
“Not hardly.”
“A martial arts guy’s hands are like deadly weapons, Doctor.”
“I’m a psychologist.”
“Sounds like you moved pretty good.”
“It happened fast,” I said.
Scribble scribble.
I looked over at Officer Minette, listening to the busboy and writing aswell. She’d interviewed Robin, first, then the waitress. I was Hendricks’sassignment.
No handcuffs, that was a good sign.
Minette let the busboy go and came over. “Everyone seems to be telling thesame story.” The narrative she recited matched what I’d told Hendricks. Herelaxed.
“Okay, Doctor. I’m going to make a call and verify your address with DMV.That checks out, you’re free to go.”
“You might check if Hauser’s got a Quattro.”
Hendricks looked at me. “I might do that, sir.”
I searched for Robin.
Minette said, “Your lady friend went to the little girls’ room. She said thevictim called her a slut.”
“He did.”
“That must’ve been irritating.”
“He was drunk,” I said. “I didn’t take him seriously.”
“Still,” she said. “That’s pretty annoying.”
“It wasn’t until he tried to hit me that I was forced to act.”
“Loser insults your date like that, some guys would have reacted stronger.”
“I’m a man of discretion.”
She smiled. Her partner didn’t join in.
She said, “I think we’re finished here, John.”
 
As Robin and I walked through the restaurant, someone whispered, “That’s theguy.”
Once we got outside, I exhaled. My ribs hurt. Hauser hadn’t touched me; I’dbeen holding in air for a long time. “What a disaster.”
Robin slipped her arm around my waist.
“You need to know,” I said, “that this was a civil case, nothing to do withpolice work.” I told her about the harassment charges against Hauser, myinterview of his victims, the report I’d written.
“Why do I need to know?” she said.
“The way you feel about the ugly stuff. This was out of the blue, Robin.”
We headed for the Sevilleand I scanned the lot for the brown Audi.
There it was, parked six slots south. The red letters on the bumper sticker said,Get Therapy.
I wanted to laugh but couldn’t. Wasn’t surprised when we reached the Seville and both of myrear tires were flat. No slash marks; the valves had been opened.
Robin said, “That’s pathetic.”
“I’ve got a pump in the trunk.”
Part of the emergency kit Milo and Rick hadgotten me last Christmas. Tire changing kit, flares, orange Day-Glo roadmarkers, blankets, bottled water.
Rick taking me aside and confiding, “I’d have picked a nice sweater, but acooler head prevailed.”
Milo’s voice bellowing from the corner of their living room: “Haberdasherydon’t cut it when you’re stranded out on some isolated road with no lights andwolves and God knows what other toothy carnivores are aiming their beady littlepredator eyes at your anatomy, just waiting to—”
“Then why didn’t we get him a gun, Milo?”
“Next year. Some day you’ll thank me, Alex. You’re welcome in advance.”
 
I hooked up the pump and got to work.
When I was finished, Robin said, “The way you handled it—just enough todefuse the situation and no one got hurt. Classy.”
She took my face in her hands and kissed me hard.
We found a deli on Washington Boulevard, bought more takeout than we needed,drove back to Beverly Glen.
Robin walked into the house as if she lived there, entered the kitchen andset the table. We made it halfway through the food.
 
When she got out of bed, the movement woke me. Sweaty nap but my eyes weredry.
Through half-closed lids, I watched her slip on my ratty yellow robe and padaround the bedroom. Touching the tops of chairs and tables. Pausing by thedresser. Righting a framed print.
At the window, she drew back one side of the silk curtains she’d designed.She put her face against the glass, peered out at the foothills.
I said, “Pretty night.”
“The view,” she said without turning. “Still unobstructed.”
“Looks like it’s going to stay that way. Bob had his lower acre surveyed andit’s definitely unfit for construction.”
“Bob the Neighbor,” she said. “How’s he doing?”
“When he’s in town, he seems well.”
“Second home in Tahiti,” she said.
“Main home in Tahiti. Nothing likeinherited wealth.”
“That’s good news—about the view. I was hoping for that when I oriented theroom that way.” She let the curtain drop. Smoothed the pleats. “I did a decentjob with this place. Like living here?”
“Not as much as I used to.”
She cinched the robe tighter, half faced me. Her hair was wild, her lipsslightly swollen. Faraway eyes.
“I thought it might be strange,” she said. “Coming back. It’s less strangethan I would’ve predicted.”
“It’s your place, too,” I said.
She didn’t answer.
“I mean it.”
She baby-stepped over to the far end of the bed, played with the edges ofthe comforter. “You haven’t thought that through.”
I hadn’t. “Sure I have. Many a long night.”
She shrugged.
“The place echoes, Robin.”
“It always did. We were aiming for great acoustics.”
“It can be musical,” I said. “Or not.”
She pulled at the comforter, squared the seam with the edge of the mattress.“You do all right by yourself.”
“Says who?”
“You’ve always been self-contained.”
“Like hell.” My voice was harsh.
She looked up at me.
I said, “Come back. Keep the studio if you need privacy, but live here.”
She tugged at the comforter some more. Her mouth twisted into a shape Icouldn’t read. Loosening the robe, she let it fall to the floor, reconsidered,picked it up, folded it neatly over a chair. The organized mind of someone whoworks with power tools.
Fluffing her hair, she got back in bed.
“No pressure, just think about it,” I said.
“It’s a lot to digest.”
“You’re a tough kid.”
“Like hell.” Pressing her flank to mine, she laced her fingers and placedthem over her belly.
I drew the covers over us.
“That’s better, thanks,” she said.
Neither of us moved.
Chapter 26
Once I’m roused, I’m restless for hours.
As Robin slept, I prowled the house. Ended up in my office and composed amental list. Switched to a written list.
First thing tomorrow I’d contact Erica Weiss and tell her about Hauser. Moreammunition for her civil suit. If Hauser’s control was that loose, mountinglegal problems might not stop him from harassing me. Or getting litigioushimself.
This whole mess could cost me. I tried to convince myself it was the priceof doing business.
Must be nice to be that serene.
Replaying the scene at the restaurant, I wondered how Hauser had lasted thislong as a therapist. Maybe the smart thing would be filing a preemptive suitagainst him. Officers Hendricks and Minette had appeared to see things my way,so a police report would help. But you never knew.
Milo would know what to do but he had otherthings on his mind.
So did I.
My offer to Robin spilling out like Pentothal chatter. If she said yes,would that constitute a happy ending?
So many what-ifs.
 
--- oOo ---
 
Milo said, “I was just about to call you.”
“Kismet.”
“You don’t want this type of kismet.” He told me why.
I said, “I’ll be right over.”
 
The note I left on the nightstand read:
Dear R, Had to go out, a bit of the ugly stuff. Stay as long as you’d like.If you have to go, let’s talk tomorrow.
I dressed quietly, tiptoed to the bed, and kissed her cheek. She stirred,reached up with one arm, let it drop as she rolled over.
Girl fragrance mixed with the smell of sex. I took one last look at her andleft.
 
Reynold Peaty’s corpse had been wrapped in translucent plastic, tied withstout twine, and loaded onto the right-hand stretcher in the white coroner’svan. The vehicle remained parked in front of Peaty’s apartment building, reardoors open. Bolted metal racks secured the body and the empty stretcher to itsleft.
Busy nights in L.A.,double occupancy transport was a good idea.
Flanking the coroner’s van were four black-and-whites, roof lights pulsing.Terse recitations from dispatch operators sparked the night but no one waslistening.
Lots of uniforms standing around trying to look official. Miloand Sean Binchy conferred near the farthest cop car. Milotalked and Binchy listened. For the first time since I’d known the youngdetective, he looked upset.
Over the phone, Milo told me the shootinghad taken place an hour ago. But the suspect was just being taken down thestairs of Peaty’s building.
Young Hispanic guy, heavily built, broad skull helmeted by dark stubble.Escorted by two huge, gym-rat patrolmen who diminished him.
I’d seen him before, when I’d driven past the building last Sunday.
Father of the young family heading for church. Wife and three chubby littlekids. Stiff gray suit that looked out of place.
Kids having kids.
He’d aimed hard eyes my way as I stopped in front of the building. No viewof his eyes now. His arms were cuffed behind him and his head hung low.
Barefoot, wearing a black XXXXL T-shirt that nearly reached his knees, saggygray sweatpants that threatened to slip off his hips, and a big gold fist on achain that swung over the shirt’s snarling pit bull BaaadBoyz logo.
Someone had forgotten to remove the bling. Milowent over and rectified the situation and the iron-pumper cops seemed abashed.The suspect looked up as Milo fiddled, heavylids tenting. When Milo got the chain off, thekid smiled and said something. Milo smiledback. He checked behind the kid’s ears. Waved the cops on and handed thenecklace to an evidence tech who bagged it.
As the uniforms got the shooter into one of the idling cruisers and droveaway, Mrs. Ertha Stadlbraun stepped out of her ground-floor flat and walked tothe sidewalk. Standing just right of the taped perimeter, she shivered andhugged herself. Her dressing gown was custard-yellow and quilted. Fuzzy whitemules encased her feet and yellow rollers turned her hair into whitetortellini. Shiny bright skin; some kind of night cream.
She shivered again and tightened her arms. Tenants stared out of windows. Sodid a few residents of the dingbat next door.
Milo beckoned me over. His face was sweaty.Sean Binchy stayed behind, not doing much of anything. When I got there, hesaid, “Doctor,” and chewed his lip.
Milo said, “Hot town, summer in the city.”
“In February.”
“That’s why we live here.”
I told him about seeing the suspect before. Described the kid’s demeanor.
He said, “That fits.”
A coroner’s attendant slammed the van’s doors shut, got in, drove away.
I said, “How close is his apartment to Peaty’s?”
“Two doors down. His name’s Armando Vasquez, he’s got a sealed juvenile ganghistory, claims to be a steadily working, church-going married man for the pastfour years. Has a landscaping gig with a company that maintains some of the bigB.H. properties north of Sunset. He used to just mow grass but this year helearned to trim trees. He’s pretty proud of that.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-one. Wife’s nineteen, three kids under five. For the most part theystayed asleep while I tried to chat with their daddy. One time the oldesttoddled in. I let Vasquez kiss the kid. Kid smiled at me.” He sighed. “Vasquezhas no adult sheet, so maybe he’s telling the truth about finding God. Theneighbors I’ve spoken to so far say the kids can be noisy but the familydoesn’t cause problems. No one liked Peaty. Apparently, everyone in thebuilding’s been jabbering about him, since we met with Stadlbraun.”
He glanced at the old woman. Still hugging herself, staring out at thedarkened street. She seemed to be fighting for composure.
I said, “She spread the word Peaty was dangerous.”
Milo nodded. “The ol’ gossip mill waschugging along. Before Vasquez dummied up, he told me Peaty always rubbed himthe wrong way.”
“Prior conflict?”
“No fights, just lots of tension. Vasquez didn’t like Peaty living so close.The term he used was ‘fuckin’ crazy dude.’ After he said that, he startedmoving his head back and forth and up and down. I said, ‘What’re you doing,Armando?’ He says, ‘Crossing myself. You got me cuffed so I’m doing it thisway.’”
“Did Peaty ever bother his wife?”
“He stared at her, which is consistent with what everyone else says.‘Fuckin’ crazy stare.’ Unfortunately for Vasquez, it’s not justification forblowing Peaty’s brains out.”
Sean Binchy came over, still looking uneasy. “Need me for anything more,Loot?”
“No, go home. Relax.”
Binchy flinched. “Thanks. Hey, Doc. Bye.”
Milo said, “You did fine, Sean.”
“Whatever.”
When he left, I said, “What’s bothering him?”
“The lad has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. He worked a robberycase all day, got off at eleven, and decided on his own to watch Peaty. Hestarted here, didn’t see Peaty’s minivan, went out for a burger at atwenty-four-hour spot, got back just after midnight and spotted the van a blockup that way.”
He pointed east. “He was looking for a watch spot in the alley when he heardthe three shots. Peaty caught all of ’em full-faced. You wouldn’t figure thatphysiog could get any uglier but…”
“Sean’s feeling guilty about not being here.”
“About the burger. About nothing. No way he could’ve prevented it.”
“Did he arrest Vasquez?”
“He called for backup then went up the stairs. Peaty’s body was out on thewalkway between the apartments. At that point, Sean waited for the blues and they went door to door. When they got to Vasquez’s apartment, Vasquez was sittingon his couch watching TV, the gun’s right next to him and so are the wife and the oldest kid. Vasquez puts up his hands and says, ‘I killed his ass, do yourthing.’ The wife starts bawlin’, the kid stays real quiet.”
“How’d it happen?” I said.
“When I got to specifics, Vasquez got laryngitis. My sense is he’s beenstewing on Peaty for a while, started bubbling over when ol’ Ertha told himabout my visit. For some reason, tonight he got tired of doing nothing, sawPeaty come home, and went out to tell him to stay away from Mrs. Vasquez. Asthey say in the papers, a confrontation ensued. Vasquez claims Peaty made amove on him, he needed to defend himself, boom boom boom.”
“Vasquez went out there armed.”
“There is that minor detail,” he said. “Maybe some lawyer will try to twistit as evidence Vasquez was scared of Peaty.”
“Alcohol or dope involved?” I said.
“Vasquez admits to four beers and that fits with the empties in his trashbasket. With his body weight that might or might not be relevant, depends whatthe bloodwork turns up. Now let’s see if the techies are through with Peaty’sdomicile.”
 
A room and a half bath, both tiny and putrid.
Fetid mélange of old cheese, charred tobacco, body gas, garlic, oregano.
An empty, grease-stained pizza box sat open on the metal-frame double bed.Crumbs dandruffed rumpled sheets the color of wet newsprint and green bedcoversprinted with a repeating pattern of top hats and bowlers. Several, large,unpleasant stains on the sheets. Wads of dirty laundry filled most of the floorspace. A waist-high stack of Old Milwaukee six-packs and the bed filled whatwas left. Fingerprint dust everywhere. That seemed unnecessary—the body hadfallen outside—but you never knew about lawyers’ creativity.
Milo kicked his way through the jumble andapproached a wooden packing crate that served as a bed stand. Cluttering thetop were oily takeout menus, balled-up tissues, crushed empty beer cans—Icounted fourteen—a gallon bottle of Tyger fortified wine two-thirds empty, aneconomy-sized flask of Pepto-Bismol.
The only real furniture other than the bed was a ragged three-drawer dresserthat supported a nineteen-inch TV and a VCR large enough to be quaint.Rabbit-ear antenna.
I said, “No cable box,” and opened a dresser drawer. “His entertainmentneeds were simple.”
Inside were boxed videotapes, stacked like books in a horizontal shelf. Loudcolors. Lots of X’s. Not-So Legal Temptresses, Volumes 1 through 11.ShowerTeen, Upskirt Adventures, X-Ray Journey, Voyeur’s Village.
The bottom two drawers held clothing that looked no fresher than the mess onthe floor. Under a tangle of T-shirts, Milofound an envelope with $600 in cash and a small plastic box marked Sewing Kit,filled with five tightly round joints.
The half bath was a cubicle in the corner. My nose had accommodated tobedroom stench but this was a new challenge. The shower was fiberglass, barelybig enough for a woman, let alone a man of Peaty’s bulk. Originally beige, nowbrown, with a blackish-green crop of something flourishing at the drain. Astreaked, spotted mirror was glued to the wall over the sink; no medicinecabinet. On the floor next to the cracked, grimy toilet was a small wicker box.Inside was an assortment of antacids and OTC analgesics, a toothbrush thatlooked as if it hadn’t been used in a while, an amber pharmacy bottlecontaining two Vicodin pills. The original prescription had been for twenty-onetabs, prescribed by a doctor at a Las Vegas clinic seven years ago and filled at the clinic’spharmacy.
“Saving it for the bad times,” I said. “Or the good.”
“The occasional highball,” said Milo.“Trailer-park style.”
He returned to the bedroom, searched under the bed, came up dusty andempty-handed. Held his hands away from his slacks, glanced at the bathroom.“I’m not sure using that sink would make me cleaner…let’s see if there’s a hoseoutdoors.”
 
Before we descended the stairs, he took me for a look at the kill-spot.Peaty had shed a lot of red. The spot where he’d fallen was demarcated by blacktape.
A uniform stood outside the Vasquez apartment. Milosaluted her and we found a hose near Mrs. Stadlbraun’s apartment. She was backinside, drapes drawn tight.
When he finished washing off, he said, “Any insights?”
“If Peaty’s our bad guy, he didn’t keep trophies or anything else ofinterest,” I said.
 
But I was wrong.
In the rear of the rust-spotted red minivan, Milofound boxes of cleaning supplies, tarps, brooms, mops, washcloths. Buried underthe tarps was a brown, double-decker toolbox. A key-lock dangled from the haspbut it had been left unbolted.
Milo gloved up and opened the box. In thetop foldaway rack were screwdrivers, hammers, wrenches, pliers, little plasticcylinders of screws and nails. In the compartments below were a set of burglarpicks, two rolls of duct tape, a box cutter, a wire cutter, a push-buttonstiletto, a spool of thick, white nylon rope, four sets of women’s panty hose,a blue steel automatic pistol wrapped in a grubby pink washcloth.
Loaded gun. Plenty of ammunition left in the box of .22-caliber bulletswedged into a corner of the toolbox.
Next to the bullets, something else wrapped in terry. Round, firm.
Milo unwrapped it. Souvenir snow globe. Thepink plastic base read MALIBU, CALIF. SURF’S UP!
He upended the sphere. White flakes fluttered over a cobalt ocean. Heexamined the underside of the base. “Made in U.S.A. New Hampshire. That explains it. Sons ofbitches wanted to think of us frozen just like them.”
He returned the globe to the box, walkie-talkied one of the techs at themurder scene. “Lucio? Drive up a ways. There’s more.”
 
While the crime scene crew did their thing with the van, Milolocated the VIN number and did a search.
Stolen four years ago in Highland Park and never recovered, the registered owner WendellA. Chong. Chong had a home address in South Pasadenathat Milo copied down.
I said, “Peaty cleans lots of buildings on the east side, probably spottedan opportunity a year after he arrived in California and never bothered to tell theboss. Brad Dowd’s paying for van-pool pickup. Peaty used the service most ofthe time. Meanwhile, he had an option.”
“Equipped with a burglary/rape kit.” He frowned. “Okay, let’s boogie.”
 
It was twelve thirty-four when I followed him to a Coco’s at Pico and Wooster. He spent a longtime in the men’s room, came out with hands scrubbed pink and damp hair.
“Didn’t know they provide showers,” I said.
“I prayed to the sink.” He ordered Boston cream pie and coffee for both ofus.
I said, “Not hungry.”
“Good. This way I get two without looking like a pig. So Peaty’s anextremely bad guy. What does the globe mean?”
“The globe Dylan gave to Nora could’ve been part of a duo. Or a collection.One got left in Dylan’s car because Peaty was bragging. The other he kept formasturbatory memories.”
“Meaning, if you’re Prudential, don’t write a policy on Nora and Meserve.Any guesses where to start looking for their bodies?”
I shook my head. “The van and the kit say Peaty could’ve traveled anywhere.They also provide a scenario for Michaela. He targeted her at the PlayHouse,followed her home, found out she lived close to him. After that, it was easyfor him to watch her from the van. When the time was right, he snagged her,drove her somewhere secluded, and strangled her. Maybe even in the van.”
He frowned. “Abduction and seclusion sounds like bringing Dylan andMichaela’s hoax to life. You think that’s what stimulated Peaty?”
“He’d probably been watching Michaela for a while but the hoax clinched it.And Michaela getting kicked out of class meant she spent more evenings at homealone.”
“Wherever he did her, Alex, he brought her back to the neighborhood. What’sthat, staying in his comfort zone?”
“Or just the opposite,” I said. “Whoever killed Tori Giacomo dumped her in Griffith Park and concealed her body quiteefficiently. The park’s miles from Tori’s apartment in the Valley and evenfarther from Peaty’s. It’s also a brief freeway detour from the Valley toPasadena—get off the 101 and take the 5 for one exit, do your thing, get backon.”
“Dropping her off on the way to work,” he said. “Same way he stole the van.”
“But getting away with Tori could’ve made him more daring with Michaela.With everyone thinking he had no wheels, he didn’t worry about the body beingtraced back to him. So he left her right out in the open.”
“The no-wheels lie wasn’t hard to uncover.”
“Wanting to brag overrode his caution,” I said. “He was no criminal genius.Like most of them.”
The pie arrived. He ate his, reached for mine. “Maybe with Michaela, he wasjust being lazy. Seeing as she lived so close to him, no reason to roam. Toriwas in North Hollywood, no sense bringing herhome. So what about the Gaidelases? Peaty’s video collection is consistent withhis Peeping Tom arrest. Good-looking young women.”
I said, “It’s hard to square the Gaidelases with that, but like I saidbefore, he could’ve had other kinks. The car recovered in Camarillo’s a tougher fit. If he left his vannear the murder site and drove the Gaidelases’ rental to the outlets, how’d heget back to Malibu?”
“To me that’s no problem. He hitchhiked, stole another set of wheels, took abus—or he never drove the rental in the first place. All he needed to do wasleave it parked on Kanan Dume, windows wide open, keys in the ignition. Openinvitation for some joyriding kid.”
“Joyride to the outlets?” I said. “Juvenile delinquents looking for bargains?”
“Why not? Shoplift some cool Nikes and hip-hop sweats. Any way you look atit, having Mr. Peaty swept off this mortal coil is no loss.”
“True.”
Several bites later: “What’s on your mind?”
“The scenarios we’ve constructed depend on planning and patience. The wayPeaty died—not backing off from an armed man—showed a lack of control.”
“He was drunk. Or Vasquez didn’t give him a chance to back off.”
“Vasquez just went out there and shot him?”
“It happens.”
“It does,” I said. “But think about this: the Gaidelases’ bodies have neverbeen found and their credit cards were never used. Plus someone took thetrouble to phone utilities in Ohioand have their power shut off. That’s high-level calculation and discretion.Peaty was nabbed by a bystander watching college girls while beating off. Hecontinued to stare openly at women and gave them the creeps. That sounddiscreet?”
“Even morons learn, Alex. But let’s put the Gaidelases aside for a moment.Are you okay with Michaela and Tori as Peaty’s handiwork?”
I nodded.
“Good, because stolen wheels, duct tape, rope, a knife, a loaded gun are thekind of evidence I can write up. Basic gear from your local Psycho KillerEmporium.” He massaged a temple. Ate pie, drank coffee. Pushed the empty plateback in front of me and called for a refill.
The waitress said, “Boy, you guys were hungry.”
Milo grinned. She thought it was sincereand smiled back.
When she was gone, his eyes clouded. “Almost two years passed between Toriand Michaela. The nasty old question resurfaces.”
“How many others in between,” I said.
“Peaty tags ’em at the PlayHouse. No curriculum, no attendance roster,people drop in and out. It’s a predator’s dream. I thought maybe Nora was beingevasive when she told me that. Now, with her looking more and more like avictim, I believe her.”
“We found no additional trophies in Peaty’s apartment or the van. So maybethere are no other victims.”
“Or he’s got a storage bin somewhere.”
“Could be. I’d start with the buildings where Peaty did janitorial work.”
“Grabbing freebie storage,” he said. “Maybe that explains stashing Meserve’sToyota inBrad’s garage. It also fits big-time hostility toward authority. All thoseproperties the Dowds own, Peaty doing the scut. Be hard for Brad to monitorevery bit of space…so what were you calling me about before I told you aboutPeaty?”
“Not important.”
“It was important enough to call.”
I recounted the scene with Hauser.
“You and Robin?”
“Yup.”
He worked hard at stoicism. “Guy’s a shrink? Sounds like a nut.”
“At the very least he’s an ugly drunk.”
“They arrest him?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “They took him away in an ambulance.”
“You clocked him good, huh?”
“I used discretion.”
He squinted, turned his hands to blades, chopped the air, whispered,“‘Heeyah!’ I thought you’d given up on all that black belt stuff.”
“Never got past brown belt,” I said. “It’s like riding a bike.”
“Hopefully the fool will wake up with a sore nose and realize the error ofhis ways. Want me to get the reports?”
“I was hoping.”
“Any detectives show up?”
“Just uniforms. Hendricks and Minette. He-and-she team.”
He phoned Pacific Division, asked to speak to the watch commander, explainedthe situation, listened, hung up smiling. “In the official police record, youare treated as a victim. Hauser was booked for creating a disturbance in apublic place and released. What kind of car does he drive?”
“Don’t waste time cruising by.”
“A shrink, let’s see…I’m guessing Volvo, maybe some kind of Volkswagen.”
“Audi Quattro.”
“Right continent,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll cruise by, you’re welcome.”
“It’s unlikely he’ll persist, Milo. When hesobers up he’ll realize another disturbance will mess him up in civil court. Ifhe doesn’t, his lawyer will educate him.”
“If he was that smart, Alex, he’d never have stalked you in the firstplace.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’m okay and you’ve got a full plate.”
“Interesting,” he said.
“What is?”
He loosened his belt and suppressed a belch. “Your choice of gastronomicimagery.”
Chapter 27
No sign of Hauser’s Audi when I got home at two a.m. The bed was made up andRobin was gone. I called her six hours later.
“I heard you leave,” she said. “Went outside but you were driving away. Whatkind of ugly are we talking about?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I do. The new me.”
“The old you was fine.”
“The ostrich’s head has been lifted. What happened, Alex?”
“Someone got shot. An extremely bad guy. You could’ve stayed.”
“I got antsy,” she said. “It’s a big house.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“Last night was good, Alex.”
“Except for the chop-socky interlude.”
“Are you worried Hauser’s going to cause more trouble?”
“Maybe he’s smarter when he’s sober. The police wrote it up in my favor.About what I asked you—”
“Have a change of heart?”
“Of course not.”
“It wasn’t just the moment, Alex?”
Maybe it had been. “No.”
Couple of beats. “Would you be upset if I said I needed some time to think?”
“It’s a big step,” I said.
“It is. Which is kind of strange, given how much of our lives we’ve shared.”
I didn’t answer.
She said, “I won’t take too long.”
 
I left a message with Erica Weiss’s secretary, saying I wanted to talk aboutPatrick Hauser. Just as I hung up, Miloclicked in.
He sounded exhausted. Probably up all night on Peaty. Maybe that’s why hedidn’t bother with niceties.
“Wendell A. Chong, the guy whose van Peaty ripped off, is a softwareconsultant who used to rent office space in a building owned by the Dowds. Thevan was boosted from his reserved tenant slot at night, while Chong was workinglate. Chong collected insurance, bought himself a new car, has no interest inreclaiming it.”
“Peaty watched and seized the opportunity,” I said. “Chong have anyimpressions of Peaty?”
“Never saw him. Who he does remember is Billy Dowd. He’d always wondered ifBilly had something to do with the theft.”
“Why?”
“Because Billy used to hang around aimlessly when Brad came by to collectrent. One time he drifted into Chong’s office and just stood there, like heowned the place. Chong asked him what he wanted, Billy got a spaced-out look inhis eyes and left without a word. Chong followed Billy out into the hall, sawhim walking up and down, like he was patrolling. A couple of women stepped outof an office and Billy checked them out. Pretty intensely, according to Chong.Then Brad showed up, ushered Billy away. But he kept bringing Billy along, soChong started locking his door. Interesting, huh?”
“Billy and Peaty?” I said.
“Weirdos finding common ground. It happens, right? Brad protects Billy buthe can’t be everywhere. And like you said, he overestimates his power. Maybe hetakes Billy along with him when he checks out the garage at the PlayHouse. Orthe PlayHouse itself. I don’t see Billy getting laid on his own.”
“Billy seemed gentle.”
“Maybe he is,” he said. “Except when he’s not. In any event, I just gotpermission from Vasquez’s D.P.D. to interview his client, on my way over to thejail. I’m betting on a quick plea, maybe involuntary manslaughter. Kinda niceto have one that closes easy.”
“You could name Peaty as the bad guy on Michaela and close that,” I said.
“Yet I wonder aloud about Billy,” he said. “Why? Because I’m aself-destructive fool, no sleep in two days, I’m vulnerable, amigo. Tell me toforget about Billy and I will.”
“Two bad guys could explain how the Gaidelases’ car ended up twenty-fivemiles from Kanan Dume. Billy doesn’t seem street-smart, but Peaty could’vehelped him there. Still, it’s hard to imagine him getting away for any lengthof time. He and Brad seem to be together most of the day and at night there’s aneighbor watching him.”
“The ‘nice lady.’ Wonder how hard she looks. I was supposed to check thatout but with all that’s happened…do you think it’s interesting that the badstuff we know about started after Billy got his own place?”
“If the bad stuff was the product of a sick relationship,” I said, “withPeaty gone, Billy might not act out again.”
“There’s comfort for you.”
“I can drop by and talk to the neighbor.”
“That would be great, I’m tied up with Vasquez all day.” He read off Billy’saddress on Reeves Drive.“Any more problems from that asshole Hauser?”
“Not a one.”
“Good.”
“I’m still wondering about something,” I said.
“Am I going to want to hear this?”
“Dylan Meserve picked Latigo for the hoax because he hiked up there. Whatled the Gaidelases to the same spot?”
“Aha,” he said. “Already been there and back. Maybe Peaty overheard Dylantalking about hiking up there. While the Gaidelases were waiting for theiraudition, they mentioned wanting to hike and Peaty overheard again and gavethem advice.”
“That’s a lot of overhearing.”
“He’s a watcher.”
“Okay,” I said.
“You’re not buying it.”
“What we know about Meserve suggests lack of conscience, or at the least aweak one. Michaela’s description of his behavior those nights bothers me. Mindgames, preoccupation with death, rough sex. I hate to add to your burden but—”
“It’s not my burden. The Gaidelases were never my case.”
A casual acquaintance might’ve bought that.
He said, “Peaty for the girls, Meserve for the Gaidelases? What, that damnedschool was a magnet for homicidal maniacs?”
“Something went on there.”
He laughed. Not a pleasant sound.
Chapter 28
Erica Weiss phoned back while I was in the shower. I dried off and reachedher at her office.
“What an experience, Doctor. You okay?” Like many referrals, she was just aphone voice to me. Fast-talking, high-energy, peppy as a cheerleader.
“I’m fine. Any word on Hauser?”
“Haven’t checked yet. What exactly transpired?”
When I finished the re-tell, she was peppier. “His malpractice carrier willbe thrilled to learn the ante just got upped. Idiot just cooked his goose well-done.When can I depose you?”
“Everything’s in the police report,” I said.
“Even so. When’s convenient for you?”
Never. “How about tomorrow?”
“I was thinking more like today.”
“It’s short notice.”
“Those poor women could use their settlements, Doctor.”
“Try me late in the afternoon.”
“You’re a doll,” she said. “I’ll come to you with the court reporter. Justname the place.”
“Let’s talk later.”
“Commitment-shy? Sure, whatever works, but please make it sooner rather thanlater.”
 
Billy Dowd’s address was on the south side of Beverly Hills, a short walk to Roxbury Park. Last year, I’dwitnessed a shoot-out at the park that had never made the papers. This was Beverly Hills, with itsaura of safety and ninety-second police response.
Lots of Spanish-style duplexes from the twenties on the block. Billy’s waspink with leaded windows, a red-clay roof, and exuberant plaster moldings. Anunfenced gateway led to a tile-inlaid stairway that climbed to the secondfloor. The overhang created a shaded entry nook for the ground-floor unit.
The wrought-iron mailbox inside the left-hand gatepost was unmarked. Iclimbed to the upstairs unit and knocked on a heavy carved door. Thepeep-window was blocked by a wooden slat but it stayed closed as the dooropened.
A brunette in a white nylon uniform dress looked at me while combing herhair. Coarse hair chopped boyish meant short brisk strokes. She was fortyishwith a dangerous tan, a beakish nose, and close-set black eyes. Santa Monica Hospital name tag above her left breast:A. Holzer, R.N.
A strange man showing up unannounced didn’t perturb her.
“Can I help you?” Some kind of Teutonic accent.
“Billy Dowd lives downstairs?”
“Yes, but he’s not here.”
I showed her my police consultant I.D. Expired six months ago. Very fewpeople are detail-oriented. A. Holzer barely glanced at it. “Police? AboutBilly?”
“One of Billy and his brother’s employees was involved in some trouble.”
“Oh—you wish to speak to Billy about that?”
“Actually, I’m here to see you.”
“Me? Why?”
“You look after Billy?”
“Look after?” She laughed. “He’s a grown man.”
“Physically he is,” I said.
The hand around the hairbrush turned glossy. “I don’t understand why you areasking these questions. Billy is all right?”
“He’s fine. These are routine questions. Sounds as if you like him.”
“Of course I do, Billy is very nice,” she said. “Listen, I am very tired,got off shift early this morning. I would like to sleep—”
“Eleven-to-seven shift your usual?”
“Yes. That’s why I would like to sleep.” New smile. Frosty.
“Sounds like you deserve it. What unit do you work on?”
“Cardiac Care—”
“Eight hours of CCU care, then all the time you spend with Billy.”
“It’s not—Billy doesn’t require—why is this important?” She placed a hand onthe door.
“It probably isn’t,” I said. “But when something really bad happens, lots ofquestions need to be asked. About everyone who knew the victim.”
“There was a victim. Someone was hurt?”
“Someone was murdered.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Gotten Himmel—who?”
“A man named Reynold Peaty.”
Head shake. “I don’t know this person.”
“He did janitorial work at some of Brad and Billy’s buildings.” I describedPeaty.
When I got to the muttonchops, she said, “Oh, him.”
“You’ve met him.”
“Not a meeting, just seeing.”
“He came here,” I said.
She plucked at her badge. Gave her hair a few more whacks.
“Ms. Holzer—”
“Annalise Holzer.” Lower voice, soft, guarded. I half expected a rank andserial number.
I said, “Reynold Peaty came to see Billy.”
“No, no, not to see, to bring things back.”
“Things?”
“Things Billy forgets. At the office. Sometimes Mr. Dowd brings themhimself, sometimes I guess he sends this man.”
“Reynold Peaty.”
“Billy didn’t kill him, that is for sure. Billy opens the windows to letflies out so he doesn’t have to hit them.”
“Gentle.”
“Gentle,” Annalise Holzer agreed. “Like a nice little boy.”
“But forgetful,” I said.
“Everyone forgets.”
“What does Billy forget?”
“The watch, the wallet. Lots of times the wallet.”
“Mr. Peaty came by and gave you the wallet?”
“No,” she said. “He tells me Billy lost the wallet and he is returning thewallet.”
“How many times did that happen?”
“A few,” she said. “I do not count.”
Lots of times the wallet. I raised an eyebrow.
Annalise Holzer said, “A few times, that’s all.”
“Those times, did Mr. Peaty go inside Billy’s apartment?”
“I don’t know.”
“You watch him.”
“Nein,” she said. “Not watching, not babysitting. Mr. Dowd asks me to helpif Billy needs something.”
“Sounds like a good job.”
Shrug.
“Good salary?”
“No money, only less rent.”
“Mr. Dowd’s your landlord?”
“Very nice landlord, some of them are like…snakes.”
Milo hadn’t mentioned any Beverly Hills properties in the Dowds’ holdings.
I said, “So you get a discount on the rent in return for looking in onBilly.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“What does that involve day to day?”
“Being here,” said Annalise Holzer. “If he needs something.”
“How does Billy get around?”
“Get around?”
“Go from place to place. He doesn’t drive.”
“He does not go out much,” said Annalise Holzer. “Sometimes I take him to amovie on Sunday. Century City, I drop him off,pick him up. Mostly I rent him DVDs from the video store on Olympic near Al-mont Drive.Billy has a big flat-screen TV, better than a movie theater, no?”
“Anyone else ever drive him?”
“Mr. Dowd picks him up in the morning and brings him home. Every day theywork.”
Wide circuit from Santa Monica Canyon to Beverly Hills and back to the beach city. Brad’s unpaid job.
“Is there anyone else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Taxi, car service?”
“Never do I see that.”
“So Billy doesn’t go out much.”
“Never by himself,” said Annalise Holzer. “Never do I see him go out, evento walk. I like to walk, when I ask him does he want to walk with me, he tellsme, ‘Annalise, I did not like gym in school. I’m a big couch potato.’” Shesmiled. “I joke with him that he is lazy. He laughs.”
“Does he have any friends?”
“No—but he is very friendly.”
“A homebody,” I said.
The word puzzled her.
“He comes home and stays here.”
“Yes, yes, exactly. Watching the flat screen, DVDs, eating—I cook,sometimes. He likes some things…sauerbraten—special veal meat. Spaetzle, it isa kind of noodle. I cook for two, bring it downstairs.” She looked over hershoulder. The room behind her was tidy and bright. White porcelain figurinescrowded the ledge of an arched, tiled mantel.
In the current market, the rent would be three, four thousand a month. Steepon a nurse’s pay.
“You live alone, Ms. Holzer?”
“Yes.”
“You’re from Germany?”
“Lichtenstein.” She pinched thumb to forefinger. “It is a teeny tiny littlecountry between—”
“Austria and Switzerland,” Isaid.
“You know Lichtenstein?”
“I’ve heard it’s pretty. Banking, castles, Alps.”
“It is pretty, yes,” she agreed. “But I like it here better.”
“L.A.’s moreexciting.”
“More to do, the music, the horses, the beach.”
“You ride?”
“Anything with sunshine,” she said.
“Working nights and sleeping days and doing things for Billy.”
“Work is good. Sometimes I do a double shift.”
“What are Billy’s needs?” I said.
“Very easy. If he wants takeout and it is a long time for the restaurant todeliver, I get him his dinner. There is Domino Pizza on Doheny near Olympic.Billy likes Thai food, there’s a nice place on La Cienega and Olympic. Sushi isalso on Olympic. Nice place near Doheny. Very convenient, being near Olympic.”
“Billy’s a gourmet.”
“Billy eats anything,” said Annalise Holzer. “You must really think of himas a boy. A good boy.”
 
When I was back on Olympic, I celled Milo,expecting voice mail because he was with Armando Vasquez.
“Canceled,” he said. “Vasquez’s D.P.D. had other plans but didn’t bother totell me. The prelim on Michaela’s autopsy finally came in. I woulda been therebut they did it earlier than scheduled. Bottom line is no sign of sexual assault,cause of death was strangulation, the stab wounds on her chest were relativelysuperficial. The neck wound was a puncture, pathologist can’t say what causedit. Get to Billy’s place yet?”
“Just finished with that and you’re going to feel smart. The woman upstairsis a nurse on the night shift at Santa Monica Hospital,meaning she’s gone by ten fifteen or so. Plus, she thinks L.A.’s an exciting city, likes art, thebeach, riding horses. Her tan says she’s out plenty during the day.”
“Not much supervision.”
“On top of that, Peaty came to Billy’s apartment several times. Claimed hewas sent by Brad to return things Billy left at the office. Brad told us hethought Peaty wasn’t licensed to drive. Unless he lied about that, Peatymisrepresented his presence.”
“How many times is several?”
“The woman couldn’t quantify. Or wouldn’t. She said Billy lost his wallet alot. Then she backtracked to ‘a few.’”
“What’s her name?”
“Annalise Holzer. She’s one of those people who gives you lots of detailsand ends up not telling you much. She considers Billy childlike, gracious,absolutely no problem. Some of that could be the rent-break Brad gives her. Thebuilding’s another Dowd property.”
“That so? Not on the BNB list.”
“Maybe the Dowds have another corporation or a holding company that doesn’ttrace back to their names.”
“All that real estate,” he said. “These people have got to be hugely rich,and rich people get protected.”
“Holzer was protective, all right. But I wouldn’t trust her to know thedetails of Billy’s life.”
“Meaning Peaty coulda been a regular at Darling Billy’s. I’ve got to take aserious look at the guy. After I speak to Vasquez’s wife. That’s the change inplans. All of a sudden, I can’t have access to Armando until I talk to themissus.”
“About what?”
“P.D.’s being cryptic. It’ll probably turn out to be a stupid lawyer trickbut the D.A. insists I check it out.”
“D.A.’s office has their own investigators.”
“Whom they pay. That’s why I’m figuring it for scut palmed off on me.”
“Where are you meeting the wife?”
“Right here in my office, half an hour.”
“I’m twenty minutes away.”
“Good.”
Chapter 29
Jacalyn Vasquez, minus three kids and makeup and jewelry, looked even youngerthan when I’d seen her on Sunday. Streaked hair was tied back in a somberponytail. She wore a loose white blouse, blue jeans, and sneakers. Florid acneplayed havoc with her forehead and cheeks. Her eyes had regressed into sootysockets.
A tall honey-haired woman in her twenties held Vasquez’s arm. The blonde’slocks were long and silky. She wore a tight black suit that showcased a bikinifigure. A ruby stud in her left nostril fought the suit’s conservative cut. Thepretty hair and tight body sparred with a monkeyish face the camera wouldsavage.
She surveyed the tiny space and frowned. “How’re we all going to fit inhere?”
Milo smiled. “And you are?”
“Brittany Chamfer, Public Defender’s Office.”
“I thought Mr. Vasquez’s attorney was Kevin Shuldiner.”
“I’m a third-year law student,” said Brittany Chamfer. “Working with theExoneration Project.” She amplified her frown. “This is like a closet.”
“Well,” said Milo, “one less body shouldhelp. Enjoy the fresh air, Ms. Chamfer. Come on in, Ms. Vasquez.”
“My instruction was to stay with Jackie.”
“My instruction is that you enjoy the fresh air.” He stood and the chairsqueaked. Silencing it with one hand, he offered the seat to Jacalyn Vasquez.“Right here, ma’am.”
Brittany Chamfer said, “I’m supposed to stay.”
“You’re not an attorney and Ms. Vasquez hasn’t been charged with anything.”
“Still.”
Milo took one big step that brought him tothe doorway. Brittany Chamfer had to step back to avoid collision, and the armshe’d used to support Jacalyn Vasquez pulled free.
Vasquez looked past me. The office could’ve been miles of glacier.
Brittany Chamfer said, “I’ll have to call the office.”
Milo ushered Vasquez in, closed the door.
By the time she sat down, Jacalyn Vasquez was crying.
 
Milo gave her a tissue. When her eyesdried, he said, “You have something to tell me, Ms. Vasquez?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What is it, ma’am?”
“Armando was protecting us.”
“Protecting the family?”
“Uh-huh.”
“From…”
“Him.”
“Mr. Peaty?”
“The pervert.”
“You knew Mr. Peaty to be a pervert?”
Nod.
“How did you know that?”
“Everyone said.”
“Everyone in the building.”
“Yeah.”
“Like Mrs. Stadlbraun.”
“Yeah.”
“Who else?”
“Everyone.”
“Can you give me some names?”
Eyes down. “Everyone.”
“Did Mr. Peaty ever do anything perverted that you know about personally?”
“He looked.”
“At…”
Jacalyn Vasquez poked her left breast. Milosaid, “He looked at you.”
“A lot.”
“He ever touch you?”
Head shake.
“His looks made you feel uncomfortable.”
“Yeah.”
“You tell Armando?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t want to make him mad.”
“Armando has a temper.”
Silence.
“So Peaty looked at you,” said Milo. “Youfigure that made it okay for Armando to shoot him?”
“Also the calls. That’s what I’m here to tell you.”
Milo’s eyes narrowed. “What calls, ma’am?”
“The night. Calling, hanging up, calling, hanging up. I figured it was him.”
“Peaty?”
“Yeah.”
“Because…”
“He was a pervert.” Her eyes dipped again.
“You figured it was Mr. Peaty harassing you,” said Milo.
“Yeah.”
“Had he done that before?”
Hesitation.
“Ms. Vasquez?”
“Uh-uh.”
“He hadn’t done it before but you suspected it was him. Did Mr. Shuldinercome up with that?”
“It coulda been him!”
Milo said, “Any other reason the callsbothered you?”
“They kept hanging up.”
“They,” said Milo. Stretching the word.
Vasquez looked up, confused.
Milo said, “Maybe you were worried about a‘they,’ Jackie.”
“Huh?”
“Armando’s old homeboys.”
“Armando don’t have no homeboys.”
“He used to, Jackie.”
Silence.
“Everyone knows he used to run with the 88s, Jackie.”
Vasquez sniffed.
“Everyone knows,” Milo repeated.
“That was, like, a long time ago,” said Vasquez. “Armando don’t bang nomore.”
“Who’s they?”
“The calls. There was a bunch.”
“Any other calls last night?”
“My mother.”
“What time?”
“Like six.” Jacalyn Vasquez sat up straighter. “The other one wasn’t nohomeboys.”
“What other one?”
“After the ones that hung up. Someone talked. Like a whisper, you know?”
“A whisper.”
“Yeah.”
“What’d they whisper about.”
“Him. They said he was dangerous, liked to hurt women.”
“Someone whispered that about Peaty?”
“Yeah.”
“You heard this.”
“They talked to Armando.”
“What time did this whispering call come in, Jackie?”
“Like…we were in bed with the TV. Armando answered and he was pissed off’cause a the other calls hanging up. He’s, like, started yelling into the phoneand then he’s, like, stopped, listened. I said what, he waved his hand, like,you know? He listened and his face got all red. That was the last time.”
“Armando got mad.”
“Real mad.”
“ ’Cause of the whispering.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did Armando tell you about the whispering after he hung up?”
Jacalyn Vasquez shook her head. “Later.”
“When, later?”
“Last night.”
“Calling from jail.”
“Yeah.”
“You never heard the whispering and Armando didn’t tell you about it at thetime. Then, after Armando shot Peaty, he decided to tell you.”
“I ain’t lyin’.”
“I can understand your wanting to protect your husband—”
“I ain’t lyin’.”
“Let’s say someone did whisper,” said Milo.“You figure that made it okay to shoot Peaty?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’s that, Jackie?”
“He was dangerous.”
“According to the whisperer.”
“I ain’t lyin’.”
“Maybe Armando is.”
“Armando ain’t lyin’.”
“Did Armando say if this whisperer was a man or a woman?”
“Armando said the whispering made so you couldn’t tell.”
“Pretty good whispering.”
“I ain’t lyin’.” Jacalyn Vasquez folded her arms across her bosom and staredat Milo.
“You know, Jackie, that any calls to your apartment can be verified.”
“Huh?”
“We can check your phone records.”
“Fine,” she said.
“The problem is,” said Milo, “all we canknow is that someone called you at a certain time. We can’t verify what wassaid.”
“It happened.”
“According to Armando.”
“Armando ain’t lyin’.”
“All those hang-ups,” said Milo. “Then allof a sudden, someone’s whispering about Peaty and Armando’s listening.”
Jacalyn Vasquez’s hands, still crossed, climbed to her face and pushedagainst her cheeks. Her features turned rubbery. When she spoke throughcompressed lips, the words came out slurred, like a kid goofing.
“It happened. Armando told me. It happened.”
 
Brittany Chamfer was waiting in the hall, playing with her nose stud. Shewhipped around, saw Jacalyn Vasquez dabbing her eyes. “You okay, Jackie?”
“He don’ believe me.”
Chamfer said,” What?”
Milo said, “Thanks for coming in.”
Chamfer said, “We’re looking for the truth.”
“Common goal.”
Chamfer considered her response. “What message should I give to Mr.Shuldiner?”
“Thank him for his civic duty.”
“Pardon?”
“Thank him for creativity, too.”
Brittany Chamfer said, “I’m not going to tell him that. ”
“Have a nice day.”
“I will.” Chamfer flipped her long hair. “Will you ?”
Renewing her grip, she propelled Jacalyn Vasquez up the corridor.
Milo said, “That’s why the D.A.’s officepalmed it on me. What a crock.”
“You’re dismissing it out of hand?” I said.
“You’re not?”
“If Vasquez’s lying to exonerate himself, he could’ve picked somethingstronger. Like Peaty threatening him explicitly.”
“So he’s stupid.”
“Maybe that’s it,” I said.
He leaned against the wall, scuffed the baseboard. “Even if someone did callVasquez to prime the pump against Peaty, the right suspect’s in jail. Let’s sayErtha Stadlbraun got things stoked up because Peaty had always creeped her out.My interview tipped her over and she stirred up the tenants. One of them was anincompletely reformed banger with a bad temper and boom boom boom.”
“If you’re comfortable not checking it out, so am I.”
He turned his back on me, imbedded both hands in his hair and turned it intoa fright wig. Smoothing it down was a partial success. He stomped back into hisoffice.
When I entered, he had the phone receiver in hand but wasn’t punchingnumbers. “Know what kept me up last night? Damned snow globe. Brad thoughtMeserve put it there but the one in the van says Peaty did. Would Peaty tauntBrad?”
“Maybe Peaty didn’t leave it.”
“What?”
“Meserve thinks he’s an actor,” I said. “Actors do voice-overs.”
“The Infernal Whisperer? I can’t get distracted by that kind of crap, Alex.Still have to check out all those buildings Peaty cleaned, stuff could behidden anywhere. Can’t ignore Billy either, because he hung with Peaty and Iwas masochistic enough to find out.”
He passed the receiver from hand to hand. “What I’d love to do is get toBilly in his apartment, away from Brad, and gauge his reaction to Peaty’sdeath.” He huffed. “Let’s take care of this whispering bullshit.”
He called the phone company, talked to someone named Larry. “What I need isfor you to tell me it’s crap so I can avoid the whole subpoena thing. Thanks,yeah…you, too. I’ll hold.”
Moments later, his faced flushed and he was scribbling furiously in his pad.“Okay, Lorenzo, thanko mucho…no, I mean it…we’ll forget this conversation tookplace and I’ll get you the damned paper a-sap.”
The receiver slammed down.
He ripped a page out of the pad and shoved it at me.
The first evening call to the Vasquez apartment had come in at fivefifty-two p.m. and lasted thirty-two minutes. The caller’s mid-city number wasregistered to Guadalupe Maldonado. The call from Jackie Vasquez’s mom at “likesix.”
Milo closed his eyes and pretended to dozeas I read on.
Five more calls between seven and ten p.m., all from a 310 area code that Milo had notated as” stolen cell.” The first lasted eightseconds, the second, four. Then a trio of two-second entries that had to behang-ups.
Armando Vasquez losing patience and slamming down the phone.
I said, “Stolen from who?”
“Don’t know yet, but it happened the same day the call came in. Keep going.”
Under the five calls was the doodle of an amoebic blob filled with crosses.Then something Milo had underlined so hardhe’d torn paper.
Final call. 10:23 p.m. Forty-two seconds long.
Despite Vasquez’s anger, something had managed to hold his interest.
Different caller, 805 area code.
Milo reached over and took the page,shredded it meticulously, and dropped it in his trash basket. “You have neverseen that. You will see it once the goddamn subpoena that is now goddamnnecessary produces legit evidence.”
“Ventura County,” I said. “Maybe Camarillo?”
“Not maybe, for sure. My man Lawrence says a pay phone in Camarillo.”
“Near the outlets?”
“He wasn’t able to be that precise, but we’ll find out. Now I’ve got apossible link to the Gaidelases. Which should make you happy. All along, younever saw Peaty for them. So what’re we talking about, an 805-based killer whoprowls the coast and I’ve gotta start from scratch?”
“Only if the Gaidelases are victims,” I said.
“As opposed to?”
“The sheriffs thought the facts pointed to a willful disappearance and maybethey were right. Armando told his wife the whispering made it impossible toidentify the sex of the caller. If it’s amateur theater we’re talking about,Cathy Gaidelas could be a candidate.”
His jaws bunched. He scooted forward on his chair, inches from my face. Ithanked God we were friends.
“All of a sudden the Gaidelases have gone from victims to psychomurderers ?”
“It solves several problems,” I said. “No bodies recovered and the rentalcar was left in Camarillobecause the Gaidelases ditched it, just as the company assumed. Who better tocancel credit cards than the legitimate owners? And to know which utilities tocall back in Ohio?”
“Nice couple hiding out in Ventura County and venturing into L.A. to commit nasty? For starts, why wouldthey home-base out there?”
“Proximity to the ocean and you don’t have to be a millionaire. There arestill places in Oxnardwith low-rent housing.”
He yanked his forelock up and stretched his brow tight. “Where the hell didall this come from, Alex?”
“My twisted mind,” I said. “But think about it: The only reason we’veconsidered the Gaidelases a nice couple is because Cathy’s sister describedthem that way. But Susan Palmer also talked about an antisocial side—drug use,years of mooching off the family. Cathy married a man people suspect is gay.There’s some complexity there.”
“What I’m hearing is minor league complexity. What’s their motive for turninghomicidal ?”
“How about extreme frustration coming to a head? We’re talking twomiddle-aged people who’ve never achieved much on their own. They make the bigmove to L.A.,delusional like thousands of other wannabes. Their age and looks make it evenchancier but they take a methodical approach: acting lessons. Maybe they wererejected by other coaches and Nora was their last chance. What if she turnedthem away in less-than-diplomatic terms? Charlie Manson didn’t take well tohearing he wasn’t going to be a rock star.”
“This is about revenge on Nora?” he said.
“Revenge on her and the symbols of youth and beauty she surrounded herselfwith.”
“Tori Giacomo got killed before the Gaidelases disappeared.”
“That wouldn’t have stopped the Gaidelases from having contact with her. Ifnot at the PlayHouse, at work. Maybe she served them a lobster dinner andthat’s how they learned about the PlayHouse.”
“They do Tori, then wait nearly two years to do Michaela? That’s a dish goneway cold, Alex.”
“That’s assuming no other students at the PlayHouse have gone missing.”
He sighed.
I said, “The hoax could’ve served as some kind of catalyst. Nora’s name inthe paper. Michaela’s and Dylan’s, too. Not to mention Latigo Canyon.I could be totally off base, but I don’t think the 805 link can be overlooked.And neither can Armando Vasquez’s story.”
He stood, stretched, sat back down, buried his face in his hands for a whileand looked up, bleary-eyed. “Creative, Alex. Fanciful, inventive, impressivelyoutside the goddamn box. The problem it doesn’t solve is Peaty. A definite badguy with access to all of the victims and a rape kit in his van. If theGaidelases were chasing stardom, why would they have anything to do with aloser like him, let alone set him up to be shot? And how the hell would theyknow to prime the pump by phoning Vasquez?”
I thought about that. “It’s possible the Gaidelases met Peaty at thePlayHouse and some bonding took place—outsiders commiserating.”
“That’s a helluva lot going on during a failed audition. Assuming theGaidelases were ever at the PlayHouse.”
“Maybe Nora kept them waiting for a long time then dismissed them unceremoniously.If they did bond with Peaty, they could’ve had opportunity to visit hisapartment and pick up on tension in the building. Or Peaty talked about hisdislike for Vasquez.”
“Ertha Stadlbraun said Peaty never had visitors.”
“Ertha Stadlbraun goes to sleep by eleven,” I said. “Be interesting to knowif anyone at the apartment recognizes the Gaidelases’ photos.”
He stared at me.
“Peaty, Andy, and Cathy. And let’s toss in Billy Dowd, because we’re feelinggenerous. What, some kind of misfit club?”
“Look at all those schoolyard shootings committed by outsiders.”
“Oh, Lord,” he said. “Before I get sucked into this vortex of fantasy, Ineed to do some boring old police work. As in pinpointing the phone booth andtrying to pull some prints. As in keep searching for any troves Peaty might’vestashed God knows where. As in…let’s not shmooze any more, okay? My head’ssplitting like a luau coconut.”
Yanking his tie loose, he hauled himself up, crossed the tiny office, andthrew back the door. It hit the wall, chunked out a disk of plaster, bounced acouple of times.
My ears were still ringing when he stuck his head in, seconds later. “Wherecan I find one of those amino-acid concoctions that makes you smarter?”
“They don’t work,” I said.
“Thanks for your input.”
Chapter 30
The Brazilian rosewood door of Erica Weiss’s law firm should’ve been usedfor guitar backs. Twenty-six partners were listed in efficient pewter. Weiss’swas near the top.
She kept me waiting for twenty minutes but came out to greet me personally.Late thirties, silver-haired, blue-eyed, statuesque in charcoal Armani andcoral jewelry.
“Sorry for the delay, Doctor. I was willing to come to you.”
“No problem.”
“Coffee?”
“Black would be fine.”
“Cookies? One of our paras whipped up some chocolate chips this morning.Cliff’s a great baker.”
“No, thanks.”
“Coming up with black coffee.” She crossed a field of soft, navy carpet toan entry square of hardwood. Her exit was a castanet solo of stiletto heels.
Her lair was a bright, cool, corner space on the eighth floor of a high-riseon Wilshire, just east of Rossmore in Hancock Park.Gray felt walls, Macassar ebony deco revival furniture, chrome and blackleather chair that matched the finish of her computer monitor. Stanford law degreetucked in a corner where it was sure to be noticed.
A coffin-shaped rosewood conference table had been set up with four blackclub chairs on wheels. I took the head seat. Maybe it was meant for EricaWeiss; she could always tell me that.
An eastern wall of glass showcased a view of Koreatown and the distant glossof downtown. To the west, out of sight, was Nora Dowd’s house on McCadden.
Weiss returned with a blue mug bearing the law firm’s name and logo in goldleaf. The icon was a helmet over a wreath filled with Latin script. Somethingto do with honor and loyalty. The coffee was strong and bitter.
She looked at the head chair for a second, settled to my right with nocomment. A Filipina carrying a court-reporter’s stenotype machine entered,followed by a young spike-haired man in a loose-fitting green suit who Weissintroduced as Cliff. “He’ll be witnessing your oath. Ready, Doctor?”
“Sure.”
She put on reading glasses and read a file while I sipped coffee. Then offcame the specs, her face got tight, and the blue in her eyes turned to steel.
“First of all,” she said and the change in her voice made me put my cupdown. She concentrated on the top of my head, as if something odd had sproutedthere. Pointing a finger, she turned” Doctor” into something unsavory.
For the next half hour, I fielded questions, all delivered in a stridentrhythm dripping with insinuation. Scores of questions, many taking PatrickHauser’s point of view. No letup; Erica Weiss seemed to be able to speakwithout breathing.
Just as suddenly, she said, “Finished.” Big smile. “Sorry if I was a littlecurt, Doctor, but I consider depositions rehearsals and I like my witnessesprepared for court.”
“You think it’ll come to that?”
“I’d bet against it, but I don’t bet anymore.” She peeled back a cuff andstudied a sapphire-ringed Lady Rolex. “In either event, you’ll be ready. Now,if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an appointment.”
 
--- oOo ---
 
Ten-minute ride to McCadden Place.
Still no Range Rover but the driveway wasn’t empty.
A yacht-sized, baby-blue ’59 Cadillac convertible hogged the space. Gleamingwire wheels, white top folded down, tailfins that should’ve been registered aslethal weapons. Old black-and-yellow plates bore a classic car designation.
Brad and Billy Dowd stood next to the car, their backs to me. Brad wore alight brown linen suit and gestured with his right hand. His left arm rested onBilly’s shoulder. Billy wore the same blue shirt and baggy Dockers. Half a footshorter than his brother. But for his gray hair, the two of them could’vepassed for father and son.
Dad talking, son listening.
The sound of my engine cutting made Brad look over his shoulder. A secondlater, Billy aped him.
By the time I got out, both brothers were facing me. The polo shirt underBrad’s jacket was aquamarine pique. On his feet were perforated,peanut-butter-colored Italian sandals. Cloudy day but he’d dressed for abeachside power lunch. His white hair was ragged and he looked tense. Billy’sface was blank. A grease stain rorschached the front of his pants.
He greeted me first. “Hi, Detective.”
“How’s it going, Billy?”
“Bad. Nora’s nowhere and we’re scared.”
Brad said, “More worried than scared, Bill.”
“You said—”
“Remember the brochures, Bill? What did I tell you?”
“Be positive,” said Billy.
“Exactly.”
I said, “Brochures?”
Billy pointed at the house. “Brad went in there again.”
Brad said, “First time was superficial. This time I opened some drawers,found travel brochures in my sister’s nightstand. Nothing seems out of placeexcept maybe some extra space in her clothes closet.”
“Packed to go,” I said.
“I hope that’s it.”
“What kind of brochures?” I said.
“Places in Latin America. Want to seethem?”
“Please.”
He jogged to the Caddy and brought back a stack of glossies.
Pelican’s Pouch, Southwater Caye, Belize; Turneffe Island, Belize; Posada LaMandragora, Buzios, Brazil; Hotel Monasterio, Cusco, Peru; Tapir Lodge,Ecuador.
“Looks like vacation plans,” I said.
“Still, you’d think she’d tell us,” said Brad. “I was going to call you tosee if you found any flights she took.”
Nora’s passport hadn’t been used.
I said, “Nothing so far but still checking. Does Nora ever fly privately?”
“No. Why?”
“Covering all bases.”
“We’ve talked about doing that,” said Brad. “Mostly, I’ve talked about it.Being so close to Santa Monica Airport, you see thosebeauties take off and it looks real inviting.”
Same thing Milo had said. For the Dowds itcould be more than fantasy.
I said, “What did Nora think?”
“She was ready to do a time share. But once I found out the cost, I saidforget it. The cool thing would be owning my own plane but that was never anoption.”
“How come?”
“We’re not close to that financial league, Detective.”
“Did Nora agree with that assessment?”
Brad smiled. “Nora isn’t much for budgeting. Would she charter something onher own? I suppose it’s possible. But she’d have to get the money from me.”
“She doesn’t have her own funds?”
“She has a checking account for day to day, but for serious money she comesto me. It works out better for all of us.”
Billy’s eyes rose to the sky. “I never get to go anywhere.”
“Come on, Bill,” said Brad. “We flew to San Francisco.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“It was two years ago.”
“That’s a long time.” Billy’s eyes got dreamy. One hand dropped toward hiscrotch. Brad cleared his throat and Billy jammed the hand in his pocket.
I turned back to Brad. “It’s not in character for Nora to take off withouttelling you?”
“Nora does her own thing on a limited level, but she’s never traveled forany length of time without letting me know.”
“Those trips to Paris.”
“Exactly.” Brad glanced at the brochures. “I was going to contact thoseresorts, but if you want to do it, you can keep the information.”
“Will do.”
He rubbed the corner of one eye. “Maybe Nora will waltz in tomorrow with a—Iwas going to say with a terrific tan, but Nora doesn’t like the sun.”
I waved the brochures. “These are all sunny spots.”
Brad glanced at Billy. Billy’s eyes were still aimed at the sky. “I’m surethere’s a logical explanation, Detective. Just wish I…anyway, thanks forstopping by. If you learn anything, please let me know.”
“There’s something you should know,” I said. “Reynold Peaty was murderedlast night.”
Brad gasped. “What! That’s crazy!”
Billy froze. Stayed that way but his eyes locked into mine. Nothing absentabout his gaze now.
Brad said, “Billy?”
Bill continued to stare at me. Pointed a finger. “You just said somethingterrible.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Reyn got murdered?” Billy’s hands balled. “Noway !”
Brad touched his arm but Billy shook him off and ran to the center of Nora’slawn, where he began punching his thighs.
Brad hurried over, talked in his brother’s ear. Billy shook his headviolently and walked several feet away. Brad followed, talking nonstop. Billystepped away again. Brad persisted through a series of Billy’s head shakes andgrimaces. Finally, Billy allowed himself to be ushered back. Flared nostrilsdoubled the width of his pug nose. Thick white spittle flecked his lips.
“Who killed Reyn?” he demanded.
“A neighbor,” I said. “They had an argument and—”
“A neighbor?” said Brad. “One of our tenants ?Who? ”
“A man named Armando Vasquez.”
“Thatone. Shit, right from the get-go I had a bad feeling about him, but hisapplication was in order and nowadays you can’t turn down a tenant based onintuition.” He tugged at a lapel. “Jesus. What happened ?”
“What worried you about Vasquez?”
“He seemed like…you know, the cholo thing.”
“Where is he, Brad?” said Billy. “I wanna kill him back.”
“Shh! An argument? How’d it get from talking to murdering?”
“Hard to say.”
“Christ,” said Brad. “Talking about what?”
Billy’s eyes were slits. “Where’s the lowlife ?”
“In jail,” said Brad. To me: “Right?”
“He’s in custody.”
“For how long?” said Billy.
“A long time,” I said.
“Tell me when he gets out so I can shoot his ass.”
Brad said, “Billy, stop! ”
Billy glared. Breathed heavily.
Brad tried to touch him. Again, Billy shook him off. “I’ll stop now, fine,okay. But when he gets out I’ll shoot a bullet up his ass.” He punched air.
“Billy, that’s—”
“Reyn was my friend. ”
“Bill, he wasn’t a real—okay, okay, whatever, Bill, I’m sorry. He was yourfriend, you have every right to be upset.”
“I’m not upset. I’m pissed. ”
“Fine, be pissed.” Back to me: “An argument ? Jesus, I was going to go bythat building today or tomorrow.”
“Why?”
Brad cocked a head toward his brother. Billy was studying the grass. “Makingthe circuit.”
About to fire and evict Peaty.
Billy punched his palm. “Reyn was my friend. Now he’s dead. That’s fucked up.”
I said, “What did you and Reyn do together, Billy?”
Brad tried to step between Billy and me but Billy twisted around him. “Reynwas polite to me.”
Brad said, “Billy, Reyn had some problems. Remember I told you about them—”
“Driving too fast. So what, you do that, Brad.”
“Billy…” Brad smiled and shrugged.
Billy cocked his head at the Cadillac. “Not in the ’59, the ’59’s too fuckingslow—that’s what you always say, too fucking slow to move its big old fuckingass. You drive fast in the Sting Ray and the Porsche and the Austin—”
“Fine,” Brad snapped. He smiled again. “The detective gets it, Bill.”
“You say the Ray’s as fast as that girl in your class…what was her name—er,er, er, Jocelyn…the Sting Ray’s as fast asJocelyn…Jocelyn…Olderson…Oldenson…and just as expensive. You always say that,the Sting—”
“That’s a joke, Bill.”
“I’m not laughing,” said Billy. To me: “Reyn drove too fast a long time agoand got in trouble. Does that mean he has to get his ass killed?”
Brad said, “No one’s saying that, Billy.”
“I’m asking him, Brad.”
“It doesn’t mean that,” I said.
“It fucking pisses me off. ” Billy broke free again, headed for the driveway.Climbing over the Caddy’s passenger door with some effort, he sank down, armsfolded, and stared straight ahead.
Brad said, “Climbing in like that, he knows that’s against the—he mustreally be upset, though for the life of me I can’t tell you why.”
“He considers Peaty his friend.”
He lowered his voice. “Wishful thinking.”
“What do you mean?”
“My brother has no peer group. When I first hired Peaty I noticed himstaring at Billy like Billy was some kind of freak. I told him to stop doingthat and he did and after that he was friendly to Billy. I figured he waskissing up to me. Anyway, that’s probably what Billy’s responding to. Anyonewho treats him like half a man is his buddy. After you guys dropped in at theoffice, he told me you were his buddies.”
Over in the Cadillac, Billy started rocking.
I said, “He’s pretty upset for having no relationship at all with Peaty.”
“My brother has trouble with change.”
“Learning someone you know has been murdered is serious change.”
“Yes, of course, I’m not minimizing it. All I’m saying is it’s harder forBilly to process that kind of thing.” He shook his head. “Shot to death over astupid argument? Now that Billy’s not listening, can you tell me what reallyhappened?”
“Same answer,” I said. “I wasn’t protecting Billy.”
“Oh. Okay, sorry. Look, I’d better go calm him down, so if—”
“You’re sure Billy and Peaty didn’t associate.”
“I’m positive. Peaty was a janitor, for God’s sake.”
I said, “He’s been to Billy’s apartment.”
Brad’s lower lip dropped. “What are you talking about?”
I repeated what Annalise Holzer had told me.
“Lost articles?” he said. “That makes no sense at all.”
“Is Billy absentminded?”
“Yes, but—”
“We were wondering if Peaty stopped by at your instruction.”
“My instruction? Ridiculous. As far as I knew, he didn’t drive, remember?”Brad wiped his brow. “Annalise said that?”
“Is she reliable?”
“God, I sure hope so.” He scratched his head. “If she said Peaty dropped by,I guess he did. But I’ve got to tell you, I’m astonished.”
“That Peaty and Billy would associate?”
“We don’t know they associated, just that Peaty dropped things off. Yes,Billy’s absentminded but usually he tells me when he’s left something and Itell him don’t worry, we’ll get it tomorrow. If Peaty did drop something offI’m sure that’s where it ended.”
He looked over at Billy. Rocking harder. “First Nora taking off and nowthis…”
I said, “They’re adults.”
“Chronologically.”
“Must be hard, being the protector.”
“Mostly it’s no big deal. Sometimes it’s a challenge.”
“This is one of those sometimes.”
“This is a real big sometime.”
“At some point,” I said, “we’d like to talk to Billy about Peaty.”
“Why? Peaty’s dead and you know who shot him.”
“Just to be thorough.”
“What does it have to do with Billy?”
“Probably nothing.”
“Is Peaty still a suspect for that girl’s murder?”
“Still?”
“All those questions you asked about him when you came to my house. It waspretty obvious what you were getting at. Do you really think Peaty could’vedone something like that?”
“It’s an open investigation,” I said.
“Meaning you won’t say. Look, I appreciate what you guys do but I can’t justlet you browbeat Billy.”
“Browbeating’s not on the agenda, Mr. Dowd. Just a few questions.”
“Believe me, Detective, he has nothing to tell you.”
“You’re sure about that.”
“Of course I am. I can’t allow my brother to be drawn into anything sordid.”
“Because he’s chronologically an adult but…”
“Exactly.”
“He doesn’t seem retarded,” I said.
“I told you, he isn’t,” said Brad. “What he is no one’s ever been sure.Nowadays he’d probably be called some kind of autistic. Back when we were kidshe was just ‘different.’”
“Must’ve been tough.”
“Whatever.” His eyes shifted sideways toward the Cadillac. Billy rested hishead down on the dashboard. “There isn’t a mean bone in his body, Detective,but that didn’t stop other kids from tormenting him. I’m younger but I alwaysfelt like the older brother. That’s the way it’s remained and I’m going to haveto ask you to respect our privacy.”
“Maybe it would be good for Billy to talk,” I said.
“Why?”
“He seemed pretty traumatized by the news. Sometimes getting it out helps.”
“Now you sound like a shrink,” said Brad. New edge in his voice.
“You’ve got experience with shrinks?”
“Back when we were kids Billy got taken to all kinds of quacks. Vitaminquacks, hypnosis quacks, exercise quacks, psychiatric quacks. No one did a damnthing for him. So let’s all just stick to what we know best. You chase bad guysand I’ll take care of my brother.”
I walked over to the Caddy, Brad’s protests at my back. Billy sat up, rigid.His eyes were shut and his hands clawed the placket of his shirt.
“Nice seeing you again, Billy.”
“It wasn’t nice. This is a bad news day.”
Brad got in the driver’s seat, started up the engine.
“Real bad news,” I said.
Billy nodded. “Real real real bad.”
Brad turned the ignition key. “I’m backing out, Detective.”
I waited until they’d been gone for five minutes, then walked up to NoraDowd’s door and knocked. Got the silence I’d expected.
Empty mailbox. Brother Brad had collected Nora’s correspondence. Cleaning upeveryone’s mess, as usual. He claimed Billy was harmless but his opinion wasworthless.
I got back in the Sevilleand drove away, passing Albert Beamish’s house. The old man’s curtains weredrawn but he opened his door.
Red shirt, green pants, drink in hand.
I stopped and lowered the car window. “How’s it going?”
Beamish started to say something, shook his head in disgust, went backinside.
Chapter 31
Billy had been attached to Peaty. And Billy had a temper.
Was he too dull to realize the implication of a relationship with ReynoldPeaty? Or was there no implication?
One thing was likely: The janitor’s visits had been more than dropping offlost articles.
As I drove Sixth Streettoward its terminus at San Vicente, I considered Billy’s reaction. Shock,anger, desire for vengeance.
Another sib defying Brad.
A child’s impulsiveness together with a grown man’s hormones could be adangerous combination. As Milo had pointedout, Billy had begun living on his own right around the time of Tori Giacomo’smurder and the Gaidelases’ disappearance.
Perfect opportunity for Billy and Peaty to take their friendship to a newlevel? If the two of them had become a murder team, Peaty was certain to havebeen the dominant one.
Some leadership. An outwardly creepy alcoholic voyeur and a dullard man-boydidn’t add up to the kind of planning and care that had stripped Michaela’sdumpsite of forensic detail, concealed Tori Giacomo’s body long enough toreduce it to scattered bones.
Then there was the matter of the whispering phone call from Ventura County. No way Billy could’ve pulledthat off.
Iago-prompt, courtesy of the phone lines. It had worked.
I’d hypothesized about a cruel side to the Gaidelases but there was anotherpair of performance buffs worth considering.
Nora Dowd was an eccentric dilettante and a failure as an actress, but she’dbeen skillful enough to fool her brother about breaking off with Dylan Meserve.Toss in a young lover with a penchant for rough sex and mind games and itcooked up interesting.
Maybe Brad had found no sign of struggle in Nora’s house because there’dbeen none. Travel brochures in a nightstand drawer and missing clothes plusDylan Meserve’s skip on his rent weeks ago said a long-planned trip. AlbertBeamish hadn’t seen anyone living with Nora but someone entering and exitingthe house after dark would have escaped his notice.
A woman who thought private flying was a nifty idea.
Her passport hadn’t been used recently and Meserve had never applied forone. But he’d grown up on the streets of New York, could’ve known how to obtain fake paper.Getting through passport control at LAX might be a challenge. But jetting from Santa Monica to a landingstrip in some south-of-the-border village with payoff cash would be anotherstory.
Brochures in a drawer, no real attempt to conceal. Because Nora wasconfident no one would broach her privacy?
When I stopped for a red light at Melrose,I took a closer look at the resorts she’d researched.
Pretty places in South America. Maybe formore than the climate.
 
I drove home as fast as Sunset would allow, barely took the time to look forHauser’s brown Audi. Moments after logging on to the Internet I learned that Belize, Brazil,and Ecuador all hadextradition treaties with the U.S.and that nearly all the countries without treaties were in Africa and Asia.
Hiding out in Rwanda, Burkina Faso, or Ugandawouldn’t be much fun, and I couldn’t see Nora taking well to the femininecouture of Saudi Arabia.
I studied the brochures again. Each resort was in a remote jungle area.
To be extradited you had to be found.
I pictured the scene: May-December couple checks into a luxury suite, enjoysthe beach, the bar, the pool. Nighttime’s the right time for al frescocandlelight dinners, maybe a couple’s massage. Long, hot, incandescent daysallow plenty of time to search for a leafy suburb hospitable to affluentforeigners.
Nazi war criminals had hidden for decades in Latin America, living like nobility. Why not a couple of low-profilethrill killers?
Still, if Nora and Dylan had escaped for the long run, why leave brochuresanywhere to be discovered?
Unless the packets were a misdirect.
I looked up jet leasing, air charter, and time-share companies in Southern California, compiled a surprisingly long list,spent the next two hours claiming to be Bradley Dowd experiencing a “familyemergency” and in dire need of finding his sister and his nephew, Dylan. Lotsof turndowns and the few outfits who checked their passenger logs had nolisting of Nora or Meserve. Which proved nothing if the couple had assumed newidentities.
For Milo to get subpoenas of the records,he’d need evidence of criminal behavior and all Dowd and Meserve had done wasdisappear.
Unless Dylan’s misdemeanor conviction could be used against him.
Milo would be tied up right now with“boring police stuff.” I called him anyway and described Billy Dowd’s behavior.
He said, “Interesting. Just got Michaela’s full autopsy results. Alsointeresting.”
 
We met at nine p.m., at a pizza joint on Colorado Boulevard in the heart of Pasadena’s Old Town. Hipsters and youngbusiness types feasted on thin crust and pitchers of beer.
Milo had been scoping out BNB buildings inthe eastern suburbs for evidence of Peaty’s unofficial storage, asked if Icould meet him. When I left the house at eight fifteen, the phone rang but Iignored it.
When I arrived, he was at a front booth, apart from the action, working onan eighteen-inch disk crusted with unidentifiable foodstuffs, his own pitcherhalf full and frosted. He’d doodled a happy face on the glass. The features hadmelted to something morose and psychiatrically promising.
Before I could sit, he hoisted his battered attaché case, took out acoroner’s file, and placed it across his lap. “When you’re ready. Don’t ruinyour dinner.” Munch munch.
“I ate already.”
“Not very social of you.” He massaged the pitcher, erased the face. “Wannaglass?”
I said, “No, thanks,” but he went and got one anyway, left the file on hischair.
At the front were routine forms signed by Deputy Coroner A.C. Yee, M.D. Inthe photos what had once been Michaela Brand was a department-store manikintaken apart in stages. See enough autopsy shots and you learn to reduce thehuman body to its components, try to forget it’s ever been divine. Think toomuch and you never sleep.
Milo returned and poured me a beer. “Shedied of strangulation and all the cuts were postmortem. What’s interesting areNumbers Six and Twelve.”
Six was a close-up of the right side of the neck. The wound was an inch orso long, slightly puffed at the center, as if something had been inserted inthe slot and left there long enough to create a small pouch. The coroner hadcircled the lesion and written a reference number above the ruler segment usedfor scale. I paged to the summary, found the notation.
Postmortem incision, superior border of the sternoclavicular notch, evidenceof tissue-spreading and surface exploration of the right jugular vein.
Twelve was a front view of a smooth, full-breasted female chest. Michaela’simplants spread as if deflated.
Dr. Yee had pointed to the spots where they’d been stitched up and noted,“Good healing.” In the smooth plain between the mounds were five small wounds.No pouching. Yee’s measurements made them shallow, a couple were barely beneaththe skin.
I returned to the description of the neck lesion. “‘Surface exploration.’Playing around with the vein?”
“Maybe a special type of play,” said Milo.“Yee wouldn’t put it in writing but he said the cut reminded him of what anembalmer might do at the start of a body prep. The location was exactly whatyou’d choose if you wanted to expose the jugular and the carotid artery fordrainage. After that, you spread the wound to expose the vessels and insertcannulas in both of ’em. Blood drains out of the vein while preservative’spumped into the artery.”
“But that didn’t happen here,” I said.
“No, only a scratch on the vein.”
“A would-be embalmer who lost his nerve?”
“Or changed his mind. Or lacked the equipment and knowledge to followthrough. Yee said there was an ‘immature’ quality to the murder. The neck stuffand the chest lacerations he called dinky and ambivalent. He wouldn’t put thatin writing, either. Said it was for a shrink to decide.”
He extended a palm.
I said, “Better find yourself a decisive shrink.”
“Fear of commitment?”
“So I’ve been told.”
He laughed and drank and ate. “Anyway, that’s the extent of the weird stuff.There was no sexual penetration or fooling with the genitalia or overt sadism.Not much blood loss either, most of it settled, and the lividity showed thebody was on its back for a while.”
“Manual strangulation,” I said. “Look in her eyes and choke the life out ofher. It takes time. Maybe it’s enough to get you off.”
“Watching,” he said. “Peaty’s thing. With him and Billy being a couple ofarrested-development losers—immature—I can see them fooling with a body butbeing afraid to dig too deep. Now you’re telling me ol’ Billy’s got a temper.”
“He does.”
“But?”
“But what?”
“You’re not convinced.”
“I don’t see Billy and Peaty being clever enough. More important, I don’tsee Billy setting up Peaty with that call.”
“Maybe he’s not as stupid as he comes across. The real actor in the family.”
“Brad can obviously be fooled,” I said, “but he and Billy lived together soI doubt to that extent. Learn anything new about the stolen cell phone?”
He flipped the attaché case open, got his notepad. “Motorola V551, Cingularwireless account, registered to Ms. Angeline Wasserman, Bundy Drive, Brentwood.Interior designer, married to an investment banker. The phone was in her pursewhen it got stolen the day of the call—nine hours before. Ms. Wasserman wasshopping, got distracted, turned her head, and poof. Her big concern was thewhole identity theft thing. The purse, too—four-figure Badgley-something number.”
“Badgley Mischka.”
“Your brand?”
“I’ve known a few women.”
“Ha! Wanna guess where she was shopping?”
“Camarillooutlets,” I said.
“The Barneys outlet, specifically. Tomorrow, when it opens at ten, I’ll bethere showing around pictures of Peaty and Billy, the Gaidelases, Nora andMeserve, Judge Crater, Amelia Earhart, anyone else you wanna suggest.”
“Nora and Meserve may be cavorting as we speak.” I told him about the travelbrochures, my calls to the private jet outfits.
“Another subpoena called for, if I had grounds,” he said. “The paper for Ms.Wasserman’s cell came in fast because it’d been reported stolen but I’m stillwaiting on the phone booth trace. Hopefully I’ll have it in hand tonight.”
“Night owl judge?”
His smile was weary. “I’ve known a few jurists.”
I said, “Meserve’s hoax conviction won’t help with the passenger logs?”
“Misdemeanor offense pled down to community service? Not hardly. You’reliking him and Nora better now? Nor more Andy and Cathy as psychos?”
“Their leaving town puts them in my radar.”
“Nora and Mr. Snow Globe. He hid his own car in Brad’s treasured space, justlike Brad assumed, left the globe there for a screw-you.”
“If he and Nora targeted Peaty, they could’ve learned about Peaty’sunregistered van. Left the second globe as a misdirection.”
“Rape kit too?”
“Why not?” I said. “Or it was Peaty’s. Everyone at the PlayHouse seems tohave known about Peaty’s staring and Brad knew about Peaty’s arrest record, soit’s not a big stretch to assume Nora could’ve found out. If Nora and Dylanwanted a scapegoat, they had a perfect candidate.”
“Years of picking off the weak ones and then they just decide to leave forthe tropics?”
“Been there, done it. Time to explore new vistas,” I suggested.
“Brad told you that Nora would have to come to him for serious dough.”
“Brad’s been wrong about lots of things.”
He took the coroner’s file back, leafed through it absently.
I said, “Dylan had Michaela bind him tight around the neck. He pretended tobe dead so effectively it scared the hell out of her. She also said pain didn’tseem to be an issue for him.”
“The old psychopath numbness,” he said.
A young, black, cornrowed waitress came over and asked if we were okay.
Milo said, “Please wrap this to go, andI’ll try that brownie sundae.”
Closing the file. The waitress caught the Coroner label.
“You guys in TV?” she said. “C.S.I. or something like that?”
“Something like that,” said Milo.
Deft fingering of cornrows. Eyelid flutter. “I’m an actor.” Big smile.“Shock of shocks.”
“Really?” said Milo.
“Extremely really. I’ve done a ton of regional theater in Santa Cruz and San Diego—includingthe Old Globe, where I was a main fairy in Midsummer. I’ve also done improv atthe Groundlings and a nonunion commercial in San Francisco, but you’ll never see that. Itwas for Amtrak and they never ran it.”
She pouted.
I said, “It happens.”
“It sure does. But, hey, it’s all good. I’ve only been in L.A. for a few months and an agent atStarlight is just about ready to sign me.”
“Good for you.”
“D’Mitra,” she said, extending her hand.
“Alex. This is Milo. He’s the boss.”
Milo glared at me, smiled at her. Shesidled closer to him. “That’s a great name, Milo.Pleased to meet you. Can I leave you my name and number?”
Milo said, “Sure.”
“Cool. Thanks.” Leaning in, she rested a breast on his shoulder and scrawledon her order book. “I’ll bring your brownie sundae right now. Totally on thehouse.”
Chapter 32
We set out for the outlets at nine a.m.
Taking the Sevillebecause “you’ve got leather seats.”
Beautiful day, sixty-five, sunny—if you had nothing on your mind you couldpretend California was Eden.
Milo said, “Let’s do the scenic route.”
That meant Sunset to the coast highway and north through Malibu. When I approached Kanan Dume Road, I lifted my foot fromthe gas pedal.
“Keep going.” Slouching, but his eyes had fixed on the odometer. Imaginingthe trip from a killer’s perspective.
At Mulholland Highwaywe crossed over the Ventura County line. Sped pastthe beach house I’d rented with Robin years ago. The 8:15 call I’d walked outon last night had been from her. No message other than to phone. I’d tried. Nothome.
The road compressed to two lanes and continued through miles ofcliff-bordered state parkland and oceanfront campgrounds. At Sycamore Creek,the hills were pillowed by wet-year vegetation. Lupine and poppies and cactusplayed on the land-side. To the west was crashing Pacific and milkshakebreakers. I spotted dolphins leaping twenty yards offshore.
“Glorious.”
Milo said, “All that green stuff, when thefires take hold it’s a barbecue. Remember a few years ago when this wascharcoal?”
“Good morning to you, too.”
 
An eastward turn on Las Posas Road took us through miles of vegetable fields.Green leafy rows in some of the acreage, the rest was brown and flat anddormant. U-pick sheds and produce stands were shuttered for the off season.Combines and other metal monsters perched out past the furrows, awaiting thesignal to chew and churn and inseminate. At Camarillo’s western edge, a southerly cruiseon Factory Stores Drive led us to a peach-pink village of commerce.
A hundred twenty stores divided into north and south sections. Barneys NewYork occupied the western tip of the southern wing, a compact, well-lit space,attractively laid out, staffed well, nearly empty.
We’d walked three steps when a spike-haired young man in all black came upto us. “Can I help you?” He had sunken cheeks and mascaraed eyes, wore acologne full of citrus. The platinum soul patch under his lip right-angled witheach syllable, like a tiny diving board.
Milo said, “You carry Stefano Ricci ties?The five-hundred-buck deals with the real gold thread?”
“No, sir, I’m afraid we—”
“Just kidding, friend.” Fingering the skinny, wrinkled polyester thing thathung down his paunch.
The young man was still working on a smile when Miloflashed the badge. Off to one side a pair of Persian saleswomen looked us overand spoke in low tones.
“Police?”
“We’re here about a theft that occurred four days ago. A customer got herpurse stolen.”
“Sure. Ms. Wasserman.”
“She’s a regular?”
“Every month like clockwork. I find her purse for her all the time. Thistime I guess it really did get stolen.”
“Absentminded lady?”
“I’ll say,” said the young man. “They’re beautiful pieces, you’d thinkshe’d…I don’t want to gossip, she’s a nice lady. This time it was a snakeskinBadge-Mish. She’s got Missoni and Cavallo, vintage Judith Leiber day bags,Hermès, Chanel.”
“You’d think,” said Milo.
“I’m not putting her down, she’s a really nice person. Perfect size zero andshe tries to tip the staff even though it’s not allowed. Did you find it?”
“Not yet. Those other times, where did she leave them, Mr….”
“Topher  Lembell. I’m a designer soI’m always noticing details. The Badge was sweet. Anaconda, thisyou-better-notice-me pattern, the dye job was so good you could almost think asnake could really be mauve—”
“Where’s Ms. Wasserman tend to leave her purses?”
“The dressing room. That’s where I always find them. You know, under a pileof clothes? This time she claimed she last saw it over there.” Pointing to adisplay counter in the middle of the store. Shiny things arrayed neatly underglass. Nearby was a display of last season’s men’s linen suits in earth tones,canvas shoes, straw hats, fifty-dollar T-shirts.
Milo said, “You doubt that.”
“I guess she’d know,” said Topher Lembell. “Though if she left it out in theopen, you’d think someone would’ve noticed, what with it being so gorgeous. Andeveryone knowing about Ms. Wasserman’s forgetfulness.”
“Maybe someone did,” said Milo.
“I meant us, Officer. We had a full staff that day because it was real busy,lots of stock came in, including stuff that didn’t move at the warehouse saleand was deep-deep-discounted. The company advertised, plus preferred customersget e-mails.”
“Like Ms. Wasserman.”
“She’s definitely preferred.”
“A busy day could make it harder to notice things,” said Milo.
“You’d think so but on super-heavy days we’re super-careful. So, actually,theft rates go down. It’s the medium days that are worse, enough people sowe’re outnumbered, you turn your back and someone’s boosted something.”
“Still, Ms. Wasserman’s purse did get stolen.”
Topher Lembell pouted. “No one’s perfect. My bet’s still on the dressingroom. She was in and out all morning, trying on stuff, tossing it on the floor.When she’s in that mode she can create a real mess—don’t tell her I said that,okay? I’m one of her favorites. It’s like she uses me for a personal shopper.”
“Sealed lips,” said Milo. “Now would you dome a favor and look at these photos and tell me if any of these people were inthe store that day?”
“Suspects?” said Topher Lembell. “This is cool. Can I tell my friends aboutbeing part of an investigation or is it a big top-secret deal?”
“Tell anyone you want. Is everyone here who was working that day?”
“We had five more people, including one of their friends from the Valley.”Eyeing the Persian women. “The others were Larissa, Christy, Andy, and Mo. They all go tocollege, come in weekends and on heavy days. Larissa and Christy are due in topick up their check, I could call and see if they can come earlier. And maybe Ican get Mo and Andy on the phone, they’re roomies.”
“Thanks for the help,” said Milo.
“Sure, let’s see those suspects. Like I said, I’ve got a great eye fordetail.”
As Milo produced the photos, Topher Lembellstudied the wrinkled necktie and the wash-and-wear shirt beneath it. “By theway, we’ve still got some good deals on last season’s goods. Lots of loose,comfy stuff.”
Milo smiled and showed him DMV head-shotsof Nora Dowd and Dylan Meserve.
“He’s younger and cuter than her.”
The snaps of Cathy and Andy Gaidelas evoked, “Sorry, no. These two look kindof Wisconsin—I grew up in Kenosha. Are they really criminals?”
“How about this one?”
Lembell studied Reynold Peaty’s arrest shot and stuck out his tongue. “Ugh.The moment he stepped inside, we’d be on the lookout. Uh-uh.”
Milo said, “On a busy day, despite theextra staff, couldn’t someone blend in with the crowd?”
“If it was me in charge, never. My eyes are like lasers. On the other hand,some people…” Another glance at the saleswomen, now idling silently near a rackof designer dresses.
One of them caught Milo’s eye and wavedtentatively.
He said, “Let’s see what your colleagues have to say. And if you could makethose calls to the temps right now, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’m on it,” said Topher Lembell, following along as we crossed the room.“By the way, I do custom couture. Men’s suits, jackets, pants, made to precisemeasure, all I charge is five percent over the cost of fabric, and I’ve gotsurplus rolls from Dormeuil and Holland & Sherry, some really cool Super100’s. If you’re a wee bit hard to fit—”
“I’m harder after a big meal,” said Milo.
“No prob, I can create an expandable waistband with tons of stretch.”
“Hmm,” said Milo. “Let me think aboutit…hello, ladies.”
 
Forty minutes later, we were parked near the food court at the northern edgeof the complex drinking iced tea from twenty-ounce cups.
Milo removed his straw, bent it intosegments, created a plastic tapeworm, pulled it tight.
His mood was low. No I.D.s on any of the photos by the staff, including thehistrionic Larissa and Christy who arrived giggling and continued to view theprocess as hilarious. Roommates Andy and Mo were interviewed by phone in Goleta. Same for FahrizaNourmand of Westlake Village. No one recalledanyone lurking near Angeline Wasserman’s person or purse.
No suspicious characters that day, though someone had boosted a package ofmen’s briefs.
Topher Lembell gave up Angeline Wasserman’s phone number, scrawling on theback of his own baby-blue business card.
“Call me any time for a fitting but don’t tell anyone here about it.Technically, I’m not allowed to do my own thing on company time but I don’tthink God really cares, do you?”
Now, Milo copied Wasserman’s number intohis pad, crumpled the card, and tossed it in my ashtray.
I said, “No interest in custom couture?”
“For that I call Omar the Tentmaker.”
“How about Stefano Ricci? Five hundred bucks for a tie’s a bargain.”
“Rick,” he said. “His cravats cost more than my suits. When I’m feelingvindictive, I use it against him.”
He played with the straw, tried to rip the plastic, failed, and jammed itback through the lid of his drink. “Just before I came to your place, I got anI.D. on the phone booth used for the whispering crap. Let’s have a look, it ain’texactly a trek.”
 
Gas station at Las Posas and Ventura,a five-minute drive.
Trucks and cars lined up at the pumps, hungry motorists streamed in and outof an adjacent Stop & Shop. The booth was off to the side, near thebathrooms. No police tape or indication anyone had dusted for prints.
I remarked on that and he said, “Ventura PD came by at six a.m., lifted awhole bunch of latents. Even with AFIS it’ll be a while before that’suntangled.”
We went into the food store where he showed the photos to the clerks. Headshakes, apathy. Back outside, he said, “Any ideas?”
“Whoever stole the purse was careful enough to use the cell for the hang-upsthen switch to the pay phone for the whispering. Or, we’re talking two peopleworking as a team. Either way, the caller stuck around in Camarillo, so how about checking over there?”I pointed across Venturato a mass of other eateries.
“Sure, why not.”
We made it through six restaurants before he said, “Enough. Maybe theabsentminded Ms. Wasserman will recognize someone.”
“You didn’t show any shots of Billy Dowd.”
“Couldn’t come up with any,” he said. “Didn’t figure it mattered ’cause Idon’t see Billy making his way out here by himself.”
“Even if he managed to, the Barneys staff would’ve noticed him.”
“Not cool enough. Just like junior high.”
“Why’d you bother showing Peaty’s picture? He didn’t call Vasquez and taghimself as dangerous.”
“I wanted to see if he’s ever been out here. Looks like none of our partiesof interest have been.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “Angeline Wasserman is here every month, ‘likeclockwork.’ The staff knew her as absentminded so maybe someone else did.Someone stylish enough to blend in, like Dylan Meserve.”
“No one recognized his picture, Alex.”
“Maybe he knows something about special effects.”
“He shops in disguise?”
“A performance,” I said. “That could be the whole point.”
 
I took the 101 back to the city, making good time as Milocalled in for messages. He had to introduce himself three times to whoeveranswered at the West L.A. station, hung upcursing.
“New receptionist?”
“Idiot nephew of a city councilman, still doesn’t know who I am. For thelast three days I’ve gotten no messages, which is fine, except when I’mactually trying to solve a case. Turns out all my slips ended up in someoneelse’s box—a D named Sterlingwho’s out on vacation. Luckily it was all junk.”
He punched Angeline Wasserman’s number. Barely had time to recite his namebefore he was listening nonstop. Finally, he broke through and set up anappointment to meet in an hour.
“Design Center, she’s at a rug place, doing a‘high-level multi-level Wilshire Corridor condo.’ The day she got ripped offshe thinks some guy was checking her out in the outlet parking lot.”
“Who?”
“All I got was a guy in an SUV, she said she’d work on her recollection.Wanna hypnotize her?” He laughed. “She sounded excited.”
“Just like Topher the designer. You didn’t know you were in a glamprofession.”
He showed his teeth to the rearview mirror, scraped an incisor. “Ready formy close-up, Mr. DeMille. Time to scare small children and household pets.”
 
Manoosian Oriental Carpets was a cavernous space on the ground floor of the Design Center’sBlue Building, crammed with hundreds ofhand-loomed treasures and smelling of dust and brown paper.
Angeline Wasserman stood in the center of the gallery’s main room,red-haired, cheerfully anorexic, facially tucked so many times her eyes hadmigrated, fishlike, toward the sides of her head. Lime-green shantung pants fither stick legs like Saran around chicken bones. Her orange cashmere jacketwould’ve flared if she had hips. Bouncing like a Slinky toy among hemp-boundrolls of rugs, she smiled orders at two young Hispanic guys unfurling awaist-high stack of 20 x 20 Sarouks.
As we approached her, she sang out, “I’ll do it!” and launched herself atthe rugs. Tossing back dense flaps of woven wool, she passed instantaneousjudgment on each. “No. No. Definitely no. Maybe. No. No. No on that one,too—we’ve got to do better, Darius.”
The stocky, bearded fellow she addressed said, “How about some Kashans, Ms.W?”
“If they’re better than these.”
Darius waved to the young guys and they left.
Angeline Wasserman noticed us, inspected a few more piles, finished, andpatted her hair and said, “Hello, police people.”
Milo thanked her for cooperating, showedher the photos.
Her index finger tapped. “No. No. No. No. No. So, tell me, how come LAPD’s involvedwhen it happened in Ventura?”
“It might be related to an L.A.crime, ma’am.”
Wasserman’s piscine eyes glowed. “Some sort of big-time crime ring?Figures.”
“Why’s that?”
“Someone who recognizes a Badgley Mischka is clearly a pro.” She waved awaythe photos. “Think you’ll ever find my little beauty?”
“Hard to say.”
“In other words, no. Okay, that’s life, it was a year old, anyway. Butshould a miracle come down from above, the one thing I ask is that you onlyreturn it if it’s in perfect shape. If it’s not, just donate it to some policecharity and let me know so I can write it off. Here today, gone tomorrow,right, Lieutenant?”
“Good attitude, ma’am.”
“My husband thinks I’m pathologically insouciant, but guess who looksforward to getting up in the morning and who doesn’t? Anyway, there wasn’t muchcash in there, maybe eight, nine hundred dollars and I put a stop on the magicplastic.”
“Had anyone tried to use the cards?”
“Thank God, no. My AmEx Black’s limitless. The phone’s no big deal, either,it was time for an upgrade. Now, let me tell you about that guy who waschecking me out. He was already there when I pulled into the lot, so he wasn’tstalking me or anything like that. What probably happened is he was casing thelot for a pigeon—that’s the right term, isn’t it?—and he saw me as a perfectlittle dove.”
“Because of the purse.”
“The purse, my clothes, my demeanor.” Bony hands traversed bony flanks. “Iwas dolled out, guys. Even when hunting le grande bargainne, I refuse to dressdown.”
“How was this person checking you out?” said Milo.
“Looking at me. Right through his car window.”
“His window was rolled up?”
“All the way. And it was tinted, so I couldn’t get a good look. But I’m surehe had his eye on me.” Curled lashes danced. “I’m not flattering myself,Lieutenant. Believe me, he was looking.”
“What do you remember about him?”
“Caucasian. I couldn’t make out details but the way he was turned I had afull view of his face.” A red-nailed finger touched a collagen lip. “ByCaucasian, I mean light skinned. I suppose he could’ve been a pale Latino orsome kind of Asian. Not black, that I can tell you for sure.”
“He stayed in the car the whole time?”
“And continued to watch me. I just know he was following me with his eyes.”
“Was the engine idling?”
“Hmm…no, I don’t think so…no, definitely not.”
“Everything you saw was through the glass.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t just what I saw, it was what Infelt. You know, thatitchy tingle you get on the back of your neck when someone’s watching you?”
“Sure,” said Milo.
“I’m glad you understand because my husband doesn’t. He’s convinced I’mflattering myself.”
“Husbands,” said Milo, grinning.
Wasserman’s return smile tested the outer limits of her skeletal face.
“Could there have been more than one person in the car, Ms. Wasserman?”
“I suppose so, but the feeling I got was one person.”
“The feeling.”
“There was just a…solitary flavor to him.” She touched a concave abdomen. “Itrust this. ”
“Is there anything else you can say about him?”
“At first, I just figured it for guy behavior—checking out the goods. Afterthe Badge got stolen was when I started thinking he could’ve been up to nogood. Was the phone used?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where’d they call? Outer Mongolia or somecrazy place?”
“L.A.”
“Well,” said Angeline Wasserman, “that shows a lack of creativity. Maybe Iwas wrong.”
“About what?”
“Him being some high-level crime guy and not just a crook.”
“High level because he knew what a Badge was,” said Milo.
“The whole image—being at Barneys, driving a Rover.”
“A Range Rover?”
“A real pretty one, shiny and new-y.”
“What color?”
“Silver, mine’s anthracite. That’s why it didn’t bother me at first, hislooking at me. Both of us with Rovers, parked near each other? Kind of atwinsie karma, you know?”
Chapter 33
Anew stack of rugs arrived. Angeline Wasserman inspected a fringe. “Theseknots are tangled.”
Milo muttered, “Story of my life.”
If she heard him, she didn’t indicate. “Darius, are these the best you’vegot?”
 
Driving to Butler Avenue,I said, “AmEx Black, never used.”
“I know, same as with the Gaidelases. But do you see them tooling around ina Range Rover that just happens to match Nora Dowd’s?”
No need to answer.
When we arrived at the station, Milodemanded his messages from the new receptionist, a terrified bald man in hisforties named Tom, who said, “There’s nothing new, Lieutenant, I promise.”
I followed Milo’s chuffy climb up thestairs. When we reached his office, he unpacked his attaché, placed the autopsyfile next to his computer, and requested a BOLO on the Range Rover, all beforesitting down.
“How about this, Alex: Nora and Meserve have an 805 love nest and thosebrochures were a diversion. I’m thinking something on the beach because what’sa rich girl without a beach house? Could be right there in Camarillo,or farther north—Oxnard Harbor, Ventura,Carpinteria, Mussel Shoals, Santa Barbara, or points beyond.”
I said, “Could be points south, too. Maybe Meserve didn’t know Latigo becausehe’d hiked there.”
“Nora’s a Malibugal,” he said. “Has a rural hideaway tucked in the mountains.”
“Something registered to her individually, not part of the BNB partnership.”
“Easy enough to find out what she pays property tax on.” He flipped thecomputer on. The screen flashed blue, then black, sparked a couple of times,and died. Several attempts to reboot were greeted by silence.
He said, “Expelling profanities is a waste of oxygen. Let me borrow someoneelse’s terminal.”
I used the time to leave another message for Robin. Read through Michaela’sautopsy findings again.
Playing with veins and arteries.
The PlayHouse.
Nora tiring of theatrical abstractions. Meeting Dylan Meserve anddiscovering common interests.
Embalming. Nora’s taste in pets.
Milo returned.
“Good news?” I said.
“If failure’s your idea of success. The circuit that feeds all the computersis down, tech support was summoned hours ago. I’m going downtown to theassessor’s office to do it the old-fashioned way. If tax leeches communicatewith their buds in other counties maybe I can get hooked up with Ventura and Santa Barbara. If not, I’m on the road again.”
Humming the Willie Nelson song.
“You’re taking this well.”
“All part of my audition,” he said.
“For what?”
“Mentally stable individual.” Grabbing his jacket, he opened the door andheld it for me.
I said, “Taxidermy.”
“What?”
“The coroner’s guess about embalming. Think Nora’s fluffy dog.”
He sat back down. “Some horrific arts and crafts thing?”
“I was thinking stage prop.”
“For what?”
“Grand Guignol.”
He shut his eyes, knuckled a temple. “Your mind…” The eyes opened. “If Dowdand Meserve have an evil hobby, why wasn’t Michaela actually messed with?”
“She was rejected,” I said. “Same for Tori Giacomo. Or not. Scattered bonesmake it impossible to know.”
“Why?”
I shook my head. “That level of pathology, the symbolism can be beyondanyone else’s comprehension.”
“Two pretty girls wrong for the part,” he said. “The Gaidelases, on theother hand, have never been found. Meaning maybe their heads are hanging on adamn wall?”
Another temple massage. “Okay, now that the images are firmly planted in mybrain and I’m sure to have a lovely day, let’s get the hell out of here.”
I followed him up the hall. When we reached the stairwell, he said, “Snuffand stuff. I can always count on you to cheer me up.”
 
On our way out, Tom the receptionist sang out, “Have a nice day,Lieutenant.”
Milo’s reply was sotto voce and obscene. Heleft me standing on the sidewalk and continued to the staff parking lot.
Seeing his irritation at the lost messages brought to mind the disgustedlook on Albert Beamish’s face yesterday.
Constitutional crankiness? Or had the old man, ever eager to spread dirt onthe Dowds, poked around and actually learned something useful? Tried to tattleand got no callback?
No sense overloading Milo’s circuits. Idrove to Hancock Park.
 
Beamish’s doorbell was answered by a tiny Indonesian maid in a black uniformclutching a dust-clogged feather duster.
“Mr. Beamish, please.”
“No home.”
“Any idea when he’ll be back?”
“No home.”
Walking over to Nora’s house, I took a close look at the barn doors of hergarage. Bolted. I nudged the panels, felt some give, but my bare hands wereunable to spread the doors wide enough. Milohad left it at that. I wasn’t bound by the rules of evidence.
Fetching a crowbar from the trunk of the Seville, I carried it parallel to my leg,went back, and managed to pry the doors an inch apart.
A stale gasoline smell blew out. No Range Rover or any other vehicle. Atleast Milo could be spared the bother of awarrant.
My cell phone beeped. “Dr. Delaware?It’s Karen from your exchange. I’ve got a message from Dr. Gwynn that wasmarked priority. He asked if you can come by his office soon as you have achance.”
“Dr. Gwynn’s a she,” I said.
“Oh…sorry. Louise wrote this one down, I’m new. Do you usually specifygender?”
“Don’t worry about it. When was the call?”
“Twenty minutes ago, just before I came on.”
“Did Dr. Gwynn give a reason for wanting me over?”
“It just says asap, Doctor. Want the number?”
“I know it.”
For Allison to reach out, it had to be something bad. Her grandmother.Another stroke? Worst-case scenario?
Even so, why call me?
Maybe because she had no one else.
Her message tape picked up. I drove to Santa Monica.
 
Empty waiting room. The red light next to her name was unlit, meaning nosession in progress. I pushed open the door to the inner offices, proceededthrough a short hall to Allison’s corner suite. Knocked on her door and didn’twait for an answer.
She wasn’t at her desk. Or in one of the soft white patient chairs.
When I said, “Allison?” no one answered.
This felt wrong.
Before I could process that thoroughly, the back of my head exploded inpain.
Hammer-on-melon pain.
Cartoonists are right; you really do see stars.
I reeled, got smashed again. Back of the neck this time.
I sank to my knees, wobbled on Allison’s soft carpet, fought forconsciousness.
Anew pain burned my right flank. Sharp, electric. Was I being cut?
Heavy breathing behind me, someone straining with effort, blur of darktrouser leg.
The second kick to my ribs took all the fight out of me and I went down onmy face.
Hard leather continued to have its way with bone. My brain rang like a gong.I tried to ward off further blows but my arms were numb.
For some reason, I counted.
Three kicks, four, five, six for good meas—
Chapter 34
Gray soupy world, viewed from the bottom of a stockpot.
I drowned in my chair, blinked, trying to clear eyes that wouldn’t open.Someone played a trombone solo. My eyelids finally cooperated. The ceilingswooped down, changed its mind, soared miles above, a white plaster sky.
Blue sky. No, the blue was off to the left.
A smudge of black on top.
Pale blue, same exact color as the burned cork smell in my throat.
The black, Allison’s hair.
The pale blue, one of her suits. Memories flooded my head. Fitted jacket,skirt short enough to show a nice bit of knee. Braiding around the lapels,covered buttons.
Lots of buttons; it could take a long, sweet time to free them.
The pain in my skull took over. My back and my right side—
Someone moved. Above Allison. To the right.
“Can’t you see he needs help—”
“Shut up!”
My eyelids sank. I blinked some more. Turned it into an aerobic activity andfinally achieved some focus.
There she was. In one of the soft white chairs where she hadn’t beenbefore…how long ago?
I tried to look at my watch. The face was a silver disk.
My vision cleared a bit. I’d been right: She was wearing the exact suit I’dpictured, give the boy an A for…
Movement from the right.
Standing over her was Dr. Patrick Hauser. One of his hands had vanished inher hair. The other held a knife pressed to her smooth white throat.
Red handle. Swiss Army knife, one of the larger versions. For some reason, Ifound that ludicrously amateurish.
Hauser’s clothes clinched it. White golf shirt, baggy brown pants, brownwingtips.
Hard-toed wingtips, way too dressy for the outfit. White was the wrong colorif you wanted to avoid those stubborn bloodstains.
Hauser’s shirt was sweat-splotched but free of red. Beginner’s luck. Nosense rubbing it in. I smiled at him.
“Something funny?”
I had so many snappy comebacks. Forgot all of them. Gong. Gong.
Allison’s eyes shifted to the right. Past Hauser, toward her desk?
Nothing else there but a wall and a closet.
Closet blocked by the door when you opened it.
Deep blue irises moved again. Definitely the desk. The far end, where herpurse sat.
Hauser said, “Sit up and get that pen.”
I was already sitting. Silly man.
I spread my arms to show him, hit an arm of the wooden desk chair.
Not sitting at all. Slumped, nearly prone, head tilted back, spine in an oddposition.
Maybe that’s why everything hurt so bad.
I tried to straighten, nearly passed out.
“C’mon, up, up, up,” barked Hauser.
Every inch of movement heated the toaster coils that had replaced my spinalnerves. It took years to reach a sitting position and the ordeal robbed me ofbreath. Inhaling was hellish, breathing out, worse.
A few more centuries and my eyes got clearer. I gained a sense of context:Allison and Hauser fifteen feet away. My chair pushed up to Allison’s desk. Theside where a new patient might sit, seeking consultation.
Therapy charts and Allison’s desktop doodads on the pale oak surface. She’dbeen doing paperwork when he’d—
Hauser said, “Get the pen and start writing.”
What pen? Ah, there it was, hiding among the noise and the color. Next to aclean, white sheet of paper.
Some comical guy’s voice said,“Wri-whuh?”
I cleared my throat. Licked my lips. The rephrase came out: “Wri…tuh whuh?”
Hauser said, “Cut the theatrics, you’re fine.”
Allison moved her left shoe. Mouthed something that looked like “Sorry.” Shewinced as the knife blade pressed into her skin. Hauser didn’t seem to be awareof his own movement or her reaction.
“Write, you sonofabitch.”
“Sure,” I said. “Bun cun you crew—cue me in?”
“You’re going to retract everything you told that bitch lawyer, label theother bitches for the malingering bitches they are, sign and date.”
“Ah theh?”
“Then what?”
“Whah happahs aftah I chew thah?”
“Then we’ll see, you unethical asshole.”
“Alethical.”
“Once you’re exposed,” said Hauser, “life will be cream and sugar.”
“For who?”
His glasses slid down his nose and he flicked his head to right them. Themovement distanced the blade from Allison’s neck.
Then it was back.
A low sound fluttered his lips. “Shut up and write or I’ll cut her and setit up like you did it.”
“You’re serious.”
“Do I look as if I’m kidding?” His eyes watered. His lower lip vibrated. “Iwas doing just fine until everyone started lying. All my life I’ve done forothers. Now it’s time to take care of number one.”
I managed to pick up the pen, nearly dropped it. Heavy little sucker—werethey making them of lead nowadays? Wasn’t lead bad for kids? No, that waspencils. No, that was graphite…
I flexed my right arm and its mate. No more numbness. The pain hadn’t abatedbut I was starting to feel human.
I said, “For this to be cruda—credulab—cred-i-ble shouldn’t it be notarypublicked?”
Hauser licked his lips. His glasses had slid down again but he didn’t try toadjust them. “Stop faking. I didn’t hit you that hard.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But the question is still…revelant…”
“You write, I’ll worry about what’s relevant.”
The pen had stopped trying to escape my hand, settled awkwardly between ringfinger and pinky. I managed to roll it into writing position.
Allison watched me.
I was scaring her.
A pen made of lead; what would the EPA think of that?
I said, “So I write. Now. How?”
Hauser said, “What do you mean, how?”
“What words do I tell?”
“Start by acknowledging that you’re a pathological liar unfit to practice.”
“Should I use first person?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?” Hauser’s jowls shook with rage. His arm did,too, and once more the knife danced away from Allison’s skin.
Not a good multitasker.
His right hand dug in and twisted Allison’s hair. She gasped, closed hereyes, and bit her lip.
I said, “Please stop hurting her.”
“I’m not hurting her—”
“You’re pulling her hair,” I said.
Hauser looked down at his hand. Stopped twisting. “This isn’t about her.”
“My point.”
“You don’t have a point,” he said. “You owe me. If I wanted to hurt you, Icould’ve used a club or something. All I did was sucker punch you with my barehand. Same way you did me. I hurt my knuckles doing it. I’m not a violentperson, all I want is justice.”
“Kicked me in the ribs, “ I said, sounding like a petulant child.
“When you punched me at that restaurant, you escalated the level ofviolence. All I wanted to do was talk rationally. Blame yourself.”
“You scared me at the restaurant,” I said.
That brought a smile to his lips. “Are you scared now?”
“Yeah.”
“Then harness the fear—sublimate. Start writing and we can all go home.”
I knew he was lying but I believed him. Tried another smile.
He stared past me.
Allison glanced at her purse. Blinked several times.
I said, “How ’bout I start like this: My name is Alex Demlaware, I’m acrinical psychologist licensed by the state of California, my license number is 45…”
Droning on. Hauser followed with choppy movements of his head. Warming tothe recitation because it was everything he wanted to hear.
“Fine. Write.”
I leaned over the desk, shielding his view of my right hand with my left arm.Lowering the nib of the pen to just above the paper, I made writing motions.
“Oops,” I said. “Out of ink.”
“Bullshit, don’t try—”
I held up the pen. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
Hauser thought. The knife drifted. “Get another one out of the drawer. Don’tagitate me.”
I struggled to my feet, holding the chair for support. “Should I lean overthe desk or go around?”
“Go around. That way.” Pointing to the right.
Circling toward the front of the desk, I grazed Allison’s purse with mysleeve. Opened the drawer, took out several pens, rested for breath. No act; myribs felt like bonemeal.
On the return trip, I touched the purse again, hazarded a look.
Unzipped. Allison’s bad habit. I’d given up lecturing to her about it.
I pretended to bang my knee against the desk corner. Cried out in pain anddropped the pens.
“Idiot!”
“My balance is off. I think you knocked something loose.”
“Bullshit, I didn’t hit you that hard.”
“I passed out. Maybe I’ve got a concussion.”
“Your head was stationary and if you had a rudimentary knowledge ofneuropsych you’d know that severe concussions result most often from twoobjects in motion colliding.”
I looked at the carpet.
“Pick them up!”
I bent, collected the pens. Straightened and made my way back as Hauserwatched.
The knife had shifted a few inches from Allison’s throat but his right handkept a firm hold on her hair.
I met her eyes. Edged to the right, farther from Hauser. That relaxed him.
Allison blinked.
I said, “One thing…”
Before Hauser could answer, Allison struck out at his knife arm, twistedaway, and slid out of his grasp.
He shouted. She ran toward the door. He went after her. I had the purse,groped with tingling fingers, found it.
Allison’s shiny little automatic, perfect for her small hand, too small formine. She’d oiled it recently and maybe some of the lubricant had made its wayto the grip. Or my motor skills were shot and that’s why my shaking armsbobbled the weapon.
I caught it, used both hands to steady my aim.
Hauser was a foot behind Allison, flushed and huffing, knife held high. Hemade a grab for her, caught another handful of hair, yanked her head back,chopped down.
I shot him in the back of the knee.
He didn’t fall immediately so I blew out the other knee.
For good measure.
Chapter 35
I’d spent ten years working in a hospital. Some smells never change.
Robin and Allison sat across from my bed.
Next to each other. Like friends.
Robin in black, Allison still in the baby-blue suit.
I remembered pokes and probes and other indignities but not beingtransported here.
The CAT scan and X-rays had been boring, the MRI a bit of claustrophobicfun. The spinal tap was no kind of fun at all.
No more pain, though. What a tough guy I was.
Robin and Allison—or maybe it was Allison and Robin—smiled.
I said, “What is this, some kind of beauty contest?”
Milo stepped into view.
I said, “I redact and retract and refract any former statement vis-àvisaesthetic competition.”
Smiles all around. I was a hit.
“At the risk of utterly banalistical cliché, where the bleep am Ihospital-wise?”
“Cedars,” said Milo in a slow, patient waythat suggested it wasn’t the first time he’d answered the question.
“Didja get to see Rick? You really should, you guys don’t spend enough timetogether.”
Pained smiles. Timing, it’s all about timing. I said, “Ladies and germs.”
Milo edged closer. “Rick says hi. He madesure they did all the necessary crap. No concussion or hematomas and yourbrain’s not swollen—at least not more than it usually is. You do have somebruised disks in your cervical spine and a couple of cracked ribs. Ergo, KingTut.”
“Ergo. Pogo. Logo.” I touched my side, felt the stiff swaddle of bandages.“Rick didn’t get to operate? No unkindest cut?”
“Not this time, pal.”
He was blocking my view. I told him so and he retreated to a corner of theroom.
I looked at the girls. My girls.
So serious, both of them. Maybe I hadn’t said it loud enough.” Nounkindeness cutaroo?”
Two pretty attempts at sympathy chuckles. I was dying up here.
“Just got in from Lost Wages,” I said, “and boy, is my vertebral discographytired.”
Robin said something to Allison, or maybe it was the other way around,making sense of all this was a pretzel, a pretty girl pretzel, mustard andsalt, who the hell could untangle it…
“What?” someone who sounded like me shouted. “What’s the conversationalthread being woven into the warp of the contestants?”
“You need to sleep,” said Allison. She looked ready to cry.
Robin, too.
Time for new material…“I slept just fine yesterday. Girls! ”
“They sedated you,” said Robin. “You’re under sedation right now.”
“Demerol,” said Allison. “Later, you can take Percocet.”
“Why’d they do that?” I said. “I’m no doper, I get low on life.”
Robin got up and moved bedside. Allison followed, hanging slightly behind.
All that perfume. Whoa!
“You wearing Chanel?” I demanded of Milo.“Come on over, dude, and join the olfactory celebration.”
Allison caught my eye. No purse to look for now, she was holding it. “Wherewere you?” I said. “When I came into the office you weren’t.”
“He had me in the closet.”
Robin said, “Poor thing.”
I said, “Her or me?”
“Both of you.” Robin took Allison’s hand and squeezed.
Allison looked grateful.
Everyone, so sad. Utter waste of energy, time to get dressed and have juiceand coffee, maybe an English muffin and be out of here in no time…where were myclothes…I’d get dressed in front of all of them, we were all chums.
I must’ve said something to that effect, maybe with a bit of vulgarity,because both of the girls—my pretty girls—looked shocked.
Robin inhaled and patted the hand without the I.V. Allison wanted to do thesame thing, I could tell she really wanted to, maybe she even still liked methat way, but the I.V. stopped her.
I said, “No sweat, you can pat me, too.”
She obeyed.
“Hold my hands!” I commanded. “Both of you! Everyone join hands.”
They complied. Good pretty girls.
I told Milo, “You, on the other hand, can’thold anything.”
He said, “Aw, shucks.”
I went back to sleep.
Chapter 36
Rick wanted me to stay in the hospital another night for observation but Isaid enough.
He laid on all the medical authority but nothing helps in the face ofindustrial-strength obstinacy. I called a taxi and checked myself out, carryinga goody bag of painkillers, anti-inflammatories, steroids, and a small-printlist of dire side effects.
Robin had been by earlier. Allison had called once but hadn’t shown up sincethe first time.
“I got to know her,” said Robin. “She’s lovely.”
“Female bonding?” I said.
“She’s nice, that’s all.”
“And you talked about the weather.”
“Egomaniac.” She stroked my hair. “I called you Wednesday because I decidedto move back. Still want that?”
“Yes.”
“Allison’s okay with it.”
“Didn’t know we needed her permission.”
“She adores you,” said Robin. “But I love you.”
I had no idea what that meant. Had regained enough coherence not to ask.
“I told her to feel free to come by to visit you but she wants to give ussome time together. She feels horrible about what happened, Alex.”
“Why?”
“Leading you to Hauser.”
“He had a knife to her throat, she didn’t have much choice. I’m sure Hauserasked around, found out we used to…hang out. Knowing me endangered her. I needto apologize.”
My eyes brimmed with tears. What was that all about?
Robin wiped them. “It’s no one’s fault, Alex, the guy’s obviouslyunbalanced.”
“Now he’ll be an unbalanced cripple. Wonder when the police are coming by tointerview me.”
“Milo’s taking care of all that. He saysgiven Hauser’s previous arrest, there shouldn’t be any problem.”
“In a perfect world,” I said.
Cool lips braised my forehead. “It’ll be all right, honey. You need to restand keep healing—”
“Allison really blames herself?”
“She feels she should’ve known better, given what you’d told her aboutHauser.”
“That’s utterly ridiculous.”
“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear that from you. In those exact words.”
I laughed. The bandages around my ribs felt like sashes of ground glass.
“It hurts, honey?”
“Not a bit.”
“You poor lying baby.” She kissed my eyelids, then my mouth. Too damndelicate, I needed something closer to pain, reached around and pressed herhead down. When she finally pulled away, she was breathless.
“More, woman!” I said. “Ugha ugha.”
She snaked her hand under the bedcovers, reached down. “One of the partsseems to be in working order.”
“Man of steel,” I said. “You’re really coming back?”
“If you want me to.”
“Of course I want you to.”
“Maybe after the pain goes away, you’ll change your—”
I placed a finger across her lips. “When are you doing it?”
“A few days.” Pause. “I’m thinking I’ll keep the studio. Like you said, forwork.”
“And when you want to get away from me,” I said.
“No, baby, I’ve had plenty of that.”
Chapter 37
I walked out of the hospital trying to look like someone who worked in ahospital. The cab arrived ten minutes later. I was home by seven p.m.
The Seville was parked in front; somethingelse Milo had taken care of.
The taxi driver had hit several potholes in West Hollywood. The city that loves decorating avoids the unglamorousstuff.
Pain on each impact had been reassuring; I could stand it.
I stashed the Percocet in my medicine cabinet, opened a fresh bottle ofextra-strength Advil.
I hadn’t heard from Milo since yesterday’shospital visit. Maybe that meant progress.
I reached him in his car. “Thanks for getting my wheels home.”
“That wasn’t me, that was Robin. Are you being a good patient?”
“I’m home.”
“Rick okayed that?”
“Rick and I reached a meeting of the minds.”
Silence. “Real smart move, Alex.”
“If you listened to him, you’d be wearing better ties.”
More silence.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks for handling Hauser.”
“As much as I handled.”
“I’ve got problems ahead?”
“There’ll be some shit to deal with, but those in the know say you’ll beokay. Meanwhile, the asshole’s in the jail ward wearing yellow pajamas andlooking at inkblots. What happened, he imploded?”
“He made bad decisions and projected them onto me. How badly did I woundhim?”
“He won’t be playing soccer any time soon. Allison’s little shooter came inhandy, huh?”
“Sure did,” I said. “Did you find any properties Nora Dowd owns in or near805?”
“Back in the swing,” he said. “Just like that.”
“On sound advice.”
“Whose?”
“My own.”
He laughed. “As a matter of fact, Nora’s got three 805 deeds to her name.Condo in Carpinteria, couple of houses in Goleta.All of which have been leased out long term. Her tenants have never met her but they like her because she keeps the rent low.”
“BNB manages the buildings?”
“No, a Santa Barbaracompany does. I spoke to the manager. Nora gets checks in the mail, nevervisits. That’s it, Alex. No tryst-pad, no direct link to Camarillo,no Malibugetaway. Maybe she and Meserve made the calls and took off for that tropicalvacation.”
I said, “Do the brothers own anything out there?”
“Why would that matter? Billy’s a mope and Brad hates Meserve. So farlooking for Peaty’s hidey-holes has been a big zero. Once I finish with ArmandoVasquez, I’ll look into private flights.”
“What’s to do on Vasquez?”
“Second interview. First time was last night, call from Vasquez’s D.P.D. at11 p.m., Armando wanted to talk. Faithful public servant that I am, I trudgedover. The agenda was Vasquez embellishing the phone call story. Claiming thenight of the murder wasn’t the first time, same thing happened a week or sobefore, he can’t remember exactly when or how many times. No hang-ups, justsomeone whispering that Peaty was a dangerous pervert, could hurt Vasquez’swife and kids. D.A. wants to blunt any justification defense so I’ve got tostick with it, meanwhile they’ll be pulling a month’s worth of phone records.While I was there I showed Vasquez my photo collection. He’s never seen theGaidelases, Nora, or Meserve. The thing is, I finally got a shot of Billy, andVasquez also doesn’t recognize him. But I’m sure Billy’s been to the apartmentwith Brad. Meaning Vasquez, not being there during the day, is pretty useless.Like everything else I’ve come up with.”
“Anything you need me to do?”
“I need you to heal up and not be a foolish mummy. One other thing that cameup is Peaty’s body just got claimed by a cousin from Nevada. She asked to speak to the D incharge, says she left a bunch of messages, thanks again, Idiot Tom. I’msqueezing her in tomorrow afternoon, to see if she can shed some light onPeaty’s psyche, D.A.’s orders. With the defense painting him as a psycho-brute,I’m supposed to learn his good points.”
“Speaking of Idiot Tom.” I recounted Beamish’s disgusted expression.
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Maybe Beamish remembers more stolen fruit…whatelse…oh, yeah, I called some taxidermy supply houses. No record of Nora orMeserve buying creepy accoutrements. Okay, here I am at Le Grande Lockup readyfor Mr. Vasquez. Time to add a few more lies to my daily diet.”
 
Daybreak brought the worst headache of my life, stiff limbs, a cottonymouth. A palmful of Advils and three cups of black coffee later, I was movingfine. If I kept my breathing shallow.
I phoned Allison, thanked her message tape for its mistress’s presence ofmind, apologized for getting her involved in serious ugliness.
I told Robin’s tape I was eager to see its mistress.
No listing for Albert Beamish. I tried his law firm. A crisp-voicedreceptionist said, “Mr. Beamish rarely comes in. I think the last time I sawhim was…has to be months.”
“Emeritus.”
“Some of the partners have professorships so we like the term.”
“Is Mr. Beamish a professor?”
“No,” she said, “he never liked teaching. His thing was litigation.”
 
I reached Beamish’s Tudor at eleven a.m. The same Indonesian maid answered.
“Yes!” She beamed. “Mister home!”
Moments later the old man came shuffling out, wearing a saggy white cardiganover a brown knit shirt, pink-striped seersucker pants, and the same houseslippers with wolves’ heads on the toes.
His sneer was virtuoso. “The prodigal policeman arrives. What does it take tomotivate you people?”
“There’ve been some problems with the phones,” I said.
He cackled with the joy of omniscience, cleared his throat four times,hacked up something wet and swallowed it. “My tax dollars put to good use.”
“What did you call about, sir?”
“You don’t know?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“You still haven’t seen the message? Then how did you—”
“I figured it out, Mr. Beamish, from the look of contempt on your face whenI drove by.”
“The look of…” A puckered, lipless mouth curled ambiguously. “A veritableSherlock.”
“What’s the message?” I said.
“When you talk you flinch, young man.”
“I’m a little sore, Mr. Beamish.”
“Carousing on my dollar?”
I unbuttoned my jacket, undid a couple of shirt buttons, and revealed thebandages around my middle.
“Broken ribs?”
“A few.”
“Same thing happened to me when I was in the army,” he said. “Not combatheroics, I was stationed in Bayonne, New Jersey, and some Irish lout from Brooklynbacked a Jeep right into me. But for the grace of a few inches, I’d have endedup childless, singing soprano, and voting Democrat.”
I smiled.
“Don’t do that,” he said. “Got to hurt like hell.”
“Then don’t be funny,” I said.
He smiled. A real smile, devoid of scorn. “Army doctors couldn’t do a damnthing to patch me, just wrapped the ribs and told me to wait. When I mended,they shipped me off to the ETO.”
“No medical progress since then.”
“When did this happen to you? Not that I really care.”
“Two days ago. Not that it’s any of your business.”
He gave a start. Glared. Plucked brown fabric from his sunken chest. Brokeinto arid laughter, coughed up more mucus. When the wheezing stopped, he said,“How about a drink? It’s almost noon.”
As I followed him through dim, dusty, high-ceilinged rooms full of Georgianantiques and Chinese porcelain, he said, “How’d the other guy fare?”
“Worse than me.”
“Good.”
 
We sat at a round table in his octagonal breakfast room, just off a kitchenwhose stainless steel counters and chipped white cabinets said it hadn’t beenaltered for half a century.
Mullion windows looked out to a shade garden. The table was seasonedmahogany, cigarette burned and water-marked, circled by four Queen Anne chairs.The wall covering was a pale green silk Asian print, crowded with peonies andbluebirds and fictitious vines, faded white in spots. A solitary framed photohung on the wall. Black and white, also diminished by decades of ultraviolet.
When Beamish left to fetch the drinks, I took a look at the picture. Alanky, light-haired young man in an army captain’s uniform stood arm and armwith a pretty young woman. Her cloche hat rested on dark curls. She wore afitted summer suit and held a bouquet.
Big ship in the background. U.S.S. something. A fountain-penned caption inthe lower right border read:4/7/45, Long Beach: Betty and Al. Back from the warat last!
Beamish returned with a cut-crystal decanter and a pair of matchingold-fashioned glasses, lowered himself to a chair slowly, struggling to hidehis own wince. Then changing his mind.
“Eventually,” he said, “you don’t need to be beat on to ache. Nature does itall by her cruel self.” He poured us each two fingers, slid my tumbler acrossthe table.
“Thanks for the encouragement.” I held mine up.
He grunted and drank. I imagined Milo inforty years, hacking and swigging and pronouncing about the sorry state theworld had gotten itself into. Old and white-haired.
The fantasy ended when I got to heterosexual and rich.
Beamish and I drank. The whiskey was a single malt, peaty, sweetish goingdown, with a nice after-burn that reminded you it was alcohol.
He licked the spot where his lips used to be, put his glass down. “This isthe good stuff, Lord knows why I brought it out.”
“Uncharacteristic burst of generosity,” I said.
“You’re an insolent one—none of the obsequiousness of a public servant.”
“I’m not one. I’m a psychologist.”
“A what—no, don’t answer, I heard you fine. One of those, eh? The fatdetective sent you over here to deal with an unbalanced old fossil?”
“All my idea.” I gave him a short explanation of my relationship to thepolice. Expected the worst.
Beamish drank some more and tweaked the tip of his nose. “When Rebecca diedI saw no point in living. My children insisted I see a psychiatrist and sent meto a Jewish chap in Beverly Hills.He prescribed pills I never took and referred me to a Jewish woman psychologistin his office. I rejected her out-of-hand as a high-priced babysitter but mychildren coerced me. Turned out, they were right. She helped me.”
“I’m glad.”
“Sometimes it’s still difficult,” he said. “Too much damned space on thebed—ah, enough mawkishness, if we sit here too much longer you’ll send me abill. Here’s the message I left the fat detective: A woman came by three daysago, poking around that one’s pile of logs.”
Pointing in the general direction of Nora’s house. “I went over and askedher what she was doing and she said she was looking for her cousin, Nora. Itold her Nora hadn’t been seen in a while and that the police may very well suspectNora of nefarious activity. She didn’t seem at all surprised by thatpossibility—is it ‘Doctor’?”
“Alex is fine.”
“Did you cheat on your exams?” he snapped.
“No—”
“Then you earned your damned degree, souse it, for God’s sake. One thing Idetest is the ersatz familiarity the beatniks ushered in. You and I may bedrinking my best single malt, sir, but if you addressed me by my Christianname, I’d toss you out on your ear.”
“That would be painful, under the circumstances,” I said.
He worked his lips. Conceded a smile. “What’s your family name?”
“Delaware.”
“Now, then, Dr. Delaware…wherewas I…”
“The cousin didn’t seem surprised.”
“On the contrary,” said Beamish. “The possibility that Nora was undersuspicion seemed downright syntonic. ” He grinned. “A psychological term, Ilearned it from Dr. Ruth Goldberg.”
“A-plus,” I said. “Any reason the cousin wasn’t surprised?”
“I pressed her on that but she was not forthcoming. Quite the contrary, shewas eager to leave and I had to prevail upon her to leave her name and phonenumber.”
Another slow rise from the table and a five-minute absence allowed me tofinish my scotch. Beamish reappeared holding a piece of white paper folded to atwo-inch square. Gnarled fingers labored at unfolding and smoothing.
Half a sheet of heavy-stock letterhead stationery.
 
Martin, Crutch, and Melvyn
A Legal Corporation
 
Olive Streetaddress, long list of small-print names, Beamish’s near the top.
At the bottom of the page, shaky handwriting in black fountain pen, smearedaround the edges.
Marcia Peaty.A 702 number.
“I looked it up, that’s Las Vegas,”said Beamish. “Though she didn’t seem like the Vegas type.”
“She’s the Dowds’ cousin?”
“So she said and it doesn’t seem the kind of thing one would pretend. Shewasn’t particularly well-bred, but not vulgar, and nowadays that’s anaccomplishment—”
I refolded the paper. “Thanks.”
“A little light just switched on in your eyes, Dr. Delaware. Have I been useful?”
“More than you might imagine.”
“Would you care to tell me why?”
“I’d like to but I can’t.”
As I started to rise, Beamish poured me another finger of scotch. “That’sfifteen dollars’ worth. Don’t sip standing up, terribly vulgar.”
“Thanks, but I’ve had enough, sir.”
“Temperance is the last refuge of cowards.”
I laughed.
He pinged the rim of his glass. “It’s absolutely necessary that you boltlike a panicky horse?”
“I’m afraid so, Mr. Beamish.”
I waited for him to get to his feet.
He said, “Later, then? Once you’ve put them all away, would you let me knowwhat I’ve accomplished?”
“Them?”
“That one, her brothers—nasty lot, just as I told you the first time you and the fat detective came traipsing around.”
“Persimmons,” I said.
“That, of course,” he said. “But you’re after more than purloined fruit.”
Chapter 38
It took six minutes for the jail deputy to return to the phone.
“Yeah, he’s still here.”
“Please have him call me when he gets out. It’s important.”
He asked me for my name and number. Again. Said, “Okay,” but his tone saiddon’t count on it.
An hour later, I tried again. A different deputy said, “Let mecheck—Sturgis? He’s gone.”
 
I finally reached him in his car.
He said, “Vasquez wasted my time. All of a sudden he remembers Peatythreatened him overtly. ‘I’ll mess you up, dude.’”
“Sounds more like something Vasquez would say.”
“Shuldiner’s gonna push a chronic bullying defense. Anyway, I’m finishedwith it, finally able to focus on Nora and Meserve. Still no sign they took anycommercial flight but Angeline Wasserman’s I.D. of the Range Rover can probablyget me some subpoenas for private charter lists. I’m off to file paper. How youfeeling?”
“Is the woman the coroner referred to you named Marcia Peaty?”
“Yeah, why?”
“She’s the Dowds’ cousin, as well.” I told him what I learned from AlbertBeamish.
“The old man actually had something to say. So much for my instincts.”
I said, “The Dowd sibs hire their cousin as a minimum-wage janitor and givehim a former laundry room to live in. Tells you something about theircharacter. The fact that none of them thinks to mention it says more. Have achance to look into the brothers’ private holdings?”
“Not yet, guess I’d better do it. Marcia Peaty never told me she was theircousin as well as Peaty’s.”
“When are you meeting her?”
“An hour. She’s staying at the Roosevelt on Hollywood. I set it up for Musso and Frank,figured I’d at least get a good meal out of it.”
“Family secrets and sand dabs,” I said.
“I was thinking chicken potpie.”
“Sand dabs for me,” I said.
“You’re actually hungry?”
“Starving.”
 
I parked in the gigantic lot behind Musso and Frank. All that land,developers had to be drooling and I imagined the roar of jackhammers. Therestaurant was nearly a century old, impervious to progress and regress. Sofar, so good.
Milo had staked out a corner booth in thesoutheast corner of Musso’s larger room. Twenty-foot ceilings painted a grimbeige you don’t see anymore, green print hunting scenes on the walls, oakpaneling nearly black with age, strong drinks at the bar.
An encyclopedic menu touts what’s now called comfort food but used to bejust food. Some items take time and the management warns you not to beimpatient. Musso might be the last place in L.A. where you can order a slab of spumonifor dessert.
Cheerful green-jacketed busboys circled the cavernous space and filled waterglasses for the half dozen parties enjoying a late lunch. Red-jacketed waiterswho made Albert Beamish seem amiable waited for a chance to enforce theno-substitution rule.
A few booths featured couples looking happily adulterous. A table in themiddle of the room hosted five white-haired men wearing cashmere sweaters andwindbreakers. Familiar but unidentifiable faces; it took a while to figure outwhy.
A quintet of character actors—men who’d populated my childhood TV showswithout ever getting star billing. All of them looked to be pushing a robusteighty. Lots of elbow-bending and laughter. Maybe the bottom of the funnelwasn’t necessary for grace.
Milo was working on a beer. “Computer linesare finally back up. I just had Sean run the property search and guess what:Nothing for Brad, but Billy owns ten acres in Latigo Canyon.A short drive above where Michaela and Meserve pretended to be victims.”
“Oh, my,” I said. “Just land, no house?”
“That’s how it’s registered.”
“Maybe there are no-code shacks on the property,” I said.
“Believe me, I’m gonna find out.” He looked at his Timex.
“Brad’s the dominant one but he doesn’t own any land of his own?”
“Not even the house in Santa Monica Canyon.That’s Billy’s. So’s the duplex in Beverly Hills.”
“Three parcels each for Billy and Nora,” I said. “Nothing for Brad.”
“Could be one of those tax things, Alex. He takes a salary for managing allthe shared buildings, has some IRS reason not to own.”
“On the contrary, property tax is deductible. So are depreciation andexpenses on rentals.”
“Spoken like a true land baron.”
I’d made serious money buying and selling properties during a couple ofbooms. Had opted out of the game because I didn’t like being a landlord, putthe profits in bonds and clipped coupons. Not too smart if net worth was yourgoal. I used to think my goal was serenity. Now, I had no idea.
I said, “Maybe Cousin Marcia can clue us in.”
He tilted his head toward the back of the room. “Yup, being a veterandetective, I’d say that’s her.”
The woman who stood to the right of the bar was six feet tall, forty or so,with curly dishwater hair and a piercing stare. She wore a black crewneck andslacks, carried a cream leather handbag.
Milo said, “She’s checking the premiseslike a cop,” and waved.
She waved back and approached. The purse was printed with a world-map design.A gold crucifix pendant was her only jewelry. Up close, her hair was wiry,combed in a way that obscured half her right eye. The iris and its mate werebright and searching and gray.
Narrow face, sharp nose, outdoor skin. No resemblance I could see to ReynoldPeaty. Or to the Dowds.
“Lieutenant? Marcia Peaty.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Milointroduced me, minus my title.
I pictured Al Beamish scowling.
Marcia Peaty shook our hands and sat. “I remember this place as having greatmartinis.”
“You from L.A.originally?”
“Raised in Downey.My father was a chiropractor, had an office there and right here in Hollywood, on Edgemont. Agood report card used to earn me lunch with him. We always came here, and whenno one was looking, he let me try his martinis. I thought they tasted likeswimming pool acid but never let on. Wanting to be mature, you know?” Shesmiled. “Now I like them all by myself.”
A waiter came over and she ordered the cocktail on the rocks, with olivesand an onion. “My version of salad.”
The waiter said, “Another beer?”
Milo said, “No, thanks.”
“You?”
The memory of Beamish’s single malt leased space in my palate. “Coke.”
The waiter frowned and left.
Milo said, “What can I do for you, Ms.Peaty?”
“I’m trying to find out what happened to Reyn.”
“How’d you hear about it?”
“I’m a colleague—used to be.”
“Las Vegas PD?”
“Twelve years,” she said. “Mostly Vice and Auto and then I did some jailduty. I’m working private security now, big company, we handle some of thecasinos.”
“No shortage of work in Sin City,” said Milo.
“You guys aren’t exactly sitting around.”
The drinks arrived.
Marcia Peaty tried her martini. “Better than I remembered.”
The waiter asked if we were ready to order.
Chicken potpie, sand dabs, sand dabs.
“Another memory,” said Marcia Peaty. “Can’t get them in Vegas.”
Milo said, “Can’t get ’em too often in L.A.,either. Mostly it’s rex sole.”
She looked disappointed. “Cheap substitution?”
“Nope, they’re basically the same—little flatfish with lots of bones. Onelives deeper, no one can tell the difference.”
“You into fishing?”
“I’m into eating.”
“Virtually the same, huh?” said Marcia Peaty. “More like twins thancousins.”
“Cousins can be real different.”
She removed an olive from her drink. Chewed, swallowed. “How I found outabout Reyn was I’d been trying to call him for days and no one answered. It’snot like I call him regularly, but one of our great-aunts died and he inheritedsome money—no big deal, twelve hundred bucks. When I couldn’t get hold of him, Istarted calling around—hospitals, jails. Finally, I learned what happened fromyour coroner.”
“Calling jails and the crypt,” said Milo.“That’s a specific curiosity.”
Marcia Peaty nodded. “Reyn was high-risk for problems, always had been. Ididn’t have any fantasies of turning him into a solid citizen, but every sooften I’d feel protective. We grew up together in Downey, he was a few years younger, I’m anonly child and he was, too, so kin was in short supply. Once upon a time Ithought of him as a little brother.”
I said, “High-risk brother.”
“I’m not going to sugarcoat him but he wasn’t a psychopath, just not smart.One of those people who always make bad decisions, you know? Maybe it wasgenetic. Our fathers were brothers. My dad worked three jobs putting himselfthrough Cleveland Chiropractic, cracked enough backs to go from trailer trashto respectable. Reyn’s dad was an alcoholic loser, never held down a steadyjob, in and out of jail for penny-ante stuff. Reyn’s mom wasn’t much better.”She stopped. “Big sad story, it’s nothing you guys haven’t heard before.”
Milo said, “How’d you both end up in Nevada?”
“Reyn ran away from home when he was fifteen—more like walked out and no onecared. I’m not sure what he did for ten years, I know he tried the marines,ended up in the brig, dishonorable discharge. I moved to Vegas because my daddied and my mom liked playing the slots. When you’re an only child, you feelresponsible. My husband’s from a family of five kids, big old Mormon clan,totally different world.”
Milo nodded. “Ten years. Reyn showed upwhen he was twenty-five.”
“At my mother’s condo. Tattooed and drunk and he’d put on about sixtypounds. She wouldn’t let him in. He didn’t argue but he kept hanging around onher street. So Mom called Cop Daughter. When I saw him, I was shocked—believeit or not, he used to be a nice-looking guy. I gave him some cash, set him upat a motel, told him to sober up and move to another city. The last part hekept.”
“Reno.”
“Next I heard from him was two years later, needing money for bail. I can’ttell you where he was in between.”
“Bad decisions,” I said.
“He’s never been violent,” said Marcia Peaty. “Just another one of thoserevolving-door dudes.”
Milo said, “His peeper bust could bethought of as scary.”
“Maybe I’m rationalizing but that seemed more like drunk and disorderly.He’d never done anything like that before, hasn’t since—right?”
“People say he stared a lot. Made ’em uncomfortable.”
“Yeah, he tends—tended to space out,” said Marcia Peaty. “Like I said, he wasno Einstein, couldn’t add three-digit sums. I know it sounds like I’m giving amope a free pass but he didn’t deserve to get shot by that banger. Can you fillme in on how it happened?”
Milo gave her the barest details of themurder, leaving out the whispering phone calls and Vasquez’s claim ofharassment.
She said, “One of those stupid things,” and sipped a half inch of martini.“Banger going to pay?”
“He’ll get something.”
“Meaning?”
“Defense is gonna paint your cousin as a bully.”
“Reynold was a booze-soaked loser but he never bullied an ant.”
“He have any kind of love life?”
Marcia Peaty’s hazel eyes narrowed. Speed-trap gaze. “What does that have todo with anything?”
“D.A. wants a clear picture of what he was like. I can’t find evidence ofany love life, just a collection of young girl videos.”
Marcia Peaty’s knuckles whitened around her glass. “How young?”
“Barely legal.”
“Why does any of that matter?”
“Reynold worked as a janitor at an acting school. A couple of femalestudents were murdered.”
Marcia Peaty blanched. “Uh-uh. No way. I worked Vice long enough to know asex criminal when I see one and Reynold wasn’t—and that ain’t family denial.Trust me on this, you’d best be looking elsewhere.”
“Speaking of family, let’s talk about your other cousins.”
“I mean it,” she said. “Reyn wasn’t wired that way.”
“The other cousins,” said Milo.
“Who?”
“The Dowds. You were at Nora Dowd’s house the other day, told a neighbor youwere her cousin.”
Marcia Peaty slid her glass toward her left hand. Then back to her right.Lifting the pick skewering the onion, she twirled, put it back. “That wasn’tstrictly true.”
“There’s lenient truth?” said Milo.
“She’s not my cousin. Brad is.”
“He’s her brother.”
Marcia Peaty sighed. “It’s complicated.”
“We’ve got time.”
Chapter 39
Like I said, I come from trailer trash,” said Marcia Peaty. “No shame inthat, my father, Dr. James Peaty, pulled himself up, it’s even more to hiscredit.”
“Unlike his brother,” I said.
“Brothers plural,” she said. “And sister. Reyn’s dad, Roald, was theyoungest, in and out of prison his whole life, later shot himself. Next up wasMillard and between him and my dad was Bernadine. She died after being put away.”
“Put away for what?” said Milo.
“Alcohol-induced craziness. She was a good-looking woman but she used herlooks in not the best way.” She pushed her plate away. “I know all this from mymother who hated Dad’s family, so she may have heaped it on a bit. But overallI think she was accurate because Dad never denied it. Mom used to hold upBernadine as a negative example for me—don’t do what that ‘immoral wench’ did.”
“What’d Bernadine do?” said Milo.
“Left home at seventeen and went down to Oceanside with a friend, another wild girlnamed Amelia Stultz. The two of them worked the sailor trade and God knows whatelse. Bernadine got pregnant by some guy on shore leave who she never sawagain. Had a baby boy.”
“Brad,” I said.
She nodded. “That’s how Brad came into this world. When Bernadine got putaway he was three or four, got sent to Californiato live with Amelia Stultz, who’d done a whole lot better, married a navycaptain with family money.”
Milo said, “Amelia was an immoral wench butshe raised someone else’s kid?”
“The way my mother told it, my uncle Millard blackmailed her, said he’d tellher rich husband about her past if she didn’t ‘take the brat.’”
“Conniving fellow, your besotted uncle,” I said. “Did he ask anything forhimself?”
“Maybe money changed hands, I don’t know.” Marcia Peaty frowned. “I’m awarethat this lays responsibility on everyone but my father. I’ve wondered aboutthat, could Dad have been that calculated.” A cheek muscle jumped. “Even ifhe’d wanted to help Brad, no way my mother would have agreed to take him in.”
“The rich captain was Bill Dowd Junior.”
“Hancock Park,” she said. “On the surface, Bradlucked out. The problem was Amelia had no interest in raising her own kids, letalone one she’d been stuck with. She’d always fancied herself a dancer and anactress. A performer, Mom called it. Which meant stripping in some of those Tijuana clubs and maybeworse.”
“How’d Amelia snag Captain Dowd?”
“She was great-looking,” said Marcia Peaty. “Blond bombshell, when she wasyoung. Maybe it was like that country song, guys going for women on the trashyside.”
Or family tradition. Albert Beamish had said Bill Dowd Junior married a“woman with no class” just like his mother.
Milo said, “Amelia took Brad in but didn’tcare to raise him? We talking abuse or just neglect?”
“I never heard about abuse, more like she ignored him completely. But shedid that with her own kids, too. Both of whom had problems. Have you met Noraand Billy Three?”
“Yup.”
“I haven’t seen them since we were kids. What’re they like?”
Milo ignored the question. “How’d youhappen to see them as kids?”
“Dad must’ve felt guilty because he tried to make contact with Brad when Iwas around five. We drove into L.A.and visited. Amelia Dowd liked my dad and started inviting us to birthdayparties. Mom griped about it but down deep she didn’t mind going to a fancyaffair in a big house. She did warn me away from Bill Three. Said he wasretarded, couldn’t be counted on to control himself.”
“He ever act scary?”
She shook her head. “He just seemed quiet and shy. Obviously he wasn’tnormal but he never bothered me. Nora was a space cadet, walked around talkingto herself. Mom said, ‘Look at Amelia, marrying rich, living the good life, butshe ends up with defective kids.’ I don’t want to make it sound like Mom was ahateful person, she just had no use for Dad’s family and anyone associated withthem. His whole life Uncle Millard did nothing but sponge off us, and Roald wasno picnic either before he died. Also, when Mom talked like that it was alwayspart of complimenting me. ‘Money’s nothing, honey. Your children are yourlegacy and that makes me a wealthy woman.’”
Milo said, “Could we talk to your mom?”
“She’s gone. Four years ago, cancer. She was one of the ladies you see atthe slots. Wheelchair-bound, smoking, and feeding nickels.”
I said, “Brad goes by ‘Dowd.’ Was he adopted legally?”
“Don’t know. Maybe Amelia let him use the name to avoid uncomfortablequestions.”
“Or,” said Milo, “she wasn’t such a witch.”
“I guess,” said Marcia Peaty. “Mom could be intolerant.”
I said, “Captain Dowd didn’t mind another child?”
“Captain Dowd wasn’t a real tough guy. Just the opposite. Anything Ameliawanted, she got.”
“Did your mother ever say anything about how Brad fared psychologically?”
“Her name for him was ‘the Troublemaker’ and she warned me away from him,too. She said unlike Billy he was smart, but always lying and stealing. Ameliasent him away several times to boarding schools and military academies.”
Persimmons and more. Alfred Beamish had pegged Brad’s behavior but neveruncovered the boy’s origins.
Mansions, country clubs, rented elephants at birthday parties. A mother whoreally wasn’t. Who fancied herself a performer.
I said, “How did Amelia Dowd channel her interest in acting?”
“What do you mean?”
“All those performance dreams that never came to pass. Sometimes people livethrough their kids.”
“Was she a stage-door mom? Brad did tell me she tried to get the kids on TV.As a group—singing and dancing. He said he could carry a tune but the otherswere tone-deaf.”
The photo-covered wall of the PlayHouse theater floated into my head. Amongthe famous faces, a band I hadn’t recognized.
Kiddy quartet of mop-haired youngsters…the Kolor Krew. “What was the name ofthe group?”
“He never said.”
“When did all this take place?”
“Let’s see…Brad was about fourteen when he told me, so it must’ve been rightaround then. He laughed about it but he sounded bitter. Said Amelia draggedthem to talent agents, made them sit for photos, bought them guitars and drumsthey never learned to play, gave them voice lessons that were useless. Evenbefore that she’d tried to get Nora and Billy Three jobs as actors.”
“Not Brad?”
“He told me Amelia only included him in the band because the other two werehopeless.”
“He call her that?” I said. “Amelia?”
She thought. “I never heard him call her ‘Mom.’”
“Nora and Billy have any success at all, individually?”
“I think Nora got some dinky modeling jobs, department store stuff, kiddyclothing. Bill Three got nothing. He wasn’t smart enough.”
“Brad told you all this,” said Milo. “Youand he talk often?”
“Just during those parties.”
“What about as adults?”
“Except for one face-to-face twelve years ago, it’s been the phone and notoften. Maybe once every couple of years.”
“Who calls who?”
“He calls me. Christmas greetings, that kind of thing. Mostly showing offhow rich he is, telling me about some new car he bought.”
“Twelve years ago,” I said. “That’s pretty precise.”
Marcia Peaty fooled with her napkin. “There’s a reason for that and it mightbe important to you guys. Twelve years ago Brad got questioned on a Vegas case.I was doing hot cars, a D from headquarters calls me, says a person of interestis tossing my name around, claiming we’re kissing cousins. I find out who itis, call Brad. It’s been a while since we’ve talked but he turns on the charmlike it’s yesterday, great to hear from you, cuz. He insists on taking me to abig dinner at Caesars. Turns out he’d been living in Vegas for a year, doingsome kind of real estate investment, never thought to get in touch. And once hedidn’t need me I didn’t hear from him for seven more years—Christmas, to brag.”
“About what?”
“Being back in L.A.,living well and running the family real estate business. He invited me tovisit, said he’d give me a spin in one of his cars. As in he has a lot ofthem.”
“Platonic invitation?” I said.
“Hard to say with Brad. I chose to take it as platonic.”
Milo said, “What kind of case was he questionedon?”
“Missing girl, dancer at the Dunes, never found. Brad had dated her, was thelast person to see her.”
“He ever go beyond person of interest?”
“Nope. No evidence of a crime was ever uncovered. Brad said she told him shewanted to try for something better and left for L.A. That happens a lot in our town.”
I said, “Something better as in breaking into acting?”
Marcia Peaty smiled. “What else is new?”
“Remember this girl’s name?” said Milo.
“Julie something, I can get it for you—or you can call yourself. The primaryD was Harold Fordebrand, he retired but he’s still in Vegas, listed in thebook.”
“I used to work with an Ed Fordebrand.”
“Harold said he had a brother who did L.A. Homicide.”
“No evidence of a crime,” said Milo, “butwhat did Harold think about Brad?”
“Didn’t like him. Too slick. Called him ‘Mr. Hollywood.’ Brad wouldn’t takea polygraph but there’s no crime against that.”
“What was his reason?”
“Just didn’t want to.”
“He get lawyered up?”
“Nope,” she said. “Cooperated fully, real relaxed.”
“Mr. Hollywood,” I said. “Maybe some of Amelia’s aspirations rubbed off.”
“He actually learned how to act?” she said. “I never thought of it that way,but maybe. Bradley can definitely tell you what you want to hear.”
I said, “Those birthday parties Amelia threw. Were any of them for him?”
“Nope, just for Billy Three and Nora. That had to suck but he never showedany anger. They were great parties, rich kid parties, I always looked forwardto them. We’d drive up from Downeywith my mother complaining about ‘those people’ being vulgar and my fathergiving that little smile of his when he knew better than to argue.”
“Brad showed no resentment at all?”
“Just the opposite, he was always smiling and joking, would take me aroundthat huge house, show me his hobbies, making wiseass comments about how lamethe party was. He is a few years older than me, was cute in that blond surferway. To be honest, back then I had a crush on him.”
“He ridiculed the parties,” I said.
“Mostly he poked fun at Amelia, how everything was a big production withher. She was always trying to time stuff precisely, like a stage show. She didtend to go over the top.”
“Rented elephant,” I said.
“That was something,” she said. “How’d you hear about it?”
“A neighbor told us.”
“The grumpy old guy?” She laughed. “Yeah, I can see why it would stick inhis mind, the smell alone. It was for Billy Three’s thirteenth. I rememberthinking this is baby stuff, he’s way too old for this. Except he was youngermentally and seemed to be digging it. All the kids were digging it, too,because the elephant was messing the street big time, we’re whooping andpointing at pounds of stuff coming out, holding our noses, you know? Meanwhile,Amelia’s looking ready to faint. Doing the whole Marilyn Monroe platinum-blondthing, tight silk dress, tons of makeup, running after the animal trainer onthese gigantic spike heels, everyone’s waiting for her to step in elephant doo.Real tight dress, busting out of it. She was about twenty pounds past herprime.”
Milo took out the photos, showed herMichaela and Tori Giacomo’s head-shots.
“Nice-looking girls,” she said. “They still that cute or are we talking badnews?”
“Any resemblance to Amelia?”
“Maybe the blondeness. Amelia was more…constructed. Fuller in the face andshe looked like she took all morning putting herself together.”
“What about Julie the Missing Showgirl, see any similarities?”
She peered closely. “I only saw one picture of her and it was twelve yearsago…she was blond, too, so there’s that. She did make the Dunes stage so we’renot talking a toad…yeah, I guess, in a general way.”
“What about these people?” Flashing the MP shots of Cathy and Andy Gaidelas.
Marcia Peaty’s mouth opened and closed. “This could be Amelia Dowd, she’sheavy around the jaw and the cheeks in the exact same way. The guy’s not adead-ringer for Bill Dowd Junior but he isn’t that different, either…similararound the eyes—the crags, the whole Gregory Peck thing.”
“Dowd looked like Peck?”
“My mom said Amelia bragged about it all the time. I guess there was sometruth to it, except Captain Dowd was about five five. Mom used to say, ‘He’sGregory Peck on the morning after an earthquake and a tornado and a flood,minus the charisma and sawed off at the knees.”
I said, “This guy’s been compared to Dennis Quaid.”
“I can see that…not as cute.” She studied the pictures some more, returnedthem. “You guys are dealing with serious bad, aren’t you?”
“You said Captain Dowd was no tough guy,” I said. “What else can you sayabout him?”
“Quiet, inoffensive, never seemed to do much.”
“Masculine?”
“What do you mean?”
“Manly man?”
“Hardly,” she said. “Just the opposite. Mom was convinced he was gay. Or asshe put it, a homo. I can’t say I saw that, but I was too young to be thinkingin those terms.”
“Your father have any opinions about it?” said Milo.
“Dad kept his opinions to himself.”
“But your mom was definite about it.”
“Mom was always definite. Why’s it important? Amelia and the captain havebeen dead for years.”
“How many years?”
“It was between the time Brad got called in for questioning and the nexttime I heard from him, which was five years later…I’m thinking ten years ago.”
“They died at the same time?”
“Car crash,” said Marcia Peaty. “Driving up to San Francisco. I think the captain fellasleep at the wheel.”
“You think,” said Milo.
“That’s what Mom said, but she was big into blame. Maybe he had a heartattack, I can’t say for sure.”
“At the birthday parties,” I said, “when Brad took you around the house andshowed you his hobbies, what kinds of things was he interested in?”
“Typical boy stuff,” she said. “Stamp collection, coin collection, sportscards, he had a knife collection—is that what you’re getting at?”
“It’s just a general question. Anything else?”
“Anything else…let’s see…he flew kites, had some nice ones. Lots of littlemetal cars—he was always into cars. There was an insect collection—butterfliespinned to a board. Stuffed animals—not the girly kind, trophies he’d stuffedhimself.”
“Taxidermy?”
“Yeah. Birds, a raccoon, this real weird horned lizard that sat on his desk.He told me he’d learned how to do it at summer camp. Was pretty good at it. Hadthese boxes—fishing tackle boxes with compartments full of glass eyes, needlesand thread, glue, all kinds of tools. I thought it was cool, asked him to showme how he did it. He said, ‘Soon as I get something to fix.’ He never did. Ithink I went to maybe one more party and by that time I had a boyfriend, wasn’tthinking about much else.”
“Let’s talk about your other cousin,” said Milo.“Any idea how Reynold came to work for the Dowds?”
“That was me,” she said. “That bragging call from Brad five years ago.Christmas, there was lots of background noise, like he was doing some heavypartying. This was after Reyn’s trouble in Reno. I told Brad, ‘Seeing as you’re some bigreal estate honcho, how about helping out a country cousin?’ He didn’t want tohear about it. He and Reyn didn’t know each other, I don’t think they’d seeneach other since they were kids. But I was in an obnoxious mood and keptworking on him—working on his pride, you know? ‘Guess your business isn’t sobig you’d need outside help,’ that kind of thing. Finally, he said, ‘Have himcall me but if he fucks up once, that’s it.’ Next thing I know Reynold’scalling me from L.A.,telling me Brad’s gonna hire him to manage some apartments.”
“Brad hired him to mop and sweep.”
“So I’ve learned,” said Marcia Peaty. “Real sweet, huh?”
“Reynold accepted it.”
“Reynold didn’t have too many options. Brad ever let on to anyone thatReynold was family?”
“Nope,” said Milo. “Would Billy and Nora beaware of the connection?”
“Not unless Brad told them. There’s no blood tie there.”
“Or Reynold told them. We’ve heard he and Billy hung out.”
“That so?” she said. “Hung out how?”
“Reynold dropped by Billy’s apartment, allegedly to drop off lost objects.”
“Allegedly?”
“Brad denies sending him on errands.”
“You believe him?”
Milo smiled. “They’re both your cousins butyou’d prefer we focus on Brad, not Reynold. That why you came down to L.A.?”
“I came down because Reynold’s dead and no one else is going to bury him.He’s all I’ve got left in terms of family.”
“Except Brad.”
“Brad’s your concern, not mine.”
“You don’t like him.”
“He was raised in another family,” she said.
Silence.
Finally, she said, “Julie the dancer. That bothered me big time. Now you’reshowing me photos of other blond girls. Reynold was dumb and sloppy and a drunkbut he was never cruel.”
“So far you haven’t told us anything Brad did that was cruel.”
“No, I haven’t,” said Marcia Peaty. “And I guess I can’t because, like Isaid, he and I haven’t exactly been hanging out.”
“But…”
“You know, guys,” she said, “this is real weird and I don’t think I likeit.”
“Like what?”
“Being on the receiving end of what I used to dish out.”
“It’s for a good cause, Marcia,” said Milo.“In terms of Julie the Showgirl, did Harold Fordebrand’s gut say anything moreabout Brad than he was slick?”
“You’d have to ask Harold. Once he found out Brad was my cousin he kept meout of the loop.”
“How about your gut…”
“Brad’s demeanor bothered me. Like he was enjoying some private joke. Youguys know what I mean.”
“Despite that, you got Reyn a job with him.”
“And now Reyn’s gone,” she said. Her face crumpled and she turned to hide itfrom us. When she faced us again, her voice was small. “You’re saying I screwedup big time.”
“No,” said Milo. “I’m not trying toguilt-trip you, far from it. All this stuff you’re telling us is beyondhelpful. We’re just groping around here.”
“No case yet.”
“Not hardly.”
“I was hoping I was wrong,” she said.
“About what?”
“Brad being somehow involved with Reynold’s death.”
“No indication he is.”
“I know, an altercation. You’re saying that’s all there was to it?”
“So far.”
“The old stonewall,” said Marcia Peaty. “I’ve laid a few bricks myself. Letme ask you this: The way Brad treated Reyn, giving him scut work, the Dowdsowning all those properties, and they stick Reyn in a hovel. That add up to themilk of human kindness? These people are just what Mom always said they were.”
“What’s that?”
“Poison palming itself off as perfume.”
Chapter 40
Marcia Peaty switched the subject and Milodidn’t stop her.
Procedural questions about how to take possession of her cousin’s body. Hisrundown wasn’t much different from the one he’d given Lou Giacomo.
She said, “Paperwork aerobics. Okay, thanks for your time. Am I wasting mytime asking you to keep me informed?”
“Something resolves, we’ll let you know, Marcia.”
“If, not when? You have any serious leads?”
He smiled.
She said, “That’s why I never did Homicide. Too much effort getting theoptimism meter up.”
“Vice can get sketchy, too.”
“That’s why I didn’t do Vice for long. Give me a nice boosted set ofwheels.”
“Chrome don’t bleed,” said Milo.
“Ain’t that the truth.” She reached for the check. Miloplaced his hand on it.
“Let me pay for my share.”
“On the house,” said Milo.
“You or the department?”
“The department.”
“Right.” She put down a twenty, slid out of the booth, shot us a tightsmile, and hurried off.
Milo pocketed the cash and pushed crumbsaround his plate. “Ol’ Brad’s been a baaad boy.”
“Young blondes,” I said. “Too bad Tori dyed her hair.”
“Amelia, the whole platinum bombshell thing. What, he’s killing Stepmommyover and over?”
“His own mother abandoned him, handed him over to someone who didn’t evenpretend to care. He has lots of reasons to hate women.”
“He was in his thirties when Julie the Showgirl disappeared. Think she washis first?”
“Hard to say. The main thing was he got away with it, built up hisconfidence for the move back to L.A.After Amelia and the captain died, he managed to take over the family realestate empire. Cared well for Billy and Nora because happy sibs don’t complain.Maybe the PlayHouse is a tax dodge and a sop for Nora, but it was good for him,too. Start an acting school, who shows up?”
“Gorgeous mutants,” he said. “All those blonde auditions.”
“And rejects like the Gaidelases. Normally, Brad would ignore people likeCathy and Andy but they reminded him of Amelia and the captain, down to thecaptain’s effeminate manner. How’s this for a scenario: He ran into themleaving an audition. Or waiting for a tryout. Either way, it had to feel likedestiny, he played nice guy, promised to help. Told them meanwhile enjoy yourvacation. Do some hiking, I know a great spot.”
“Billy’s acreage in Latigo.” He folded and unfolded his napkin. Snatched uphis phone, got Harold Fordebrand’s number from Vegas 411, called, left amessage. “Guy sounds exactly like Ed.”
I said, “The Kolor Krew was a quartet.”
“Who?”
“The kiddie-pop group Amelia tried to market.” I described the publicityshot on the PlayHouse wall. “The Dowd kids plus one. Maybe there’s someone elsewho can fill us in about the good old days.”
He said, “You feel like researching the history of bubblegum music, be myguest. I need another face-to-face with the sib who really ain’t one. Startingwith a drop-in at the BNB office. If Brad’s not there, it’s over to his house.Eventually, a day at the beach will be on the agenda.”
I said, “Think Billy even knows he owns the Latigo property?”
“Brad bought it and put it in Billy’s name?”
“Brad lives near the ocean, has surfed enough to grow knots on his knees.Meaning he knows Malibu.A nice, secluded oceanview lot on the land-side might appeal to him, especiallyif it was paid for with Billy’s money. Being in charge of family finances, Bradcould get Billy to sign on the dotted line. Or just forge Billy’s name.Meanwhile, Billy pays the property tax and doesn’t have a clue.”
“The assessor says there are no structures on the lot. What would Brad useit for?”
“Meditation, planning a dream house, burying bodies.”
“Billy pays, Brad plays,” he says. “Nora’s no business type, either. MeaningBrad can basically do what he wants with all the money.” He rubbed his face.“All this time, I’ve been looking for Peaty’s stash spots, but Brad has accessto dozens of buildings and garages all over the county.”
“He came right out and told us he stores his cars in some of theproperties.”
“He did, indeed. What was that, playing mind games?”
“Or bragging about his collection. This is a guy who needs to feelimportant. I’m wondering if it could’ve been him watching Angeline Wassermanfrom that Range Rover.”
“Why would it be him?”
“Last time I saw him, he had on a nice linen suit. There were a bunch justlike it hanging from a rack at the Barneys outlet.”
“Snappy dresser,” he said. “Maybe a regular, just like Wasserman. Heobserves her, knows she’s absentminded, lifts her purse.”
“The goal was to get her phone, he couldn’t ’ve have cared less about themoney or the credit cards,” I said. “The more I think about that, the better Ilike it: well-dressed middle-aged guy who shops there all the time, no reasonto suspect him. Angeline might know his face but the Rover’s tinted windowswould’ve prevented her from realizing it was him. It was his ride sheconcentrated on, anyway—‘twinsie karma.’”
He retrieved Wasserman’s number from his pad and punched it. “Ms. Wasserman?Lieutenant Sturgis, again…I know you are but just one more question, okay?There’s a gentleman who shops at the outlet regularly, mid-forties,nice-looking, white hair—you do…oh…no, it’s more…maybe…okay, thanks…no, that’sit.”
He hung up. “‘That’s Brad, I see him all the time. Did he have something stolen,too ?’”
“Seeing him as a victim, not a suspect,” I said, “because he’s well-off andstylish.”
“You got it. ‘Great guy, terrific taste, you should see the gorgeous cars hedrives, Lieutenant, each time a different one.’ Turns out Angeline and ol’ Bradask each other’s opinions about outfits all the time. He’s always honest but hedoes it with ‘sensitivity.’”
“Charming fellow.”
“You think his driving Nora’s wheels means Nora and Meserve are in on itwith him? Or tough luck for them.”
“Don’t know, but either way Brad had something to do with the calls toVasquez.”
“Setting up his own cousin.”
“The same cousin he put to work as a janitor and housed in a dump. GivenBrad’s background, blood ties could twist all sorts of ways. If Vasquez wastelling the truth about getting calls the previous week, the setup wasextremely well thought out.”
“Priming a murder,” he said. “How could Brad be sure Vasquez would blow andshoot Peaty?”
“He couldn’t, but he knew both parties and Mrs. Stadlbraun, played the odds.He told me he had bad feelings about Vasquez but rented to him anyway becausethere was no legal out. That’s nonsense. A landlord, especially one with Brad’sexperience, can always find a reason.”
“Game of chance,” he said.
“Brad lived in Vegas. One table doesn’t work out, move to the next one.”
“Okay, let’s assume he set Peaty up. Why?”
“With Peaty’s police record and pattern of creepy behavior, he’d be aperfect scapegoat for Michaela and Tori and any other missing girls who turnedup. Look what happened after the shooting: You got to search Peaty’s van,discovered the rape-kit stashed conveniently in back—no real effort to conceal.And, lo and behold, there was a snow globe in the toolbox. Just like the oneleft on the seat of Meserve’s Toyota.Which you knew about in the first place because Brad called you in a panicafter finding the car in one of his own parking spaces. If Meserve cut townwith Nora, why would he leave his wheels where they were sure to be discovered?At the very least, he could’ve put the Toyotain Nora’s garage—which, by the way, is empty—and avoided ticking off Brad.”
“By the way,” he said.
“Crowbar.”
He shook his head, drank.
I said, “Maybe Nora’s not the only one with theatrical interests. Onlyreason we knew about the snow globe in the first place was Brad brought it upwhen we talked to him at his house.”
“Painting Meserve as a gold digger. What was that? Another misdirect?”
“Or it was true and he had good reason to hate Meserve.”
He loosened his belt, crushed ice with his molars and swallowed it. Pickedup the check.
“On you or the department?” I said.
“For your information, I’m trying out that bumper sticker wisdom, spontaneousacts of kindness blah blah blah. Maybe the Almighty will reward me with a closeon this mess.”
“Never knew you to be religious.”
“There’s things that can get me praying.”
 
Walking to the parking lot, I said, “Three personal real estate parcels forBilly and Nora, none for Brad. Just like the birthday parties. His childhoodwas one big exclusion because the Dowds never stopped seeing him as anythingbut an imposition. Amelia recruited him for the Kolor Krew only because hecould sing. When his behavior grew troublesome, she sent him away.”
“Used and discarded,” he said. “Persimmons.”
“I’d put money on a whole lot more antisocial behavior. The point is, thesame pattern’s continued into adulthood: As long as Brad serves apurpose—taking care of Nora and Billy—he gets creature comforts. But at theroot, he’s hired help. Doesn’t even own the house he lives in, legally he’sjust another tenant. In a sense, it’s to his advantage, spending other people’smoney and living large. But still, it has to grate.”
“Hired help passing himself off as the boss,” he said. “Wonder how hefinagled himself into that position.”
“Probably by default—Nora and Billy are incapable. He’s the caretaker and the payoff is cars, clothes, properties that he palms off as his. Image. He pullsoff the aw-shucks big-money thing beautifully. Angeline Wasserman’s part ofthat world and she bought it.”
“Good actor.”
“Good at impressing women,” I said. “Young, naive women would be nochallenge. Tori’s ex-husband figured she’d been dating someone with money. Astarving actress serving fish to make the rent on a North Hollywood dump and a guy with a Porsche? Same for Michaela.”
“Michaela never indicated to you that she was seeing anyone?”
“No, but it wouldn’t have come up. My consult focused on her legal problems.One thing she did make clear: Dylan was no longer her style. Maybe becauseshe’d found someone better.”
“Mr. Hot Wheels,” he said. “Still doesn’t answer the question of how Bradgot to pull the reins. Why would the Dowds hand over all that control?”
“Maybe they didn’t but once the parents were dead he wrangled his way in asa trustee of the estate. Cozying up to the lawyers, greasing someone’s palm,making the case that he was the best choice—someone with smarts who had Billy’sand Nora’s best interests at heart. If Nora and Billy agreed, why not? Once hewas in, he was set. Trustees don’t come up for review unless someone complainsabout abuse of fiduciary responsibility. Nora and Billy get their needs met,everyone’s happy.”
“The PlayHouse and the family manse for her, takeout pizza and a wide-screenfor Billy.”
“Meanwhile Brad collects the monthly rent checks.”
“Think he’s siphoning off cash?”
“Wouldn’t shock me.”
He strode to the parking attendant’s booth, paid for both our cars.
I said, “Now you’re veering into Mother Teresa territory.”
He gazed skyward and pressed his palms together. “Hear that? How about someevidentiary manna?”
“God helps those who help themselves,” I said. “Time to check the smallprint on BNB’s letters of incorporation.”
“First, I want to face Brad one-on-one.”
We sat in his unmarked talking about the best approach. The final decisionwas another chat about Reynold Peaty’s shooting, Milotalking, me scoping out the nonverbal cues. Mentioning the phone calls toArmando Vasquez if the timing seemed right.
We took separate cars to the strip mall on Ocean Park.The door to BNB Properties was locked and no one answered. As Miloturned to leave, the door at the end of the second-floor landing caught my eye.
 
Sunny Sky Travel
We Specialize in Tropical Getaways
 
Posters in the window. Sapphire ocean, emerald palm trees, bronze peoplehoisting cocktails.
At the bottom: BRAZIL!!!
Milo followed my gaze, had the door open bythe time I got there.
 
A young cat-eyed woman wearing a sleeveless raspberry top sat at a computerstation typing. Soft eyes, Rubenesque roundness. A nameplate on the desk saidLourdes Texeiros. A hands-free phone headset rested atop a nest of black curls.The walls were papered with more posters. A revolving rack of brochures filleda corner.
She smiled at us, said, “Hold on a sec,” to the hands-free mouthpiece. Iwent over to the rack, found what I was looking for.
Turneffe Island, Belize; Posada La Mandragora, Buzios, Brazil; HotelMonasterio, Tapir Lodge, Pelican’s Pouch. Housed in adjacent compartments.
“Can I help you guys?”
“Your neighbor a few doors down, Mr. Bradley Dowd,” said Milo,flashing the badge. “How well do you know him?”
“The real estate guy? Did he do something?”
“His name came up in an investigation.”
“White-collar crime?”
“He make you uneasy?”
“No, I don’t know him, he’s hardly ever at his office. He just seems like awhite-collar guy. If he did something.”
Dark eyes sharpened with curiosity.
Milo said, “Does he come to his office byhimself?”
“Usually with another guy, I think it’s his brother ’cause he seems to belooking after him. Even though the other guy looks older. Sometimes he leaveshim there by himself. He’s kind of…you know, not quite right. The other guy.”
“Billy.”
“Don’t know his name.” She frowned.
“Has he bothered you?”
“Not really. Once I was here and the air-conditioning wasn’t working so Ihad the door open. He came in, said ‘Hi,’ and just stood there. I said ‘Hi’back and asked if he was thinking of taking a trip. He blushed, said he wished,and left. Only times I saw him after that was downstairs at the Italian place,getting food for his brother. When he saw me he got real embarrassed, like he’dbeen caught doing something naughty. I tried to make a little conversation butit was hard for him. That’s when I realized he wasn’t normal.”
“How so?”
“Kind of retarded? You can’t tell by looking, he looks like a regular guy.”
“Has Brad ever come in here?”
“Also just once, a couple of weeks ago. He introduced himself, realfriendly, maybe too much, you know?”
“Slick?”
“Exactly. He told me he was thinking of taking a vacation in Latin America and wanted information. I offered to sitdown with him and discuss choices but he said he’d start with those.” Pointingto the rack. “He grabbed a handful but I never heard back. Did he leave thecountry or something?”
“Why would you ask that?” said Milo.
“The places we book,” she said. “In the movies they always have bad guysrunning to Brazil.Everyone thinks there’s no extradition treaty. Trust me, anywhere without atreaty you wouldn’t want to vacation.”
“I’ll bet. Anything else you want to tell us about him?”
“Can’t think of any.”
“Okay, thanks.” He leaned over her desk. “We’d appreciate it if you didn’tmention we were here asking about him.”
“Of course not,” said Lourdes Texeiros. “Should I be scared of him?”
Milo looked at her. Took in the blackcurls. “Not at all.”
 
“Another misdirection,” I said as we descended the stairs. “Wanting us tothink Nora traveled with Meserve. Either because he’s protecting her or he madeher and Meserve disappear. I’m betting on door number two.”
“All these years he takes care of a coupla mopes who just happen to bemembers of the Lucky Sperm Club. Why change all that now?”
“Nora had always deferred to him. Maybe that changed.”
“Meserve shows up,” he said.
“And captures her affections,” I said. “Another self-styled player,good-looking, ambitious, manipulative. Younger than Brad, but not unlike him.Could be that’s what attracted Nora to him in the first place. Whatever thereason, she wasn’t giving him up the way she had the others.”
“Meserve worms his way into her affections and her pocketbook.”
“Deep-pocketbook. Brad’s got nominal power but he serves at the discretionof the estate. Nora’s a ditz but it would be hard to claim she’s not of soundmind, legally. If she demanded control over her own assets, it would pose amajor complication for Brad. If she convinced Billy to do the same, it would bea disaster.”
“Bye-bye, fa?ade.”
“Banished when he’s of no further use,” I said. “Just like when he was akid.”
We walked in silence to the cars.
He said, “Michaela and Tori and the Gaidelases and Lord knows how manyothers get done for blood-lust and Nora and Meserve get done for money?”
“Or a mixture of blood-lust and money.”
He considered that. “Nothing new about that, I guess. Rick’s relativesdidn’t just lose their lives in the Holocaust. Their homes and their businessesand all their other possessions got confiscated.”
“Take it all,” I said. “The ultimate trophy.”
Chapter 41
We took the Seville to Santa Monica Canyon.
No Porsche or any other car in Brad Dowd’s driveway. Lights out in theredwood house, no reply to Milo’s knock.
I joined the traffic crawl on Channel Road, finally made it down to the coast highway,hit moderate flow from Chautauqua to the Colony. Once we got past Pepperdine University, the land yawned andstretched and the road got easy. The ocean was slate. Hungry pelicans dove. Imade it to Kanan Dume Roadwith some sunlight to spare, turned up onto Latigo Canyon.
An assessors’ map of Billy Dowd’s property rested in Milo’slap. Ten acres, no building permits ever issued.
The Seville’sno mountain car and I slowed as the pitch steepened and the turns pinched.Nothing on the road until I neared the spot where Michaela had run acrossscreaming.
An old tan Ford pickup was parked there on the turnoff. An old tan man stoodlooking into the brush.
Plaid shirt, dusty jeans, beer gut hanging over his buckle. Filmy white hairfluffed in the breeze. A long, hooked nose sliced sky.
Smoke seeped from under the truck’s hood.
Milo said, “Pull over.”
 
The old man turned and watched us. His belt buckle was stippled brass, anoversized oval featuring a bas-relief horse head.
“You okay, Mr. Bondurant?”
“Why shouldn’t I be, Mr. Detective?”
“Looks like an over-heat.”
“It always does that. Pinhole leak in the radiator, long as I feed it fasterthan it gets hungry, I’m okay.”
Bondurant shuffled over to the truck, reached in the passenger window, andtook out a yellow plastic jug of antifreeze.
“Liquid diet,” said Milo. “You’re sure theblock won’t crack?”
“You worried about me, Mr. Detective?”
“Protect and serve.”
“Find out anything about the girl?”
“Still working on it, sir.”
Bondurant’s eyes vanished in a mesh of fold and crinkle. “Meaning nothing,huh?”
“Looks like you’ve been thinking about her.”
The old man’s chest swelled. “Who says?”
“This is the spot where you saw her.”
“It’s also a turnoff,” said Bondurant. He hefted the antifreeze. Stared atthe brush. “Naked girl, it’s like one of those stories you tell in the serviceand everyone thinks you’re lyin’.” He licked his lips. “Few years back thatwoulda been something.”
Sucking in his belly, he hitched his jeans. The roll of fat shimmered down,covered the horse’s eyes.
Milo said, “Know your neighbors?”
“Don’t got any real ones.”
“No neighborhood spirit around here?”
“Let me tell you how it’s like,” said Charley Bondurant. “This used to behorse land. My grandfather raised Arabians and some Tennessee walkers—anything you could sell torich folk. Some of the Arabians made it to Santa Anita and Hollywood Park,a couple of ’em placed. Everyone who lived here was into horses, you couldsmell the shit miles away. Now it’s just rich folk who don’t give a damn aboutanything. They buy up the land for investment, drive up on Sunday, stare for acoupla minutes, don’t know what the hell to do with themselves, and go backhome.”
“Rich folk like Brad Dowd?”
“Who?”
“White-haired fellow, mid-forties, drives all kinds of fancy cars.”
“Oh, yeah, him,” said Bondurant. “Guns those things too damn fast comingdown the mountain. Exactly what I mean. Wearing those Hawaiian shirts.”
“He here often?”
“Once in a while. All I see is the damn cars speeding by. Lots of ragtops,that’s how I know about the shirts.”
“He ever stop to talk?”
“You didn’t hear me?” said Bondurant. “He speeds by.” A gnarled hand slashedthe air.
“How often is once in a while?” said Milo.
Bondurant half turned. His hawk-nose aimed at us. “You want a count?”
“If you’ve got charts and graphs, I’ll take them, Mr. Bondurant.”
The old man completed the turn. “He’s the one who killed her?”
“Don’t know.”
“But you’re thinking he could be.”
Milo said nothing.
Bondurant said, “You’re a quiet guy, except when you want something from me.Let me tell you, government never did much for the Bondurant family. We hadproblems, no help from the government.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Coyote problems, gopher problems, draught problems, prowling hippieproblems. Damned mourning cloak butterfly problems—I say ‘butterfly,’ you thinkcute ’cause you’re a city boy. I think problem. One summer they swarmed us,laid their eggs in the trees, destroyed half a dozen elms, nearly polished offa sixty-foot weeping willow. Know what we did? We DDT’ed ’em.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “That ain’t legal. You ask thegovernment can I DDT, nope, against the law. You say what should I do toprotect my elm trees, they say figure something out.”
“Butterfly homicide’s not my thing,” said Milo.
“Caterpillars all over the place, pretty fast-moving for what they were,”said Bondurant. “I had fun stepping on ’em. The car guy kill the girl?”
“He’s what we call a person of interest. That’s government double-talk forI’m not gonna tell you more.”
Bondurant allowed himself half a smile.
Milo said, “When’s the last time you sawhim?”
“Maybe a couple of weeks ago. That don’t mean nothing. I’m asleep by eightthirty, someone’s driving past I ain’t gonna see it or hear it.”
“Ever notice anyone with him?”
“Nope.”
“Ever see anyone else go to that property?”
“Why would I?” said Bondurant. “It’s above me a good mile and a half. Idon’t go prowling around. Even when Walter Maclntyre owned the land I neverwent up there because everyone knew Walt was nuts and excitable.”
“How so?”
“I’m talking years ago, Mr. Detective.”
“Always interested in learning.”
“Walter Maclntyre didn’t kill no girl, he’s been dead thirty years. The carguy must’ve bought the land from Walter’s son, who’s a dentist. Walter was alsoa dentist, big practice in Santa Monica, he bought the land back in the fifties. Firstcity folk to buy. My father said, ‘Watch and see what happens,’ and he wasright. Walter started off like he was gonna fit in. Built this huge horse barnbut never put no horses in it. Every weekend he’d be up here, driving a truck,but no one could figure out why. Probably staring at the ocean and talking tohimself about the Russians.”
“What Russians?”
“The ones from Russia,”said Bondurant. “Communists. That’s what Walter was nuts about. Convincedhimself any minute they were gonna come swarming over and make us allpotato-eatin’ communists. My father had no use for communists but he saidWalter took it too far. A little you-know-what.” A finger rotated near his leftear.
“Obsessive.”
“You want to use that word, fine.” Bondurant hitched his jeans again andreturned to his truck on bandy legs. He put the antifreeze back on thepassenger seat, slapped the palm of his hand on the hood. The smoke had reducedto occasional wisps.
He said, “Ready to go. Hope you find whoever killed that girl. Beautifulthing, damn shame.”
 
The entrance to the property was unmarked. I overshot and had to travel halfa mile to find a spot wide enough for a U-turn. As is, my tires were inchesfrom blue space and I could feel Milo’stension.
I coasted back slowly as he squinted at the plot map. Finally, he spottedthe opening—ungated and shaded by twisting sycamores. Hard-pack dirt rampinghigh above the canyon.
Two S-turns and the surface converted to asphalt, continued to climb.
“Keep it slow,” said Milo. Doing thecop-laser thing with his eyes. Nothing to see but dense walls of oak and moresycamores, a skimpy triangle of light on the horizon suggesting an end point.
Then, two acres in, the land flattened to a mesa curtained by mountains andcanopied by a cumulus-flecked sky. Uncultivated acres had given way tobunchgrass, coastal sage, yellow mustard, a few struggling loner oaks in thedistance. The asphalt drive cut through the meadow, straight and black as a draftsman’sline. Three-quarters of the way to the back of the property stood a massivebarn. Flanks of redwood board silvered by time. Dour slab-face unbroken bywindows, shingle roof wind-blunted at the corners. A ludicrously small frontdoor.
Cool air carried some of the mustard tang our way.
Milo said, “No building permits issued.”
“Folks round these parts don’t truck with no guv-ment.”
 
Nowhere to conceal the Sevillecompletely. I left it parked off the asphalt, partially hidden by tree boughs,and we walked. Milo’s hand dangled over hisjacket.
When we were fifty feet away, the building’s dimensions asserted themselves.Three stories high, a couple hundred feet wide.
He said, “Thing that size but the door’s too small to get a car through.Wait here while I check the back.”
He took out his gun, sidled around the barn’s north side, was gone a fewminutes, returned with the weapon reholstered. “Show-and-tell time.”
 
Double rear doors, ten feet high, were wide enough for a flatbed to drivethrough. Clean, oiled hinges looked freshly installed. A generator large enoughto power a trailer park chugged. Behind us some kind of bird trilled but didn’tshow itself. Tire tracks scored the dirt, a frenzy of tread marks, too many tomake sense of.
Near the right-hand door a padlock lay on the dirt.
I said, “You found it that way?”
“That’s the official story.”
The barn had no hayloft. Just a three-story cavity, cathedral-sized, vaultedby stout, weathered rafters, walls tacked with white drywall. Dust filters likethe one we’d seen in the PlayHouse garage whirred every twenty feet or so. Anantique gravity gas pump stood to the right of an immaculate worktable. Shinytools in a punchboard rack, chamois cloths folded into neat squares, tins ofpaste wax, chrome polish, saddle soap.
A flagstone spine wide enough for a four-horse march ran up the center ofthe room. Both sides were lined with what Dr. Walter Maclntyre had conceived ashorse stalls.
The doors were gone and the concrete floors were swept clean. Eachcompartment held a gas-eating steed.
Milo and I walked up the flagstone. Helooked into each car, placed his hand on the hoods.
A quartet of Corvettes. Two bathtub Porsches, one with a racing number onits door. Brad Dowd’s newer silver roadster, a black Jaguar D-Type, lurked likea weapon, unmindful of the cream Packard Clipper towering snobbishly in thenext stall.
Slot after slot, filled with lacquered, chromed sculpture. Red FerrariDaytona, the monstrous baby-blue ’59 Caddy Brad had driven to Nora’s house,silver AC Cobra, bronze GTO.
Every hood cold.
Milo straightened from the deep bend ittook to inspect a yellow Pantera. Walked to the far wall and surveyed thecollection. “A boy and his hobbies.”
“The Daytona costs as much as a house,” I said. “Either he pays himself ahuge salary, or he’s been siphoning.”
“Unfortunately, chrome don’t bleed, and it’s blood I’m after.”
 
Outside the barn, he replaced the open lock and wiped it clean. “Gazilliondollars’ worth of go-carts and he doesn’t bother bolting.”
I said, “He doesn’t expect visitors.”
“Confident fellow. No reason not to be.” We began the return trip to thecar, walked around the south side.
Ten steps later, we stopped, synchronized as a drill team.
A gray circle. Easy to spot; the grass had died two feet from the perimeter,leaving a halo of cold, brown dirt.
Steel disk, nubbed with little metal pimples. A lever folded flat pulled upeasily when Milo tried it. An inch of liftevoked a pneumatic hiss. He let it drop back into place.
I said, “Bert the Turtle.”
“Who?”
“Cartoon character in these booklets they gave out to schoolkids in thefifties, teaching the basics of civil defense. A bit before my time but I had acousin who held on to hers. Bert was big on ducking into his shell. Knew properbomb-shelter etiquette.”
“In my school it was drop-drills,” he said. “Put your head between yourknees and kiss your ass good-bye.”
He toed the edge of the shelter lid. “Ol’ Walter really was worried aboutthe communists.”
“And now Brad reaps the benefits.”
Chapter 42
Milo walked around looking for asurveillance camera.
“None I can see, but who knows…”
Returning to the shelter lid, he squatted, lifted the handle a few moreinches. Hiss hiss. He let it fall back into place.
“Air lock,” I said. “Keep nuclear fallout at bay.”
“Play canasta while the bombs drop.” Stretching prone, he pressed his ear tosteel. “You hear the cries of a damsel in distress like I do?”
Off in the distance, a puny breeze barely ruffled the meadow. The trillingbird had gone mute. If clouds made noise, the silence might’ve relented.
I said, “Loud and clear. Grounds to search.”
He lifted the handle halfway. Peered in. Had to stand and put his weightinto completing the arc. The hatch gave way with a final whisper and he steppedback. Waited. Inched over to the opening. Looked down again.
Snaking through a tube of corrugated steel was a spiral staircase, metaltreads stripped with friction pads. Bolts secured the flight to the undersideof the rim.
“The big question remains,” he said.
“Is he down there.”
“None of those cars have been driven recently, but that could just mean he’sbunked down for a while.” Removing his desert boots, he unsnapped his holsterbut left the gun nestled. Sitting at the edge of the opening, he swung his legsin. “Something happens, you can have my Bert the Turtle lunch box.”
He descended. I took off my shoes and followed.
“Stay up there, Alex.”
“And be here alone if he shows up?”
He started to argue. Stopped himself. Not because he’d changed his mind.
Staring at something.
At the bottom of the stairs was a door, same gray steel as the hatch. Ashiny brass coat hook was screwed to the metal.
From the hook, a white nylon cord hung taut. Its ends were looped around apair of ears.
Waxy-white ears.
The head they connected to was lean, well-formed, crowned by thick, darkhair.
Well-formed face, but hideous. Dermis more paperlike than corporeal. Lumpsdistorted the cheekbones where stuffing had settled. Nearly invisible suturesheld the mouth shut and pried the eyes open. Blue eyes, wide with surprise.
Glass.
The thing that had once been Dylan Meserve was as lifelike as a milliner’smold.
Milo crawled out. His gullet throbbed. Hepaced.
I got closer to the opening, smelled the formaldehyde. Saw writing on thedoor, an inch below the thing’s chin.
Shimmied down low enough, I read.
Neat printing, black marker.
PROJECT COMPLETED.
Below that, a date and a time. Two a.m. Four days ago.
 
--- oOo ---
 
Milo walked around for a while, searchingfor evidence of burial, returned shaking his head, looked into the maw of thebomb shelter. “Lord only knows what else is down there. The moral dilemma is…”
“Is there someone down there who can be saved,” I said. “If there is, willattempting it make matters worse. You could try calling him, if he’s downthere, maybe we can hear the ring.”
“If we can hear it, he’s probably heard us already.”
“At least he’s not going anywhere.” I eyed the dangling head. “Talk aboutprobable cause.”
He took out his cell and tried Brad Dowd’s number.
No sound from below.
His eyes widened. “Mr. Dowd? Lieutenant Sturgis…no, nothing huge but Ithought maybe we could chat about Reynold Peaty…just tying up loose ends…I washoping more like tonight, where are you? We stopped by there earlier…yeah, wemust’ve…listen, sir, no, no prob coming back to your house, we’re not far. Camarillo…actually it isrelated, but I’m not at liberty to say…sorry…so can we—you’re sure? Today wouldbe a lot easier, Mr. Dowd…okay, I understand, sure. Tomorrow it is.”
Click.
He said, “Hard day out in Pasadena,plumbing leaks, blah blah blah. Mr. Cool and Charming until I mentioned Camarillo. Got thislittle catch in his voice. Happy to cooperate, Lieutenant, but I just can’ttoday.”
“You shook him up, he needs to regroup. Maybe he’ll revert to what calmedhim down when he was a kid.”
“What’s that?”
“Arts and crafts.”
 
Milo went down in the hole again, poundedthe door while keeping his distance from the thing on the coat hook.
Sidled away from it and found a spot on the door where he could press hisear without touching dead flesh. He knocked on the metal door, then pounded.
Climbing back out, he brushed away nonexistent dirt. “If anyone’s in there,I can’t hear it and the door’s bolted solid.”
Lowering the hatch, he wiped it clean, scuffed out the footsteps we’d leftin the dirt halo.
We put our shoes on and retraced our steps back to the car, worked hard atobscuring our tracks.
I drove off the property and repeated the climb I’d taken when I’d overshot.When we found nowhere to hide the Sevillewithin walking distance, I turned around and descended.
A mailbox two properties down from Billy Dowd’s land was lettered with goldstick-ons: The Osgoods. A sagging plank-and-chicken-wire fence blocked a graveldrive.
Flag up on the box. Milo got out andchecked. “Least a week’s worth, let’s trespass.”
Unlatching the gate, he stood back as I drove through, swung it closed,hopped back in.
 
The Osgoods owned a much smaller spread than Billy Dowd. Same oak-sycamorecombo, a flat brown lawn in place of a meadow. In the center, a pale greenfifties ranch house with a white-pebble roof squatted behind an empty corral.No animals, no animal smell. Half a dozen empty trash cans stood against oneside. A cheap prefab swing set tilted nearby and a child’s plastic trikeblocked the front door.
The sky had started to darken. No light spat from any windows.
Milo reached over the tricycle and knockedon the front door anyway. Left his card wedged between the door and jamb and anote under one of the Seville’swiper blades.
As we walked back to the road, I said, “What’d you write?”
“‘Oh, lucky citizens,’” he said, “‘you are doing your bit for God andcountry.’”
We reentered Billy’s property on foot, found a watch spot just shy of wherethe trees met the meadow.
Thirty feet back from the drive. The ground was spongy with dead leaves anddust. We sat against the stout trunk of a low-branching oak, nicely concealed.
Milo and me, bugs and lizards and unseenscampering things.
Nothing to talk about. Neither of us wanted to talk. The sky was bruiseddeep blue, then black. I thought of Michaela and Dylan, camping down the road.
Led to the hoax spot by Brad Dowd.
Had he harbored plans of ending the game with a bloody surprise, only to bestymied by Michaela’s escape?
Was that reason to kill her?
Or did she just fit some kind of role?
Same for Dylan. I struggled to remember him from his photos, not the thing.
Time passed. Squeaks sounded above us, leaves shivered, then a delicateflutter of wings as a bat zipped out of the oak and circled high above themeadow.
Then another. Then four.
“Great,” said Milo. “When does the ominoussoundtrack start?”
“Da dum da dum.”
He laughed. I did, too. Why not?
 
We took turns napping. His second snooze lasted five minutes and when heshook himself awake, he said, “Shoulda brought water.”
“Who knew we’d be camping?”
“A Boy Scout’s always prepared. You scouted, right?”
“Yup.”
“Me, too. If BSA only knew, huh? Think anyone’s down in that hole?”
“Hopefully not someone like Dylan,” I said.
He rested his face in one hand.
A moment later: “If he doesn’t show up tonight, Alex, you know how it’llhave to go.”
“Task force.”
“Can’t wait to write that warrant application. ‘Yes, your honor,taxidermy.’”
Night had settled in so completely it seemed permanent.
Neither of us spoke for the next half hour. When headlights yellowed theasphalt, we were both wide awake.
 
Fog lights. Engine purr. The vehicle’s squarish bulk passed us fast and spedtoward the barn.
We got to our feet, stayed in the tree cover, advanced.
The Range Rover came to a stop just to the left of the barn’s undersizedfront door, then silenced. A man got out the driver’s side, switched on a buglight above the door.
The bulb had a yellow-green tint and it turned Brad Dowd’s white hairchartreuse.
He went around to the passenger side, opened the door.
Held a hand out to someone.
Female, petite. A blousy jacket over trousers obscured her contours.
The two of them walked to the door and the woman waited as Brad opened it.Moved into the yellow beam. Profile limned.
Firm chin, nubby little nose. Bobbed gray hair tinted olive by the light.
Nora Dowd said something that sounded perky. Brad Dowd turned toward her.Spread his arms wide.
She rushed into the hug.
Nothing sisterly about the gesture as her hands began caressing the back ofhis neck.
His hands cupped her rear. She giggled.
Her face tilted up as their mouths met.
Long, grinding kiss. She reached down for his groin. He laughed. Shelaughed.
They went inside.
 
They were back moments later, walking hand-in-hand around the south side ofthe barn.
Nora skipping.
Brad said, “Gorgeous night, isn’t this just the best?”
Nora said, “Party time.”
They reached the bomb-shelter hatch. Nora stood by, fluffing her pageboy asBrad worked the lever. Putting weight into it, just as Milohad.
“Ooh,” she said. “My big strongma -yan.”
“Got something beaucoup strong for you, babe.”
“Got something soft and sweet for you, babe.”
The lid popped open. Brad pulled out a small penlight and aimed it into theopening. “You were right. I like him there.”
“Talk about a welcome,” said Nora. “Knock knock knock.”
“He always did like to hang out.”
Nora laughed.
Brad laughed.
She walked over and goosed him. “Is that a nuclear missile in your pocket orare you just happy to see me?”
Atrocious Mae West rendition.
Brad kissed her and touched her and switched off the penlight.
“Let’s get your stuff out of there. I’m sure you’re tired of mole life.”
“I’m ready,” she said. “But it was fun.”
Brad sat on the rim of the entry. As he prepared to descend, Milo rushed him, threw a choke hold around his neck,yanked him back hard onto his back. Flipped him onto his belly just as quickly,did the arm twist and cuffed him.
Nora gave no struggle when I grabbed her and yanked her arms behind her.
Milo’s knee bore down on the center ofBrad’s back. Brad gasped. “Can’t breathe.”
“If you can talk, you can breathe.”
I felt Nora tense up, was ready when she tried to break free. Soft arms, notmuch muscle tone and her wrists were so small I could grip both with one hand.I used two anyway, pulled her hard enough to arch her torso.
“You’re hurting me.”
“Leave her alone,” said Brad.
“Leave him alone,” said Nora.
“Family togetherness,” said Milo.“Touching.”
“It’s not what you think,” said Nora. “He’s not really my brother.”
“What is he?”
She laughed. Not a pretty sound.
Brad said, “Wait until you hear from our lawyer.”
“What’s the beef?” said Milo. “Taxidermusinterruptus?”
The two of them shut up.
Chapter 43
We marched them into the barn. Brad kept looking at Nora. She didn’t lookback.
Milo said, “Hold on to her, Alex,” as hepropelled Brad up the center path.
Choosing the ’59 Caddy, he stashed Brad in the front passenger seat.
“Looky here, an after-market seat belt.” The sash was drawn over Brad’sabdomen. The skin on the back of his neck had gone as white as his hair. Helooked like a piece of marble statuary.
Nora focused straight ahead. Her wrists felt soft, as if bones had begun tomelt. She smelled of French perfume and cannabis.
Milo made sure Brad was secured, thenclosed the Caddy’s door. As metal hit metal, I felt a shock of tension coursefrom Nora’s shoulder to her hip. She said nothing but her breathing quickened.
Then she lifted her right foot and tried to drive a spike heel into myinstep.
As I danced away she began twisting and spitting. I probably hurt hermaintaining control, because she cried out. Or maybe that was acting.
Milo strode over and took her. “Check theworkbench and see if you can find suitable bindings for Ms. Funnel here.”
Nora Dowd said, “Brad raped me, it was nonconsensual.”
“That’s redundant,” said Milo.
“Huh?”
“Nonconsensual rape.”
Confusion in the dope-ruddy eyes.
Milo said, “That’s some art project hangingfrom the door.”
Nora began sobbing tearlessly. “Dylan! I loved him so much, Brad got jealousand did that horrible thing! I tried to stop it, you’ve got to believe me!”
“How’d you try to stop it?”
“By reasoning with him.”
“Intellectual debate?” said Milo. “Themerits of organic kapok versus polyurethane foam?”
Nora wailed. “Oh, my God ! This is terrible !”
Still dry-eyed. An onion would’ve helped.
She sniffed. Looked up at Milo.
He said, “Your show’s closing due to bad reviews.”
 
In a workbench drawer, I found a roll of duct tape and two spools of heavy,white rope. Milo said, “Do it.”
He had Nora’s arms bent behind her back and she’d switched from crying tocursing. She swore louder as I bound her wrists, tried to head-butt Milo’s arm. By the time he managed to drag her across thebarn from the Caddy and get her in the passenger seat of a white ’55Thunderbird, she’d gone mute.
He said, “Fun, fun, fun, when Milo takes itaway,” and belted her in, too.
The two of us stood there. Panting. His face was sweaty and I felt moisturetrickle down the side of my head. My ribs hurt. The back of my neck felt as ifI’d encountered a blunt guillotine.
Milo used his phone.
The sirens began as distant moans, enlarged to nuclear trombone slides.
I was working hard at not thinking and the noise was sweet music.
 
--- oOo ---
 
Eight sheriff’s squad cars, strobe-fest of blinking lights.
Milo had his badge out right away.
A slit-eyed, sunburned sergeant in body-conscious tans got out of the leadcar.
“LAPD,” said Milo.
“Keep your hands where I can see ’em.”
Multiple weapons trained on us. We complied. The sergeant swaggered towardus with that mixture of fear and aggression cops display when they’re facedwith uncertainty. His mustache was orange and bristly, big enough to nest hummingbirds.M. Pedersohn on his tag. Tight neck muscles. A squint at the small print on Milo’s shield didn’t warm the atmosphere.
Freckled hands slapped on tan hips. “Okay…you came up here for what?”
“Job-related,” said Milo. “Lemme show you—”
“The dispatcher said something about a body,” said Pedersohn.
“That’s partially accurate,” said Milo.
“What?”
Milo motioned round the south side of thebarn. Pedersohn stood in place, showing his men he couldn’t be bossed around. Milo disappeared from view. Pedersohn went after him.
 
A peek inside the hatch turned the sergeant’s sunburn to chalk.
“Jesus…” He grabbed his mustache, rubbed his teeth with the side of hisindex finger. “Is that…”
“It ain’t plastic,” said Milo.
“Jesus…oh, man…how long’s it been there?”
“One question of many rearing their nasty little heads, Sarge. Have youcalled your lab guys?”
“Um…not yet…” Another look down. “Our downtown guys are obviously going toneed to deal with this.”
“Then you should call them, too.”
Pedersohn yanked his radio off his belt. Stopped. Squinted. “Where are thesuspects?”
“Pretending to be taking a road trip.”
“What?” said Pedersohn.
Milo walked away from him again.
Pedersohn looked at me.
I said, “Multiple murder makes him cranky.”
 
A deputy coroner named Al Morden who lived in the Palisadeswas called to the scene. He descended the stairs, looked at the head, refusedto go farther until the shelter was declared safe.
Lots of who-me? looks from the deputies. Sergeant Mitchell Pedersohn said,“Our downtown guys should be here soon.”
Milo said, “My offer vis-à-vis the lunchbox stands, Alex.”
Pedersohn said,” What?”
Milo climbed down in the hole.
 
He was back moments later. “Look, Ma, no booby traps.”
“What’s down there?” Pedersohn demanded.
“Three separate shelters linked by tunnels. Think of it as your basicparanoid triplex. One of them’s got women’s clothes and toiletries and a comfybed, pictures of our suspects on the walls, kinda homey. The others aren’thomey at all.”
“I meant in terms of evidence.”
“That’s kinda complicated,” Milo said,addressing Dr. Morden.
Morden’s smile was grim. “My type of complicated?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Chapter 44
Homicide Investigation Progress Report
DR#S 04-592 346-56  
VICTIMS:  BRAND, MICHAELA ALLY
GAIDELAS, ANDREW WILLIAM
GAIDELAS, CATHERINE ANTONIA
GIACOMO, VICTORIA MARY
MESERVE, DYLAN ROGER
PEATY, REYNOLD MILLARD
WHITE FEMALE JANE DOE #1
WHITE FEMALE JANE DOE #2
WHITE FEMALE JANE DOE #3
WHITE FEMALE JANE DOE #4
LAS VEGAS,
NV VICTIM DUTCHEY, JULIET LEE
SECTION VIII: EVIDENCE
I. FROM STORAGE BUILDING OWNED BY BNBPROPERTIES, 9421/2 WEST WOODBURY ROAD, ALTADENA, CA, 91001:
1. 3 CARDBOARD CARTONS CONTAINING CLOTHING, SOME IDENTIFIED AS BELONGING TOVICTIMS BRAND, M, GAIDELAS, A, GAIDELAS, C, MESERVE, D, GIACOMO, V. VARIOUSFEMALE ATTIRE, IDENTIFICATION UNKNOWN.
2. 2 “MADE IN MEXICO”ONYX BOXES CONTAINING VARIOUS GOLD, SILVER, AND COSTUME JEWELRY, 3 PRS.EYEGLASSES, 1 BELONGING TO VICTIM GIACOMO, V, 2 UNATTRIBUTED, 1 SET SOFTCONTACT LENSES BELONGING TO VICTIM BRAND, M, 1 PARTIAL DENTAL BRIDGE BELONGINGTO VICTIM GAIDELAS, A.
3. 3 POLYETHYLENE GARBAGE BAGS CONTAINING 53 BLEACHED HUMAN BONES,IDENTIFICATION IN PROGRESS PER THE CORONER’S OFFICE. (REF: PROFESSOR JESSICASAMPLE, FORENSIC ANTHROPOLOGIST.)
4. 1 CARDBOARD CARTON MARKED SEARS-KENMORE CONTAINING 10 JUMBO ZIPLOC SANDWICH BAGS EACH CONTAINING A CLUMP OF HUMAN HAIR BOUNDBY TWO RUBBER BANDS. (REF: PROF. J. SAMPLE.)
II. FROM TRUNK OF 1989 LINCOLN TOWN CAR VIN 33893566, REGISTERED TO BRADLEY MILLARDDOWD, GARAGED BE HIND STORAGE BUILDINGAT 942? WEST WOODBURY ROAD:
1. 1 SONY DIGITAL CAMERA MODEL DSC 588.
2. 1 EXCISED SECTION OF BLACK CARPETING FROM LTC.
3. FRONT AND REAR BLACK LEATHER SEATS FROM LTC.
III. FROM TRIPLEX SUBTERRANEAN BOMB SHELTERS, 43885 LATIGO CANYON ROAD, MALIBU, CA, 90265:
FROM UNIT “A” (NORTHERNMOST, SEE DIAGRAM):
1. CLOTHING, COSMETICS, PERSONAL EFFECTS BELONGING TO SUSPECT DOWD, N.
2. COLLAPSIBLE TWIN BED AND BEDDING.
3. PHOTOGRAPHS OF SUSPECTS DOWD, B, AND DOWD, N.
4. 5 TEETH BELONGING TO VICTIM MESERVE, D. PIERCED AND STRUNG ON A SILVERCHAIN.
5. 1 TAXIDERMICALLY PRESERVED HUMAN HEAD BELONGING TO VICTIM MESERVE, D.
6. 2 SIMILAR PRESERVATIONS, VICTIMS GAIDELAS, A, GAIDE LAS, C.
7. 1 COMPACT DISK CONTAINING DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHIC IMAGES, MARKED“PARTY-TIME” CONTAINING PORNO GRAPHIC IMAGES OF:
A. SUSPECT DOWD, B, HAVING SEXUAL INTERCOURSE WITH V’S BRAND, M, GIACOMO, V,GAIDELAS, C, GAIDELAS, A, JANE DOES 1, 2, 3, 4. LAS VEGAS VICTIM, DUTCHEY, J.
B. SUSPECT DOWD, B, HAVING SEXUAL INTERCOURSE WITH SUSPECT DOWD, N.
C. SUSPECT DOWD, N, HAVING SEXUAL INTERCOURSE WITH VICTIM MESERVE, D.
D. SUSPECT DOWD, B, HAVING SEXUAL INTERCOURSE WITH VICTIM MESERVE, D.
8. 4 DIGITAL VIDEO DISKS CONTAINING MOTION PICTURES, CONTENT SIMILAR TO 3.
FROM UNITS “B” AND “C”:
1. 2 250 MB COMPUTER ZIP DISKS MARKED “PT CLIMAX,” CONTENTS SCRAMBLED,POSSIBLY DAMAGED. (REF: LAPD TECHNICAL DIVISION, SGT. S. FUJIKAWA.)
2. 1 IBM CLONE PERSONAL COMPUTER, 1 APC BATTERYBACKUP, 1 MICROTEK 19" MONITOR, 1 HEWLETT-PACKARD LASERJET 4050 PRINTER.
3. 1 42" SONY FLAT-SCREEN TELEVISION.
4. 1 BRASS COAT HOOK.
5. 1 213 SQ. FT. EXCISED SECTION, BEIGE NYLON CARPETING. 1 215.5 SQ. FT.EXCISED SECTION, BEIGE NYLON CARPETING.
6. 12 BOXES OF DISASSEMBLED ACOUSTICAL CEILING TILES.
7. 2 SETS SMITH & WESSON DOUBLE LOCK POLICE-ISSUE HANDCUFFS AND KEYS.
8. 1 SET ANTIQUE “E.D. BEAN” LEG IRON RESTRAINTS, C. 1885. (REF: PROFESSORANDRE WASHINGTON, HISTORIAN.)
9. 3 WOODEN BOXES CONTAINING VARIOUS SURGICAL KNIVES, NEEDLES, SAWS,SCRAPERS, SHEARS, CANNULAS, FUNNELS.
10. 1 “TI-DEE” HEAVY-DUTY SUCTION PUMP, MODEL A-334C.
11. 1 KINGSLEY SECRETION ASPIRATOR, MODEL CSI-PG005.
12. 4 SPOOLS MEDIBOND NYLON MONOFILAMENT SURGICAL SUTURE MATERIAL, TWO 20MM, TWO 24 MM.
13. 2 UNMARKED CARDBOARD CARTONS CONTAINING SEALED CLEAR PLASTIC BAGS OFCOTTON STUFFING.
14. 4 PLASTIC GALLON CONTAINERS, HYDROGEN PEROXIDE.
15. 1 BOX “PLEASURE-RIB” LATEX CONDOMS.
16. 1 5-GAL. PLASTIC CONTAINER, FORMIC ACID PICKLING SOLUTION.
17. 5 SETS “SNUG-FIT” LATEX GLOVES.
18. 1 EPOXY “TAXI-FORM SCULPTING KIT.”
19. 1 QUART BOTTLE EATON SKIN DEGREASER AND PRESERVATIVE.
20. 1 5-LB. BAG “READI-TAN” DRY PRESERVATIVE.
21. 1 OAKES G-235C “MINOR SURGICAL PROCEDURE” TABLE WITH HEADREST ANDDETACHABLE DRAIN…
Milo returned to his office and took themurder book from me.
“I wasn’t finished.”
He dropped the file in a drawer. “Michaela’s Honda finally showed up.Parking garage of a BNB building in Sierra Madre, towed to the motor lab as wespeak.”
“Congratulations. As I was saying—”
“How’s my prose?”
“Eloquent,” I said. “Please don’t tell me you want to have lunch.”
“It’s way past lunchtime, have your people call my people and we’ll dodinner.”
He sank down hard enough to make the desk chair groan. “Enough with the glibmacho posturing. I’m thrashed and not ashamed to admit it.”
“Get any sleep?”
“Around five hours,” he said. “Over five days.”
“Time for a break,” I said.
“It ain’t the workload that’s keeping me up, boy-o, it’s the reality. Aslong as you’ve perused, care to add any insights?”
“The PlayHouse was a talent pool in a much worse way than we imagined. ForNora, it served double duty. She got to feel omnipotent and she and Brad bothenjoyed selecting victims.”
“Cold bitch,” he said. “Arrogant, too. That time we came to her house, shedidn’t even pretend to care about Tori or Michaela.”
“I’m not sure she’s capable of pretending.”
“No acting chops? How’d she get so many people to believe in her?”
“By attracting a hungry crowd who thought they were getting a bargain.Emotionally needy people will swallow poisoned Kool-Aid.”
He sighed. “All those pretty folk auditioning, having no idea what the partreally was.”
“Any luck identifying the other girls?”
“Not yet. No other male bodies show up yet, but I’m not counting on thisbeing the end of it. There’s still a dozen BNB properties we haven’t looked atand the backhoes have only dug up a corner of the property. How do you see thehoax figuring in?”
“Theater of the cruel. Nora and Brad hatched it up for fun, convinced DylanMeserve he was a coconspirator. But he was a human chess piece.”
“Think he knew what was in store for Michaela?”
“Have you found any indication that he was aware of the other victims?”
“Not so far,” he said. “But the way he had Michaela pretend to choke him,that coulda been foreshadowing her fate, right?”
“Or he had his own kinks,” I said. “We’ll probably never find out unlesssome kind of diary shows up. Or Brad or Nora start talking.”
“So far, they’re both dummying up,” he said. “I got Brad on suicide watch,like you suggested. Jail guard said Brad thought that was funny.”
“Maintaining the facade,” I said. “Once it crumbles, he’ll have nothingleft.”
“You’re the shrink…back to the hoax. Nora wink-winks at Meserve, pretends tobe outraged and kicks Michaela out of class. Why?”
“My bet’s still on setting Michaela up for Brad’s ‘rescue.’ She was broke,unemployed, hungry for attention, frustrated career-wise. If Brad just happenedto drive by in one of his shiny cars and struck up a conversation, it could’veseemed like providence. She already knew his face from the PlayHouse so therewouldn’t be any stranger anxiety. And Brad’s connection to Nora would’ve madeMichaela eager to hook up with him.”
“Trying to get back in Nora’s good graces.”
“Or he might’ve told her he had his own connections, could help her career.Same for Tori. Same for all of them.”
“Seduction instead of abduction,” he said. “Nice dinner, good wine, come upand enjoy the sunset at my Malibuplace. Wonder how Michaela felt when she saw he was taking her back to Latigo Canyon.”
“If he’d built up trust by wining and dining her, it could’ve kept heranxiety in check. Or he took her somewhere else first and restrained her.”
“If he’s got another chamber of horrors, it hasn’t turned up yet. Onething’s for sure: Nothing went on at his house or Nora’s. Not a speck of nastyat either.”
I said, “Why sully the home front when you’ve got a special place set asidefor your hobbies. These people are all about splitting.”
“Speaking of hobbies, any theory about why Meserve and the Gaidelases werethe only specimens they preserved?”
“The neck wound says they thought of preserving Michaela,” I said. “Went sofar as to insert a cannula in her neck then changed their minds. No way to getinside their heads, but the Gaidelases and Meserve fit some kind of fantasy. IfI could finish the file—”
“There’s nothing in there about the past, Alex. Just more ugly. I’m stuckwith this, but you’re not. Go home and forget about all of it.”
I said, “Any luck decoding the scrambled disk?”
He ran his tongue over cracked, dry lips, scratched his scalp, rubbed hisface. He’d shaved carelessly and a patch of white fur ran along his jaw. Hiseyes were hooded and weary. “You’ve developed a hearing problem?”
I repeated the question.
“You never let go,” he said.
“That’s why you pay me the big bucks.”
“The disk is decoded and loaded in Room Four. I’ve been watching it for thelast hour. Hence, my sage advice about going home.”
“No sense postponing the inevitable,” I said.
“What’s inevitable?”
“I was at the scene when you found the shelter. Someone’s going to subpoename. Either the D.A. or Stavros Menas.”
“Both Dowdstried to hire Menas but Nora got him and she wasn’t feelingsisterly. Brad’s looking for new representation.”
“Money talks and she’s got the mike.”
“Minus the millions Brad skimmed,” he said. “Most of which seems to havegone into the car collection and a little island he bought off the coast of Belize twomonths ago. And one more luxury purchase, three weeks ago: jet card for aGulfstream V, twenty-five hours. That’s three hundred fifty grand for a planewith international range. Wanna take bets on there being an offshore bankaccount somewhere south of the equator? The estate lawyers who appointed himtrustee are gobbling Prilosec and the new court-appointed lawyers are lickingtheir chops. We’re talking years of litigation, there goes the rest of theestate.”
I said, “Planning his escape, those brochures were for real. Then he gotclever and planted them in Nora’s nightstand.”
“Too clever,” he said. “Sitting in that Range Rover, using Billy’s land.Dutiful caretaker of his sibs, meanwhile he’s screwing them, literally andfinancially. Think he was planning to take Nora with him or go it alone?”
“Unless she knew about the island I’d say alone. Is anyone protectingBilly’s interests?”
“The court-appointed lawyers claim to be.”
“I finally got permission to see him yesterday, drove out to Riverside.”
“How’s the place they put him in?”
“Grim,” I said. “Assisted care facility, a hundred Alzheimer’s patients andBilly.”
“Learn anything?”
“He’s in shock and disoriented. I got about three minutes before theattorney-on-premises ended it.”
“Why?”
“Billy started crying.”
“Because of you?”
“That was learned counsel’s opinion,” I said. “Mine was that Billy has lotsto cry about and not letting him express it will only make matters worse. Itold learned counsel Billy needs a full-time therapist, I wasn’t volunteeringfor the job, only suggesting he find someone. He begged to differ. When I gotback, I phoned the judge who wrote the placement order. Haven’t heard from heryet but I’m thinking of other judges who might be willing to help.”
“You see Billy as totally clean?” he said.
“Unless you find something more ominous at his duplex than Star Wars actionfigures and Disney videos.”
He shook his head. “Like a kid’s place. Boxes of sugar cereal, bottles ofchocolate milk.”
I said. “Being a kid’s hard enough. Being neither boy nor man is something else.Any sign of Billy’s allowance money?”
“Nope, just coins in a piggy bank. Some of the pennies date back to thesixties.”
“Fifteen hundred a month and all he spent on was pizza and Thai food andrental movies. It explains Reynold Peaty’s drop-ins. He pretended to be Billy’sfriend, had his way with the cash.”
“Makes sense,” he said. “Except no money showed up in Peaty’s dive.”
“A guy like Peaty would have ways to spend it,” I said. “Or, if hisrelationship with Brad went beyond janitor and boss, maybe the money found itsway back to Cuz. Then Cuz set him up to die.”
He frowned. A muscle just below his left eye jumped.
I said, “What?”
“What a family.” He found a stale cigar in a drawer, rolled it, and bit offthe end. Spat it into his wastebasket.
“Two points.” I stood and walked to the door. “Time to view the disk.”
He stayed put. “It’s really a bad idea, Alex.”
“I want to get it over with.”
“Even if someone does subpoena you, it could be months away,” he said.
“No sense harboring fantasies all that time.”
“Trust me, your fantasies can’t be worse than reality.”
“Trust me, ” I said. “They can.”
Chapter 45
Cold, yellow room.
The interview table had been pushed to one side. Metal table, samebattleship gray as the bomb shelter.
The things you notice.
Two chairs faced a thirty-inch plasma TV on a wheeled table. A DVD playersat on the bottom shelf. Lots of snarled cables. A sticker affixed to thebottom of the monitor warned against anyone outside the D.A.’s office touchingthe equipment.
I said, “Suddenly the prosecutors turn generous?”
“They’ve sniffed the air,” said Milo.“Smelled Court TV, screenplays, book deals. The warning from on-high is no O.J.on this one.” He drew a remote control module from his jacket pocket andflicked on the monitor.
Sat down next to me, slumped and closed his eyes and stayed that way.
 
Blue screen, video menu printout. Time, date, D.A’s evidence code.
I took the remote from Milo’s hands. Hiseyes remained shut but his breathing quickened.
I flicked.
A face filled the screen.
Big blue eyes, tan skin, symmetrical features, shaggy blond hair.
Jane Doe Number One.
Milo had asked if I wanted to start out ofsequence with Michaela. I’d considered that, said let’s do it in order.
Hoping lack of personal contact would help.
It didn’t.
 
The camera stayed close.
An off-screen voice, male, smooth, amiable, said, “Okay, audition time.Digging it so far?”
Zoom shot of the girl’s smile. Moist, white teeth, perfectly aligned. “Suream.”
“Sure am, Brad. When you’re presenting yourself to a casting agent or anyoneelse, it’s important to be direct and specific and personal. ”
The girl’s smile altered course, became an ambiguous crescent. “Um, okay.”The camera moved back. Nervous blue eyes. Giggle.
“Take two,” said Brad Dowd.
“Huh?”
“Sure am…”
“Sure, Brad.”
“Sure. Am. Brad.”
The girl’s eyes shifted to the left. “Sure. Am. Brad.”
“Perfect. Okay, go on.”
“With what?”
“Say something.”
“Like what?”
“Improvise.”
“Umm…” Lip-lick. A glance back at battleship-gray walls. “It’s kind ofdifferent. Down here.”
“Dig it?”
“Umm…I guess.”
“I. Guess…”
“I guess, Brad.”
“It is different,” said Brad Dowd. “Hermetic. Know what that means?”
Giggle. “Umm, not really.”
“It means isolated and quiet. Away from all the hassle. The Sturm undDrang.”
No response from the girl.
“Know why we’re auditioning you in a hermetic place?”
“Nora said it was serene.”
“Serene,” said Brad. “Sure, that’s a good word. Like one of those meditationthings, ohmmmm, Shakti, bodhi vandana, cabalabaloo. Ever do any meditation?”
“I did Pilates.”
“I. Did. Pilates…”
“Brad.”
Off-screen sigh. “A hermetic place means less distraction. Right?”
“Right—Brad.”
“A hermetic, serene place strips away superfluous elements so it’s easier tofind your center. Not like back in class where everyone’s looking and judging.No one will judge you here. Never.”
The girl smiled again.
“What do you think of that?” said Brad.
“It’s good.”
“It’s good?”
“It’s real good.”
“Brad!”
Blue eyes jumped. “Brad.”
“It’s. Good—”
“It’s good Brad. I’m sorry I’m kinda nervous.”
“Now, you interrupted me.”
“Sorry. Brad.”
Ten-second silence. The girl fidgeted.
Brad Dowd said, “Totally forgiven.”
“Thanks. Brad.”
Ten more seconds. The girl worked at relaxing her posture.
“Okay, we’re serene and hermetic and ready to do some serious work. Do youlike Sondheim?”
“Um, don’t know him—Brad.”
“Doesn’t matter, we’re not going musical, this is a drama day. Lower yourleft shoulder strap—make sure it’s the left one because that’s your good side,your right side’s a little weak. Be sure not to take off your whole top, thisisn’t porno, we just need to see your undraped posture à la classicalsculpture.”
The camera pulled back, showed the girl sitting primly on a folding chair,wearing a skimpy red top held in place by spaghetti straps. Bare, tan, slenderlegs, advertised by a short, denim skirt. Sandaled feet planted on the ground.High-heeled brown sandals.
“Go ahead,” said Brad.
Looking confused, she reached up and loosened the right strap.
“Left!”
“Sorry, sorry, always had trouble with—sorry, Brad, always had trouble…” Sheswitched to the left, fumbled, lowered.
The camera moved in on smooth, golden shoulder. Drew back to a full-bodyview.
Fifteen seconds passed.
“You’ve got a beautiful torso.”
“Thanks, Brad.”
“Know what a torso is?”
“The body—Brad.”
“The upper body. Yours is classical. You’re very lucky.”
“Thanks, Brad.”
“Think you’ve also got talent?”
“Umm, I hope so—Brad.”
“Oh, c’mon, let’s hear some insouciance, some confidence, some superstarcan-do attitude. ”
Blue eyes batted. The girl sat up straight, tossed her hair. Pumped a fistand shouted. “I’m the best! Brad!”
“Up for anything?”
“Sure. Brad.”
“Well, that’s good.”
Five seconds. Then: clang clang. Thud thud thud thud thud.
Noise from behind made the girl turn.
“Don’t move,” barked Brad.
The girl froze.
“Here’s your costar.”
“I—umm—oh—didn’t know there was going to be—”
“A star’s got to be up for anything.”
The girl’s head began to swivel again. Froze, once more, responding to acommand that never came.
“Good,” soothed Brad. “You’re learning.”
The girl licked her lips and smiled.
The gray behind her turned flesh-colored.
Hirsute expanse of chest and belly. Tattooed arms.
The camera trailed lower to a bearish clump of pubic hair. A limp penisdangled inches from the girl’s cheek.
The girl’s shoulders stiffened.
“I—uh—”
“Relax,” said Brad Dowd. “Remember what Nora taught you about improv.”
“But—sure. Brad.”
“Remain perfectly still—think body control…that’s a good girl.”
The hairy bulk pulsated. Tattoos jumped.
The camera panned up to a sweat-glossed dinner-plate face. Frizzymuttonchops. Clipped mustache.
Reynold Peaty’s hands lowered onto the girl’s shoulders. His right thumbslipped under the right spaghetti strap. Toyed with the string. Slid it off.
The girl jumped and twisted, craned to see him. His left hand gripped thetop of her head and held her in place.
“He’s hurting—”
“Mouth shut!” said Brad Dowd. “Don’t want to catch flies.”
Peaty’s right hand reached around and clamped over the girl’s mouth.
She made frantic little muffled noises. Peaty’s hand slapped her so hard,her eyes rolled back. With one hand, Peaty pulled her up by her hair. The otheredged closer to her throat.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Perfect,” said Brad. “This is Reynold. The two of you are going toimprovise a little skit.”
I flicked off the picture.
Milo was wide awake, looking sadder thanI’d ever seen him.
I said, “You told me so,” and walked out of the room.
Chapter 46
The next week was emotional bouillabaisse.
Trying, with no success, to get Billy Dowd more appropriate lodgings andregular therapy.
Fending off Erica Weiss’s requests for another deposition, so she could“slam the final nail in Hauser’s coffin.”
Ignoring increasingly strident calls from Hauser’s defense attorney.
I hadn’t been to the station since viewing the DVD. Six minutes watching agirl I’d never met.
The day I moved Robin in, I pretended my head was clear. After I schleppedthe last carton of her clothes into the bedroom, she sat me down on the edge ofthe mattress, rubbed my temples, and kissed the back of my neck. “Stillthinking about it, huh?”
“Using unfamiliar muscles. The ribs don’t help.”
“Don’t waste energy trying to convince me,” she said. “This time I know whatI’m getting myself into.”
 
My contact with Milo was limited to oneeleven p.m. phone call. His voice, thick with fatigue, wondering if I couldtake care of some “ancillary stuff” while he coped with the mountain ofevidence on what the papers were calling the “Bomb Shelter Murders.”
One nitwit columnist in the Times trying to connect it to “Cold Warparanoia.”
I said, “Sure. What’s ancillary stuff?”
“Anything you can do better than me.”
 
That came down to being a grief sponge.
A forty-five-minute session with Lou and Arlene Giacomo lasted two hours.He’d lost weight since I’d seen him and his eyes were dead. She was a quiet,dignified woman, hunched over like someone twice her age.
I sat there as his rage alternated with her anguished accounts of Life WithTori, the two of them trading off with a rhythm so precise it could’ve beenscripted. As the time ground on, their chairs edged farther and farther apart.Arlene was talking about Tori’s confirmation dress when Lou shot to his feet,snarling, and left my office. She started to apologize, changed her mind. Wefound him down by the pond, feeding the fish. They left silently and neitheranswered my calls that night. The clerk at their hotel said they’d checked out.
The widowed mother of Brad Dowd’s Las Vegas victim, Juliet Dutchey, turned out to be aformer showgirl herself, a veteran of the old Flamingo Hotel. Mid-fifties andstill toned, Andrea Dutchey blamed herself for not discouraging her daughterfrom moving to Vegas, then switched to squeezing my hand and thanking me forall I’d done. I felt I’d done nothing and her gratitude made me sad.
Dr. Susan Palmer came in with her husband, Dr. Barry Palmer, a tall, quiet,well-coiffed man who wanted to be anywhere else. She started off all business,crumpled fast. He kept his mouth shut and studied the prints on my wall.
Michaela Brand’s mother was too ill to travel from Arizona so I spoke with her over the phone.Her air machine hissed in the background and if she cried, I didn’t hear it.Maybe tears required too much oxygen. I stayed on the line until she hung upwithout warning.
No relative of Dylan Meserve surfaced.
I phoned Robin at her studio and said, “I’m finished, you can come back.”
“I wasn’t escaping,” she said. “Just doing my job.”
“Busy?”
“Pretty much.”
“Come home anyway.”
Silence. “Sure.”
 
I called Albert Beamish.
He said, “I’ve been reading about it. Apparently, I can still be shocked.”
“It’s shocking stuff.”
“They were spoiled and indolent but I had no idea they were fiends.”
“Beyond persimmons,” I said.
“Good God, yes! Alex—may I call you that—”
“Sure. Mister Beamish.”
He chortled. “First off, thanks for informing me, that wasuncharacteristically courteous. Especially coming from a member of theme-generation.”
“You’re welcome. I think.”
He cleared his throat. “Second, do you golf?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Never got into it.”
“Damn shame. At least you drink…perhaps one day, should you have time…”
“If you bring out the good stuff.”
“I only stock the good stuff, young man. What do you take me for?”
 
Two weeks after his arrest, Brad Dowd was found dead in his cell. The noosehe’d used to hang himself had been fashioned from a pair of pajama pants he’dripped into strips after lights-out. He’d been on suicide watch, housed in theHigh Power ward where things like that weren’t supposed to happen. The guardshad been diverted by a neighboring inmate pretending to go crazy and smearinghis cell with feces. That prisoner, a gang leader and murder suspect namedTheofolis Moomah, underwent a miraculous recovery the moment Brad’s body wascut down. A search of Moomah’s cell uncovered a stash of extra commissarycigarettes and a roll of fifty-dollar bills. Brad’s attorney, a downtown courtregular who’d defended several gang leaders, express-mailed his bill to thearraignment judge.
Stavros Menas, Esq. called a press conference and bellowed that the suicidesupported his claim that Brad had been a “mad Svengali,” and his client anunwitting dupe.
The D.A. offered a contradictory analysis.
Get ready for a circus the animal-rights people wouldn’t mind.
I vowed to forget about all of it, figured the why dunit would stop eatingat me eventually.
When it didn’t, I got on the computer.
Chapter 47
The woman said, “I still can’t believe you tracked me down that way.”
Her name was Elise Van Syoc and she was a Realtor working out of theColdwell Banker Encino office. It had taken a long time but I’d found her usingher maiden name, Ryan, and a decades-old nickname.
Ginger.
Groovy bass player for the Kolor Krew!
Her identity and a print of the photo I’d seen at the PlayHouse finallysurfaced courtesy , a cruelly mocking compendium of failedpop bands flung by the gargantuan slingshot that was the Internet.
When I called her, she said, “I’m not getting involved in any court stuff.”
“It’s not about court stuff.”
“What, then?”
“Curiosity,” I said. “Professional and personal. At this point, I’m not sureI can separate the two.”
“That sounds complicated.”
“It’s a complicated situation.”
“You’re not writing a book or doing a movie?”
“Absolutely not.”
“A psychologist…whose therapist are you, exactly?”
I tried to explain my role.
She cut me off. “Where do you live?”
“Beverly Glen.”
“Own or rent?”
“Own.”
“Did you buy in a long time ago?”
“Years ago.”
“Have any equity?”
“Total equity.”
“Good for you, Dr. Delaware.A person in your situation might find it a good time to trade up. Ever thinkabout the Valley? You could get a much bigger place with more land and somecash back. If you’re open-minded about the other side of the hill.”
“I pride myself on being open-minded,” I said. “I’m also big on rememberingpeople who’ve extended themselves for me.”
“Some negotiator—you absolutely promise I won’t end up in court?”
“Swear on my trust deed.”
She laughed.
I said, “Do you still play bass?”
“Oh, please.” More laughter. “I got asked to join because I had red hair.She thought it was some kind of omen—the Kolor Krew, get it?”
“Amelia Dowd.”
“Crazy Mrs. D…this is sure taking me back. I don’t know what you think I cantell you.”
“Anything you remember about the family would help.”
“For your psychological insights?”
“For my peace of mind.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a horrendous case. I’m pretty close to haunted.”
“Hmm,” she said. “I guess I can sum it up in one sentence: They were nuts.”
“Could we discuss it, anyway?” I said. “Time and place of your choosing.”
“Would you seriously consider a trade-up?”
“I hadn’t thought about it, but—”
“Good time to start thinking. Okay, I need lunch anyway, what the heck. Meetme at Lucretia on Venturanear Balboa, hour and a half, I need you to be prompt. Maybe I can show youlife on the other side of the hill can be tasty.”
 
The restaurant was big, pale, airy, nearly empty.
I arrived on time. Elise Van Syoc was already there, bantering with a youngmale waiter as she nursed a cosmopolitan and chewed on a single Brazil nut.“Ginger” was no longer a redhead. Her coif was puffy, collar-length, ash-blond.Tailored black pantsuit, tailored face, wide amber eyes. A deal-closing smile accompanieda firm, dry handshake.
“You’re younger than you sound, Dr. Delaware.”
“You, too.”
“How sweet.”
I sat down and thanked her for her time. She glanced at a diamond Movado.“Did Brad and Nora really do what everyone’s saying?”
I nodded.
“How about some juicy tidbits?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“But I do.”
“You really don’t,” I said.
“What, it’s disgusting?”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Yuck.” She sipped her cosmopolitan. “Tell me anyway.”
I parceled out a few details.
Elise Van Syoc said, “How’d you get all that equity working with the police?It can’t pay very well.”
“I’ve done other things.”
“Such as?”
“Investments, private practice, consults.”
“Very interesting…you don’t write?”
“Just reports, why?”
“It sounds like a good book…I’m afraid this isn’t going to be lunch, just adrink. I’ve got an escrow to close, huge place south of the boulevard. and there’s really nothing I can tell you about the Dowds other than they were allweirdos.”
“That’s a good place to start.”
The waiter came over, lean, dark, hungry-eyed. I asked for a Grolsch and hesaid, “For sure.”
When he brought the beer, Elise Van Syoc clinked her glass against mine.“Are you in a relationship? I’m asking in terms of your space needs.”
“I am.”
She grinned. “Do you cheat?”
I laughed.
She said, “Nothing ventured,” and finished the last bit of Brazil nut.
I said, “The Kolor Krew—”
“The Kolor Krew was a joke.”
“How’d you get involved?” I said. “The other three members were sibs.”
“Like I told you over the phone, I was recruited by Crazy Mrs. D.”
“Because of your hair color.”
“That and she thought I had talent. I was in the same class as Nora at Essex Academy.My dad was a surgeon and we lived on June Street. Back then I thought I likedmusic. Took violin lessons, switched to the cello, then I conned my dad intogetting me an electric guitar. I sang like a goose on downers, wrote ridiculoussongs. But try telling me, I thought I was Grace Slick. Brad and Nora reallykilled all those people?”
“Every one of them.”
“Why?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“It’s so bizarre,” she said. “Knowing someone who did that. Maybe I shouldwrite a book.”
Something new in her eyes. Now I understood why she’d agreed to meet withme.
“I’ve heard it’s tough,” I said.
“Writing?” She laughed. “I wouldn’t do it myself, I’d hire someone, put myname on it. There are some big best sellers who do that.”
“Guess so.”
“You don’t approve.”
I said, “So Amelia Dowd thought you had talent—”
“Maybe I shouldn’t give you my story.”
“I have no interest in writing it up. In fact, if you do write a book, youcan quote me.”
“Promise?”
“Swear.”
She laughed.
I said, “Amelia Dowd—”
“She heard me play cello in the Essex Academy orchestra andthought I was some kind of Casals, which tells you about her ear. Immediately,she calls my mother, they knew each other from school affairs, teas at theWilshire Country Club, acquaintances more than friends. Amelia tells Mothershe’s putting together a band—a wholesome family thing, like the Partridge Family,the Cowsills, the Carpenters. My hair makes me perfect, I obviously have agift, and bass is just another form of cello, right?”
“Your mother bought that?”
“My mother’s a conservative DAR lady but she’s always loved anything to dowith showbiz. The ‘secret’ she tells everyone once she knows them long enoughis that she dreamed of becoming an actress, looked exactly like Grace Kelly,but nice girls from San Marino didn’t do that even if nice girls from thePhiladelphia Main Line did. She was always on me to join drama club but Irefused. Ripe for Mrs. D’s picking. Plus, Mrs. D made it sound like a donedeal—big record contract pending, interviews, TV appearances.”
“Did you believe it?”
“I thought it sounded idiotic. And lame. The Cowsills ? My taste was BigBrother and the Holding Company. I went along with it on the off chancesomething would happen and I’d be able to miss school.”
“Did the Dowd kids have any musical experience?”
“Brad played a little guitar. Nothing fancy, a few chords. Billy held a guitarlike a spaz, Amelia was always adjusting it. If he could carry a tune, I neverheard it. Nora could but she couldn’t harmonize and she was always bored andspaced out. She’d never shown interest in anything other than drama club andclothes.”
“Fashion plate,” I said.
“Not really, she always dressed wrong. Way too fancy. Even at Essex things had gotten casual.”
“Was joining drama club her idea or her mother’s?”
“Hers, I always thought. She always pushed for the big parts, never got thembecause she couldn’t memorize lines very well. A lot of people thought she wassemi-retarded. Everyone knew Billy was, I guess the assumption was it washereditary.”
“What about Brad?”
“Smarter than those two. Anyone would be.”
“How’d he adjust socially?”
“Girls liked him,” she said. “He was cute. But he wasn’t what I’d callpopular. Maybe because he wasn’t around much.”
“Why not?”
“One year he’d be there, the next year he’d be gone—at some out-of-stateschool—because of trouble he’d gotten into. But Mrs. D sure wanted him aroundthe year she tried to start the band.”
“How far did you guys get?” I said.
“Halfway to nowhere. When I showed up at their house for the first rehearsaland saw what utter bullshit it was going to be, I went home and told Mother,‘Forget it.’ She said, ‘We Ryans don’t have quitting in our blood,’ andnotified me that if I wanted my own car I’d better buckle down.”
She slapped one palm against the table, then the other, sounded a slow,ponderous four-four beat. “That was Nora’s idea of playing drums. Billy wassupposed to play rhythm guitar and he’d managed to learn two screechy chords—Cand G, I think. But it sounded like a pig being strangled.” She screwed up herlips. “As if that wasn’t bad enough, we tried to sing. Pathetic. That didn’tstop Crazy Amelia.”
“From what?”
“Dragging us to have promo pictures taken. She found a discount photographeron Highlandnear Sunset, some old fart who slurred his words and had forty-year-oldblack-and-whites of people you’ve never heard of taped to the walls of hisstudio.” She wrinkled her nose. “The place smelled like cat pee. The costumessmelled like an old-age home. I’m talking boxes of stuff, all jumbled together.We had to pose as Indians, pilgrims, hippies, you name it. Everyone in adifferent color. ‘Varied garb and hue,’ as Mrs. D phrased it, was going to beour ‘signature.’”
“It worked for the Village People.”
“So where are they ? Once the photos were done, it was agent-time, oneblow-dried sleaze after another. Amelia flirted with every one of them. I’mtalking hip rub, deep cleavage flash, calculated eyelash flutter, the works.She had this blond bombshell thing going on, played it to the hilt.”
“That doesn’t sound like someone a conservative DAR lady would trust,” Isaid.
“Funny about that, isn’t it? I guess showbiz trumps everything. You askpeople in this city if they’d give up a vital organ for a walk-on in a movie, Iguarantee you most would ask where’s the scalpel. Half the people in mybusiness have had some connection to the industry. Come over to the office andyou’ll see faces you vaguely recognize but can’t place. I’m talking the girlwho served coffee to the banker lady on The Beverly Hillbillies during thesecond act of one episode. She’s still got that SAG card in her purse, works itinto every conversation. The smart ones learn that even if they make it, itlasts as long as warm milk. The others are like Amelia Dowd.”
“Living in fantasyland.”
“Twenty-four seven. Anyway, that’s the history of the Kolor Krew.”
“The project never got anywhere.”
“We must’ve done two dozen auditions. None lasted longer than fifteenseconds because the moment the agents heard us sing they winced. We knew wewere horrendous. But Amelia would be standing there, snapping her fingers,beaming. When I got home I’d light up a doobie, call my friends, get allhysterical-giggly.”
“How’d the Dowd kids handle it?”
“Billy was an obedient robot, might as well have come with wheels. Noraspaced out, just like always, did the whole Mona Lisa thing. Brad was alwayshiding a smirk. He’s the one who finally spoke up. Not disrespectfully, morelike, ‘C’mon, we’re not getting anywhere.’ Amelia ignored him. I mean,literally, just pretended he wasn’t there and went on talking. Which was aswitch.”
“In what way?”
“Generally she paid plenty of attention to Brad.”
“Abusive?”
“Not exactly.”
“Special attention?”
Elise Van Syoc tried to impale a lime wedge on her stirrer. “This could bethe important part of my book.”
“She seduced him?”
“Or maybe it was the other way around. I can’t even say for sure somethinghappened. But the way those two related wasn’t exactly mother-son. I nevernoticed until I started spending all that time with them. It took a while tonotice Mrs. D being odder than usual.”
“What’d she do?”
“She was no great shakes as a mom. With Billy and Nora she was distant. Butwith Brad—maybe she figured, technically, because Brad was an adopted cousinand not her son…still, he was fourteen and she was a grown woman.”
“Hip rubs and cleavage?” I said.
“Some of that but usually it was more subtle. Private smiles, little looksthat she’d sneak in when she thought no one was watching. Occasionally I’dcatch her brushing his arm and he’d touch her back. Nora and Billy didn’t seemto notice. I wondered if I was imagining it, felt like an alien dropped onPlanet Strange.”
“How did Brad react?”
“Sometimes he’d pretend not to be aware of what she was doing. Other timeshe’d clearly be liking it. There was definitely some kind of chemistry goingon. How far it went, I don’t know. I never told anyone, not even my friends. Whothought in those terms, back then?”
“But you were grossed out.”
“I was,” she said, “but when Amelia’s own kids didn’t seem bothered Istarted to wonder if I was seeing things.” Small smile. “Being fortified bypuffs of an illegal herb fed my doubts.”
“Amelia was seductive,” I said, “but she sent Brad out of state.”
“Several times. Maybe she wanted him out of the picture so she could dealwith her own impulses? Would you call that a psychological insight?”
“Sure would.”
She smiled. “Maybe I should be an analyst.”
“How many times is ‘several’?”
“I’d say three, four.”
“Because he’d gotten into trouble.”
“Those were the rumors.”
“Did the rumors get specific?” I said.
“Your basic juvenile deliquency,” she said. “Do they use that term anymore?”
“I do. What’re we talking about, theft, truancy?”
“All that.” She frowned. “Also, some people in the neighborhood had petsthat went missing and there was talk Brad was involved.”
“Why?”
“I honestly don’t know, that’s just what was said. That’s important, isn’tit? Cruelty to animals is related to being a serial killer, right?”
“It’s a risk factor,” I said. “When was the last time Brad was sent away?”
“After Amelia gave up on the band. Not right after, maybe a month, fiveweeks.”
“What convinced her to quit?”
“Who knows? One day she just called up Mother and announced that there wasno future for popular music. As if she’d made the choice. What a loon.”
“And soon after that, Brad was gone.”
“Guess she no longer needed him…now that we’re talking about it, I realizehow bad it must’ve been for him. Used and discarded. If he was bothered, hedidn’t show it. Just the opposite, he was always calm, nothing got to him.That’s not normal, either, is it? Would you be my psychological consultant?”
“Get a contract and we’ll talk. What about Captain Dowd?”
“What about him?”
“Was he involved in the band?”
“He wasn’t involved in anything I ever saw. Which wasn’t that different frommost fathers in the neighborhood. But they were gone because of work. CaptainDowd lived off inheritance, never held down a job.”
“How’d he spend his time?”
“Golf, tennis, collecting cars and wine and whatever. Lots of vacationsabroad. Or, as my mother called them, ‘grand tours.’”
“Where?”
“Europe, I guess.”
“Did he travel with his wife?”
“Sometimes,” she said, “but mostly it was by himself. That was the officialstory.”
“Unofficially?”
She played with her glass. “Let’s put it this way: once I overheard Fatherjoking to a golf buddy about how the captain had joined the navy to be close toboys in tight blue uniforms.”
“He traveled with young men?”
“More like traveled to find young men.”
“The rumor mill,” I said.
“Keeps the grass green,” she said.
“Captain Dowd being gay was public knowledge?”
“If my father knew, everyone did. He seemed like a nice enough man—thecaptain. But not much of a presence. Maybe that’s why Amelia flirted with everyone.”
“Including Brad,” I said.
“I guess they were all crazy,” she said. “Does that explain what happened?”
“It’s a start.”
“That’s not much of an answer.”
“I’m still figuring out the questions.”
Amber eyes hardened and I thought she’d come back with a sharp retort.Instead, she stood and smoothed the front of her trousers. “Gotta run.”
I thanked her again for her time.
She said, “I know you were snowing me about keeping an open mind, but I’dlike to call you if a hot property comes up. Something really worth your while,it’s a terrific time in the market for someone in your position. How about aphone number?”
I gave her a card, paid for the drinks, and walked her to her silverMercedes roadster.
She got in, started up the car, lowered the top. “I’ll probably never do abook, hate writing. Maybe a cable movie.”
“Good luck.”
“It’s strange,” she said, “after you called, I tried to make sense ofit—looking back for something that could’ve predicted it.”
“Come up with anything?”
“This is probably irrelevant—I’m sure I’m reading all kinds of crazy thingsinto insignificant stuff. But if what they’re saying about what happened tothose people is true…the gory details, I mean…”
“They’re true.”
She drew a compact from her purse, checked her face in the mirror, tampedher hair, put on a pair of sunglasses. “Mrs. D had this routine she’d gothrough. When we goofed off during rehearsal, which was often, and she lost herpatience but was trying not to show it because she wanted to be one of thegang. Like Mama Cowsill or Shirley Jones.”
“Cool mom,” I said.
“As if that’s ever possible…anyway, what she’d do is start clapping herhands to quiet us down, then she’d make like she was the Red Queen—from Alice in Wonderland. Thefirst few times she announced it. ‘I am the Red Queen and I will be obeyed!’Eventually we caught on. Whenever she clapped it was going to be a Red Queenroutine. Which consisted of her spouting lines like ‘I’m five times richer andcleverer than you,’ or ‘What use is a child with no meaning?’ I took it forjust another of her eccentricities, but maybe…”
She went silent.
“Maybe what?”
“This will probably sound literal to you. After spouting all this LewisCarroll stuff, she’d scrunch up her eyebrows and cackle and raise a finger inthe air and start waving it around. Like she was testing the wind. If we stillweren’t paying attention—which we usually weren’t—she’d let out this honkingnoise, could’ve been a man’s it was so deep. Then she’d make goofy eyes andshake her chest like a stripper gone berserk. She was big up there, it wasridiculous.”
Running her hands over her own narrow torso.
“Finally, if we still weren’t toeing the line, then she’d lower her handlike this, and run it across her throat and place both hands on her hips andscream, ‘Off with your heads!’ It was silly but creepy, I hated when she didit. Nora and Billy didn’t seem to care.”
“And Brad?”
“That’s the thing,” she said. “Brad used to smile. One of those privatesmiles. Like it was a private joke between him and Amelia. You know about hishobby, right? He was really into it back then. Had all kinds of knives, used tocarry knives around. I never saw him hurt anyone and he was never threatening.At least not to me. So it probably means nothing—Amelia with her hand over herthroat.”
I said nothing.
Elise Van Syoc said,” Right?”
Chapter 48
I drove over the hill thinking about what family had meant to the Dowd kids.
Boundaries were to be blurred, people were to be used, performance was all.
Brad had been abandoned, taken in reluctantly, exploited, expelled. Broughtback to be pressed into service by a woman who resented him and lusted for him.
Years later, after her death, he’d wormed his way back into the family and attained the power role. Knowing he’d never belonged, never would.
By that time, he’d murdered Juliet Dutchey. Maybe other women yet to be discovered.
Reserving his boyhood hobby for three victims.
Back when Milo and I had been theorizing, he’d wondered out loud about Cathy and Andy Gaidelas being parental symbols.
You guys still believe in the Oedipal thing?
More than I did a few weeks ago.
Why Meserve?
The only time I’d seen Brad express overt anger was when he talked about Meserve.
Young, slick manipulator.
Brad seeing himself two decades younger?
Despite the smooth manner, the clothes, the cars—the image—did it all boil down to self-hatred?
A body hanging in a jail cell said maybe.
Used and discarded…it didn’t explain the extent of the horror. It never does. I wondered why I kept trying.
I reached Mulholland, coasted down past dream houses and other encumbrances, unable to let go.
Brad had been the ultimate actor. Protecting Billy and Nora, bedding her, stealing from both of them.
Pressing his own cousin into murderous service, then setting him up to be executed.
Coming on to another cousin—a female cop—at the same time he was being investigated by her colleagues in a showgirl’s disappearance.
Why not? Why would blood ties mean anything to him?
Marcia Peaty had no problem seeing Brad as evil but she was certain Cousin Reynold had just been a penny-ante loser.
Ex-cop, but way off. She’d be dealing with that for a long time. If she were my patient, I’d work at getting her to see she was human, nothing less, nothing more.
When you got down to it, rules and exceptions were hard to separate.
Church deacons sneak into dark houses and strangle families. Diplomats and CEOs and other respectable types embark on sex tours of Thailand.
Anyone can be fooled.
But for arrogance, Brad and Nora might’ve plied their hobby for years.
How long would it have taken before he looted the trust fund completely and decided Nora was no longer useful?
The jet card and the island off Belize said not long.
Did Nora—numbed, callous, perpetually stoned—have any idea her life had been saved?
What kind of life lay ahead for her? Initial severe depression, for sure, once the reality of prison life set in. If she was deep enough to suffer. If she coped and set up a prison theater, things could get rosier. Casting, directing. Experiencing. A few years down the line, she might even merit one ofthose rehab-miracle puff-pieces in the Times.
Or maybe I had too much faith in the system and Nora would never see the inside of a penitentiary cell.
Back on McCadden Place, walking her stuffed dog.
Stavros Menas was wasting no opportunity to shout that she was just another of Brad’s victims.
Milo and I had heard her joking about Meserve’s head but both of us could be made to look foolish on the stand and L.A. juries distrusted cops and shrinks. The disks showed her having consensual sex with Brad and Meserve but nothing more. No forensic evidence tied her directly to the killings and nowadays juries expected nifty science.
Menas would rack up billable hours trying to get everything ruled inadmissible. Maybe he’d put Nora on the stand and she’d finally get a starring role.
One way or the other, he’d earn his million.
The lawyers vying for stewardship of Billy Dowd’s diminished life would also do fine.
Still no callback from the judge who’d warehoused Billy and sentenced him to eating soft food with plastic utensils.
The time I’d visited, he’d called me his friend, put his head on my shoulder, and wet my shirt with his tears.
What use is a child with no meaning?
Amelia Dowd had no idea what crop she’d cultivated.
I wondered what Captain William Dowd Junior had known as he’d ambled abroad on grand tours.
Both of them perishing in a car crash. Big Cadillac veering off the road and over a cliff on Route 1, on the way to the Pebble Beach auto show.
No suspicion it hadn’t been an accident.
But Brad had been in town the week they’d set out and Brad knew cars. Milo had raised that with the D.A. The prosecutors agreed it was interesting theoretically but the evidence was long gone, Brad was dead, time to concentrate on building a case against a living defendant.
Time for me to…?
 
--- oOo ---
 
Robin’s truck was parked in front of the house. I expected to find her in aback room, drawing or reading or napping. She was waiting for me in the livingroom, sitting on the big couch with her legs tucked under her. A sleeveless, sky-colored dress set off her hair. Her eyes were clear and her feet were bare.
“Learn anything?” she said.
“That maybe I should’ve taken up accounting.”
She got up, took me by the hand, led me toward the kitchen.
“Sorry, not hungry,” I said.
“I wouldn’t expect you to be.” We continued into the service porch.
A plastic pet crate sat in front of the washer-dryer. Not Spike’s crate,she’d junked that. Not in the spot Spike’s crate had occupied. Off slightly to the left.
Robin kneeled, unlatched the grate, drew out a wrinkly fawn-colored thing.
Flat face, rabbit ears, moist black nose. Huge brown eyes met Robin’s, thenaimed at me.
“You can name her,” she said.
“Her?”
“I figure you deserved that. No more macho competition. She’s from achampionship line with great disposition.”
She rubbed the puppy’s belly, handed her over.
Warm as toast, almost small enough to fit in one hand. I tickled a fuzzy, blunt chin. A pink tongue shot out and the puppy craned the way bulldogs do. One of the rabbit ears flopped over.
“It’ll take a couple of weeks before they stay up,” said Robin.
Spike had been a lead-boned package of muscle and grit. This one was buttery-soft.
“How old?” I said.
“Ten weeks.”
“Runt of the litter?”
“The breeder promises she’ll fill in.”
The puppy began licking my fingers. I brought her closer to my face and she tongue-bathed my chin. She smelled of dog shampoo and that innate perfume that helps puppies get nurtured.
I scratched her chin again. She jutted her mandible in response. Licked my fingers some more, made a throaty sound closer to feline than canine.
“Love at first sight,” said Robin. She petted the puppy but the puppy pressed closer to me.
Robin laughed. “I’m really in for it.”
“That so?” I asked the puppy. “Or is it just infatuation?”
The puppy stared at me, followed every syllable with those huge brown eyes.
Lowering her head, she nuzzled my cheek, purred some more, butted until her knobby little cranium was buried under my chin. Squirming, she finally found a position she liked.
Closed her eyes, fell asleep. Snored softly.
“Mellow,” I said.
“We could use a bit of that, don’t you think?”
“We could,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Sure,” she said, tousling my hair. “Now, who’s getting up tonight for housebreaking?”