Gone (14 page)

Shiny little button that gave his face an elfin cast. Either he’d used the same 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 the corner 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 on thin, 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-screen computer monitor, the rest of the components tucked out of view.

Brown walls. The only thing hanging a Humane Society calendar. Trio of tabby kittens 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 the tenants —
we’ve got a lot of tenants, my brother and sister and me, and last year one of them was stealing computer stuff. A policeman from Pasadena came over and talked to us. We said okay, arrest him, he pays late anyway.”

“Did they?”

“Uh-uh. He ran away and escaped. Took the lightbulbs, messed the place up, Brad was
not
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 be even 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, so they called the police. Not tenants, two visitors, they got into a fight or something. So what happened this time?”

“A student of your sister’s was murdered and we’re looking into people who knew her.”

The word “murdered” drew Billy Dowd’s hand to his mouth. He held it there and his fingers muffled his voice. “That’s
awful
!” The hand dropped to his chin, 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 pissed my pants.” He laughed nervously. Looked down at his crotch, verifying continence.

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 clipped short.

Crinkly dark eyes, full lips, square chin, beak nose. Nora and Billy Dowd had 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 took all 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 was surprised but not totally surprised when they came in here, because it wasn’t the first—”

“Got it,” said Brad, patting his brother’s shoulder. “What’s up, gentlemen?”

Milo said, “There’s been a murder… one of your 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 man sagged.

“Where did this happen and who exactly did it happen to?”

“West L.A. The victim’s a young woman named Michaela 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 with that?”

“Any reason it would?” said Milo.

“I’m not saying it did,” said Brad Dowd. “I’m just asking —
it’s a natural question, don’t you think? Someone garners publicity, it has the potential to bring out the weirdos.”

“Did Nora talk about the hoax?”

Brad shook his head. “Murdered… terrible.” He frowned. “It must’ve hit Nora hard, I’d better call her.”

“She’s okay,” said Milo. “We just talked to her.”

“You’re sure?”

“Your sister’s fine. We’re here, sir, because we need to talk to anyone who might’ve had contact with Ms. Brand.”

“Of course,” said Brad Dowd. He smiled at his brother. “Billy, would you do me a favor and go down and get a sandwich from DiGiorgio’s —
you know how I like it.”

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 this kind 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. I gave 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. He doesn’t drive, so any DUI problems aren’t going to happen.”

Milo said, “Are you aware of his arrest for peeping through a window?”

“He told me about everything,” said Brad. “Claimed that was also the drinking. And the only time he’d done something like that.” He flexed his shoulders. “Many of our tenants are women and families with children, I’m not naive, keep my eyes out on all the employees. Now that the Megan’s Law database is up and operating, I check it regularly. I assume you do, too, so you know Reynold isn’t on there. Is there some reason you’re asking about him, other than routine?”

“No, sir.”

Brad Dowd inspected his fingertips. Unlike his brother’s, beautifully manicured. “Please be up-front, Detective. Do you have the slightest bit of evidence implicating Reynold? Because he circulates among lots of our buildings and as much as I’d like to trust him, I’d hate to incur any liability. Not to mention 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 you know.”

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 your routine?”

“He hasn’t been seen for a while and when we tried to talk to your sister about him, she ended the conversation.”

“Nora,” said Brad wearily. His eyes shot to the doorway. “Hey, bro. Smells good, thanks.”

Billy Dowd toted an open cardboard carton, using both hands, as if his cargo was precious. Inside was a hero-sized sandwich wrapped in orange paper. Aromas of tomato paste, oregano, and basil filled the office.

Brad turned so his brother couldn’t see and slipped Milo a 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 smells fantastic, 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 cuffed his brother’s shoulder lightly. “Right?”

Billy considered that. “Okay.”

B
y the time we made it to the door, Brad Dowd had his dinner unwrapped and was saying, “This hits the spot, Bill.”

As we climbed down to the strip mall’s first level, Milo said, “That sandwich smelled good.”

We parked near the far west end of the airport. The coffee from Café DiGiorgio was dark and strong. Milo pushed the seat back as 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’ Bradley watches 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 fished out 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 he didn’t want to talk about in front of his brother.”

I got home at six, cleared a tapeful of junk messages, listened to one from Robin that had come in ten minutes ago.

“I could tell you this is about shared grief for our late pooch but it’s really… 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 Venice by seven. We spent the next hour in bed, the rest of the evening reading the paper 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 was up just after seven when western light streaming through her curtains couldn’t be denied.

She stood naked, by the window, holding a cup of tea. She’d always been a coffee 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’t have 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 getting dressed. I went to shower. By the time I was out and dried and dressed, her band saw was humming.

I had breakfast at John O’Groats on Pico, going out of my way because I was in the mood for Irish oatmeal, and the company of strangers seemed like a good idea. I sat at the counter and read the paper. Nothing on Michaela. No reason for there to be.

Back home, I did some paperwork and thought about Nora Dowd’s flat responses to Milo’s questions.

Not bothering to fake sympathy or interest in Michaela’s murder. The same for Tori Giacomo’s disappearance.

But Dylan Meserve’s name had pulled out some emotion and Brother Brad didn’t want 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 in a list of acting workshops listed by city that appeared on a site called StarHopefuls.com.

I printed the list, called all the West Coast programs, fabricated a casting-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 some acting 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 the nearest mailbox. I was back at my desk, clearing paper, when Milo rang the doorbell.