Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

Then nothing.

Milo swiveled and rapped the door hard. Scratches, as a bolt turned. The door swung open and a heavy man holding a broom and looking distracted said, “Yeah?” Before the word was out of his mouth, his eyes tightened and distraction gave way to calculation.

This time Milo had the badge out. The heavy man barely glanced at it. His second “Yeah?” was softer, wary.

He had a splotchy, pie-tin face, a meaty, off-kilter nose, brambles of curly graying hair that flew from his temples, muttonchops that petered to a colorless grizzle. The mustache atop parched lips was the sole bit of disciplined hair: clipped, precise, a gray-brown hyphen. Tight eyes the color of strong tea managed to be active without moving.

Wrinkled gray work shirt and matching pants, open sandals, thick white socks. Dust and sweepings flecked white cotton toes. The tattoos that embroidered his fleshy hands promised to snake up under his sleeves. Blue-black skin art, crude and square-edged. Hard to decipher, but I made out a tiny little grinning demon’s head, more impish than satanic, leering at a puckered knuckle.

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 forming syllables. His right hand gripped the broom handle. The left had gathered shirt fabric 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 Avenue in L.A.?”

“Yessir.”

Milo asked for the address. Reynold Peaty thought for a moment before giving it up. Just east of Robertson. A short walk from 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 over his 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 chewing gristle.

“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 a pretty 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 a tooth hold. He tugged at his right muttonchop. I tried to think of the last time 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 really gets 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 given him.

“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. “I don’t wanna talk no more.”