Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

“ ‘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 the country club. You up for a try, anyway?”

“Sure,” I said.

Olympic Boulevard seemed the optimal route. The lights are timed and parking restrictions keep all six lanes open during L.A. ’s ever-expanding rush hour. The boulevard was designed back in the forties as a quick way to get from downtown to the beach. People old enough to remember when that promise was kept get teary-eyed.

This afternoon, traffic was moving at twenty miles per. When I stopped at Doheny, Milo said, “The love-triangle angle fits, given Nora’s narcissism and nuttiness. This woman thinks her dog’s precious 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. Needs to smoke up before greeting the world. Maybe clinging to a stuffed dog is just massive insecurity.”

“Playing a role,” he said. “Availing herself. Okay, let’s see if we can tête-à-tête with the rest of this glorious family.”

The site was a two-story strip mall on the northeast corner of Ocean Park and Twenty-eighth, directly opposite the lush, industrial park that fronted Santa Monica ’s private airport. BNB Properties was a door and window on the second floor.

Cheaply built mall, lemon-yellow sprayed-stucco walls stained by rust around the gutters, brown iron railings rimming an open balcony, plastic tile roof pretending to evoke colonial Spain.

The ground floor was a take-out pizza joint, a Thai café and its Mexican counterpart, and a coin-op laundry. BNB’s upstairs neighbors were a chiropractor touting treatment for “workplace injuries,” Zip Technical Assistance, 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 into the 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 that league. If they are, they’re skimping on ambience.”

He pointed at BNB’s plain brown door. Chipped and gouged and cracking toward the bottom. The corporate signage consisted of six U-stick, silver foil parallelograms 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. Milo took 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 Aspen for 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 the fly of his khaki Dockers and a corner of blue shirt peeked out. The shirt was silk, oversized and baggy, a stone-washed texture that had been fashionable a decade ago. The khakis sagged on his skinny frame. No belt. Scuffed brown penny loafers, white socks.

He was short- five five or six- looked to be around fifty, with down-slanted medium brown eyes and curly gray hair cut in a tight Caesar cap. White fuzz on the back of his neck said it was time for a trim. Same for a two-day growth of salt-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 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.