Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

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.

“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 subpoenas for her phone records but my contact at the phone company says I’m wasting my time. Account was shut off for nonpayment weeks before she died. If she had a cell account, I can’t find it. On the positive side, God bless the angels at the 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 down and loosened his tie.

“Michaela’s autopsy was prioritized?” I said.

“Nope, more interesting. My buddies at the crypt looked through the Doe files, found some possibles and traced one of ’em to a bone analyst doing research on identification. Forensic anthropologist on a grant, what she does is collect samples from various cases and try to classify them ethnically. In her trove was an intact skull with most of the teeth still embedded. Young, Caucasian female homicide victim found nineteen months ago, the rest of the body was incinerated six months after discovery. Their forensic odontologist said the dentition was distinctive. Lots of cosmetic bridgework, unusual for someone 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 magic of 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 what Giacomo told us, she comes across like a sensible, stable lady. Has been expecting the worst for a while.” He slumped. “Prince that I am, I didn’t disappoint 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 like plain water…anyway, Tori is no longer Jane Doe 342-003. Wish I had the rest of the body but she was listed as an unsolved Hollywood homicide 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 on the L.A. side of Griffith Park. All that was left were scattered bones. Coroner thought he spotted damage to some of the cervical vertebrae and there are definitely some relatively superficial 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 Dowd didn’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 Channel descends steeply to Pacific Coast Highway.

A darkening sky and a tree canopy brought early night. The air was still and unseasonably warm and no ocean aroma brined the canyon.

Usually it’s ten degrees cooler near the coast. Maybe it’s me, but patterns seem to be shaking up more often.

The house was a one-story redwood and glass box set in a low spot along the leafy road, well back from the street. The wealth of vegetation made it hard to make out where the property began and ended.

High-end box, with polished-copper trim and a porch supported by carved beams. Carefully placed spots illuminated flower beds and luxuriant ferns. The wooden address plate imbedded in the fieldstone gatepost was hand-painted. A gray or beige Porsche sat in the front of the gravel driveway. Hanging succulents graced the porch, which was set up with Adirondack chairs.

Brad Dowd stood near one of the chairs, one leg bent so that his shoulders sloped to the right. He wore a T-shirt and cutoffs, held a long-necked bottle in 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 feet were 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 and dissipated.