Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

“Impressionable.”

“Unfortunately. Any time I’d drop by the PlayHouse, he’d be there alone with Nora. Following her around, flattering her, sitting at her feet, shooting her adoring glances. Then he began giving her cheap little gifts- doodads, tacky tourist junk. A snow globe, do you believe that? Hollywood and 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, but let’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 that girl, but please don’t involve my brother and sister in it. You couldn’t find two 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 the lines of not emptying garbage in a timely manner. He shows up diligently, minds his 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 the road?”

“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.

Milo took Channel Road down toward the coastline. “There’s time till the class at the PlayHouse. How about we grab a couple of beers 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-up surfer 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 for what seems to be hours. The ocean’s always changing. Tonight the water was flat and 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 words seemed 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 together because they both need protection.”

“Maybe that’s it.”

“Billy interests you?”

“Adult male with immature social skills who needs to be supervised covertly?” As we waited, he ran a DMV check on William Dowd III, hung up before the 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 the PlayHouse, Billy’s right there with him. All those good-looking starlets-in-training.”

“Getting an eyeful of girls like Michaela and Tori Giacomo, could be overstimulating.”

“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 Billy was because he was afraid Billy would give something away? And here’s something else: 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 see Billy getting away with an unregistered ride. Not with Brad that protective.”

That turned him silent until we reached Santa Monica’s gold coast. Beachside mansions, once private enclaves, were now exposed to the clamor and the reality of the public sand that fronted them. The clapboard monster William Hearst had built for Marion Davies was ready to crumble after years of Santa Monica city council dithering. A moment later, the exoskeleton of the pier came into view, lit up like Christmas. The Ferris wheel rotated, slow as bureaucracy.

Milo drove the ramp up to Ocean Front, continued onto Pacific Avenue, crossed into Venice. “So now I’ve got two strange guys with access to the PlayHouse.”

I thought about that. “Billy stopped living with Brad two years ago, right before 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 lot more difficult than he seems. Hell, maybe Billy insisted on breaking away. Brad pays 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 to lots of taverns and beer joints and cocktail lounges. A couple of gay bars as well. 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, at the southern edge of Pacific, just above the Marina. Arena rock on the jukebox, silent football rerun on TV, tired men at the urethane bar, rough paneling and fishnets 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 said the 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 was little to talk about and he started to blend in with the dispirited clientele.

Phoning Michaela’s landlord in La Jolla, he confirmed the appointment tomorrow morning. Ground his teeth. “Bastard’s doing me a big, freaking favor.”

He looked over at the blackboard. Three specials, including the promise of fresh clam chowder. He chanced it.

“Not too bad,” he said, spooning.

“ ‘Not too bad’ and ‘seafood’ shouldn’t be uttered in the same sentence,” I said.

“If I die, you get the first eulogy. I wonder if Nora really gave in when Brad 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 in his 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 more than 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 played death games with Michaela up in Latigo and if Michaela was being at all truthful, he planned a calculated hoax. Toss in Brad’s suspicions about gold digging and it doesn’t add up to a character reference.”

“Michaela tell you why she went from being naked in the hills with him to seeing him as the enemy?”

“At the time, I assumed she was dumping the blame on him as trial strategy.”