Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

“Cathy’s too much like her, so she kills her? That’s a little abstract, Alex. Why would Nora even know about Cathy’s history if she turned her away?”

“What if Cathy did have a chance to audition?” I said. “Nora’s a big one for opening the soul.”

“Cathy emoted and it made Nora squirm? Fine, but I don’t see flashpoint epiphany as a motive for murder. All Nora has to do is send her and Andy away and move on to the next stud. And if uncomfortable memories are the issue, how does Michaela fit in? Or Tori Giacomo who disappeared before the Gaidelases? This feels more like a sexual thing, Alex. Just what you said: Some psychopath scopes out the herd and picks off the weak ones. Cathy may have been over the hill for a starlet, but she wasn’t a bad-looking woman. To a guy like Peaty she coulda looked downright sexy, no?”

“Peaty was caught peeping at college girls. Michaela and Tori would fit, but- ”

“Cathy wouldn’t. So maybe he’s not as limited as that oafish demeanor suggests. Or Cathy set something off- fond memories of a barroom floozy who rejected him back in Reno. Hell, maybe Cathy reminded him of his mother and he snapped. You guys still believe in the Oedipal thing?”

“It has its place.”

“No telling what goes on in the old cranio, right?” He got up and paced. “If it’s a sexual thing, there could be more victims out there. But let’s concentrate on the victims we know about. What they have in common is acting school and/or the Malibu hills.”

“One person with links to both is Meserve,” I said. “He picked Latigo for his hoax allegedly because he’d hiked up there. Nora was angry at the hoax, but instead of kicking him out, she promoted him. Maybe she wasn’t clueless after all.”

“Dylan and Nora planned the hoax together? Why?”

“The real performance game. Two failed actors writing a script. Discarding the bit players- that sounds like Hollywood.”

“Nora choreographs, Meserve acts it out.”

“Nora directs. It’s what everyone in the industry aims for.”

The coffeehouse got warmer and noisier as every table filled. Sleek people began milling at the entrance. Lots of peeved glances aimed our way.

Milo hooked his finger and we left. A woman muttered, “Finally.”

We drove to the station and ran into Sean Binchy exiting Milo ’s office. Binchy’s Doc Martens gleamed as shiny as his rusty, gelled hair.

“Hey, Loot. I just took a call for you.”

“I tried to call you, ” said Milo. “Anything new on Peaty?”

Binchy beamed. “We can arrest him if you want. Driving without a license.”

“He has a car?”

“Red Datsun minivan, old and messed-up looking. He parks it on the street, three blocks from his apartment. Which shows intent to conceal, right? The plates are inactive, originally came from a Chrysler sedan that was supposed to be junked ten years ago. Your basic little old lady from Pasadena. Literally, Loot. And guess what, that’s exactly where Peaty drove this morning. Ten East to the 110 North, off at Arroyo Parkway, and then he took surface streets.”

“Where?”

“Apartment building on the east side of town. He pulled mops and cleaning stuff out of the van and went in there to work. I tried to call you but your cell wasn’t receiving.”

“Designer coffee messed up the air,” said Milo.

“Pardon?”

“Go back to Peaty’s tonight, Sean. See if you can get a VIN number from the van and trace it.”

“Sure,” said Binchy. “Did I do wrong by terminating the surveillance, Loot? There were a few things I needed to do back here.”

“Like what?” said Milo.

Sean shifted his weight. “Captain called me in yesterday, I’ve been wanting to tell you. He wants me to work a new case with Hal Prinski, liquor store robbery and pistol-whipping on Sepulveda. Robberies aren’t my thing but Captain says I need breadth of experience. I’m not sure what Detective Prinski will want from me. All I can say is I’ll do my best to get back to Peaty.”

“Appreciate it, Sean.”

“I’m really sorry, Loot, if it was up to me, I’d be doing nothing but your stuff. Your stuff’s interesting.” He shrugged. “That illegal car buttresses Peaty being lowlife.”

“Buttresses,” said Milo.

Binchy’s freckles receded as the skin behind them deepened. “New word a day. Tasha’s idea. She read somewhere the brain starts deteriorating after puberty- like we’re all rotting, you know? She’s into crosswords, word games, to stay mentally challenged. To me, reading the Bible’s plenty challenging.”

Milo said, “The van buttresses, Sean. If you can’t spend any more time on Peaty, don’t sweat it but let me know right away.”

“For sure. About that call, the one that just came in? It’s related to Peaty, too. Individual named Bradley Dowd. Name’s in the Michaela Brand file. He’s Peaty’s boss.”

“What’d he want?”

“Wouldn’t say, just that it might be important. He sounded real rushed, wouldn’t talk to me, only you. The number he left’s a cell, not in the file.”

“Where is it?”

“Next to your computer. Which I noticed was turned off.”

“So?”

“Well,” said Binchy, “I don’t want to tell you how to operate, but sometimes it’s better to just leave it on all the time, especially with an outmoded machine. ’Cause booting up by itself can cause power surges and- ”

Milo edged past him. Slammed his door.

“- drain energy.” Binchy smiled at me.

I said, “He’s had a busy day.”

“He usually does, Dr. Delaware.” Shooting a French cuff, Binchy examined a bright orange Swatch watch. “Whoa, noon already. All of a sudden, I got a burrito Jones. Hello, vending machine. Have a nice day, Doc.”

I opened Milo ’s door, nearly collided with him as he stormed out. He kept walking and I hurried to keep pace.

“Where to?”

“The PlayHouse. Just got a call from Brad Dowd. He’s got something to show us. Talking fast but he didn’t sound rushed to me. More like scared.”

“He say why?”

“Something about Nora. I asked if she was hurt and he said no, then he hung up. I figured I’d wait till we were face-to-face before applying my powers of detection.”

The gate to the PlayHouse property was open. A sky heavy with marine fog browned the grass and deepened the house’s green siding to mustard.

Bradley Dowd stood in front of the garage. One of the barn doors was ajar. Dowd wore a black cashmere crewneck over fawn slacks and black sandals. The fog turned his white hair sooty.

No sign of his Porsche on the street. A red, split-windowed, sixties Corvette was parked up a bit. All the other vehicles in sight were as glamorous as oatmeal.

Dowd waved as we pulled to the curb. Something metallic glinted in his hand. When we reached the garage, he flung the door open. The structure’s aged exterior was deceiving. Inside were black cement floors polished to a gloss and cedar-plank walls adorned with racing posters. Halogen lights glinted from the ceiling rafters.

Triple garage, all three spaces occupied.

To the left was an impeccably restored green Austin Healy, low-slung, waspishly aggressive. Next to that, another Vette, white, happily chromed. Softer body style than the one on the street. Nipple taillights. One of my grad school profs had tooled around in a car like that. He’d bragged about it being a ’53.

A dust filter hummed between the two sports cars. It hadn’t done much for the dented brown Toyota Corolla in the right-hand slot.

Brad Dowd said, “I got here an hour ago, bringing my ’63 Sting Ray back from valve work.” The shiny thing in his grip was a combination padlock. “This piece of crap was sitting where the Stinger’s supposed to go. The doors were unlocked so I checked the reg. It’s Meserve’s. There’s something on the front seat that spooks me a little.”