Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

Marcia Peaty. A 702 number.

“I looked it up, that’s Las Vegas,” said Beamish. “Though she didn’t seem like the Vegas type.”

“She’s the Dowds’ cousin?”

“So she said and it doesn’t seem the kind of thing one would pretend. She wasn’t particularly well-bred, but not vulgar, and nowadays that’s an accomplishment- ”

I refolded the paper. “Thanks.”

“A little light just switched on in your eyes, Dr. Delaware. Have I been useful?”

“More than you might imagine.”

“Would you care to tell me why?”

“I’d like to but I can’t.”

As I started to rise, Beamish poured me another finger of scotch. “That’s fifteen dollars’ worth. Don’t sip standing up, terribly vulgar.”

“Thanks, but I’ve had enough, sir.”

“Temperance is the last refuge of cowards.”

I laughed.

He pinged the rim of his glass. “It’s absolutely necessary that you bolt like a panicky horse?”

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Beamish.”

I waited for him to get to his feet.

He said, “Later, then? Once you’ve put them all away, would you let me know what I’ve accomplished?”

“Them?”

“That one, her brothers- nasty lot, just as I told you the first time you and the fat detective came traipsing around.”

“Persimmons,” I said.

“That, of course,” he said. “But you’re after more than purloined fruit.”

It took six minutes for the jail deputy to return to the phone.

“Yeah, he’s still here.”

“Please have him call me when he gets out. It’s important.”

He asked me for my name and number. Again. Said, “Okay,” but his tone said don’t count on it.

An hour later, I tried again. A different deputy said, “Let me check- Sturgis? He’s gone.”

I finally reached him in his car.

He said, “Vasquez wasted my time. All of a sudden he remembers Peaty threatened him overtly. ‘I’ll mess you up, dude.’ ”

“Sounds more like something Vasquez would say.”

“Shuldiner’s gonna push a chronic bullying defense. Anyway, I’m finished with it, finally able to focus on Nora and Meserve. Still no sign they took any commercial flight but Angeline Wasserman’s I.D. of the Range Rover can probably get me some subpoenas for private charter lists. I’m off to file paper. How you feeling?”

“Is the woman the coroner referred to you named Marcia Peaty?”

“Yeah, why?”

“She’s the Dowds’ cousin, as well.” I told him what I learned from Albert Beamish.

“The old man actually had something to say. So much for my instincts.”

I said, “The Dowd sibs hire their cousin as a minimum-wage janitor and give him a former laundry room to live in. Tells you something about their character. The fact that none of them thinks to mention it says more. Have a chance to look into the brothers’ private holdings?”

“Not yet, guess I’d better do it. Marcia Peaty never told me she was their cousin as well as Peaty’s.”

“When are you meeting her?”

“An hour. She’s staying at the Roosevelt on Hollywood. I set it up for Musso and Frank, figured I’d at least get a good meal out of it.”

“Family secrets and sand dabs,” I said.

“I was thinking chicken potpie.”

“Sand dabs for me,” I said.

“You’re actually hungry?”

“Starving.”

I parked in the gigantic lot behind Musso and Frank. All that land, developers had to be drooling and I imagined the roar of jackhammers. The restaurant was nearly a century old, impervious to progress and regress. So far, so good.

Milo had staked out a corner booth in the southeast corner of Musso’s larger room. Twenty-foot ceilings painted a grim beige you don’t see anymore, green print hunting scenes on the walls, oak paneling nearly black with age, strong drinks at the bar.

An encyclopedic menu touts what’s now called comfort food but used to be just food. Some items take time and the management warns you not to be impatient. Musso might be the last place in L.A. where you can order a slab of spumoni for dessert.

Cheerful green-jacketed busboys circled the cavernous space and filled water glasses for the half dozen parties enjoying a late lunch. Red-jacketed waiters who made Albert Beamish seem amiable waited for a chance to enforce the no-substitution rule.

A few booths featured couples looking happily adulterous. A table in the middle of the room hosted five white-haired men wearing cashmere sweaters and windbreakers. Familiar but unidentifiable faces; it took a while to figure out why.

A quintet of character actors- men who’d populated my childhood TV shows without ever getting star billing. All of them looked to be pushing a robust eighty. Lots of elbow-bending and laughter. Maybe the bottom of the funnel wasn’t necessary for grace.

Milo was working on a beer. “Computer lines are finally back up. I just had Sean run the property search and guess what: Nothing for Brad, but Billy owns ten acres in Latigo Canyon. A short drive above where Michaela and Meserve pretended to be victims.”

“Oh, my,” I said. “Just land, no house?”

“That’s how it’s registered.”

“Maybe there are no-code shacks on the property,” I said.

“Believe me, I’m gonna find out.” He looked at his Timex.

“Brad’s the dominant one but he doesn’t own any land of his own?”

“Not even the house in Santa Monica Canyon. That’s Billy’s. So’s the duplex in Beverly Hills.”

“Three parcels each for Billy and Nora,” I said. “Nothing for Brad.”

“Could be one of those tax things, Alex. He takes a salary for managing all the shared buildings, has some IRS reason not to own.”

“On the contrary, property tax is deductible. So are depreciation and expenses on rentals.”

“Spoken like a true land baron.”

I’d made serious money buying and selling properties during a couple of booms. Had opted out of the game because I didn’t like being a landlord, put the profits in bonds and clipped coupons. Not too smart if net worth was your goal. I used to think my goal was serenity. Now, I had no idea.

I said, “Maybe Cousin Marcia can clue us in.”

He tilted his head toward the back of the room. “Yup, being a veteran detective, I’d say that’s her.”

The woman who stood to the right of the bar was six feet tall, forty or so, with curly dishwater hair and a piercing stare. She wore a black crewneck and slacks, carried a cream leather handbag.

Milo said, “She’s checking the premises like a cop,” and waved.

She waved back and approached. The purse was printed with a world-map design. A gold crucifix pendant was her only jewelry. Up close, her hair was wiry, combed in a way that obscured half her right eye. The iris and its mate were bright and searching and gray.

Narrow face, sharp nose, outdoor skin. No resemblance I could see to Reynold Peaty. Or to the Dowds.

“Lieutenant? Marcia Peaty.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Milo introduced me, minus my title.

I pictured Al Beamish scowling.

Marcia Peaty shook our hands and sat. “I remember this place as having great martinis.”

“You from L.A. originally?”

“Raised in Downey. My father was a chiropractor, had an office there and right here in Hollywood, on Edgemont. A good report card used to earn me lunch with him. We always came here, and when no one was looking, he let me try his martinis. I thought they tasted like swimming pool acid but never let on. Wanting to be mature, you know?” She smiled. “Now I like them all by myself.”