Gone (16 page)

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.”

“Lawyer games.”

“Guess who her lawyer was. Lauritz Montez.”

“That guy from the Malley case? Thought you two had friction.”

“We did but I’m the biggest, baddest, smartest shrink in the whole wild world. Gee willikers.”

“He schmeared you and you bought it?”

“The case interested me.”

“That’s a good reason.”

“As good as any.”

“Mind talking to Montez again, see if Michaela had more to say about her partner in crime?”

“Don’t mind at all,” I said. I’d been thinking of doing it, anyway.

He pushed aside a half bowl of chowder. Waved for another beer, then altered it to a Coke.

The sixty-five-year-old barmaid laughed. “When did you ever have self-control?”

Milo said, “Don’t be cruel,” and she laughed some more and left.

I realized all the patrons were men. Wondered about that as Milo ticked an index finger. “Meserve, Peaty, Brother Billy. Investigation 101 teaches you to narrow the suspect pool. I seem to be doing just the opposite.”

“The search for truth,” I said.

“Ah, the agony.”

B
y eight fifty-three p.m., we were parked four blocks west of the PlayHouse. As we headed to the school on foot, Milo’s bulk slanted forward, as if marching into a blizzard.

Scoping out streets and driveways and alleys for Michaela Brand’s little black Honda.

The alert for the car had been expanded statewide. Milo and I had cruised these same streets just a few days ago, no reason to look now.

The ability to put logic aside sometimes makes for a great detective.

We got to the building at five after nine, found people milling.

Dim porch light allowed me to count as we neared the front steps. Eight females, five males. Each one slim, young, gorgeous.

Milo muttered, “Mutants,” as he bounded up the stairs. Thirteen pairs of eyes turned to watch. A few of the women shrank back.

The men occupied a narrow height range: six to six two. Broad, square shoulders, narrow hips, angular faces that seemed curiously static. The women varied more in stature but their body shape was uniform: long legs, flat bellies, wasp waists, high-tucked butts, high puffy bosoms.

Manicured hands gripped plastic bottles of water and cell phones. Wide hungry eyes questioned our presence. Milo stepped into the middle of the porch and the acting students cleared space. The light played up every crease, pit and pucker and pore. He looked heavier and older than ever.

“Evening, folks.”

Dubious stares, general confusion, smirks and side glances of the kind you see in middle-school cafeterias.

One of the young men said, “What’s up,” with practiced slur.

Brando in
On the Waterfront
? Or was that ancient history?

“Crime’s up, friend.” Milo moved the badge so that it caught light.

Someone said, “Whoa.” Snickers petered to silence.

Milo checked his Timex. “Wasn’t class supposed to start ten minutes ago?”

“Coach not here,” said another Adonis. He jiggled the front door handle.

“Waiting for Nora,” said Milo.

“Better than Godot.”

“Hopefully, unlike him, she’ll show up.” Milo’s wolf-grin caused a reflexive tooth-bare from the young man. The guy threw back his head and a sheet of dark hair billowed, then flapped back in place.

“Nora late a lot?”

Shrug.

“Sometimes,” said a young woman with curly yellow hair and lips so bulbous they resembled tiny buttocks. That and blue saucer eyes gave her a stunned mien. Inflatable doll barely come to life.

“Well,” said Milo, “this gives us time to chat.”

Swigs from water bottles. Flips of cell phone covers nursed forth a series of electronic mouse-squeaks.

Milo said, “I assume you guys heard about Michaela Brand.”

Silence. A nod, then two. Then ten.

“Anybody has something to say, it would be much appreciated.”

A car drove west. Several of the acting students followed its diminishing taillights, grateful for distraction.

“Anything, people?”

Slow head shakes.

“Nothing at all?”

“Everyone’s freaked out,” said a dark, pointy-chinned girl with coyote eyes. Deep sigh. Her breasts rose and fell as a unit.

“I saw her a couple of times but didn’t know her,” said a man with a shaved head and bone structure so pronounced he seemed carved out of ivory.

“That’s ’cause you just started, Juaquin,” said the pillowly-lipped, curly-haired girl.

“That’s what I’m saying, Brandy.”

“Briana.”

“Whatever.”

“You knew her, Briana?” said Milo.

“Just from here. We didn’t hang out.”

“Any of you know Michaela outside of here?” said Milo.

Head shakes.

“She was, like, quiet,” said a redheaded woman.

“What about Dylan Meserve?”

Silence. Notable edginess.

“None of you knew Dylan?”

“They were friends,” said the redhead. “Her and him.”

“Any of you see Dylan recently?”

The red-haired girl pulled a watch out of her purse and squinted at it.

“Nine sixteen,” said Milo. “Nora generally this late?”

“Sometimes,” said Curly Blonde.

Someone else said, “Nora’s Nora.”

Silence.

Milo said, “What’s on the agenda tonight?”

“There is no agenda,” said the hair-flipper. He wore a plaid flannel shirt tailored tight to his V-frame, faded jeans, clean, crisp hiking boots that had never encountered mud.

“Nothing’s planned?” said Milo.

“It’s free-form.”

“Improv?”

Impish smile from Plaid. “Something like that, Officer.”

“How often you guys come here?”

No answer.

“Once a week for me,” said Briana Pillowlips. “For other people it’s more.”

“Same here,” said Plaid.

“Once a week.”

“More when I have time. Like I said, it’s free form.”

And free.

I said, “No rules.”

“No constrictions.”

Milo said, “There are no constrictions helping the police, either.”

An olive-skinned guy with a face that managed to be reptilian and handsome said, “No one knows anything.”

Milo handed out business cards. A few of the beautiful people bothered to read them.

We left them waiting on the porch, walked halfway down the block until darkness concealed us, and watched the building.

Milo said, “It’s like they’re extruded from machines.”

We waited in silence. By nine twenty-three Nora Dowd still hadn’t showed and her students began to drift away. When the young woman named Briana headed toward us, Milo said, “Karma.”

We stepped out of the shadows well in time for her to see us.

Despite that, she jumped. Gripped her purse, held on to her balance. “You scared me!”

“Sorry. Have a minute?”

Inflated lips parted. How much collagen had it taken for them to get that way? She hadn’t reached thirty, but tuck lines around her ears said she wasn’t relying on youth. “I have nothing to say and you really
scared
me.” She walked past us to a battered white Nissan, headed for the driver’s door, groped for her keys.

Milo followed her. “We really are sorry, it’s just that we haven’t learned much about Michaela’s murder and you seemed to know her best.”

“All I said was I knew who she was.”

“Your fellow students didn’t know her at all.”

“That’s because they’re new.”

“Freshmen?”

Curls shook. “It’s not like college—”

“I know, free-form,” said Milo. “What’s the problem helping us, Briana?”

“There’s no problem, I just don’t know anything.” She unlocked the driver’s door.

“Is there some reason you
don’t
want to help?”

She looked at him. “Like what?”

“Someone told you not to help?”

“Of course not. Who would do that?”

Milo shrugged.

“No way,” she said. “I just don’t know anything and I don’t want any hassle.”

“No hassle involved. I’m just trying to solve a murder. Pretty nasty one, at that.”

Big lips trembled. “I’m really sorry. But we weren’t tight. Like I said before, she kept to herself.”

“She and Dylan.”

“Right.”

“And now she’s dead and he’s gone. Any idea where he might be?”

“Definitely not.”

“
Definitely
not?”

“I definitely don’t know. He could be anywhere.”

Milo edged closer, pressed his hip against the hinges of the driver’s door. “What surprises me is the lack of curiosity. All you guys. Someone you know gets killed, you’d think there’d be some interest.” He sliced air horizontally. “Zippo, no one cares. Is it something about actors?”