Gone (6 page)

The neighborhood was working-class rental residential, mostly boxy multi-units and boxy houses awaiting demolition. Nothing denoted the acting school’s function. The windows were dark.

Milo said, “Guess she doesn’t need to advertise. Or keep daytime hours.”

I said, “If most of the aspirants have day jobs, it’s an evening business.”

“Let’s check it out, anyway.”

We walked up to the porch. Floored with green board, thickly varnished. The window in the paneled oak door was blocked with opaque lace. A hand-hammered copper mailbox perched to the right. Milo flipped the lid and peered inside. Empty.

He pushed a button and chimes sounded.

No answer.

Two doors down an old Dodge Dart backed out toward the street. Hispanic man around thirty at the wheel, leaving a pale blue bungalow. Milo walked over, rolled his arm.

No badge, but people tend to obey him. The man lowered his window.

“Morning, sir. Know anything about your neighbor?”

Big shrug. Nervous smile.
“No hablo Ingles.”

Milo pointed. “The school.
La Escuela.
”

Another shrug.
“No se.”

Milo looked into his eyes, waved him away. As the Dart sped off, we returned to the porch, where Milo jabbed the button several more times. A chime sonata went unanswered.

“Okay, I’ll try again tonight.”

As we turned, footsteps sounded from inside the PlayHouse. Lace wiggled in the window but didn’t part.

Then nothing.

Milo swiveled and rapped the door hard. Scratches, as a bolt turned. The door swung open and a heavy man holding a broom and looking distracted said, “Yeah?” Before the word was out of his mouth, his eyes tightened and distraction gave way to calculation.

This time Milo had the badge out. The heavy man barely glanced at it. His second “Yeah?” was softer, wary.

He had a splotchy, pie-tin face, a meaty, off-kilter nose, brambles of curly graying hair that flew from his temples, muttonchops that petered to a colorless grizzle. The mustache atop parched lips was the sole bit of disciplined hair: clipped, precise, a gray-brown hyphen. Tight eyes the color of strong tea managed to be active without moving.

Wrinkled gray work shirt and matching pants, open sandals, thick white socks. Dust and sweepings flecked white cotton toes. The tattoos that embroidered his fleshy hands promised to snake up under his sleeves. Blue-black skin art, crude and square-edged. Hard to decipher, but I made out a tiny little grinning demon’s head, more impish than satanic, leering at a puckered knuckle.

Milo said, “Is Nora Dowd here?”

“Nope.”

“What about Dylan Meserve?”

“Nope.”

“You know Mr. Meserve?”

“I know who he is.” Low, slurred voice, slight delay before forming syllables. His right hand gripped the broom handle. The left had gathered shirt fabric and stretched it over his substantial belly.

“What do you know about Mr. Meserve?” said Milo.

The same hesitation. “One of the students.”

“He doesn’t work here?”

“Never saw that.”

“We were told he’s a creative consultant.”

No answer.

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

Small yellow teeth made a play at a cracked upper lip. “A while.”

“Days?”

“Yeah.”

“Weeks?”

“Could be.”

“Where’s Ms. Dowd?”

“Dunno.”

“No idea?”

“Nossir.”

“She’s your boss.”

“Yessir.”

“Want to guess where she might be?”

Shrug.

“When did you see her last?”

“I work days, she’s here at night.”

Out came Milo’s pad. “Your name, please.”

No answer.

Milo edged closer. The man stepped back, just as Ralph Jabber had.

“Sir?”

“Reynold.”

“First name, please.”

“Reynold. Last name’s Peaty.”

“Reynold Peaty.”

“Yessir.”

“Is that Peaty with two
e
’s or
e-a
?”

“P-E-A-T-Y.”

“You work here full-time, Mr. Peaty?”

“I do the clean up and the lawn mowing.”

“Full-time?”

“Part-time.”

“Got another job?”

“I clean buildings.”

“Where do you live, Mr. Peaty?”

Peaty’s left hand flexed. Gray shirt fabric shimmied. “Guthrie.”

“Guthrie Avenue in L.A.?”

“Yessir.”

Milo asked for the address. Reynold Peaty thought for a moment before giving it up. Just east of Robertson. A short walk from Michaela Brand’s apartment on Holt. Close to the death scene, too.

“Know why we’re here, Mr. Peaty?”

“Nossir.”

“How long have you been working here?”

“Five years.”

“So you know Michaela Brand.”

“One of the girls,” said Peaty. His bushy eyebrows twitched. The fabric over his gut vibrated harder.

“Seen her around?”

“Coupla times.”

“While you were working days?”

“Sometimes it stretches,” said Peaty. “If I get here late.”

“You know her by name.”

“She was the one did that thing with him.”

“That thing.”

“With him,” Peaty repeated. “Pretending to be kidnapped.”

“She’s dead,” said Milo. “Murdered.”

Reynold Peaty’s lower jaw jutted like a bulldog’s, rotated as if chewing gristle.

“Any reaction to that, sir?” said Milo.

“Terrible.”

“Any idea who’d want to do something like that?”

Peaty shook his head and ran his hand up and down the broom shaft.

“Yeah, it is terrible,” said Milo. “Such a pretty girl.”

Peaty’s small eyes narrowed to pupil-glint. “You think he did it?”

“Who?”

“Meserve.”

“Any reason we should think that?”

“You asked about him.”

Milo waited.

Peaty rolled the broom. “They did that thing together.”

“That thing.”

“It was on TV.”

“You think that might be connected to Michaela’s murder, Mr. Peaty?”

“Maybe.”

“Why would it be?”

Peaty licked his lips. “They didn’t come here together no more.”

“For acting lessons.”

“Yessir.”

“Did they come separately?”

“Just him.”

“Meserve kept coming but not Michaela.”

“Yessir.”

“Sounds like a lot of your days stretch into nights.”

“Sometimes he’s here in the day.”

“Mr. Meserve?”

“Yessir.”

“By himself?”

Head shake.

“Who’s he with?”

Peaty shifted the broom from hand to hand. “I don’ wanna get in trouble.”

“Why would you?”

“You know.”

“I don’t, Mr. Peaty.”

“Her. Ms. Dowd.”

“Nora Dowd comes here during the day with Dylan Meserve.”

“Sometimes,” said Peaty.

“Anyone else here?”

“Nossir.”

“Except you.”

“I leave when she tells me I done enough.”

“What do she and Meserve do when they’re here?”

Peaty shook his head. “I work.”

“What else can you tell me?” said Milo.

“About what?”

“Michaela, Dylan Meserve, anything else that comes to mind.”

“Nothing,” said Peaty.

“The hoax Michaela and Dylan tried to pull off,” said Milo. “What’d you think about that?”

“It was on TV.”

“What do
you
think of it?”

Peaty tried to chew on his mustache but the clipped hair was too short for a tooth hold. He tugged at his right muttonchop. I tried to think of the last time I’d seen a set that overgrown. College days? Portrait of Martin Van Buren?

Peaty said, “It ain’t good to lie.”

“I agree with you there. My job, people are always lying to me and it really gets on my nerves.”

Peaty’s eyes dropped to the porch planks.

“Where were you last night, Mr. Peaty, say between eight p.m. and two a.m.?”

“Home.”

“Your place on Guthrie.”

“Yessir.”

“Doing what?”

“Eating,” said Peaty. “Chicken fingers.”

“Takeout?”

“Frozen. I heat ’em up. I had a beer.”

“What brand?”

“Old Milwaukee. I had three. Then I watched TV, then I went to sleep.”

“What’d you watch?”

“Family Feud.”

“What time did you pop off?”

“Dunno. The TV was goin’ when I woke up.”

“What time was that?”

Peaty curled a muttonchop. “Maybe three.”

One hour past the bracket Milo had given him.

“How do you know it was three?”

“You asked so I said something.”

“Anything special about three?”

“Sometimes when I get up I look at the clock and it’s three, or three thirty. Even if I don’t drink a lot, I gotta get up.” Peaty looked at the floor again. “To piss. Sometimes twice or three times.”

“Let’s hear it for middle age,” said Milo.

Peaty didn’t answer.

“How old are you, Mr. Peaty?”

“Thirty-eight.”

Milo smiled. “You’re a young guy.”

No answer.

“How well did you know Michaela Brand?”

“I didn’t do it,” said Peaty.

“I didn’t ask you that, sir.”

“This other stuff you’re asking. Where was I.” Peaty shook his head. “I don’t wanna talk no more.”

“Just routine,” said Milo, “no reason to get—”

Shaking his head, Peaty backed away, toward the door.

Milo said, “Here we were having a nice conversation, then I ask you how well you knew Michaela Brand and all of a sudden you don’t want to talk. That’s only gonna make me wonder.”

“It ain’t,” said Peaty, groping for the door handle. He’d left the oak panel slightly ajar and the handle was inches out of reach.

“Ain’t what?” said Milo.

“Right. Talking like I did something.” Peaty edged back, found the handle, and shoved, revealing oak floors and walls, a glimmer of stained glass. “I had a beer and went to sleep.”

“Three beers.”

No answer.

“Listen,” said Milo. “No offense intended, but it’s my job to ask questions.”

Peaty shook his head. “I eat and watch TV. That don’t mean nothing.”

He stepped into the house, started to close the door. Milo checked it with his shoe. Peaty tensed but let go. His grip on the broom handle swelled his knuckles. He shook his head and stray hairs floated free, landing on thick, rounded shoulders.

“Mr. Peaty—”

“Leave me alone.” More whimper than demand.

“All we’re trying to do is get some basic facts. So how about we come in and—”

Peaty’s hand grabbed the door’s edge. “Not allowed!”

“We can’t come in?”

“No! The rules!”

“Whose rules?”

“Ms. Dowd’s.”

“How about I call her? What’s her number?”

“Dunno.”

“You work for her but don’t—”

“Dunno!”

Peaty danced backward and shoved the door hard. Milo let it slam.

We stood on the porch for a few moments. Cars drove up and down the street.

Milo said, “For all I know he’s got rope and a bloody knife in there. But no damn way to find out.”

I said nothing.

He said, “You could argue with me.”

“There is the fact that he’s weird,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Guy lives on Guthrie off Robertson. You visualizing the same map I am?”

“Blocks from Michaela. Not much farther to the crime scene.”

“
And
he’s weird.” He glanced back at the door. Rang the bell several times.

No response.

“Wonder what time he got to work this morning.” Another bell-push. We waited. He put his pad away. “I’d love to check this place out but I’m not even gonna think about heading round back and giving some lawyer an illegal entry angle.”

He grinned. “One day in and I’ve got trial fantasies. Okay, let’s see what we can do within the boundaries of The Law.”

We descended the porch and headed for the car.

“It’s probably no big deal,” he said. “Not getting inside. Even if Peaty is the bad guy, why would he bring evidence to work? What do you think of him probability-wise?”

“A definite maybe,” I said. “Talking about Michaela clearly made him nervous.”

“Like he had a crush on her?”

“She was a beautiful girl.”

“And way out of his league,” he said. “Working around all those starlet wannabes could be frustrating for a guy like that.”

We got into the Seville.

I said, “When Peaty shook his head, stray hairs fell out. Fellow that hirsute and unruly, you’d think he’d have left some trace on the body, or at least at the scene.”

“Maybe he had time to clean up.”

“Guess so.”

“There was some wind last night,” he said. “The body coulda been there a while before the poodle came by. For all we know, the damned
dog
licked up trace evidence.”

“The owner let it nose the body?”

Milo rubbed his face. “The owner claims she yanked it away the minute she saw what it was. Still…”

I started up the car.

He said, “I need to be careful not to tunnel in on anyone too quickly.”

“Makes sense.”

“Sometimes I do that.”

A
DMV check revealed no vehicles currently registered to Reynold Peaty. No California driver’s license. Ever.

“Hard to transport a body without wheels,” I said.

Milo said, “Wonder how he gets to work.”

“The bus. Or a stretch limo.”

“Your attempt at humor is refreshing. If he bears further watching, I’ll check out the bus routes, see if he’s a regular.” He laughed.

I said, “What?”

“He comes across dumb and weird but think about it: He sweeps up at an
acting
school.”

“He was playing us?”

“The world’s a stage,” he said. “Sure be nice to have the script.”

“If he was performing, why would he put on a weird act?” I said.

“True… let’s head back.”

I drove toward the West L.A. station as he phoned the MTA and learned which buses Peaty would’ve taken from Pico-Robertson to the PlayHouse. Transfers and the need to cover several blocks on foot stretched a half-hour car trip to at least a ninety-minute journey.

I said, “Michaela’s Honda show up yet?”