Gone

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Sample the studs,” he said.

  “And when they get too close, Brother Brad chases them off. Or thinks he does.”

  “Okay, she’s a middle-aged horn-dog. How do the Gaidelases figure in with that?”

  “I don’t know, but when Susan Palmer was describing her family situation, I was struck by parallels between Cathy and Nora. Both floundered well into adulthood. Family connections got Cathy a runway gig that she couldn’t hold on to. Nora’s got her a single sitcom walk-on that went nowhere. Cathy had long-standing drug problems. Nora smokes dope to get her day going. Eventually, both women were set up in business. Cathy’s salon had been making a profit recently. Meaning it lost money for years. The Dowd family fortune has relieved Nora from any financial pressure, but bottom line, we’ve got a couple of prodigal daughters. Maybe Cathy showing up at the PlayHouse evoked something in Nora that Nora didn’t want to see.”

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 22

  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.”

  Milo walked past him, circled the Corolla, squinted inside the car, returned.

  “See it?” said Brad Dowd.

  “Snow globe.”

  “It’s the one I told you about. When Nora broke off with him she must’ve given it back. Don’t you think it’s a little weird that he kept it in his damned heap? And parked the heap in my space?” Dowd’s jaw trembled. “I called Nora yesterday, no answer. Same thing today. She doesn’t have to inform me of her comings and goings, but usually she returns calls. I’m going over to her house but first I wanted you to see this.”

  Albert Beamish had spied Nora driving away four days ago. Milo said nothing about that. “Meserve ever leave his car here before, Mr. Dowd?”

  “Hell, no. Nora uses the main building for the school but the garage is mine. I’m always in a space crunch.”

  “Lots of cars?”

  “A few. Sometimes I set aside slots in my buildings, but it’s not always enough. I used to keep a hangar at the airport, which was perfect because it’s right near the office. Then all the demand from the jet owners drove the rentals up.”

  He jiggled the padlock. “What bothers me is that only Nora and I know the combination. I wanted her to have it in case of fire or some other disaster. She wouldn’t give it out to him.”

  “You’re sure of that,” said Milo.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nora’s an adult, sir. Maybe she chose to disregard your advice.”

  “About Meserve? No way, Nora agreed with me about that lowlife.” Brad lowered his hand and swung the padlock. “What if he forced her to open up?”

  “Why would he do that, sir?”

  “To hide that thing,” said Dowd. He eyed the Toyota. “Leaving that stupid globe, there...there’s something off about it. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Any idea how long the car’s been here?”

  “No more than two weeks because that’s when I took the Stinger in for valve work.”

  Milo circled the car again. “Doesn’t seem to be much in here other than the globe.”

  “There isn’t,” said Dowd, wringing his hands. The padlock clicked. He hung it on the door hasp and returned, shaking his head. “I warned her about him.”

  Milo said, “All we’ve got is his car.”

  “I know, I know— think I’m overreacting?”

  “It’s normal to worry about your sister but let’s not jump to conclusions.”

  “What do I do with the heap?”

  “We’ll have the heap towed to the police impound lot.”

  “When?”

  “I’ll phone right now.”

  “Thanks.” Brad Dowd tapped his foot as Milo made the call.

  “Within half an hour, Mr. Dowd.”

  “Fine, fine— you know what else is bothering me? That girl— the Brand girl. She got mixed up with Meserve and look what happened to her. Nora’s too damned trusting, Lieutenant. What if he showed up and she let him in and he got violent?”

  “We’ll check the car for signs of violence. Are you sure your sister and yourself are the only ones with the combination?”

  “Damned sure.”

  “No way Nora could’ve given it to Meserve? Back when she was still interested in him?”

  “She was never interested in him— we’re talking a brief flirtation.” Dowd chewed his lip. “She’d never give him the combination. I explicitly forbade her to give it out. It’s not logical, anyway. If she wanted to open the garage, she could do it herself. Which she wouldn’t, because she knew the Stinger would be coming back.”

  “Did she know when?”

  “That’s what I was calling her about yesterday. To tell her I’d be driving it back. She didn’t answer.”

  “So she didn’t know,” said Milo.

  “Let me try her house again.” He produced a shiny black cell phone, punched a two-digit speed-dial code. “Still no answer.”

  “Could Reynold Peaty have learned the combination, sir? From working here?”

  Dowd’s eyes widened. “Reynold? Why would he want it? Is there something you haven’t told me about him?”

  “Turns out he does drive. Has an unregistered vehicle.”

  “What? Why the hell would he do that? I pay for a van pool to pick him up and take him to work.”

  “He drove himself to a job in Pasadena today.” Milo read off the address from his pad.

  “Yeah, that’s one of mine. Oh, Jesus— you’re sure— of course you are, you’ve obviously been watching him.” Dowd ran a thumb through his white hair. His other hand clenched. “I asked you the first time if I should worry about him. Now you’re telling me I should.” Brad shaded his eyes with a shaky hand. “He’s been alone with my sister. This is a nightmare— I can’t tell Billy.”

  “Where is Billy?”

  “Waiting for me at the office— the key is to find Nora. What the hell are you going to do about that, Lieutenant?”

  Milo eyed the PlayHouse. “Have you checked in there?”

  “There? No— oh, man!” Brad Dowd bolted toward the building, running around the porch rails with long, smooth strides, fumbling in his pockets as he vaulted steps two at a time. Milo went after him and when Dowd turned the key, Milo stilled his hand.

  “Me first, sir.”

  Dowd stiffened, then backed away. “Fine. Go. Hurry.”

  * * *

  He positioned himself on the east end of the porch where he leaned on the rail and stared at the garage. Sun peeked out from under the marine layer. Foliage was green again. Dowd’s red Corvette took on an orange sheen.

  Six silent minutes passed before the door opened. Milo said, “Doesn’t appear to be any crime scene, but I’ll call the techs and have them take a look if you’d like.”

  “What would that entail? Would they tear the place up?”

  “There’d be fingerprint dust but no structural damage unless something came up.”

  “Like what?”

  “Signs of violence.”

  “But you don’t see any?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You need my permission to bring in your people?”

  “With no probable cause I do.”

  “Then I don’t see the point. Let me go in, I’ll tell you right away if anything’s off.”

  * * *

  Polished oak, everywhere.

  Paneled walls, broad-plank flooring, beamed ceilings, window casements. Vigorously grained, quarter-sawn wood milled a century ago, mellowed the color of old bourbon and held together by mortise and tenon joints. Darker wood— black walnut— had been used for the pegs. Fringed brown velvet drapes covered some of the windows.

  Others had been left clear, revealing stained glass insets. Flowers and fruit and greenery, high-quality work, maybe Tiffany.

  Not much natural light flowed in. The house was dim, silent, smaller than it appeared from the street with a modest entry hall centering two front rooms. What had once been the dining room was set up with old overstuffed thrift-shop chairs, vinyl beanbags, rolled up futons, rubber exercise pads. An open doorway offered a
glimpse of a white kitchen.

  A stage had been constructed at the rear of the former parlor. Ragged plywood affair on raw fir joists made even cruder by its contrast to the precision joinery and gleaming surfaces everywhere else. Three rows of folding chairs for the audience. Photos taped to the outer wall, many of them black-and-white. What looked to be stills from old movies.