Gone

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Christ,” said Brad. “Talking about what?”

  Billy’s eyes were slits. “Where’s the lowlife?”

  “In jail,” said Brad. To me: “Right?”

  “He’s in custody.”

  “For how long?” said Billy.

  “A long time,” I said.

  “Tell me when he gets out so I can shoot his ass.”

  Brad said, “Billy, stop!”

  Billy glared. Breathed heavily.

  Brad tried to touch him. Again, Billy shook him off. “I’ll stop now, fine, okay. But when he gets out I’ll shoot a bullet up his ass.” He punched air.

  “Billy, that’s— ”

  “Reyn was my friend.”

  “Bill, he wasn’t a real— okay, okay, whatever, Bill, I’m sorry. He was your friend, you have every right to be upset.”

  “I’m not upset. I’m pissed.”

  “Fine, be pissed.” Back to me: “An argument? Jesus, I was going to go by that building today or tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  Brad cocked a head toward his brother. Billy was studying the grass. “Making the circuit.”

  About to fire and evict Peaty.

  Billy punched his palm. “Reyn was my friend. Now he’s dead. That’s fucked up.”

  I said, “What did you and Reyn do together, Billy?”

  Brad tried to step between Billy and me but Billy twisted around him. “Reyn was polite to me.”

  Brad said, “Billy, Reyn had some problems. Remember I told you about them— ”

  “Driving too fast. So what, you do that, Brad.”

  “Billy...” Brad smiled and shrugged.

  Billy cocked his head at the Cadillac. “Not in the ’59, the ’59’s too fucking slow— that’s what you always say, too fucking slow to move its big old fucking ass. You drive fast in the Sting Ray and the Porsche and the Austin— ”

  “Fine,” Brad snapped. He smiled again. “The detective gets it, Bill.”

  “You say the Ray’s as fast as that girl in your class...what was her name— er, er, er, Jocelyn...the Sting Ray’s as fast as Jocelyn...Jocelyn...Olderson...Oldenson...and just as expensive. You always say that, the Sting— ”

  “That’s a joke, Bill.”

  “I’m not laughing,” said Billy. To me: “Reyn drove too fast a long time ago and got in trouble. Does that mean he has to get his ass killed?”

  Brad said, “No one’s saying that, Billy.”

  “I’m asking him, Brad.”

  “It doesn’t mean that,” I said.

  “It fucking pisses me off.” Billy broke free again, headed for the driveway. Climbing over the Caddy’s passenger door with some effort, he sank down, arms folded, and stared straight ahead.

  Brad said, “Climbing in like that, he knows that’s against the— he must really be upset, though for the life of me I can’t tell you why.”

  “He considers Peaty his friend.”

  He lowered his voice. “Wishful thinking.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My brother has no peer group. When I first hired Peaty I noticed him staring at Billy like Billy was some kind of freak. I told him to stop doing that and he did and after that he was friendly to Billy. I figured he was kissing up to me. Anyway, that’s probably what Billy’s responding to. Anyone who treats him like half a man is his buddy. After you guys dropped in at the office, he told me you were his buddies.”

  Over in the Cadillac, Billy started rocking.

  I said, “He’s pretty upset for having no relationship at all with Peaty.”

  “My brother has trouble with change.”

  “Learning someone you know has been murdered is serious change.”

  “Yes, of course, I’m not minimizing it. All I’m saying is it’s harder for Billy to process that kind of thing.” He shook his head. “Shot to death over a stupid argument? Now that Billy’s not listening, can you tell me what really happened?”

  “Same answer,” I said. “I wasn’t protecting Billy.”

  “Oh. Okay, sorry. Look, I’d better go calm him down, so if— ”

  “You’re sure Billy and Peaty didn’t associate.”

  “I’m positive. Peaty was a janitor, for God’s sake.”

  I said, “He’s been to Billy’s apartment.”

  Brad’s lower lip dropped. “What are you talking about?”

  I repeated what Annalise Holzer had told me.

  “Lost articles?” he said. “That makes no sense at all.”

  “Is Billy absentminded?”

  “Yes, but— ”

  “We were wondering if Peaty stopped by at your instruction.”

  “My instruction? Ridiculous. As far as I knew, he didn’t drive, remember?” Brad wiped his brow. “Annalise said that?”

  “Is she reliable?”

  “God, I sure hope so.” He scratched his head. “If she said Peaty dropped by, I guess he did. But I’ve got to tell you, I’m astonished.”

  “That Peaty and Billy would associate?”

  “We don’t know they associated, just that Peaty dropped things off. Yes, Billy’s absentminded but usually he tells me when he’s left something and I tell him don’t worry, we’ll get it tomorrow. If Peaty did drop something off I’m sure that’s where it ended.”

  He looked over at Billy. Rocking harder. “First Nora taking off and now this...”

  I said, “They’re adults.”

  “Chronologically.”

  “Must be hard, being the protector.”

  “Mostly it’s no big deal. Sometimes it’s a challenge.”

  “This is one of those sometimes.”

  “This is a real big sometime.”

  “At some point,” I said, “we’d like to talk to Billy about Peaty.”

  “Why? Peaty’s dead and you know who shot him.”

  “Just to be thorough.”

  “What does it have to do with Billy?”

  “Probably nothing.”

  “Is Peaty still a suspect for that girl’s murder?”

  “Still?”

  “All those questions you asked about him when you came to my house. It was pretty obvious what you were getting at. Do you really think Peaty could’ve done something like that?”

  “It’s an open investigation,” I said.

  “Meaning you won’t say. Look, I appreciate what you guys do but I can’t just let you browbeat Billy.”

  “Browbeating’s not on the agenda, Mr. Dowd. Just a few questions.”

  “Believe me, Detective, he has nothing to tell you.”

  “You’re sure about that.”

  “Of course I am. I can’t allow my brother to be drawn into anything sordid.”

  “Because he’s chronologically an adult but...”

  “Exactly.”

  “He doesn’t seem retarded,” I said.

  “I told you, he isn’t,” said Brad. “What he is no one’s ever been sure. Nowadays he’d probably be called some kind of autistic. Back when we were kids he was just ‘different.’ ”

  “Must’ve been tough.”

  “Whatever.” His eyes shifted sideways toward the Cadillac. Billy rested his head down on the dashboard. “There isn’t a mean bone in his body, Detective, but that didn’t stop other kids from tormenting him. I’m younger but I always felt like the older brother. That’s the way it’s remained and I’m going to have to ask you to respect our privacy.”

  “Maybe it would be good for Billy to talk,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “He seemed pretty traumatized by the news. Sometimes getting it out helps.”

  “Now you sound like a shrink,” said Brad. New edge in his voice.

  “You’ve got experience with shrinks?”

  “Back when we were kids Billy got taken to all kinds of quacks. Vitamin quacks, hypnosis quacks, exercise quacks, psychiatric quacks. No one did a damn thing for him. So let’s all just stick to what we know best. You chase bad guys and I’ll take care of my brothe
r.”

  I walked over to the Caddy, Brad’s protests at my back. Billy sat up, rigid. His eyes were shut and his hands clawed the placket of his shirt.

  “Nice seeing you again, Billy.”

  “It wasn’t nice. This is a bad news day.”

  Brad got in the driver’s seat, started up the engine.

  “Real bad news,” I said.

  Billy nodded. “Real real real bad.”

  Brad turned the ignition key. “I’m backing out, Detective.”

  I waited until they’d been gone for five minutes, then walked up to Nora Dowd’s door and knocked. Got the silence I’d expected.

  Empty mailbox. Brother Brad had collected Nora’s correspondence. Cleaning up everyone’s mess, as usual. He claimed Billy was harmless but his opinion was worthless.

  I got back in the Seville and drove away, passing Albert Beamish’s house. The old man’s curtains were drawn but he opened his door.

  Red shirt, green pants, drink in hand.

  I stopped and lowered the car window. “How’s it going?”

  Beamish started to say something, shook his head in disgust, went back inside.

  CHAPTER 31

  Billy had been attached to Peaty. And Billy had a temper.

  Was he too dull to realize the implication of a relationship with Reynold Peaty? Or was there no implication?

  One thing was likely: The janitor’s visits had been more than dropping off lost articles.

  As I drove Sixth Street toward its terminus at San Vicente, I considered Billy’s reaction. Shock, anger, desire for vengeance.

  Another sib defying Brad.

  A child’s impulsiveness together with a grown man’s hormones could be a dangerous combination. As Milo had pointed out, Billy had begun living on his own right around the time of Tori Giacomo’s murder and the Gaidelases’ disappearance.

  Perfect opportunity for Billy and Peaty to take their friendship to a new level? If the two of them had become a murder team, Peaty was certain to have been the dominant one.

  Some leadership. An outwardly creepy alcoholic voyeur and a dullard man-boy didn’t add up to the kind of planning and care that had stripped Michaela’s dumpsite of forensic detail, concealed Tori Giacomo’s body long enough to reduce it to scattered bones.

  Then there was the matter of the whispering phone call from Ventura County. No way Billy could’ve pulled that off.

  Iago-prompt, courtesy of the phone lines. It had worked.

  I’d hypothesized about a cruel side to the Gaidelases but there was another pair of performance buffs worth considering.

  Nora Dowd was an eccentric dilettante and a failure as an actress, but she’d been skillful enough to fool her brother about breaking off with Dylan Meserve. Toss in a young lover with a penchant for rough sex and mind games and it cooked up interesting.

  Maybe Brad had found no sign of struggle in Nora’s house because there’d been none. Travel brochures in a nightstand drawer and missing clothes plus Dylan Meserve’s skip on his rent weeks ago said a long-planned trip. Albert Beamish hadn’t seen anyone living with Nora but someone entering and exiting the house after dark would have escaped his notice.

  A woman who thought private flying was a nifty idea.

  Her passport hadn’t been used recently and Meserve had never applied for one. But he’d grown up on the streets of New York, could’ve known how to obtain fake paper. Getting through passport control at LAX might be a challenge. But jetting from Santa Monica to a landing strip in some south-of-the-border village with payoff cash would be another story.

  Brochures in a drawer, no real attempt to conceal. Because Nora was confident no one would broach her privacy?

  When I stopped for a red light at Melrose, I took a closer look at the resorts she’d researched.

  Pretty places in South America. Maybe for more than the climate.

  * * *

  I drove home as fast as Sunset would allow, barely took the time to look for Hauser’s brown Audi. Moments after logging on to the Internet I learned that Belize, Brazil, and Ecuador all had extradition treaties with the U.S. and that nearly all the countries without treaties were in Africa and Asia.

  Hiding out in Rwanda, Burkina Faso, or Uganda wouldn’t be much fun, and I couldn’t see Nora taking well to the feminine couture of Saudi Arabia.

  I studied the brochures again. Each resort was in a remote jungle area.

  To be extradited you had to be found.

  I pictured the scene: May-December couple checks into a luxury suite, enjoys the beach, the bar, the pool. Nighttime’s the right time for al fresco candlelight dinners, maybe a couple’s massage. Long, hot, incandescent days allow plenty of time to search for a leafy suburb hospitable to affluent foreigners.

  Nazi war criminals had hidden for decades in Latin America, living like nobility. Why not a couple of low-profile thrill killers?

  Still, if Nora and Dylan had escaped for the long run, why leave brochures anywhere to be discovered?

  Unless the packets were a misdirect.

  I looked up jet leasing, air charter, and time-share companies in Southern California, compiled a surprisingly long list, spent the next two hours claiming to be Bradley Dowd experiencing a “family emergency” and in dire need of finding his sister and his nephew, Dylan. Lots of turndowns and the few outfits who checked their passenger logs had no listing of Nora or Meserve. Which proved nothing if the couple had assumed new identities.

  For Milo to get subpoenas of the records, he’d need evidence of criminal behavior and all Dowd and Meserve had done was disappear.

  Unless Dylan’s misdemeanor conviction could be used against him.

  Milo would be tied up right now with “boring police stuff.” I called him anyway and described Billy Dowd’s behavior.

  He said, “Interesting. Just got Michaela’s full autopsy results. Also interesting.”

  * * *

  We met at nine p.m., at a pizza joint on Colorado Boulevard in the heart of Pasadena’s Old Town. Hipsters and young business types feasted on thin crust and pitchers of beer.

  Milo had been scoping out BNB buildings in the eastern suburbs for evidence of Peaty’s unofficial storage, asked if I could meet him. When I left the house at eight fifteen, the phone rang but I ignored it.

  When I arrived, he was at a front booth, apart from the action, working on an eighteen-inch disk crusted with unidentifiable foodstuffs, his own pitcher half full and frosted. He’d doodled a happy face on the glass. The features had melted to something morose and psychiatrically promising.

  Before I could sit, he hoisted his battered attaché case, took out a coroner’s file, and placed it across his lap. “When you’re ready. Don’t ruin your dinner.” Munch munch.

  “I ate already.”

  “Not very social of you.” He massaged the pitcher, erased the face. “Wanna glass?”

  I said, “No, thanks,” but he went and got one anyway, left the file on his chair.

  At the front were routine forms signed by Deputy Coroner A.C. Yee, M.D. In the photos what had once been Michaela Brand was a department-store manikin taken apart in stages. See enough autopsy shots and you learn to reduce the human body to its components, try to forget it’s ever been divine. Think too much and you never sleep.

  Milo returned and poured me a beer. “She died of strangulation and all the cuts were postmortem. What’s interesting are Numbers Six and Twelve.”

  Six was a close-up of the right side of the neck. The wound was an inch or so long, slightly puffed at the center, as if something had been inserted in the slot and left there long enough to create a small pouch. The coroner had circled the lesion and written a reference number above the ruler segment used for scale. I paged to the summary, found the notation.

  Postmortem incision, superior border of the sternoclavicular notch, evidence of tissue-spreading and surface exploration of the right jugular vein.

  Twelve was a front view of a smooth, full-breasted female
chest. Michaela’s implants spread as if deflated.

  Dr. Yee had pointed to the spots where they’d been stitched up and noted, “Good healing.” In the smooth plain between the mounds were five small wounds. No pouching. Yee’s measurements made them shallow, a couple were barely beneath the skin.