Gone

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Reynold accepted it.”

  “Reynold didn’t have too many options. Brad ever let on to anyone that Reynold was family?”

  “Nope,” said Milo. “Would Billy and Nora be aware of the connection?”

  “Not unless Brad told them. There’s no blood tie there.”

  “Or Reynold told them. We’ve heard he and Billy hung out.”

  “That so?” she said. “Hung out how?”

  “Reynold dropped by Billy’s apartment, allegedly to drop off lost objects.”

  “Allegedly?”

  “Brad denies sending him on errands.”

  “You believe him?”

  Milo smiled. “They’re both your cousins but you’d prefer we focus on Brad, not Reynold. That why you came down to L.A.?”

  “I came down because Reynold’s dead and no one else is going to bury him. He’s all I’ve got left in terms of family.”

  “Except Brad.”

  “Brad’s your concern, not mine.”

  “You don’t like him.”

  “He was raised in another family,” she said.

  Silence.

  Finally, she said, “Julie the dancer. That bothered me big time. Now you’re showing me photos of other blond girls. Reynold was dumb and sloppy and a drunk but he was never cruel.”

  “So far you haven’t told us anything Brad did that was cruel.”

  “No, I haven’t,” said Marcia Peaty. “And I guess I can’t because, like I said, he and I haven’t exactly been hanging out.”

  “But...”

  “You know, guys,” she said, “this is real weird and I don’t think I like it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Being on the receiving end of what I used to dish out.”

  “It’s for a good cause, Marcia,” said Milo. “In terms of Julie the Showgirl, did Harold Fordebrand’s gut say anything more about Brad than he was slick?”

  “You’d have to ask Harold. Once he found out Brad was my cousin he kept me out of the loop.”

  “How about your gut...”

  “Brad’s demeanor bothered me. Like he was enjoying some private joke. You guys know what I mean.”

  “Despite that, you got Reyn a job with him.”

  “And now Reyn’s gone,” she said. Her face crumpled and she turned to hide it from us. When she faced us again, her voice was small. “You’re saying I screwed up big time.”

  “No,” said Milo. “I’m not trying to guilt-trip you, far from it. All this stuff you’re telling us is beyond helpful. We’re just groping around here.”

  “No case yet.”

  “Not hardly.”

  “I was hoping I was wrong,” she said.

  “About what?”

  “Brad being somehow involved with Reynold’s death.”

  “No indication he is.”

  “I know, an altercation. You’re saying that’s all there was to it?”

  “So far.”

  “The old stonewall,” said Marcia Peaty. “I’ve laid a few bricks myself. Let me ask you this: The way Brad treated Reyn, giving him scut work, the Dowds owning all those properties, and they stick Reyn in a hovel. That add up to the milk of human kindness? These people are just what Mom always said they were.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Poison palming itself off as perfume.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Marcia Peaty switched the subject and Milo didn’t stop her.

  Procedural questions about how to take possession of her cousin’s body. His rundown wasn’t much different from the one he’d given Lou Giacomo.

  She said, “Paperwork aerobics. Okay, thanks for your time. Am I wasting my time asking you to keep me informed?”

  “Something resolves, we’ll let you know, Marcia.”

  “If, not when? You have any serious leads?”

  He smiled.

  She said, “That’s why I never did Homicide. Too much effort getting the optimism meter up.”

  “Vice can get sketchy, too.”

  “That’s why I didn’t do Vice for long. Give me a nice boosted set of wheels.”

  “Chrome don’t bleed,” said Milo.

  “Ain’t that the truth.” She reached for the check. Milo placed his hand on it.

  “Let me pay for my share.”

  “On the house,” said Milo.

  “You or the department?”

  “The department.”

  “Right.” She put down a twenty, slid out of the booth, shot us a tight smile, and hurried off.

  Milo pocketed the cash and pushed crumbs around his plate. “Ol’ Brad’s been a baaad boy.”

  “Young blondes,” I said. “Too bad Tori dyed her hair.”

  “Amelia, the whole platinum bombshell thing. What, he’s killing Stepmommy over and over?”

  “His own mother abandoned him, handed him over to someone who didn’t even pretend to care. He has lots of reasons to hate women.”

  “He was in his thirties when Julie the Showgirl disappeared. Think she was his first?”

  “Hard to say. The main thing was he got away with it, built up his confidence for the move back to L.A. After Amelia and the captain died, he managed to take over the family real estate empire. Cared well for Billy and Nora because happy sibs don’t complain. Maybe the PlayHouse is a tax dodge and a sop for Nora, but it was good for him, too. Start an acting school, who shows up?”

  “Gorgeous mutants,” he said. “All those blonde auditions.”

  “And rejects like the Gaidelases. Normally, Brad would ignore people like Cathy and Andy but they reminded him of Amelia and the captain, down to the captain’s effeminate manner. How’s this for a scenario: He ran into them leaving an audition. Or waiting for a tryout. Either way, it had to feel like destiny, he played nice guy, promised to help. Told them meanwhile enjoy your vacation. Do some hiking, I know a great spot.”

  “Billy’s acreage in Latigo.” He folded and unfolded his napkin. Snatched up his phone, got Harold Fordebrand’s number from Vegas 411, called, left a message. “Guy sounds exactly like Ed.”

  I said, “The Kolor Krew was a quartet.”

  “Who?”

  “The kiddie-pop group Amelia tried to market.” I described the publicity shot on the PlayHouse wall. “The Dowd kids plus one. Maybe there’s someone else who can fill us in about the good old days.”

  He said, “You feel like researching the history of bubblegum music, be my guest. I need another face-to-face with the sib who really ain’t one. Starting with a drop-in at the BNB office. If Brad’s not there, it’s over to his house. Eventually, a day at the beach will be on the agenda.”

  I said, “Think Billy even knows he owns the Latigo property?”

  “Brad bought it and put it in Billy’s name?”

  “Brad lives near the ocean, has surfed enough to grow knots on his knees. Meaning he knows Malibu. A nice, secluded oceanview lot on the land-side might appeal to him, especially if it was paid for with Billy’s money. Being in charge of family finances, Brad could get Billy to sign on the dotted line. Or just forge Billy’s name. Meanwhile, Billy pays the property tax and doesn’t have a clue.”

  “The assessor says there are no structures on the lot. What would Brad use it for?”

  “Meditation, planning a dream house, burying bodies.”

  “Billy pays, Brad plays,” he says. “Nora’s no business type, either. Meaning Brad can basically do what he wants with all the money.” He rubbed his face. “All this time, I’ve been looking for Peaty’s stash spots, but Brad has access to dozens of buildings and garages all over the county.”

  “He came right out and told us he stores his cars in some of the properties.”

  “He did, indeed. What was that, playing mind games?”

  “Or bragging about his collection. This is a guy who needs to feel important. I’m wondering if it could’ve been him watching Angeline Wasserman from that Range Rover.”

  “Why would it be him?”

&nbs
p; “Last time I saw him, he had on a nice linen suit. There were a bunch just like it hanging from a rack at the Barneys outlet.”

  “Snappy dresser,” he said. “Maybe a regular, just like Wasserman. He observes her, knows she’s absentminded, lifts her purse.”

  “The goal was to get her phone, he couldn’t’ve have cared less about the money or the credit cards,” I said. “The more I think about that, the better I like it: well-dressed middle-aged guy who shops there all the time, no reason to suspect him. Angeline might know his face but the Rover’s tinted windows would’ve prevented her from realizing it was him. It was his ride she concentrated on, anyway— ‘twinsie karma.’ ”

  He retrieved Wasserman’s number from his pad and punched it. “Ms. Wasserman? Lieutenant Sturgis, again...I know you are but just one more question, okay? There’s a gentleman who shops at the outlet regularly, mid-forties, nice-looking, white hair— you do...oh...no, it’s more...maybe...okay, thanks...no, that’s it.”

  He hung up. “ ‘That’s Brad, I see him all the time. Did he have something stolen, too?’ ”

  “Seeing him as a victim, not a suspect,” I said, “because he’s well-off and stylish.”

  “You got it. ‘Great guy, terrific taste, you should see the gorgeous cars he drives, Lieutenant, each time a different one.’ Turns out Angeline and ol’ Brad ask each other’s opinions about outfits all the time. He’s always honest but he does it with ‘sensitivity.’ ”

  “Charming fellow.”

  “You think his driving Nora’s wheels means Nora and Meserve are in on it with him? Or tough luck for them.”

  “Don’t know, but either way Brad had something to do with the calls to Vasquez.”

  “Setting up his own cousin.”

  “The same cousin he put to work as a janitor and housed in a dump. Given Brad’s background, blood ties could twist all sorts of ways. If Vasquez was telling the truth about getting calls the previous week, the setup was extremely well thought out.”

  “Priming a murder,” he said. “How could Brad be sure Vasquez would blow and shoot Peaty?”

  “He couldn’t, but he knew both parties and Mrs. Stadlbraun, played the odds. He told me he had bad feelings about Vasquez but rented to him anyway because there was no legal out. That’s nonsense. A landlord, especially one with Brad’s experience, can always find a reason.”

  “Game of chance,” he said.

  “Brad lived in Vegas. One table doesn’t work out, move to the next one.”

  “Okay, let’s assume he set Peaty up. Why?”

  “With Peaty’s police record and pattern of creepy behavior, he’d be a perfect scapegoat for Michaela and Tori and any other missing girls who turned up. Look what happened after the shooting: You got to search Peaty’s van, discovered the rape-kit stashed conveniently in back— no real effort to conceal. And, lo and behold, there was a snow globe in the toolbox. Just like the one left on the seat of Meserve’s Toyota. Which you knew about in the first place because Brad called you in a panic after finding the car in one of his own parking spaces. If Meserve cut town with Nora, why would he leave his wheels where they were sure to be discovered? At the very least, he could’ve put the Toyota in Nora’s garage— which, by the way, is empty— and avoided ticking off Brad.”

  “By the way,” he said.

  “Crowbar.”

  He shook his head, drank.

  I said, “Maybe Nora’s not the only one with theatrical interests. Only reason we knew about the snow globe in the first place was Brad brought it up when we talked to him at his house.”

  “Painting Meserve as a gold digger. What was that? Another misdirect?”

  “Or it was true and he had good reason to hate Meserve.”

  He loosened his belt, crushed ice with his molars and swallowed it. Picked up the check.

  “On you or the department?” I said.

  “For your information, I’m trying out that bumper sticker wisdom, spontaneous acts of kindness blah blah blah. Maybe the Almighty will reward me with a close on this mess.”

  “Never knew you to be religious.”

  “There’s things that can get me praying.”

  * * *

  Walking to the parking lot, I said, “Three personal real estate parcels for Billy and Nora, none for Brad. Just like the birthday parties. His childhood was one big exclusion because the Dowds never stopped seeing him as anything but an imposition. Amelia recruited him for the Kolor Krew only because he could sing. When his behavior grew troublesome, she sent him away.”

  “Used and discarded,” he said. “Persimmons.”

  “I’d put money on a whole lot more antisocial behavior. The point is, the same pattern’s continued into adulthood: As long as Brad serves a purpose— taking care of Nora and Billy— he gets creature comforts. But at the root, he’s hired help. Doesn’t even own the house he lives in, legally he’s just another tenant. In a sense, it’s to his advantage, spending other people’s money and living large. But still, it has to grate.”

  “Hired help passing himself off as the boss,” he said. “Wonder how he finagled himself into that position.”

  “Probably by default— Nora and Billy are incapable. He’s the caretaker and the payoff is cars, clothes, properties that he palms off as his. Image. He pulls off the aw-shucks big-money thing beautifully. Angeline Wasserman’s part of that world and she bought it.”

  “Good actor.”

  “Good at impressing women,” I said. “Young, naive women would be no challenge. Tori’s ex-husband figured she’d been dating someone with money. A starving actress serving fish to make the rent on a North Hollywood dump and a guy with a Porsche? Same for Michaela.”

  “Michaela never indicated to you that she was seeing anyone?”

  “No, but it wouldn’t have come up. My consult focused on her legal problems. One thing she did make clear: Dylan was no longer her style. Maybe because she’d found someone better.”

  “Mr. Hot Wheels,” he said. “Still doesn’t answer the question of how Brad got to pull the reins. Why would the Dowds hand over all that control?”

  “Maybe they didn’t but once the parents were dead he wrangled his way in as a trustee of the estate. Cozying up to the lawyers, greasing someone’s palm, making the case that he was the best choice— someone with smarts who had Billy’s and Nora’s best interests at heart. If Nora and Billy agreed, why not? Once he was in, he was set. Trustees don’t come up for review unless someone complains about abuse of fiduciary responsibility. Nora and Billy get their needs met, everyone’s happy.”

  “The PlayHouse and the family manse for her, takeout pizza and a wide-screen for Billy.”

  “Meanwhile Brad collects the monthly rent checks.”

  “Think he’s siphoning off cash?”

  “Wouldn’t shock me.”

  He strode to the parking attendant’s booth, paid for both our cars.

  I said, “Now you’re veering into Mother Teresa territory.”

  He gazed skyward and pressed his palms together. “Hear that? How about some evidentiary manna?”

  “God helps those who help themselves,” I said. “Time to check the small print on BNB’s letters of incorporation.”

  “First, I want to face Brad one-on-one.”

  We sat in his unmarked talking about the best approach. The final decision was another chat about Reynold Peaty’s shooting, Milo talking, me scoping out the nonverbal cues. Mentioning the phone calls to Armando Vasquez if the timing seemed right.

  We took separate cars to the strip mall on Ocean Park. The door to BNB Properties was locked and no one answered. As Milo turned to leave, the door at the end of the second-floor landing caught my eye.

  Sunny Sky Travel

  We Specialize in Tropical Getaways

  Posters in the window. Sapphire ocean, emerald palm trees, bronze people hoisting cocktails.

  At the bottom: BRAZIL!!!

  Milo followed my gaze, had the door open by the
time I got there.

  * * *

  A young cat-eyed woman wearing a sleeveless raspberry top sat at a computer station typing. Soft eyes, Rubenesque roundness. A nameplate on the desk said Lourdes Texeiros. A hands-free phone headset rested atop a nest of black curls. The walls were papered with more posters. A revolving rack of brochures filled a corner.