“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
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.
Brad Dowd said, “Everything looks normal.” His eyes shifted to an open door, stage right. “Did you check in back?”
Milo nodded. “Yup, but feel free.”
Dowd went in there and I followed. A short, dark hallway led to two small rooms with an old lav between them. Once-upon-a-time bedrooms paneled with bead board below the chair rail, painted pea green above. One chamber was vacant, the other stored additional folding chairs and was decorated with more movie stills. Both closets were empty.
Brad Dowd moved in and out quickly. The aging-surfer insouciance I’d seen at his house had given way to gamecock jumpiness.
Nothing like family to shake you up.
He left. I lingered and glanced at the photos. Mae West, Harold Lloyd, John Barrymore. Doris Day and James Cagney in
I returned to the front room. Milo and Brad Dowd sat at the edge of the stage. Dowd’s head was down. Milo was saying, “You can help by trying to remember where your sister goes when she travels.”
“She wouldn’t let that thing in the garage and just go off somewhere.”
“Covering bases, Mr. Dowd.”
“Traveling…okay, she flies to Paris every year. Later in the year, mid-April. She stays at the Crillon, costs a fortune. Sometimes she goes on to the south, rents a little chateau. The longest she’s been away is a month.”
“Anywhere else?”
“She used to go everywhere- England, Italy, Germany – but France is the only place she really likes. She speaks high school French, never had any of those problems you hear about.”
“What about here in the States?”
“She’s been to a health spa in Mexico a few times,” said Dowd. “Down in Tecate. I think she also goes to a place in Ojai. Or Santa Barbara, somewhere in that vicinity. She likes the whole spa thing- you think that could be it? She just wanted to be pampered and I’m worrying about nothing? Hell, maybe Meserve did learn the combination and stashed that piece of shit and Nora knows nothing about it and is getting a mud pack or whatever.”
His fingers drummed his knees. “I’ll get on the horn, call every damn spa in the state.”
“We’ll do that, sir.”
“I want to do
“Help me by thinking back,” said Milo. “Did Nora mention
“Definitely not.” Brad bounded up. “I’m going to check on Billy, then it’s over to Nora’s house, Lieutenant. She doesn’t like me using my key but what if she fell and needs help?”
Milo said, “When’s the last time you remember seeing her with Meserve?”
“After Meserve pulled that stunt and she assured me it was over.”
Milo said nothing.
Dowd’s laugh was bitter. “So what’s his damn car doing here, right? You think I’m clueless.”
“Your sister’s an adult.”
“So to speak,” said Brad Dowd softly.
“It’s tough being in charge,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s a day at the beach.”
Milo said, “So you have a key to Nora’s house.”
“In my safe at the office but I’ve never used it. She gave it to me years ago- same reason I gave her the combination to the garage. If she’s not home, maybe I’ll look around just a little. See if I can find her passport. I’m not sure where she keeps it but I can try. Though I guess you could find out faster- just call the airlines.”
“After Nine-Eleven, it’s a little complicated,” said Milo.
“Bureaucratic bullshit?”
“Yes, sir. I can’t even go into your sister’s house with you, unless she explicitly gave you permission to bring in guests.”
