“Such as?”
“Finding out if Nora used her passport. Is it really tougher post Nine-Eleven? I’d think there’d be more interagency communication.”
“What a sage,” he said. “Yeah, I fibbed to Bradley, figuring he’d be motivated to get into Nora’s house, let me know if anything’s off. Technically, nothing’s changed, you still need a search warrant to access passenger lists. And the airlines, being busy figuring out ways to torment their passengers, still take their sweet time complying. But there is more buddy-buddy stuff. Remember that granny shooting I closed last year?”
“Sweet old lady subbing for her son at the liquor store.”
“Alma Napier. Eighty-two years old, perfect health, some methaddled dungball unloads a shotgun on her. The search of said dungball’s dump turns up a carton of video cameras from Indonesia hollowed out inside with pistol- shaped compartments. I thought the Federal Air Marshals might want to hear about that, got to know one of the supervisors there.”
He retrieved the phone, asked for Commander Budowski.
“Bud? Milo Sturgis…fine. You? Terrific. Listen, I need a favor.”
Fifteen minutes after we got to his office, a civilian clerk brought in the fax. We’d split the task of locating and phoning spas, were coming up empty.
Milo read Budowski’s report, handed it to me, got back on the phone.
Nora Dowd hadn’t used her passport for foreign travel since the previous April. Three-week trip to France, just as Brad had said.
Dylan Meserve had never applied for a passport.
Neither Nora nor Dylan’s name appeared on any domestic flights out of LAX, Long Beach, Burbank, John Wayne, Lindbergh, or Santa Barbara.
Budowski had left a handwritten note at the bottom. If Nora had sprung for a private jet, that fact might never emerge. Some air-charter companies were less than meticulous checking I.D.s.
Milo said, “There’s everyone. Then there’s the rich.”
He made a few more calls to resorts, broke for coffee at two p.m. Instead of continuing, he leafed through his notepad, found a number, and phoned.
“Mrs. Stadlbraun? Detective Sturgis, I was by last week to talk about…he is? How so? I see. No, that’s not very polite…yes, it is. Has there been anything beyond that…no, there’s nothing new but I was figuring to stop by and talk to him. If you could call me when he gets in, I’d appreciate it. Still have my card? I’ll hold…yes, that’s perfect, ma’am, either of those numbers. Thanks…no, ma’am, there’s nothing to worry about, just routine follow-up.”
He clicked off, rotated the phone receiver, twisting the cord and letting it recoil.
“Ol’ Ertha says Peaty’s been acting ‘even weirder.’ He used to just keep his head down, pretended not to hear. Now he looks her in the eye with what she claims is ‘nastiness.’ What do you make of that?”
“Maybe he spotted Sean watching him and is getting nervous,” I said.
“I suppose, but one thing Sean’s an ace at is not getting made.” He wheeled his chair the few inches the cramped space permitted. “Would ‘nervous’ make Peaty more dangerous?”
“It could.”
“Think I should caution Stadlbraun?”
“I don’t know what you could say that wouldn’t cause panic. No doubt Brad will evict Peaty in addition to firing him.”
“So we’ve got ourselves a homeless, jobless, angry guy with illegal wheels. Time to grovel and ask the captain for help with surveillance.”
He disappeared, came back, shaking his head. “At a meeting downtown.”
I was on the line with the Wellness Inn of Big Sur, enduring a voice mail message about seaweed wrap and Ayurvedic massage and waiting for a human voice.
By three thirty, we were both finished. Nora Dowd hadn’t checked into any posh retreat we could find under her name or Dylan Meserve’s.
I tried Lauritz Montez at the Beverly Hills Public Defender’s office.
In court, expected back in half an hour.
Too much sitting around. I got up and told Milo where I was going. His reply was a finger wave. I didn’t bother to reciprocate.
I reached the Beverly Hills court building by five to four. Closing time for most sessions. The hallways were filled with attorneys, cops, defendants, and witnesses.
Montez was in the middle of it, pushing a black leather case on wheels. Thin and sallow as ever, gray hair drawn back in a ponytail. Giant drooping mustache and wispy chin-beard whitening around the edges. The lenses of his glasses were hexagonal and cobalt blue.
Walking alongside him was a pallid young woman in a filmy pink granny dress. Long black hair, beautiful face, old woman’s stoop. She kept talking to Montez. If he cared about what she had to say, he wasn’t showing it.
I blended with the crowd, managed to get behind the two of them.
Every time I’d seen Montez he’d gone for foppery. Today’s costume was a fitted, black velvet suit with an Edwardian cut, wide, peaked lapels trimmed with satin. The pink of his shirt brought painful memories of childhood sunburns. His peacock-blue bowtie was glossy silk.
The pallid girl said something that made him stop. The two of them veered to the right and stepped behind an open courtroom door. I edged closer to the other side and pretended to study a wall directory. The crowd had thinned, and I could make out their conversation through the jamb.
“What the continuance means, Jessica, is I bought some time for you to get clean and stay clean. You can also find yourself a job and try to con the judge into thinking you want to be a solid citizen.”
“What kinda job?”
“Anything, Jessica. Flip burgers at McDonalds.”
“What about Johnny Rockets? It’s, like, close by.”
“If you can get a job at Johnny Rockets, that would be great.”
“I never flipped burgers.”
“What have you done?”
“I danced.”
“Ballet?”
“Topless.”
“I’m sure you were great on the pole, Jessica, but that’s not going to help you.”
He walked away. The girl didn’t.
I moved from behind the door and said, “Afternoon.”
Montez turned. The girl had her back to the wall, as if pressed there by an unseen hand. “Go look for a job, Jessica.”
She flinched and left.
I said, “Did Michaela say anything about Dylan and Nora Dowd having a relationship?”
“You stalking me, Doc? Or is this happy coincidence?”
“We need to talk- ”
“I need to go home and forget about work. That includes you.” He took hold of his luggage rack.
“Meserve’s missing,” I said. “Given the fact that your client was murdered last week, you might reconsider being a glib wiseass.”
His jaw tightened. “It sucks, okay? Now leave me alone.”
“Meserve could be in danger or he could be a bad guy. Did Michaela tell you anything that would clarify the situation?”
“She blamed him for the hoax.”
