The PlayHouse was an old one-story Craftsman house on an oversized lot, justnorth of Venice Boulevard, in West L.A. Plank siding painted deep green withcream trim, low-set bulk topped by sweeping eaves that created a small, dimporch. The garage to the left had old-fashioned barn doors but looked freshlypainted. The landscaping was from another age: a couple of four-story cocoapalms, indifferently pruned bird of paradise grown ragged, agapanthus, andcalla lilies surrounding a flat, brown lawn.
The neighborhood was working-class rental residential, mostly boxymulti-units and boxy houses awaiting demolition. Nothing denoted the actingschool’s function. The windows were dark.
Milo said, “Guess she doesn’t need toadvertise. Or keep daytime hours.”
I said, “If most of the aspirants have day jobs, it’s an evening business.”
“Let’s check it out, anyway.”
We walked up to the porch. Floored with green board, thickly varnished. Thewindow in the paneled oak door was blocked with opaque lace. A hand-hammeredcopper mailbox perched to the right. Miloflipped the lid and peered inside. Empty.
He pushed a button and chimes sounded.
No answer.
Two doors down an old Dodge Dart backed out toward the street. Hispanic manaround thirty at the wheel, leaving a pale blue bungalow. Milowalked over, rolled his arm.
No badge, but people tend to obey him. The man lowered his window.
“Morning, sir. Know anything about your neighbor?”
Big shrug. Nervous smile.” No hablo Ingles.”
Milo pointed. “The school. La Escuela. ”
Another shrug. “No se.”
Milo looked into his eyes, waved him away.As the Dart sped off, we returned to the porch, where Milojabbed the button several more times. A chime sonata went unanswered.
“Okay, I’ll try again tonight.”
As we turned, footsteps sounded from inside the PlayHouse. Lace wiggled inthe window but didn’t part.
Then nothing.
Milo swiveled and rapped the door hard.Scratches, as a bolt turned. The door swung open and a heavy man holding abroom and looking distracted said, “Yeah?” Before the word was out of hismouth, his eyes tightened and distraction gave way to calculation.
This time Milo had the badge out. The heavyman barely glanced at it. His second “Yeah?” was softer, wary.
He had a splotchy, pie-tin face, a meaty, off-kilter nose, brambles of curlygraying hair that flew from his temples, muttonchops that petered to acolorless grizzle. The mustache atop parched lips was the sole bit ofdisciplined hair: clipped, precise, a gray-brown hyphen. Tight eyes the colorof strong tea managed to be active without moving.
Wrinkled gray work shirt and matching pants, open sandals, thick whitesocks. Dust and sweepings flecked white cotton toes. The tattoos thatembroidered his fleshy hands promised to snake up under his sleeves. Blue-blackskin art, crude and square-edged. Hard to decipher, but I made out a tinylittle grinning demon’s head, more impish than satanic, leering at a puckeredknuckle.
Milo said, “Is Nora Dowd here?”
“Nope.”
“What about Dylan Meserve?”
“Nope.”
“You know Mr. Meserve?”
“I know who he is.” Low, slurred voice, slight delay before formingsyllables. His right hand gripped the broom handle. The left had gathered shirtfabric and stretched it over his substantial belly.
“What do you know about Mr. Meserve?” said Milo.
The same hesitation. “One of the students.”
“He doesn’t work here?”
“Never saw that.”
“We were told he’s a creative consultant.”
No answer.
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
Small yellow teeth made a play at a cracked upper lip. “A while.”
“Days?”
“Yeah.”
“Weeks?”
“Could be.”
“Where’s Ms. Dowd?”
“Dunno.”
“No idea?”
“Nossir.”
“She’s your boss.”
“Yessir.”
“Want to guess where she might be?”
Shrug.
“When did you see her last?”
“I work days, she’s here at night.”
Out came Milo’s pad. “Your name, please.”
No answer.
Milo edged closer. The man stepped back,just as Ralph Jabber had.
“Sir?”
“Reynold.”
“First name, please.”
“Reynold. Last name’s Peaty.”
“Reynold Peaty.”
“Yessir.”
“Is that Peaty with two e’s or e-a?”
“P-E-A-T-Y.”
“You work here full-time, Mr. Peaty?”
“I do the clean up and the lawn mowing.”
“Full-time?”
“Part-time.”
“Got another job?”
“I clean buildings.”
“Where do you live, Mr. Peaty?”
Peaty’s left hand flexed. Gray shirt fabric shimmied. “Guthrie.”
“Guthrie Avenuein L.A.?”
“Yessir.”
Milo asked for the address. Reynold Peatythought for a moment before giving it up. Just east of Robertson. A short walkfrom Michaela Brand’s apartment on Holt. Close to the death scene, too.
“Know why we’re here, Mr. Peaty?”
“Nossir.”
“How long have you been working here?”
“Five years.”
“So you know Michaela Brand.”
“One of the girls,” said Peaty. His bushy eyebrows twitched. The fabric overhis gut vibrated harder.
“Seen her around?”
“Coupla times.”
“While you were working days?”
“Sometimes it stretches,” said Peaty. “If I get here late.”
“You know her by name.”
“She was the one did that thing with him.”
“That thing.”
“With him,” Peaty repeated. “Pretending to be kidnapped.”
“She’s dead,” said Milo. “Murdered.”
Reynold Peaty’s lower jaw jutted like a bulldog’s, rotated as if chewinggristle.
“Any reaction to that, sir?” said Milo.
“Terrible.”
“Any idea who’d want to do something like that?”
Peaty shook his head and ran his hand up and down the broom shaft.
“Yeah, it is terrible,” said Milo. “Such apretty girl.”
Peaty’s small eyes narrowed to pupil-glint. “You think he did it?”
“Who?”
“Meserve.”
“Any reason we should think that?”
“You asked about him.”
Milo waited.
Peaty rolled the broom. “They did that thing together.”
“That thing.”
“It was on TV.”
“You think that might be connected to Michaela’s murder, Mr. Peaty?”
“Maybe.”
“Why would it be?”
Peaty licked his lips. “They didn’t come here together no more.”
“For acting lessons.”
“Yessir.”
“Did they come separately?”
“Just him.”
“Meserve kept coming but not Michaela.”
“Yessir.”
“Sounds like a lot of your days stretch into nights.”
“Sometimes he’s here in the day.”
“Mr. Meserve?”
&ldqu............