Giacomo’s rental Escort was parked in a loading zone ten yards from Café Moghul,the predictable ticket secured by a wiper blade. Miloand I watched him snatch the citation and rip it into confetti. Paper snowfloated to the curb.
He shot Milo a defiant look. Milo pretended not to notice.
Giacomo stooped, picked up the shreds, put them in his pocket. Rolling hisshoulders, he got in the Escort and drove off.
Milo said, “Every time I start off in oneof those situations I tell myself to be sensitive. Somehow, it gets messed up.”
“You did fine.”
He laughed.
I said, “With all his frustration and grief it couldn’t have gone anydifferently.”
“That’s exactly what you were supposed to say.”
“At least something in life’s predictable.”
We walked east on Santa Monica, passed anAsian import shop where Milo stopped andpretended to be fascinated by bamboo.
When we resumed walking, I said, “Think Giacomo’s right about Tori beingdead?”
“It’s a distinct possibility, but maybe her mother’s right and she’s offpartying in Capri or Dubai.What do you think of the acting-school angle?”
“Lots of those in L.A.,”I said.
“Lots of young waitpersons aiming for bigger and better. Be interesting ifTori took classes at the PlayHouse but short of that you see any stunningparallels?”
“A few similarities but more differences. Michaela’s body was left out inthe open. If Tori was murdered, the killer sure didn’t want her discovered.”
We turned right and walked south on Butler.
“What if we’re looking at an escalation thing, Alex? Our bad boy started offhiding his handiwork but acquired confidence and decided to advertise?”
“Someone like Peaty moving from peeping to assault,” I said. “Gettingprogressively more violent and brazen.”
“That does come to mind.”
“A sexual aspect to Michaela’s killing would support it. There was nopositioning and she was left fully clothed. But maybe she was played with atthe kill-spot, tidied up before being transported. Autopsy’s due soon, right?”
“It just got kicked up another day or two. Or four.”
“Busy time at the crypt.”
“Always.”
“Are they really moving the bodies out that fast?”
“If only the freeways worked as well.”
“Wonder how many Jane Does are in storage?” I said.
“If Tori ever was there, she’s long gone. As her daddy will learn soonenough. What are the odds he’s calling them right now?”
“If she was my daughter, that’s what I’d be doing.”
He sniffed, cleared his throat, scratched the side of his nose. Raised apink, wormy welt that faded as quickly as it had materialized.
“Got a cold?” I said.
“Nah, air’s been itching me, probably some crap blown in by the Santa Susannas…yeah,I’d be hounding them, too.”
 
--- oOo ---
 
Back at his office, he tried the coroner’s office again and asked for arundown on young Caucasian Jane Does in the crypt. The attendant said thecomputer was down, they were short-staffed, a hand search of the records wouldtake a long time.
“Any calls from a guy named Louis Giacomo? Father of a missing girl…well, heprobably will. He’s having a hard time, go easy…yeah, thanks, Turo. Let me askyou something else: What’s the average transfer time to cremation nowadays?Just an estimate, I’m not gonna use it in court. That’s what I thought…when youdo check the inventory, go back a couple of years, okay? Twenties, Caucasian,five five, a hundred twenty. Giacomo, first name Tori.” He spelled it. “Shecould be a blonde or brunette or anything in between. Thanks, man.”
He hung up, swiveled in his chair. “Sixty, seventy days and it’s off to thefurnace.” Spinning back to his phone, he called the PlayHouse again, listenedfor a few seconds, slammed the receiver down. “Last time, it just rang. Thistime I got sultry female voice on tape. The next class—something called‘Spontaneous Ingathering’—is tomorrow night at nine.”
“Nocturnal schedule, like we guessed,” I said. “Sultry, huh?”
“Think Lauren Bacall getting over the flu. Maybe it’s Ms. Dowd. If she’s anactor herself, velvety pipes wouldn’t hurt.”
“Voice-overs are a mainstay for unemployed actors,” I said. “So are coachinggigs, for that matter.”
“Those who can’t do, teach?”
“Entire universities operate on that premise.”
He laughed. “Okay, let’s see what DMV has to say about the golden-throatedMs. Dowd.”
 
Nora Dowd’s DOB made her thirty-six, five two, a hundred and ten pounds,brown and brown. One registered vehicle, a six-month-old, silver Range Rover MKIII. Home address on McCadden Place in Hancock Park.
“Nice neighborhood,” he said.
“Bit of a drive to the school. Hollywood’sjust across Melrose from HancockPark, you’d think a Hollywoodaddress would attract screen-hopefuls.”
“Maybe Dowd got a break on the rent. Or she owns the place. McCadden and herwheels says she’s got bucks.”
“A wealthy dilettante who does it for fun,” I said.
“Hardly a rare bird,” he said. “Let’s see if this one sings.”
 
Wilshire Boulevardnear Museum Mile was disrupted by filming and we sat with the engine idling, anaudience for nothing. Half a dozen triple-sized trailers filled an entireblock. A fleet of carelessly parked smaller vehicles choked an eastbound lane.A squadron of cameramen, sound techs, gaffers, gofers, retired cops, andunionized hangers-on laughed and loafed and stalked the catered buffet. Twolarge men walked past, each carrying a lightweight, folding director’s chair.Stenciled names on the canvas backs that I didn’t recognize.
Public space commandeered with the usual insouciance. The motoring public onWilshire wasn’t happy and tempers flared in the single open lane. I managed toescape onto Detroit Street,hooked a right on Sixth Street,cruised across La Brea. A few blocks later: Highland,the western border of Hancock Park.
The next block was McCadden, wide and peaceful and sunny. A vintage Mercedesrolled out of a driveway. A nanny walked a baby in a navy blue, chrome-platedstroller. Birds swooped and settled and chirped gratitude. Cold winds had beenwhipping the city for a couple of days but the sun had broken through.
Nora Dowd’s address put her half a block south of Beverly. Most of the neighboring residenceswere beautifully maintained Tudors and Spanish revivals set behind brilliantemerald lawns.
Dowd’s was a two-story Craftsman, cream with dark green trim.
Inverse color scheme of her acting school and, like the PlayHouse, girded bya covered porch and shadowed by generous eaves. A low rock wall at the curb wascentered by an open gate of weathered iron grillwork. Splitting the lawn was awide flagstone walkway. Similar old-school landscaping: birds of paradise,camellias, azaleas, fifteen-foot eugenia hedges on both sides of the property,a monumental deodor cedar fringing the double garage.
Barn doors on this garage, too. Nora Dowd’s house was twice the size of herschool but anyone scoring above nine on the Glasgow Coma Scale could see theparallels.
“Consistent in her taste,” I said. “An oasis of stability in this hazy,crazy town.”
“Mr. Hollywood,” he said. “You should write for Variety. ”
“If I wanted to lie for a living, I’d have gone into politics.”
 
This porch was nicely lacquered, decorated with green wicker furniture andpotted ferns. The pots were hand-painted Mexican ceramics and looked antique.The double doors were quarter sawn oak stained dark brown.
Milky white leaded panes comprised the door window. Miloused his knuckles on the oak. The doors were hefty and his hard raps diminishedto feeble clicks. He tried the bell. Dead.
He muttered, “So what else is new?” and stuck his business card in the splitbetween the doors. As we returned to the Seville,he yanked his phone from his pocket as if it were a saddle burr. Nothing toreport on Michaela’s Honda, or Dylan Meserve’s Toyota.
We returned to the car. As I opened the driver’s door, a sound from thehouse turned our heads.
Female voice, low, affectionate, talking to something white and fluffy,cradled to her chest.
She stepped out to the porch, saw us, placed the object of her affection onthe floor. Looked at us some more and walked toward the sidewalk.
The physical dimensions fit Nora Dowd’s DMV stats but her hair was ablue-gray pageboy, the back cut high on the neck. She wore an oversized plumsweater over gray leggings and bright white running shoes.
Bouncy step but she faltered a couple of times.
She gave us a wide berth, started to walk south.
Milo said, “Ms. Dowd?”
She stopped. “Yes?” One single syllable didn’t justify a diagnosis ofsultry, but her voice was low and throaty.
Milo produced another card. Nora Dowd readit, handed it back. “This is about poor Michaela?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Under the shiny gray cap of hair, Nora Dowd’s face was roun............