By the time we made it to the door, Brad Dowd had his dinner unwrapped andwas saying, “This hits the spot, Bill.”
As we climbed down to the strip mall’s first level, Milosaid, “That sandwich smelled good.”
 
We parked near the far west end of the airport. The coffee from Café DiGiorgiowas dark and strong. Milo pushed the seat backas far as it would go and got to work on his meatball and pepper sandwich.
After four ferocious bites, he stopped to breathe. “Looks like ol’ Bradleywatches out for his sibs.”
“Looks like they both bear watching.”
“What’s your diagnosis on Billy?”
“The best word’s probably ‘simple.’”
“And Nora’s a spacey doper.”
“You’re ready to take the state boards,” I said.
He scanned blue sky. No sleek white jets to feed his fantasies. He fishedout Brad Dowd’s yellow business card and handed it over.
Crisp, substantial paper. Bradley Dowd’s name embossed in chocolate italics,above a phone number with an 825 prefix.
“Gentleman’s calling card,” I said. “You don’t see that too often.”
“Once a rich kid, always a rich kid. I’ll call him tonight, find out what hedidn’t want to talk about in front of his brother.”
 
I got home at six, cleared a tapeful of junk messages, listened to one fromRobin that had come in ten minutes ago.
“I could tell you this is about shared grief for our late pooch but it’sreally…a booty call. I guess. Hopefully, you’re the only one listening to this.Please erase it. Bye.”
I called her back. “I erased it.”
“I’m lonely,” she said.
“Me, too.”
“Should we do something about it?”
“I think so.”
“That’s not exactly rabid desire, but I’ll take what I can get.”
 
I was at her house in Veniceby seven. We spent the next hour in bed, the rest of the evening reading thepaper and watching the last third of Humoresque on The Movie Channel.
When the film was over, she got up without a word and left for her studio.
I tried to sleep, didn’t have much success until she returned to bed. I wasup just after seven when western light streaming through her curtains couldn’tbe denied.
She stood naked, by the window, holding a cup of tea. She’d always been acoffee drinker.
I croaked something that approximated “Morning.”
“You dreamed a lot.”
“I was noisy?”
“Active. I’ll get you some coffee.”
“Come back to bed, I’ll get it.”
“No, relax.” She padded out and returned with a mug, stood by the bed.
I drank and cleared my throat. “Thanks. You’re into tea, now?”
“Sometimes.”
“How long have you been awake?”
“Couple of hours.”
“My activity?”
“No, I’ve turned into an early riser.”
“Cows to milk, eggs to collect.”
She smiled, put on a robe, sat on the bed.
I said, “Come back in.”
“No, once I’m up, I’m up.” She forced a smile. I could smell the effort.
“Want me to leave?”
“Of course not,” she said too quickly. “Stay as long as you like. I don’thave much for breakfast.”
“Not hungry,” I said. “You’ve got work to do.”
“Eventually.”
She kissed my forehead, got up, and moved to her closet and began gettingdressed. I went to shower. By the time I was out and dried and dressed, herband saw was humming.
 
I had breakfast at John O’Groats on Pico, going out of my way because I wasin the mood for Irish oatmeal, and the company of strangers seemed like a goodidea. I sat at the counter and read the paper. Nothing on Michaela. No reasonfor there to be.
Back home, I did some paperwork and thought about Nora Dowd’s flat responsesto Milo’s questions.
Not bothering to fake sympathy or interest in Michaela’s murder. The samefor Tori Giacomo’s disappearance.
But Dylan Meserve’s name had pulled out some emotion and Brother Brad didn’twant to talk about Dylan in front of the most vulnerable Dowd sib.
I got on the computer. Nora’s name pulled up a single citation: inclusion ina list of acting workshops listed by city that appeared on a site calledStarHopefuls.com.
I printed the list, called all the West Coast programs, fabricated acasting-director cover story and asked if Tori Giacomo had ever been a student.Mostly, I got confusion. A few times, I got hang-ups, meaning I could use someacting lessons myself.
By noon, I had nothing. Better to stick with what I was getting paid to do.
I finished the report on Dr. Patrick Hauser and took a run down to thenearest mailbox. I was back at my desk, clearing paper, when Milorang the doorbell.
“I called first,” he said.
“Out jogging.”
“I envy your knees.”
“Believe me, don’t. What’s up?”
“Michaela’s landlord promises to be there tomorrow morning, I got subpoenasfor her phone records but my contact at the phone company says I’m wasting mytime. Account was shut off for nonpayment weeks before she died. If she had acell account, I can’t find it. On the positive side, God bless the angels atthe coroner’s.” He stomped in. “Your knees really hurt?”
“Sometimes.”
“If you weren’t my buddy, I’d gloat.”
I followed him into the kitchen. Instead of raiding the fridge he sat downand loosened his tie.
“Michaela’s autopsy was prioritized?” I said.
“Nope, more interesting. My buddies at the crypt looked through the Doefiles, found some possibles and traced one of ’em to a bone analyst doingresearch on identification. Forensic anthropologist on a grant, what she doesis collect samples from various cases and try to classify them ethnically. Inher trove was an intact skull with most of the teeth still embedded. Young,Caucasian female homicide victim found nineteen months ago, the rest of thebody was incinerated six months after discovery. Their forensic odontologistsaid the dentition was distinctive. Lots of cosmetic bridgework, unusual forsomeone that young.”
“Someone trying to look their best. Like an aspiring actress.”
“I got the name of Tori Giacomo’s dentist in Bayside and thanks to the magicof digital photography and e-mail, we had a positive I.D. within the hour.”
“How’s her dad taking it?”
“Don’t know,” he said. “I had no way to reach him here in L.A., so I called his wife. Contrary to whatGiacomo told us, she comes across like a sensible, stable lady. Has beenexpecting the worst for a while.” He slumped. “Prince that I am, I didn’tdisappoint her.”
He got up, filled a glass with water from the tap. “Got any lemon?”
I sliced one, dropped a wedge into his glass.
“Rick says I should keep my kidneys hydrated but plain water tastes likeplain water…anyway, Tori is no longer Jane Doe 342-003. Wish I had the rest ofthe body but she was listed as an unsolved Hollywoodhomicide and the D’s report spelled things out pretty clearly.”
He drank some more, put the glass in the sink.
“She was found four months after she disappeared, dumped in some brush onthe L.A. side of Griffith Park.All that was left were scattered bones. Coroner thought he spotted damage tosome of the cervical vertebrae and there are definitely some relativelysuperficial knife cuts in her sternum and a couple in the thoracic ribs.Tentative cause of death is strangulation/stabbing.”
I said, “Two young, female acting students, similar wounds and Nora Dowddidn’t rule out Tori attending her classes.”
“No answer at Nora’s home or the school. I’ll be at the PlayHouse tonight,mingling with the beautiful people. After I meet with Brad Dowd. He called,apologized for cutting off the conversation, invited me to his house.”
“Eager to talk about Dylan,” I said. “Where does he live?”
“Santa Monica Canyon. Care to join me? I’ll drive.”
 
Bradley Dowd lived on Gumtree Lane, a mile north of Channel Road, just east of where Channeldescends steeply to Pacific Coast Highway.
A darkening sky and a tree canopy brought early night. The air was still andunseasonably warm and no ocean aroma brined the canyon.
Usually it’s ten degrees cooler near the coast. Maybe it’s me, but patternsseem to be shaking up more often.
The house was a one-story redwood and glass box set in a low spot along theleafy road, well back from the street. The wealth of vegetation made it hard tomake out where the property began and ended.
High-end box, with polished-copper trim and a porch supported by carvedbeams. Carefully placed spots illuminated flower beds and luxuriant ferns. Thewooden address plate imbedded in the fieldstone gatepost was hand-painted. Agray or beige Porsche sat in the front of the gravel driveway. Hangingsucculents graced the porch, which was set up with Adirondackchairs.
Brad Dowd stood near one of the chairs, one leg bent so that his shoulderssloped to the right. He wore a T-shirt and cutoffs, held a long-necked bottlein one hand.
“Park right behind me, Detective.”
When we got to the porch, he hoisted the bottle. Corona. The T-shirt said Hobie-Cat. His feetwere bare. Muscular legs, knobby, misshapen knees. “Join me?”
“No, thanks.”
Dowd sat, gave another wave. We repositioned two chairs and faced him.
“Any problem finding me?”
“None,” said Milo. “Thanks for calling.”
Dowd nodded and drank. Crickets chirped. A hint of gardenia blew ............