It took six minutes for the jail deputy to return to the phone.
“Yeah, he’s still here.”
“Please have him call me when he gets out. It’s important.”
He asked me for my name and number. Again. Said, “Okay,” but his tone saiddon’t count on it.
An hour later, I tried again. A different deputy said, “Let mecheck—Sturgis? He’s gone.”
 
I finally reached him in his car.
He said, “Vasquez wasted my time. All of a sudden he remembers Peatythreatened him overtly. ‘I’ll mess you up, dude.’”
“Sounds more like something Vasquez would say.”
“Shuldiner’s gonna push a chronic bullying defense. Anyway, I’m finishedwith it, finally able to focus on Nora and Meserve. Still no sign they took anycommercial flight but Angeline Wasserman’s I.D. of the Range Rover can probablyget me some subpoenas for private charter lists. I’m off to file paper. How youfeeling?”
“Is the woman the coroner referred to you named Marcia Peaty?”
“Yeah, why?”
“She’s the Dowds’ cousin, as well.” I told him what I learned from AlbertBeamish.
“The old man actually had something to say. So much for my instincts.”
I said, “The Dowd sibs hire their cousin as a minimum-wage janitor and givehim a former laundry room to live in. Tells you something about theircharacter. The fact that none of them thinks to mention it says more. Have achance to look into the brothers’ private holdings?”
“Not yet, guess I’d better do it. Marcia Peaty never told me she was theircousin as well as Peaty’s.”
“When are you meeting her?”
“An hour. She’s staying at the Roosevelt on Hollywood. I set it up for Musso and Frank,figured I’d at least get a good meal out of it.”
“Family secrets and sand dabs,” I said.
“I was thinking chicken potpie.”
“Sand dabs for me,” I said.
“You’re actually hungry?”
“Starving.”
 
I parked in the gigantic lot behind Musso and Frank. All that land,developers had to be drooling and I imagined the roar of jackhammers. Therestaurant was nearly a century old, impervious to progress and regress. Sofar, so good.
Milo had staked out a corner booth in thesoutheast corner of Musso’s larger room. Twenty-foot ceilings painted a grimbeige you don’t see anymore, green print hunting scenes on the walls, oakpaneling nearly black with age, strong drinks at the bar.
An encyclopedic menu touts what’s now called comfort food but used to bejust food. Some items take time and the management warns you not to beimpatient. Musso might be the last place in L.A. where you can order a slab of spumonifor dessert.
Cheerful green-jacketed busboys circled the cavernous space and filled waterglasses for the half dozen parties enjoying a late lunch. Red-jacketed waiterswho made Albert Beamish seem amiable waited for a chance to enforce theno-substitution rule.
A few booths featured couples looking happily adulterous. A table in themiddle of the room hosted five white-haired men wearing cashmere sweaters andwindbreakers. Familiar but unidentifiable faces; it took a while to figure outwhy.
A quintet of character actors—men who’d populated my childhood TV showswithout ever getting star billing. All of them looked to be pushing a robusteighty. Lots of elbow-bending and laughter. Maybe the bottom of the funnelwasn’t necessary for grace.
Milo was working on a beer. “Computer linesare finally back up. I just had Sean run the property search and guess what:Nothing for Brad, but Billy owns ten acres in Latigo Canyon.A short drive above where Michaela and Meserve pretended to be victims.”
“Oh, my,” I said. “Just land, no house?”
“That’s how it’s registered.”
“Maybe there are no-code shacks on the property,” I said.
“Believe me, I’m gonna find out.” He looked at his Timex.
“Brad’s the dominant one but he doesn’t own any land of his own?”
“Not even the house in Santa Monica Canyon.That’s Billy’s. So’s the duplex in Beverly Hills.”
“Three parcels each for Billy and Nora,” I said. “Nothing for Brad.”
“Could be one of those tax things, Alex. He takes a salary for managing allthe shared buildings, has some IRS reason not to own.”
“On the contrary, property tax is deductible. So are depreciation andexpenses on rentals.”
“Spoken like a true land baron.”
I’d made serious money buying and selling properties during a couple ofbooms. Had opted out of the game because I didn’t like being a landlord, putthe profits in bonds and clipped coupons. Not too smart if net worth was yourgoal. I used to think my goal was serenity. Now, I had no idea.
I said, “Maybe Cousin Marcia can clue us in.”
He tilted his head toward the back of the room. “Yup, being a veterandetective, I’d say that’s her.”
The woman who stood to the right of the bar was six feet tall, forty or so,with curly dishwater hair and a piercing stare. She wore a black crewneck andslacks, carried a cream leather handbag.
Milo said, “She’s checking the premiseslike a cop,” and waved.
She waved back and approached. The purse was printed with a world-map design.A gold crucifix pendant was her only jewelry. Up close, her hair was wiry,combed in a way that obscured half her right eye. The iris and its mate werebright and searching and gray.
Narrow face, sharp nose, outdoor skin. No resemblance I could see to ReynoldPeaty. Or to the Dowds.
“Lieutenant? Marcia Peaty.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Milointroduced me, minus my title.
I pictured Al Beamish scowling.
Marcia Peaty shook our hands and sat. “I remember this place as having greatmartinis.”
“You from L.A.originally?”
“Raised in Downey.My father was a chiropractor, had an office there and right here in Hollywood, on Edgemont. Agood report card used to earn me lunch with him. We always came here, and whenno one was looking, he let me try his martinis. I thought they tasted likeswimming pool acid but never let on. Wanting to be mature, you know?” Shesmiled. “Now I like them all by myself.”
A waiter came over and she ordered the cocktail on the rocks, with olivesand an onion. “My version of salad.”
The waiter said, “Another beer?”
Milo said, “No, thanks.”
“You?”
The memory of Beamish’s single malt leased space in my palate. “Coke.”
The waiter frowned and le............