We took the Seville to Santa Monica Canyon.
No Porsche or any other car in Brad Dowd’s driveway. Lights out in theredwood house, no reply to Milo’s knock.
I joined the traffic crawl on Channel Road, finally made it down to the coast highway,hit moderate flow from Chautauqua to the Colony. Once we got past Pepperdine University, the land yawned andstretched and the road got easy. The ocean was slate. Hungry pelicans dove. Imade it to Kanan Dume Roadwith some sunlight to spare, turned up onto Latigo Canyon.
An assessors’ map of Billy Dowd’s property rested in Milo’slap. Ten acres, no building permits ever issued.
The Seville’sno mountain car and I slowed as the pitch steepened and the turns pinched.Nothing on the road until I neared the spot where Michaela had run acrossscreaming.
An old tan Ford pickup was parked there on the turnoff. An old tan man stoodlooking into the brush.
Plaid shirt, dusty jeans, beer gut hanging over his buckle. Filmy white hairfluffed in the breeze. A long, hooked nose sliced sky.
Smoke seeped from under the truck’s hood.
Milo said, “Pull over.”
 
The old man turned and watched us. His belt buckle was stippled brass, anoversized oval featuring a bas-relief horse head.
“You okay, Mr. Bondurant?”
“Why shouldn’t I be, Mr. Detective?”
“Looks like an over-heat.”
“It always does that. Pinhole leak in the radiator, long as I feed it fasterthan it gets hungry, I’m okay.”
Bondurant shuffled over to the truck, reached in the passenger window, andtook out a yellow plastic jug of antifreeze.
“Liquid diet,” said Milo. “You’re sure theblock won’t crack?”
“You worried about me, Mr. Detective?”
“Protect and serve.”
“Find out anything about the girl?”
“Still working on it, sir.”
Bondurant’s eyes vanished in a mesh of fold and crinkle. “Meaning nothing,huh?”
“Looks like you’ve been thinking about her.”
The old man’s chest swelled. “Who says?”
“This is the spot where you saw her.”
“It’s also a turnoff,” said Bondurant. He hefted the antifreeze. Stared atthe brush. “Naked girl, it’s like one of those stories you tell in the serviceand everyone thinks you’re lyin’.” He licked his lips. “Few years back thatwoulda been something.”
Sucking in his belly, he hitched his jeans. The roll of fat shimmered down,covered the horse’s eyes.
Milo said, “Know your neighbors?”
“Don’t got any real ones.”
“No neighborhood spirit around here?”
“Let me tell you how it’s like,” said Charley Bondurant. “This used to behorse land. My grandfather raised Arabians and some Tennessee walkers—anything you could sell torich folk. Some of the Arabians made it to Santa Anita and Hollywood Park,a couple of ’em placed. Everyone who lived here was into horses, you couldsmell the shit miles away. Now it’s just rich folk who don’t give a damn aboutanything. They buy up the land for investment, drive up on Sunday, stare for acoupla minutes, don’t know what the hell to do with themselves, and go backhome.”
“Rich folk like Brad Dowd?”
“Who?”
“White-haired fellow, mid-forties, drives all kinds of fancy cars.”
“Oh, yeah, him,” said Bondurant. “Guns those things too damn fast comingdown the mountain. Exactly what I mean. Wearing those Hawaiian shirts.”
“He here often?”
“Once in a while. All I see is the damn cars speeding by. Lots of ragtops,that’s how I know about the shirts.”
“He ever stop to talk?”
“You didn’t hear me?” said Bondurant. “He speeds by.” A gnarled hand slashedthe air.
“How often is once in a while?” said Milo.
Bondurant half turned. His hawk-nose aimed at us. “You want a count?”
“If you’ve got charts and graphs, I’ll take them, Mr. Bondurant.”
The old man completed the turn. “He’s the one who killed her?”
“Don’t know.”
“But you’re thinking he could be.”
Milo said nothing.
Bondurant said, “You’re a quiet guy, except when you want something from me.Let me tell you, government never did much for the Bondurant family. We hadproblems, no help from the government.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Coyote problems, gopher problems, draught problems, prowling hippieproblems. Damned mourning cloak butterfly problems—I say ‘butterfly,’ you thinkcute ’cause you’re a city boy. I think problem. One summer they swarmed us,laid their eggs in the trees, destroyed half a dozen elms, nearly polished offa sixty-foot weeping willow. Know what we did? We DDT’ed ’em.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “That ain’t legal. You ask thegovernment can I DDT, nope, against the law. You say what should I do toprotect my elm trees, they say figure something out.”
“Butterfly homicide’s not my thing,” said Milo.
“Caterpillars all over the place, pretty fast-moving for what they were,”said Bondurant. “I had fun stepping on ’em. The car guy kill the girl?”
“He’s what we call a person of interest. That’s government double-talk forI’m not gonna tell you more.”
Bondurant allowed himself half a smile.
Milo said, “When’s the last time you sawhim?”
“Maybe a couple of weeks ago. That don’t mean nothing. I’m asleep by eightthirty, someone’s driving past I ain’t gonna see it or hear it.”
“Ever notice anyone with him?”
“Nope.”
“Ever see anyone else go to that property?”
“Why would I?” said Bondurant. “It’s above me a good mile and a half. Idon’t go prowling around. Even when Walter Maclntyre owned the land I neverwent up there because everyone knew Walt was nuts and excitable.”
“How so?”
“I’m talking years ago, Mr. Detective.”
“Always interested in learning.”
“Walter Maclntyre didn’t kill no girl, he’s been dead thirty years. The carguy must’ve bought the land from Walte............