Gone

CHAPTER 15

The white fluffy thing Nora Dowd had left on her porch was a stuffed toy. Some sort of bichon or Maltese. Flat brown eyes.

Milo picked it up, had a close look. Said, “Oh, man,” and handed it over.

Not a toy. A real dog, stuffed and preserved. The pink ribbon around its neck supported a heart-shaped, silver pendant.

Stan

Birth and death dates. Stan had lived thirteen years.

Blank look on the white fluffy face. Maybe it was the glass eyes. Or the limits of taxidermy.

I said, “Could be Stan as in Stanislavsky. She probably talks to it and takes it with her on walks. Saw us and thought better of it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Eccentric rather than psychotic.”

“I’m so impressed.” He took the dog and put it back on the floor. “Stanislavsky, eh? Let’s method act the hell out of here.”

As we drove past Albert Beamish’s Tudor, the drapes across the living room window fluttered.

Milo said, “Neighborhood crank, love it. Too bad he didn’t recognize Meserve. But with his vision, that means nothing. He sure hates the Dowds.”

I said, “Nora has two brothers who own a lot of property. Ertha Stadlbraun said Peaty’s landlords are a pair of brothers.”

“So she did.”

By the time we reached Sixth Street and La Cienega, he’d confirmed it. William Dowd III, Nora Dowd, and Bradley Dowd, doing business as BNB Properties, owned the apartment building on Guthrie. It took several other calls to get an idea of their holdings. At least forty-three properties registered in L.A. County. Multiple residences and office buildings and the converted house on the Westside where Nora availed herself to would-be stars.

“The school’s probably a concession to Crazy Sister,” he said. “Keeps her out of their hair.”

“And far from their other properties,” I said. “Something else: All those buildings mean lots of janitorial work.”

“Reynold Peaty looking in all kinds of windows…if he’s moved from peeping to violence, lots of potential victims. Yeah, let’s check it out.”

Corporate headquarters for BNB Properties was on Ocean Park Boulevard near the Santa Monica Airport. Not one of the Dowd sibs’ properties, this one was owned by a national real estate syndicate that owned half of downtown.

“Wonder why?” said Milo.

“Maybe some sort of tax dodge,” I said. “Or they held on to what their father left them, didn’t add more.”

“Lazy rich kids? Yeah, makes sense.”

It was four forty-five and the drive at this hour would be brutal. Milo called the listed number, hung up quickly.

“ ‘You’ve reached the office, blah blah blah. If it’s a plumbing emergency, press 1. Electrical, press 2.’ Lazy rich kids are probably drinking at the country club. You up for a try, anyway?”

“Sure,” I said.

Olympic Boulevard seemed the optimal route. The lights are timed and parking restrictions keep all six lanes open during L.A. ’s ever-expanding rush hour. The boulevard was designed back in the forties as a quick way to get from downtown to the beach. People old enough to remember when that promise was kept get teary-eyed.

This afternoon, traffic was moving at twenty miles per. When I stopped at Doheny, Milo said, “The love-triangle angle fits, given Nora’s narcissism and nuttiness. This woman thinks her dog’s precious enough to be turned into a damned mummy.”

“Michaela insisted she and Dylan weren’t lovers.”

“She’d want to keep that from Nora. Maybe from you, too.”

“If so, the hoax was really stupid.”

“Two naked kids,” he said. “The publicity wouldn’t have thrilled Dowd.”

“Especially,” I said, “if she really doesn’t feel that blessed.”

“Never made it to the bottom of the funnel.”

“Never made it, lives alone in a big house, no stable relationships. Needs to smoke up before greeting the world. Maybe clinging to a stuffed dog is just massive insecurity.”

“Playing a role,” he said. “Availing herself. Okay, let’s see if we can tête-à-tête with the rest of this glorious family.”

The site was a two-story strip mall on the northeast corner of Ocean Park and Twenty-eighth, directly opposite the lush, industrial park that fronted Santa Monica ’s private airport. BNB Properties was a door and window on the second floor.

Cheaply built mall, lemon-yellow sprayed-stucco walls stained by rust around the gutters, brown iron railings rimming an open balcony, plastic tile roof pretending to evoke colonial Spain.

The ground floor was a take-out pizza joint, a Thai café and its Mexican counterpart, and a coin-op laundry. BNB’s upstairs neighbors were a chiropractor touting treatment for “workplace injuries,” Zip Technical Assistance, and Sunny Sky Travel, windows festooned by posters in bright, come-on colors.

As we climbed pebble-grained steps, a sleek, white corporate jet shot into the sky.

“ Aspen or Vail or Telluride,” said Milo. “Someone’s having fun.”

“Maybe it’s a business trip and they’re going to Podunk.”

“That tax bracket, everything’s fun. Wonder if the Dowd brothers are in that league. If they are, they’re skimping on ambience.”

He pointed at BNB’s plain brown door. Chipped and gouged and cracking toward the bottom. The corporate signage consisted of six U-stick, silver foil parallelograms aligned carelessly.

BNB inc

A single, aluminum-framed window was blocked by cheap, white mini-blinds. The slats tilted to the left, left a triangle of peep-space. Milo took advantage, shading his eyes with his hands and peering in.

“Looks like one room…and a bathroom with the light on.” He straightened. “Some guy’s in there peeing, let’s give him time to zip up.”

Another plane took off.

“That one’s Aspen for sure,” he said.

“How can you tell?”

“Happy sound from the engines.” He knocked and opened the door.

A man stood by a cheap, wooden desk staring at us. He’d forgotten to zip the fly of his khaki Dockers and a corner of blue shirt peeked out. The shirt was silk, oversized and baggy, a stone-washed texture that had been fashionable a decade ago. The khakis sagged on his skinny frame. No belt. Scuffed brown penny loafers, white socks.

He was short- five five or six- looked to be around fifty, with down-slanted medium brown eyes and curly gray hair cut in a tight Caesar cap. White fuzz on the back of his neck said it was time for a trim. Same for a two-day growth of salt-and-pepper beard. Hollow cheeks, angular features, except for his nose.

Shiny little button that gave his face an elfin cast. Either he’d used the same surgeon as his sister or stingy nasal endowment was a dominant Dowd trait.

Milo said, “Mr. Dowd?”

Shy smile. “I’m Billy.” The badge made him blink. His hand brushed the corner of shirttail and he stiffened. Zipped his fly. “Oops.”

Billy Dowd breathed into his hand. “Need my Altoids…where did I put them?”

Turning four pockets inside out, he produced nothing but lint that landed on thin, gray carpet. A check of his shirt pocket finally located the mints. Popping one in his mouth and chewing, he held out the tin. “Want some?”

“No, thanks, sir.”

Billy Dowd perched on the edge of his desk. Across the room was a larger, more substantial work station: carved oak replica of a rolltop, flat-screen computer monitor, the rest of the components tucked out of view.

Brown walls. The only thing hanging a Humane Society calendar. Trio of tabby kittens staking a claim on ultimate cute.

Billy Dowd chewed another mint. “So…what’s happening?”

“You don’t seem surprised we’re here, Mr. Dowd.”

Billy blinked some more. “It’s not the only time.”

“That you’ve spoken to police?”

“Yup.”

“When were the others?”

Billy’s brow creased. “The second I’d have to say was last year? One of the tenants- we’ve got a lot of tenants, my brother and sister and me, and last year one of them was stealing computer stuff. A policeman from Pasadena came over and talked to us. We said okay, arrest him, he pays late anyway.”

“Did they?”

“Uh-uh. He ran away and escaped. Took the lightbulbs, messed the place up, Brad was not happy. But then we got another tenant pretty soon and he got happy. Real nice people. Insurance agents, Mr. and Mrs. Rose, they pay on time.”

“What was the name of the dishonest tenant?”

“I’d have to say…” Slowly spreading smile. “I’d have to say I don’t know. You can ask my brother, he’ll be here soon.”

“What was the other time the police visited?” said Milo.

“Pardon me?”

“You said the second was last year. When was the first?”

“Oh. Right. The first was long ago, I’d have to say five years, could be even six?”

He waited for confirmation.

I said, “What happened a long time ago?”

“That was different,” he said. “Someone hit someone else in the hallway, so they called the police. Not tenants, two visitors, they got into a fight or something. So what happened this time?”

“A student of your sister’s was murdered and we’re looking into people who knew her.”

The word “murdered” drew Billy Dowd’s hand to his mouth. He held it there and his fingers muffled his voice. “That’s awful!” The hand dropped to his chin, clawed the stubbly surface. Nails gnawed short. “My sister, she’s okay?”

“She’s fine,” said Milo.

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely, sir. The murder didn’t take place at the PlayHouse.”

“Phew.” Billy drew a hand across his brow. “You scared me, I nearly pissed my pants.” He laughed nervously. Looked down at his crotch, verifying continence.

A voice from the doorway said, “What’s going on?”

Billy Dowd said, “Hey, Brad, it’s the police again.”

The man who walked in was half a foot taller than Billy and solidly built. He wore a well-cut navy suit and a yellow shirt with a stiff spread collar, soft brown calfskin loafers.

Mid forties but his hair was snow-white. Dense and straight and clipped short.

Crinkly dark eyes, full lips, square chin, beak nose. Nora and Billy Dowd had been modeled from soft clay. Their brother was hewn from stone.

Bradley Dowd stood next to his brother and buttoned his jacket. “Again?”

“You remember,” said Billy. “That guy, the one who stole computers and took all the lights- what was his name, Brad? Was he Italian?”

“Polish,” said Brad Dowd. He looked at us. “Edgar Grabowski’s back in town?”

“It’s not about him, Brad,” said Billy. “I was just explaining why I was surprised but not totally surprised when they came in here, because it wasn’t the first- ”

“Got it,” said Brad, patting his brother’s shoulder. “What’s up, gentlemen?”

Milo said, “There’s been a murder…one of your sister’s students- ”

“My God, that’s horrible- Nora’s okay?”

Same protective reflex as Billy.

“I already asked him that, Brad. Nora’s good.”

Brad must’ve put some weight on Billy’s shoulder because the smaller man sagged.

“Where did this happen and who exactly did it happen to?”

“ West L.A. The victim’s a young woman named Michaela Brand.”

“The one who faked being kidnapped?” said Brad.

His brother stared up at him. “You never told me about that, Bra- ”

“It was in the news, Bill.” To us: “Did her murder have something to do with that?”

“Any reason it would?” said Milo.

“I’m not saying it did,” said Brad Dowd. “I’m just asking- it’s a natural question, don’t you think? Someone garners publicity, it has the potential to bring out the weirdos.”

“Did Nora talk about the hoax?”

Brad shook his head. “Murdered…terrible.” He frowned. “It must’ve hit Nora hard, I’d better call her.”

“She’s okay,” said Milo. “We just talked to her.”

“You’re sure?”

“Your sister’s fine. We’re here, sir, because we need to talk to anyone who might’ve had contact with Ms. Brand.”

“Of course,” said Brad Dowd. He smiled at his brother. “Billy, would you do me a favor and go down and get a sandwich from DiGiorgio’s- you know how I like it.”

Billy Dowd got off the desk and looked up at his brother. “Peppers, egg, eggplant, and tomato. A lot of pesto or just a medium amount?”

“A lot, bro.”

“You got it, bro. Nice to meet you guys.” Billy hurried off.

When the door closed, Brad Dowd said, “He doesn’t need to hear about this kind of thing. What else can I help you with?”

“Your janitor, Reynold Peaty. Anything to say about him?”

“You’re asking because of his arrests?”

Milo nodded.

“Well,” said Brad, “he was up-front about them when he applied for a job. I gave him points for honesty and he’s been a good worker. Why?”

“Just routine, sir. How’d you find him?”

“Agency. They weren’t up-front about his past, so we dropped them.”

“How long’s he been working for you?”

“Five years.”

“Not that long after his last arrest in Nevada.”

“He said he’d had a drinking problem and had gotten clean and sober. He doesn’t drive, so any DUI problems aren’t going to happen.”

Milo said, “Are you aware of his arrest for peeping through a window?”

“He told me about everything,” said Brad. “Claimed that was also the drinking. And the only time he’d done something like that.” He flexed his shoulders. “Many of our tenants are women and families with children, I’m not naive, keep my eyes out on all the employees. Now that the Megan’s Law database is up and operating, I check it regularly. I assume you do, too, so you know Reynold isn’t on there. Is there some reason you’re asking about him, other than routine?”

“No, sir.”

Brad Dowd inspected his fingertips. Unlike his brother’s, beautifully manicured. “Please be up-front, Detective. Do you have the slightest bit of evidence implicating Reynold? Because he circulates among lots of our buildings and as much as I’d like to trust him, I’d hate to incur any liability. Not to mention the human cost.”

“No evidence,” said Milo.

“You’re sure.”

“That’s the way it looks, so far.”

“So far,” said Brad Dowd. “Not exactly encouraging.”

“There’s no reason to suspect him, sir. If I hear otherwise, I’ll let you know.”

Dowd fiddled with a hand-stitched lapel. “There’s no subtext here, is there, Detective? You’re not suggesting I fire him?”

“I’d prefer that you don’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“No sense stirring things up, Mr. Dowd. If Peaty’s turned his life around, more power to him.”

“That’s how I feel…that poor girl. How was she killed?”

“Strangled and stabbed.”

Dowd winced. “Any idea by who?”

“No, sir. Here’s another routine question: Do you know Dylan Meserve?”

“I’m aware of who he is. Is there any sense asking why he’s part of your routine?”

“He hasn’t been seen for a while and when we tried to talk to your sister about him, she ended the conversation.”

“Nora,” said Brad wearily. His eyes shot to the doorway. “Hey, bro. Smells good, thanks.”

Billy Dowd toted an open cardboard carton, using both hands, as if his cargo was precious. Inside was a hero-sized sandwich wrapped in orange paper. Aromas of tomato paste, oregano, and basil filled the office.

Brad turned so his brother couldn’t see and slipped Milo a yellow business card. Perfect match to his shirt. “Anything I can do to help, Detective. Feel free to call me if you have any further questions- that smells fantastic, Billy. You’re the man.”

“You’re the man,” said Billy gravely.

“You, too, Bill.”

Billy Dowd’s mouth screwed up.

Brad said, “Hey, we can both be the man.” He took the sandwich and cuffed his brother’s shoulder lightly. “Right?”

Billy considered that. “Okay.”