Armando Vasquez losing patience and slamming down the phone.
I said, “Stolen from who?”
“Don’t know yet, but it happened the same day the call came in. Keep going.”
Under the five calls was the doodle of an amoebic blob filled with crosses. Then something Milo had underlined so hard he’d torn paper.
Final call. 10:23 p.m. Forty-two seconds long.
Despite Vasquez’s anger, something had managed to hold his interest.
Different caller, 805 area code.
Milo reached over and took the page, shredded it meticulously, and dropped it in his trash basket. “You have never seen that. You will see it once the goddamn subpoena that is now goddamn necessary produces legit evidence.”
“Ventura County,” I said. “Maybe Camarillo?”
“Not maybe, for sure. My man Lawrence says a pay phone in Camarillo.”
“Near the outlets?”
“He wasn’t able to be that precise, but we’ll find out. Now I’ve got a possible link to the Gaidelases. Which should make you happy. All along, you never saw Peaty for them. So what’re we talking about, an 805-based killer who prowls the coast and I’ve gotta start from scratch?”
“Only if the Gaidelases are victims,” I said.
“As opposed to?”
“The sheriffs thought the facts pointed to a willful disappearance and maybe they were right. Armando told his wife the whispering made it impossible to identify the sex of the caller. If it’s amateur theater we’re talking about, Cathy Gaidelas could be a candidate.”
His jaws bunched. He scooted forward on his chair, inches from my face. I thanked God we were friends.
“All of a sudden the Gaidelases have gone from victims to psycho murderers?”
“It solves several problems,” I said. “No bodies recovered and the rental car was left in Camarillo because the Gaidelases ditched it, just as the company assumed. Who better to cancel credit cards than the legitimate owners? And to know which utilities to call back in Ohio?”
“Nice couple hiding out in Ventura County and venturing into L.A. to commit nasty? For starts, why would they home-base out there?”
“Proximity to the ocean and you don’t have to be a millionaire. There are still places in Oxnard with low-rent housing.”
He yanked his forelock up and stretched his brow tight. “Where the hell did all this come from, Alex?”
“My twisted mind,” I said. “But think about it: The only reason we’ve considered the Gaidelases a nice couple is because Cathy’s sister described them that way. But Susan Palmer also talked about an antisocial side— drug use, years of mooching off the family. Cathy married a man people suspect is gay. There’s some complexity there.”
“What I’m hearing is minor league complexity. What’s their motive for turning homicidal?”
“How about extreme frustration coming to a head? We’re talking two middle-aged people who’ve never achieved much on their own. They make the big move to L.A., delusional like thousands of other wannabes. Their age and looks make it even chancier but they take a methodical approach: acting lessons. Maybe they were rejected by other coaches and Nora was their last chance. What if she turned them away in less-than-diplomatic terms? Charlie Manson didn’t take well to hearing he wasn’t going to be a rock star.”
“This is about revenge on Nora?” he said.
“Revenge on her and the symbols of youth and beauty she surrounded herself with.”
“Tori Giacomo got killed before the Gaidelases disappeared.”
“That wouldn’t have stopped the Gaidelases from having contact with her. If not at the PlayHouse, at work. Maybe she served them a lobster dinner and that’s how they learned about the PlayHouse.”
“They do Tori, then wait nearly two years to do Michaela? That’s a dish gone way cold, Alex.”
“That’s assuming no other students at the PlayHouse have gone missing.”
He sighed.
I said, “The hoax could’ve served as some kind of catalyst. Nora’s name in the paper. Michaela’s and Dylan’s, too. Not to mention Latigo Canyon. I could be totally off base, but I don’t think the 805 link can be overlooked. And neither can Armando Vasquez’s story.”
He stood, stretched, sat back down, buried his face in his hands for a while and looked up, bleary-eyed. “Creative, Alex. Fanciful, inventive, impressively outside the goddamn box. The problem it doesn’t solve is Peaty. A definite bad guy with access to all of the victims and a rape kit in his van. If the Gaidelases were chasing stardom, why would they have anything to do with a loser like him, let alone set him up to be shot? And how the hell would they know to prime the pump by phoning Vasquez?”
I thought about that. “It’s possible the Gaidelases met Peaty at the PlayHouse and some bonding took place— outsiders commiserating.”
“That’s a helluva lot going on during a failed audition. Assuming the Gaidelases were ever at the PlayHouse.”
“Maybe Nora kept them waiting for a long time then dismissed them unceremoniously. If they did bond with Peaty, they could’ve had opportunity to visit his apartment and pick up on tension in the building. Or Peaty talked about his dislike for Vasquez.”
“Ertha Stadlbraun said Peaty never had visitors.”
“Ertha Stadlbraun goes to sleep by eleven,” I said. “Be interesting to know if anyone at the apartment recognizes the Gaidelases’ photos.”
He stared at me.
“Peaty, Andy, and Cathy. And let’s toss in Billy Dowd, because we’re feeling generous. What, some kind of misfit club?”
“Look at all those schoolyard shootings committed by outsiders.”
“Oh, Lord,” he said. “Before I get sucked into this vortex of fantasy, I need to do some boring old police work. As in pinpointing the phone booth and trying to pull some prints. As in keep searching for any troves Peaty might’ve stashed God knows where. As in...let’s not shmooze any more, okay? My head’s splitting like a luau coconut.”
Yanking his tie loose, he hauled himself up, crossed the tiny office, and threw back the door. It hit the wall, chunked out a disk of plaster, bounced a couple of times.
My ears were still ringing when he stuck his head in, seconds later. “Where can I find one of those amino-acid concoctions that makes you smarter?”
“They don’t work,” I said.
“Thanks for your input.”
CHAPTER 30
The Brazilian rosewood door of Erica Weiss’s law firm should’ve been used for guitar backs. Twenty-six partners were listed in efficient pewter. Weiss’s was near the top.
She kept me waiting for twenty minutes but came out to greet me personally. Late thirties, silver-haired, blue-eyed, statuesque in charcoal Armani and coral jewelry.
“Sorry for the delay, Doctor. I was willing to come to you.”
“No problem.”
“Coffee?”
“Black would be fine.”
“Cookies? One of our paras whipped up some chocolate chips this morning. Cliff’s a great baker.”
“No, thanks.”
“Coming up with black coffee.” She crossed a field of soft, navy carpet to an entry square of hardwood. Her exit was a castanet solo of stiletto heels.
Her lair was a bright, cool, corner space on the eighth floor of a high-rise on Wilshire, just east of Rossmore in Hancock Park. Gray felt walls, Macassar ebony deco revival furniture, chrome and black leather chair that matched the finish of her computer monitor. Stanford law degree tucked in a corner where it was sure to be noticed.
A coffin-shaped rosewood conference table had been set up with four black club chairs on wheels. I took the head seat. Maybe it was meant for Erica Weiss; she could always tell me that.
An eastern wall of glass showcased a view of Koreatown and the distant gloss of downtown. To the west, out of sight, was Nora Dowd’s house on McCadden.
Weiss returned with a blue mug bearing the law firm’s name and logo in gold l
eaf. The icon was a helmet over a wreath filled with Latin script. Something to do with honor and loyalty. The coffee was strong and bitter.
She looked at the head chair for a second, settled to my right with no comment. A Filipina carrying a court-reporter’s stenotype machine entered, followed by a young spike-haired man in a loose-fitting green suit who Weiss introduced as Cliff. “He’ll be witnessing your oath. Ready, Doctor?”
“Sure.”
She put on reading glasses and read a file while I sipped coffee. Then off came the specs, her face got tight, and the blue in her eyes turned to steel.
“First of all,” she said and the change in her voice made me put my cup down. She concentrated on the top of my head, as if something odd had sprouted there. Pointing a finger, she turned “Doctor” into something unsavory.
For the next half hour, I fielded questions, all delivered in a strident rhythm dripping with insinuation. Scores of questions, many taking Patrick Hauser’s point of view. No letup; Erica Weiss seemed to be able to speak without breathing.
Just as suddenly, she said, “Finished.” Big smile. “Sorry if I was a little curt, Doctor, but I consider depositions rehearsals and I like my witnesses prepared for court.”
“You think it’ll come to that?”
“I’d bet against it, but I don’t bet anymore.” She peeled back a cuff and studied a sapphire-ringed Lady Rolex. “In either event, you’ll be ready. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an appointment.”
Ten-minute ride to McCadden Place.
Still no Range Rover but the driveway wasn’t empty.
A yacht-sized, baby-blue ’59 Cadillac convertible hogged the space. Gleaming wire wheels, white top folded down, tailfins that should’ve been registered as lethal weapons. Old black-and-yellow plates bore a classic car designation.
Brad and Billy Dowd stood next to the car, their backs to me. Brad wore a light brown linen suit and gestured with his right hand. His left arm rested on Billy’s shoulder. Billy wore the same blue shirt and baggy Dockers. Half a foot shorter than his brother. But for his gray hair, the two of them could’ve passed for father and son.
Dad talking, son listening.
The sound of my engine cutting made Brad look over his shoulder. A second later, Billy aped him.
By the time I got out, both brothers were facing me. The polo shirt under Brad’s jacket was aquamarine pique. On his feet were perforated, peanut-butter-colored Italian sandals. Cloudy day but he’d dressed for a beachside power lunch. His white hair was ragged and he looked tense. Billy’s face was blank. A grease stain rorschached the front of his pants.
He greeted me first. “Hi, Detective.”
“How’s it going, Billy?”
“Bad. Nora’s nowhere and we’re scared.”
Brad said, “More worried than scared, Bill.”
“You said— ”
“Remember the brochures, Bill? What did I tell you?”
“Be positive,” said Billy.
“Exactly.”
I said, “Brochures?”
Billy pointed at the house. “Brad went in there again.”
Brad said, “First time was superficial. This time I opened some drawers, found travel brochures in my sister’s nightstand. Nothing seems out of place except maybe some extra space in her clothes closet.”
“Packed to go,” I said.
“I hope that’s it.”
“What kind of brochures?” I said.
“Places in Latin America. Want to see them?”
“Please.”
He jogged to the Caddy and brought back a stack of glossies.
Pelican’s Pouch, Southwater Caye, Belize; Turneffe Island, Belize; Posada La Mandragora, Buzios, Brazil; Hotel Monasterio, Cusco, Peru; Tapir Lodge, Ecuador.
“Looks like vacation plans,” I said.
“Still, you’d think she’d tell us,” said Brad. “I was going to call you to see if you found any flights she took.”
Nora’s passport hadn’t been used.
I said, “Nothing so far but still checking. Does Nora ever fly privately?”
“No. Why?”
“Covering all bases.”
“We’ve talked about doing that,” said Brad. “Mostly, I’ve talked about it. Being so close to Santa Monica Airport, you see those beauties take off and it looks real inviting.”
Same thing Milo had said. For the Dowds it could be more than fantasy.
I said, “What did Nora think?”
“She was ready to do a time share. But once I found out the cost, I said forget it. The cool thing would be owning my own plane but that was never an option.”
“How come?”
“We’re not close to that financial league, Detective.”
“Did Nora agree with that assessment?”
Brad smiled. “Nora isn’t much for budgeting. Would she charter something on her own? I suppose it’s possible. But she’d have to get the money from me.”
“She doesn’t have her own funds?”
“She has a checking account for day to day, but for serious money she comes to me. It works out better for all of us.”
Billy’s eyes rose to the sky. “I never get to go anywhere.”
“Come on, Bill,” said Brad. “We flew to San Francisco.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“It was two years ago.”
“That’s a long time.” Billy’s eyes got dreamy. One hand dropped toward his crotch. Brad cleared his throat and Billy jammed the hand in his pocket.
I turned back to Brad. “It’s not in character for Nora to take off without telling you?”
“Nora does her own thing on a limited level, but she’s never traveled for any length of time without letting me know.”
“Those trips to Paris.”
“Exactly.” Brad glanced at the brochures. “I was going to contact those resorts, but if you want to do it, you can keep the information.”
“Will do.”
He rubbed the corner of one eye. “Maybe Nora will waltz in tomorrow with a— I was going to say with a terrific tan, but Nora doesn’t like the sun.”
I waved the brochures. “These are all sunny spots.”
Brad glanced at Billy. Billy’s eyes were still aimed at the sky. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation, Detective. Just wish I...anyway, thanks for stopping by. If you learn anything, please let me know.”
“There’s something you should know,” I said. “Reynold Peaty was murdered last night.”
Brad gasped. “What! That’s crazy!”
Billy froze. Stayed that way but his eyes locked into mine. Nothing absent about his gaze now.
Brad said, “Billy?”
Bill continued to stare at me. Pointed a finger. “You just said something terrible.”
“I’m sorry— ”
“Reyn got murdered?” Billy’s hands balled. “No way!”
Brad touched his arm but Billy shook him off and ran to the center of Nora’s lawn, where he began punching his thighs.
Brad hurried over, talked in his brother’s ear. Billy shook his head violently and walked several feet away. Brad followed, talking nonstop. Billy stepped away again. Brad persisted through a series of Billy’s head shakes and grimaces. Finally, Billy allowed himself to be ushered back. Flared nostrils doubled the width of his pug nose. Thick white spittle flecked his lips.
“Who killed Reyn?” he demanded.
“A neighbor,” I said. “They had an argument and— ”
“A neighbor?” said Brad. “One of our tenants? Who?”
“A man named Armando Vasquez.”
“That one. Shit, right from the get-go I had a bad feeling about him, but his application was in order and nowadays you can’t turn down a tenant based on intuition.” He tugged at a lapel. “Jesus. What happened?”
“What worried you about Vasquez?”
“He seemed like...you know, the cholo thing.”
“Where is he, Brad?”
said Billy. “I wanna kill him back.”
“Shh! An argument? How’d it get from talking to murdering?”
“Hard to say.”
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