Gone

by Jonathan Kellerman

  She smiled at us, said, “Hold on a sec,” to the hands-free mouthpiece. I went over to the rack, found what I was looking for.

  Turneffe Island, Belize; Posada La Mandragora, Buzios, Brazil; Hotel Monasterio, Tapir Lodge, Pelican’s Pouch. Housed in adjacent compartments.

  “Can I help you guys?”

  “Your neighbor a few doors down, Mr. Bradley Dowd,” said Milo, flashing the badge. “How well do you know him?”

  “The real estate guy? Did he do something?”

  “His name came up in an investigation.”

  “White-collar crime?”

  “He make you uneasy?”

  “No, I don’t know him, he’s hardly ever at his office. He just seems like a white-collar guy. If he did something.”

  Dark eyes sharpened with curiosity.

  Milo said, “Does he come to his office by himself?”

  “Usually with another guy, I think it’s his brother ’cause he seems to be looking after him. Even though the other guy looks older. Sometimes he leaves him there by himself. He’s kind of...you know, not quite right. The other guy.”

  “Billy.”

  “Don’t know his name.” She frowned.

  “Has he bothered you?”

  “Not really. Once I was here and the air-conditioning wasn’t working so I had the door open. He came in, said ‘Hi,’ and just stood there. I said ‘Hi’ back and asked if he was thinking of taking a trip. He blushed, said he wished, and left. Only times I saw him after that was downstairs at the Italian place, getting food for his brother. When he saw me he got real embarrassed, like he’d been caught doing something naughty. I tried to make a little conversation but it was hard for him. That’s when I realized he wasn’t normal.”

  “How so?”

  “Kind of retarded? You can’t tell by looking, he looks like a regular guy.”

  “Has Brad ever come in here?”

  “Also just once, a couple of weeks ago. He introduced himself, real friendly, maybe too much, you know?”

  “Slick?”

  “Exactly. He told me he was thinking of taking a vacation in Latin America and wanted information. I offered to sit down with him and discuss choices but he said he’d start with those.” Pointing to the rack. “He grabbed a handful but I never heard back. Did he leave the country or something?”

  “Why would you ask that?” said Milo.

  “The places we book,” she said. “In the movies they always have bad guys running to Brazil. Everyone thinks there’s no extradition treaty. Trust me, anywhere without a treaty you wouldn’t want to vacation.”

  “I’ll bet. Anything else you want to tell us about him?”

  “Can’t think of any.”

  “Okay, thanks.” He leaned over her desk. “We’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention we were here asking about him.”

  “Of course not,” said Lourdes Texeiros. “Should I be scared of him?”

  Milo looked at her. Took in the black curls. “Not at all.”

  * * *

  “Another misdirection,” I said as we descended the stairs. “Wanting us to think Nora traveled with Meserve. Either because he’s protecting her or he made her and Meserve disappear. I’m betting on door number two.”

  “All these years he takes care of a coupla mopes who just happen to be members of the Lucky Sperm Club. Why change all that now?”

  “Nora had always deferred to him. Maybe that changed.”

  “Meserve shows up,” he said.

  “And captures her affections,” I said. “Another self-styled player, good-looking, ambitious, manipulative. Younger than Brad, but not unlike him. Could be that’s what attracted Nora to him in the first place. Whatever the reason, she wasn’t giving him up the way she had the others.”

  “Meserve worms his way into her affections and her pocketbook.”

  “Deep-pocketbook. Brad’s got nominal power but he serves at the discretion of the estate. Nora’s a ditz but it would be hard to claim she’s not of sound mind, legally. If she demanded control over her own assets, it would pose a major complication for Brad. If she convinced Billy to do the same, it would be a disaster.”

  “Bye-bye, façade.”

  “Banished when he’s of no further use,” I said. “Just like when he was a kid.”

  We walked in silence to the cars.

  He said, “Michaela and Tori and the Gaidelases and Lord knows how many others get done for blood-lust and Nora and Meserve get done for money?”

  “Or a mixture of blood-lust and money.”

  He considered that. “Nothing new about that, I guess. Rick’s relatives didn’t just lose their lives in the Holocaust. Their homes and their businesses and all their other possessions got confiscated.”

  “Take it all,” I said. “The ultimate trophy.”

  CHAPTER 41

  We took the Seville to Santa Monica Canyon.

  No Porsche or any other car in Brad Dowd’s driveway. Lights out in the redwood 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 and stretched and the road got easy. The ocean was slate. Hungry pelicans dove. I made it to Kanan Dume Road with some sunlight to spare, turned up onto Latigo Canyon.

  An assessors’ map of Billy Dowd’s property rested in Milo’s lap. Ten acres, no building permits ever issued.

  The Seville’s no 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 across screaming.

  An old tan Ford pickup was parked there on the turnoff. An old tan man stood looking into the brush.

  Plaid shirt, dusty jeans, beer gut hanging over his buckle. Filmy white hair fluffed 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, an oversized 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 faster than it gets hungry, I’m okay.”

  Bondurant shuffled over to the truck, reached in the passenger window, and took out a yellow plastic jug of antifreeze.

  “Liquid diet,” said Milo. “You’re sure the block 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 at the brush. “Naked girl, it’s like one of those stories you tell in the service and everyone thinks you’re lyin’.” He licked his lips. “Few years back that woulda 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 be horse land. My grandfather raised Arabians and some Tennessee walkers— anything you could sell to rich 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 could smell the shit miles away. Now it’s just rich folk who don’t give a damn about anything. They buy up
the land for investment, drive up on Sunday, stare for a coupla minutes, don’t know what the hell to do with themselves, and go back home.”

  “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 coming down 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 slashed the 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 had problems, no help from the government.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “Coyote problems, gopher problems, draught problems, prowling hippie problems. Damned mourning cloak butterfly problems— I say ‘butterfly,’ you think cute ’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 off a 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 the government can I DDT, nope, against the law. You say what should I do to protect 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 for I’m not gonna tell you more.”

  Bondurant allowed himself half a smile.

  Milo said, “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “Maybe a couple of weeks ago. That don’t mean nothing. I’m asleep by eight thirty, 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. I don’t go prowling around. Even when Walter Maclntyre owned the land I never went 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 car guy must’ve bought the land from Walter’s son, who’s a dentist. Walter was also a dentist, big practice in Santa Monica, he bought the land back in the fifties. First city folk to buy. My father said, ‘Watch and see what happens,’ and he was right. Walter started off like he was gonna fit in. Built this huge horse barn but never put no horses in it. Every weekend he’d be up here, driving a truck, but no one could figure out why. Probably staring at the ocean and talking to himself about the Russians.”

  “What Russians?”

  “The ones from Russia,” said Bondurant. “Communists. That’s what Walter was nuts about. Convinced himself any minute they were gonna come swarming over and make us all potato-eatin’ communists. My father had no use for communists but he said Walter took it too far. A little you-know-what.” A finger rotated near his left ear.

  “Obsessive.”

  “You want to use that word, fine.” Bondurant hitched his jeans again and returned to his truck on bandy legs. He put the antifreeze back on the passenger seat, slapped the palm of his hand on the hood. The smoke had reduced to occasional wisps.

  He said, “Ready to go. Hope you find whoever killed that girl. Beautiful thing, damn shame.”

  * * *

  The entrance to the property was unmarked. I overshot and had to travel half a mile to find a spot wide enough for a U-turn. As is, my tires were inches from blue space and I could feel Milo’s tension.

  I coasted back slowly as he squinted at the plot map. Finally, he spotted the opening— ungated and shaded by twisting sycamores. Hard-pack dirt ramping high above the canyon.

  Two S-turns and the surface converted to asphalt, continued to climb.

  “Keep it slow,” said Milo. Doing the cop-laser thing with his eyes. Nothing to see but dense walls of oak and more sycamores, a skimpy triangle of light on the horizon suggesting an end point.

  Then, two acres in, the land flattened to a mesa curtained by mountains and canopied by a cumulus-flecked sky. Uncultivated acres had given way to bunchgrass, coastal sage, yellow mustard, a few struggling loner oaks in the distance. The asphalt drive cut through the meadow, straight and black as a draftsman’s line. Three-quarters of the way to the back of the property stood a massive barn. Flanks of redwood board silvered by time. Dour slab-face unbroken by windows, shingle roof wind-blunted at the corners. A ludicrously small front door.

  Cool air carried some of the mustard tang our way.

  Milo said, “No building permits issued.”

  “Folks round these parts don’t truck with no guv-ment.”

  * * *

  Nowhere to conceal the Seville completely. I left it parked off the asphalt, partially hidden by tree boughs, and we walked. Milo’s hand dangled over his jacket.

  When we were fifty feet away, the building’s dimensions asserted themselves. Three stories high, a couple hundred feet wide.

  He said, “Thing that size but the door’s too small to get a car through. Wait here while I check the back.”

  He took out his gun, sidled around the barn’s north side, was gone a few minutes, returned with the weapon reholstered. “Show-and-tell time.”

  * * *

  Double rear doors, ten feet high, were wide enough for a flatbed to drive through. Clean, oiled hinges looked freshly installed. A generator large enough to power a trailer park chugged. Behind us some kind of bird trilled but didn’t show itself. Tire tracks scored the dirt, a frenzy of tread marks, too many to make sense of.

  Near the right-hand door a padlock lay on the dirt.

  I said, “You found it that way?”

  “That’s the official story.”

  The barn had no hayloft. Just a three-story cavity, cathedral-sized, vaulted by stout, weathered rafters, walls tacked with white drywall. Dust filters like the one we’d seen in the PlayHouse garage whirred every twenty feet or so. An antique gravity gas pump stood to the right of an immaculate worktable. Shiny tools in a punchboard rack, chamois cloths folded into neat squares, tins of paste wax, chrome polish, saddle soap.

  A flagstone spine wide enough for a four-horse march ran up the center of the room. Both sides were lined with what Dr. Walter Maclntyre had conceived as horse stalls.

  The doors were gone and the concrete floors were swept clean. Each compartment held a gas-eating steed.

  Milo and I walked up the flagstone. He looked into each car, placed his hand on the hoods.

  A quartet of Corvettes. Two bathtub Porsches, one with a racing number on its door. Brad Dowd’s newer silver roadster, a black Jaguar D-Type, lurked like a weapon, unmindful of the cream Packard Clipper towering snobbishly in the next stall.

  Slot after slot, filled with lacquered, chromed sculpture. Red Ferrari Daytona, the monstrous baby-blue ’59 Caddy Brad had driven to Nora’s house, silver AC Cobra, bronze GTO.

  Every hood cold.

  Mi
lo straightened from the deep bend it took to inspect a yellow Pantera. Walked to the far wall and surveyed the collection. “A boy and his hobbies.”