Gone (41 page)

He sighed. “All those pretty folk auditioning, having no idea what the part really was.”

“Any luck identifying the other girls?”

“Not yet. No other male bodies show up yet, but I’m not counting on this being the end of it. There’s still a dozen BNB properties we haven’t looked at and the backhoes have only dug up a corner of the property. How do you see the hoax figuring in?”

“Theater of the cruel. Nora and Brad hatched it up for fun, convinced Dylan Meserve he was a coconspirator. But he was a human chess piece.”

“Think he knew what was in store for Michaela?”

“Have you found any indication that he was aware of the other victims?”

“Not so far,” he said. “But the way he had Michaela pretend to choke him, that coulda been foreshadowing her fate, right?”

“Or he had his own kinks,” I said. “We’ll probably never find out unless some kind of diary shows up. Or Brad or Nora start talking.”

“So far, they’re both dummying up,” he said. “I got Brad on suicide watch, like you suggested. Jail guard said Brad thought that was funny.”

“Maintaining the facade,” I said. “Once it crumbles, he’ll have nothing left.”

“You’re the shrink… back to the hoax. Nora wink-winks at Meserve, pretends to be outraged and kicks Michaela out of class. Why?”

“My bet’s still on setting Michaela up for Brad’s ‘rescue.’ She was broke, unemployed, hungry for attention, frustrated career-wise. If Brad just happened to drive by in one of his shiny cars and struck up a conversation, it could’ve seemed like providence. She already knew his face from the PlayHouse so there wouldn’t be any stranger anxiety. And Brad’s connection to Nora would’ve made Michaela eager to hook up with him.”

“Trying to get back in Nora’s good graces.”

“Or he might’ve told her he had his own connections, could help her career. Same for Tori. Same for all of them.”

“Seduction instead of abduction,” he said. “Nice dinner, good wine, come up and enjoy the sunset at my Malibu place. Wonder how Michaela felt when she saw he was taking her back to Latigo Canyon.”

“If he’d built up trust by wining and dining her, it could’ve kept her anxiety in check. Or he took her somewhere else first and restrained her.”

“If he’s got another chamber of horrors, it hasn’t turned up yet. One thing’s for sure: Nothing went on at his house or Nora’s. Not a speck of nasty at either.”

I said, “Why sully the home front when you’ve got a special place set aside for your hobbies. These people are all about splitting.”

“Speaking of hobbies, any theory about why Meserve and the Gaidelases were the only specimens they preserved?”

“The neck wound says they thought of preserving Michaela,” I said. “Went so far as to insert a cannula in her neck then changed their minds. No way to get inside their heads, but the Gaidelases and Meserve fit some kind of fantasy. If I could finish the file—”

“There’s nothing in there about the past, Alex. Just more ugly. I’m stuck with this, but you’re not. Go home and forget about all of it.”

I said, “Any luck decoding the scrambled disk?”

He ran his tongue over cracked, dry lips, scratched his scalp, rubbed his face. He’d shaved carelessly and a patch of white fur ran along his jaw. His eyes were hooded and weary. “You’ve developed a hearing problem?”

I repeated the question.

“You never let go,” he said.

“That’s why you pay me the big bucks.”

“The disk is decoded and loaded in Room Four. I’ve been watching it for the last hour. Hence, my sage advice about going home.”

“No sense postponing the inevitable,” I said.

“What’s inevitable?”

“I was at the scene when you found the shelter. Someone’s going to subpoena me. Either the D.A. or Stavros Menas.”

“Both Dowds
tried
to hire Menas but Nora got him and she wasn’t feeling sisterly. Brad’s looking for new representation.”

“Money talks and she’s got the mike.”

“Minus the millions Brad skimmed,” he said. “Most of which seems to have gone into the car collection and a little island he bought off the coast of Belize two months ago. And one more luxury purchase, three weeks ago: jet card for a Gulfstream V, twenty-five hours. That’s three hundred fifty grand for a plane with international range. Wanna take bets on there being an offshore bank account somewhere south of the equator? The estate lawyers who appointed him trustee are gobbling Prilosec and the new court-appointed lawyers are licking their chops. We’re talking years of litigation, there goes the rest of the estate.”

I said, “Planning his escape, those brochures were for real. Then he got clever and planted them in Nora’s nightstand.”

“Too clever,” he said. “Sitting in that Range Rover, using Billy’s land. Dutiful caretaker of his sibs, meanwhile he’s screwing them, literally and financially. Think he was planning to take Nora with him or go it alone?”

“Unless she knew about the island I’d say alone. Is anyone protecting Billy’s interests?”

“The court-appointed lawyers claim to be.”

“I finally got permission to see him yesterday, drove out to Riverside.”

“How’s the place they put him in?”

“Grim,” I said. “Assisted care facility, a hundred Alzheimer’s patients and Billy.”

“Learn anything?”

“He’s in shock and disoriented. I got about three minutes before the attorney-on-premises ended it.”

“Why?”

“Billy started crying.”

“Because of you?”

“That was learned counsel’s opinion,” I said. “Mine was that Billy has lots to cry about and not letting him express it will only make matters worse. I told learned counsel Billy needs a full-time therapist, I wasn’t volunteering for the job, only suggesting he find someone. He begged to differ. When I got back, I phoned the judge who wrote the placement order. Haven’t heard from her yet but I’m thinking of other judges who might be willing to help.”

“You see Billy as totally clean?” he said.

“Unless you find something more ominous at his duplex than
Star Wars
action figures and Disney videos.”

He shook his head. “Like a kid’s place. Boxes of sugar cereal, bottles of chocolate milk.”

I said. “Being a kid’s hard enough. Being neither boy nor man is something else. Any sign of Billy’s allowance money?”

“Nope, just coins in a piggy bank. Some of the pennies date back to the sixties.”

“Fifteen hundred a month and all he spent on was pizza and Thai food and rental movies. It explains Reynold Peaty’s drop-ins. He pretended to be Billy’s friend, had his way with the cash.”

“Makes sense,” he said. “Except no money showed up in Peaty’s dive.”

“A guy like Peaty would have ways to spend it,” I said. “Or, if his relationship with Brad went beyond janitor and boss, maybe the money found its way back to Cuz. Then Cuz set him up to die.”

He frowned. A muscle just below his left eye jumped.

I said, “What?”

“What a family.” He found a stale cigar in a drawer, rolled it, and bit off the end. Spat it into his wastebasket.

“Two points.” I stood and walked to the door. “Time to view the disk.”

He stayed put. “It’s really a bad idea, Alex.”

“I want to get it over with.”

“Even if someone does subpoena you, it could be months away,” he said.

“No sense harboring fantasies all that time.”

“Trust me, your fantasies can’t be worse than reality.”

“Trust
me,
” I said. “They can.”

C
old, yellow room.

The interview table had been pushed to one side. Metal table, same battleship gray as the bomb shelter.

The things you notice.

Two chairs faced a thirty-inch plasma TV on a wheeled table. A DVD player sat on the bottom shelf. Lots of snarled cables. A sticker affixed to the bottom of the monitor warned against anyone outside the D.A.’s office touching the equipment.

I said, “Suddenly the prosecutors turn generous?”

“They’ve sniffed the air,” said Milo. “Smelled Court TV, screenplays, book deals. The warning from on-high is no O.J. on this one.” He drew a remote control module from his jacket pocket and flicked on the monitor.

Sat down next to me, slumped and closed his eyes and stayed that way.

Blue screen, video menu printout. Time, date, D.A’s evidence code.

I took the remote from Milo’s hands. His eyes remained shut but his breathing quickened.

I flicked.

A face filled the screen.

Big blue eyes, tan skin, symmetrical features, shaggy blond hair.

Jane Doe Number One.

Milo had asked if I wanted to start out of sequence with Michaela. I’d considered that, said let’s do it in order.

Hoping lack of personal contact would help.

It didn’t.

The camera stayed close.

An off-screen voice, male, smooth, amiable, said, “Okay, audition time. Digging it so far?”

Zoom shot of the girl’s smile. Moist, white teeth, perfectly aligned. “Sure am.”

“Sure am,
Brad.
When you’re presenting yourself to a casting agent or anyone else, it’s important to be direct and specific and
personal.
”

The girl’s smile altered course, became an ambiguous crescent. “Um, okay.” The camera moved back. Nervous blue eyes. Giggle.

“Take two,” said Brad Dowd.

“Huh?”

“Sure am…”

“Sure, Brad.”

“Sure. Am. Brad.”

The girl’s eyes shifted to the left. “Sure. Am. Brad.”

“Perfect. Okay, go on.”

“With what?”

“Say something.”

“Like what?”

“Improvise.”

“Umm…” Lip-lick. A glance back at battleship-gray walls. “It’s kind of different. Down here.”

“Dig it?”

“Umm… I guess.”

“I. Guess…”

“I guess, Brad.”

“It
is
different,” said Brad Dowd. “Hermetic. Know what that means?”

Giggle. “Umm, not really.”

“It means isolated and quiet. Away from all the hassle. The Sturm und Drang.”

No response from the girl.

“Know why we’re auditioning you in a hermetic place?”

“Nora said it was serene.”

“Serene,” said Brad. “Sure, that’s a good word. Like one of those meditation things, ohmmmm, Shakti, bodhi vandana, cabalabaloo. Ever do any meditation?”

“I did Pilates.”

“I. Did. Pilates…”

“Brad.”

Off-screen sigh. “A hermetic place means less distraction. Right?”

“Right —
Brad.”

“A hermetic, serene place strips away superfluous elements so it’s easier to find your center. Not like back in class where everyone’s looking and judging. No one will judge you here. Never.”

The girl smiled again.

“What do you think of that?” said Brad.

“It’s good.”

“It’s good?”

“It’s real good.”

“Brad!”

Blue eyes jumped. “Brad.”

“It’s. Good—”

“It’sgoodBrad. I’m sorry I’m kinda nervous.”

“Now, you
interrupted
me.”

“Sorry. Brad.”

Ten-second silence. The girl fidgeted.

Brad Dowd said, “Totally forgiven.”

“Thanks. Brad.”

Ten more seconds. The girl worked at relaxing her posture.

“Okay, we’re serene and hermetic and ready to do some serious work. Do you like Sondheim?”

“Um, don’t know him —
Brad.”

“Doesn’t matter, we’re not going musical, this is a drama day. Lower your left shoulder strap —
make sure it’s the left one because that’s your good side, your right side’s a little weak. Be sure not to take off your whole top, this isn’t porno, we just need to see your undraped posture à la classical sculpture.”

The camera pulled back, showed the girl sitting primly on a folding chair, wearing a skimpy red top held in place by spaghetti straps. Bare, tan, slender legs, advertised by a short, denim skirt. Sandaled feet planted on the ground. High-heeled brown sandals.

“Go ahead,” said Brad.

Looking confused, she reached up and loosened the right strap.

“Left!”

“Sorry, sorry, always had trouble with —
sorry, Brad, always had trouble…” She switched to the left, fumbled, lowered.

The camera moved in on smooth, golden shoulder. Drew back to a full-body view.

Fifteen seconds passed.

“You’ve got a beautiful torso.”

“Thanks, Brad.”

“Know what a torso is?”

“The body —
Brad.”

“The upper body. Yours is classical. You’re very lucky.”

“Thanks, Brad.”

“Think you’ve also got talent?”

“Umm, I hope so —
Brad.
”

“Oh, c’mon, let’s hear some insouciance, some confidence, some superstar can-do
attitude.
”

Blue eyes batted. The girl sat up straight, tossed her hair. Pumped a fist and shouted. “I’m the best! Brad!”

“Up for anything?”

“Sure. Brad.”

“Well, that’s good.”

Five seconds. Then: clang clang. Thud thud thud thud thud.

Noise from behind made the girl turn.

“Don’t move,” barked Brad.

The girl froze.

“Here’s your costar.”

“I —
umm —
oh —
didn’t know there was going to be—”

“A star’s got to be up for anything.”

The girl’s head began to swivel again. Froze, once more, responding to a command that never came.

“Good,” soothed Brad. “You’re learning.”

The girl licked her lips and smiled.

The gray behind her turned flesh-colored.

Hirsute expanse of chest and belly. Tattooed arms.

The camera trailed lower to a bearish clump of pubic hair. A limp penis dangled inches from the girl’s cheek.

The girl’s shoulders stiffened.

“I —
uh—”

“Relax,” said Brad Dowd. “Remember what Nora taught you about improv.”

“But —
sure. Brad.”

“Remain perfectly still —
think body control…
that’s
a good girl.”

The hairy bulk pulsated. Tattoos jumped.

The camera panned up to a sweat-glossed dinner-plate face. Frizzy muttonchops. Clipped mustache.