“Wouldn’t say, just that it might be important. He sounded real rushed, wouldn’t talk to me, only you. The number he left’s a cell, not in the file.”

“Where is it?”

“Next to your computer. Which I noticed was turned off.”

“So?”

“Well,” said Binchy, “I don’t want to tell you how to operate, but sometimes it’s better to just leave it on all the time, especially with an outmoded machine. ’Cause booting up by itself can cause power surges and— ”

Milo edged past him. Slammed his door.

“— drain energy.” Binchy smiled at me.

I said, “He’s had a busy day.”

“He usually does, Dr. Delaware.” Shooting a French cuff, Binchy examined a bright orange Swatch watch. “Whoa, noon already. All of a sudden, I got a burrito Jones. Hello, vending machine. Have a nice day, Doc.”

I opened Milo’s door, nearly collided with him as he stormed out. He kept walking and I hurried to keep pace.

“Where to?”

“The PlayHouse. Just got a call from Brad Dowd. He’s got something to show us. Talking fast but he didn’t sound rushed to me. More like scared.”

“He say why?”

“Something about Nora. I asked if she was hurt and he said no, then he hung up. I figured I’d wait till we were face-to-face before applying my powers of detection.”

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 22

The gate to the PlayHouse property was open. A sky heavy with marine fog browned the grass and deepened the house’s green siding to mustard.

Bradley Dowd stood in front of the garage. One of the barn doors was ajar. Dowd wore a black cashmere crewneck over fawn slacks and black sandals. The fog turned his white hair sooty.

No sign of his Porsche on the street. A red, split-windowed, sixties Corvette was parked up a bit. All the other vehicles in sight were as glamorous as oatmeal.

Dowd waved as we pulled to the curb. Something metallic glinted in his hand. When we reached the garage, he flung the door open. The structure’s aged exterior was deceiving. Inside were black cement floors polished to a gloss and cedar-plank walls adorned with racing posters. Halogen lights glinted from the ceiling rafters.

Triple garage, all three spaces occupied.

To the left was an impeccably restored green Austin Healy, low-slung, waspishly aggressive. Next to that, another Vette, white, happily chromed. Softer body style than the one on the street. Nipple taillights. One of my grad school profs had tooled around in a car like that. He’d bragged about it being a ’53.

A dust filter hummed between the two sports cars. It hadn’t done much for the dented brown Toyota Corolla in the right-hand slot.