He positioned himself on the east end of the porch where he leaned on the rail and stared at the garage. Sun peeked out from under the marine layer. Foliage was green again. Dowd’s red Corvette took on an orange sheen.

Six silent minutes passed before the door opened. Milo said, “Doesn’t appear to be any crime scene, but I’ll call the techs and have them take a look if you’d like.”

“What would that entail? Would they tear the place up?”

“There’d be fingerprint dust but no structural damage unless something came up.”

“Like what?”

“Signs of violence.”

“But you don’t see any?”

“No, sir.”

“You need my permission to bring in your people?”

“With no probable cause I do.”

“Then I don’t see the point. Let me go in, I’ll tell you right away if anything’s off.”

* * *

Polished oak, everywhere.

Paneled walls, broad-plank flooring, beamed ceilings, window casements. Vigorously grained, quarter-sawn wood milled a century ago, mellowed the color of old bourbon and held together by mortise and tenon joints. Darker wood— black walnut— had been used for the pegs. Fringed brown velvet drapes covered some of the windows.

Others had been left clear, revealing stained glass insets. Flowers and fruit and greenery, high-quality work, maybe Tiffany.

Not much natural light flowed in. The house was dim, silent, smaller than it appeared from the street with a modest entry hall centering two front rooms. What had once been the dining room was set up with old overstuffed thrift-shop chairs, vinyl beanbags, rolled up futons, rubber exercise pads. An open doorway offered a glimpse of a white kitchen.

A stage had been constructed at the rear of the former parlor. Ragged plywood affair on raw fir joists made even cruder by its contrast to the precision joinery and gleaming surfaces everywhere else. Three rows of folding chairs for the audience. Photos taped to the outer wall, many of them black-and-white. What looked to be stills from old movies.

Brad Dowd said, “Everything looks normal.” His eyes shifted to an open door, stage right. “Did you check in back?”

Milo nodded. “Yup, but feel free.”

Dowd went in there and I followed. A short, dark hallway led to two small rooms with an old lav between them. Once-upon-a-time bedrooms paneled with bead board below the chair rail, painted pea green above. One chamber was vacant, the other stored additional folding chairs and was decorated with more movie stills. Both closets were empty.

Brad Dowd moved in and out quickly. The aging-surfer insouciance I’d seen at his house had given way to gamecock jumpiness.

Nothing like family to shake you up.