I drove home as fast as Sunset would allow, barely took the time to look for Hauser’s brown Audi. Moments after logging on to the Internet I learned that Belize, Brazil, and Ecuador all had extradition treaties with the U.S. and that nearly all the countries without treaties were in Africa and Asia.

Hiding out in Rwanda, Burkina Faso, or Uganda wouldn’t be much fun, and I couldn’t see Nora taking well to the feminine couture of Saudi Arabia.

I studied the brochures again. Each resort was in a remote jungle area.

To be extradited you had to be found.

I pictured the scene: May-December couple checks into a luxury suite, enjoys the beach, the bar, the pool. Nighttime’s the right time for al fresco candlelight dinners, maybe a couple’s massage. Long, hot, incandescent days allow plenty of time to search for a leafy suburb hospitable to affluent foreigners.

Nazi war criminals had hidden for decades in Latin America, living like nobility. Why not a couple of low-profile thrill killers?

Still, if Nora and Dylan had escaped for the long run, why leave brochures anywhere to be discovered?

Unless the packets were a misdirect.

I looked up jet leasing, air charter, and time-share companies in Southern California, compiled a surprisingly long list, spent the next two hours claiming to be Bradley Dowd experiencing a “family emergency” and in dire need of finding his sister and his nephew, Dylan. Lots of turndowns and the few outfits who checked their passenger logs had no listing of Nora or Meserve. Which proved nothing if the couple had assumed new identities.

For Milo to get subpoenas of the records, he’d need evidence of criminal behavior and all Dowd and Meserve had done was disappear.

Unless Dylan’s misdemeanor conviction could be used against him.

Milo would be tied up right now with “boring police stuff.” I called him anyway and described Billy Dowd’s behavior.

He said, “Interesting. Just got Michaela’s full autopsy results. Also interesting.”

* * *

We met at nine p.m., at a pizza joint on Colorado Boulevard in the heart of Pasadena’s Old Town. Hipsters and young business types feasted on thin crust and pitchers of beer.

Milo had been scoping out BNB buildings in the eastern suburbs for evidence of Peaty’s unofficial storage, asked if I could meet him. When I left the house at eight fifteen, the phone rang but I ignored it.

When I arrived, he was at a front booth, apart from the action, working on an eighteen-inch disk crusted with unidentifiable foodstuffs, his own pitcher half full and frosted. He’d doodled a happy face on the glass. The features had melted to something morose and psychiatrically promising.

Before I could sit, he hoisted his battered attaché case, took out a coroner’s file, and placed it across his lap. “When you’re ready. Don’t ruin your dinner.” Munch munch.

“I ate already.”