Nora tiring of theatrical abstractions. Meeting Dylan Meserve and discovering common interests.

Embalming. Nora’s taste in pets.

Milo returned.

“Good news?” I said.

“If failure’s your idea of success. The circuit that feeds all the computers is down, tech support was summoned hours ago. I’m going downtown to the assessor’s office to do it the old-fashioned way. If tax leeches communicate with their buds in other counties maybe I can get hooked up with Ventura and Santa Barbara. If not, I’m on the road again.”

Humming the Willie Nelson song.

“You’re taking this well.”

“All part of my audition,” he said.

“For what?”

“Mentally stable individual.” Grabbing his jacket, he opened the door and held it for me.

I said, “Taxidermy.”

“What?”

“The coroner’s guess about embalming. Think Nora’s fluffy dog.”

He sat back down. “Some horrific arts and crafts thing?”

“I was thinking stage prop.”

“For what?”

“Grand Guignol.”

He shut his eyes, knuckled a temple. “Your mind...” The eyes opened. “If Dowd and Meserve have an evil hobby, why wasn’t Michaela actually messed with?”

“She was rejected,” I said. “Same for Tori Giacomo. Or not. Scattered bones make it impossible to know.”

“Why?”

I shook my head. “That level of pathology, the symbolism can be beyond anyone else’s comprehension.”

“Two pretty girls wrong for the part,” he said. “The Gaidelases, on the other hand, have never been found. Meaning maybe their heads are hanging on a damn wall?”

Another temple massage. “Okay, now that the images are firmly planted in my brain and I’m sure to have a lovely day, let’s get the hell out of here.”

I followed him up the hall. When we reached the stairwell, he said, “Snuff and stuff. I can always count on you to cheer me up.”

* * *

On our way out, Tom the receptionist sang out, “Have a nice day, Lieutenant.”

Milo’s reply was sotto voce and obscene. He left me standing on the sidewalk and continued to the staff parking lot.

Seeing his irritation at the lost messages brought to mind the disgusted look on Albert Beamish’s face yesterday.

Constitutional crankiness? Or had the old man, ever eager to spread dirt on the Dowds, poked around and actually learned something useful? Tried to tattle and got no callback?

No sense overloading Milo’s circuits. I drove to Hancock Park.

* * *

Beamish’s doorbell was answered by a tiny Indonesian maid in a black uniform clutching a dust-clogged feather duster.

“Mr. Beamish, please.”

“No home.”

“Any idea when he’ll be back?”

“No home.”

Walking over to Nora’s house, I took a close look at the barn doors of her garage. Bolted. I nudged the panels, felt some give, but my bare hands were unable to spread the doors wide enough. Milo had left it at that. I wasn’t bound by the rules of evidence.