“She’s the Dowds’ cousin, as well.” I told him what I learned from Albert Beamish.

“The old man actually had something to say. So much for my instincts.”

I said, “The Dowd sibs hire their cousin as a minimum-wage janitor and give him a former laundry room to live in. Tells you something about their character. The fact that none of them thinks to mention it says more. Have a chance to look into the brothers’ private holdings?”

“Not yet, guess I’d better do it. Marcia Peaty never told me she was their cousin as well as Peaty’s.”

“When are you meeting her?”

“An hour. She’s staying at the Roosevelt on Hollywood. I set it up for Musso and Frank, figured I’d at least get a good meal out of it.”

“Family secrets and sand dabs,” I said.

“I was thinking chicken potpie.”

“Sand dabs for me,” I said.

“You’re actually hungry?”

“Starving.”

* * *

I parked in the gigantic lot behind Musso and Frank. All that land, developers had to be drooling and I imagined the roar of jackhammers. The restaurant was nearly a century old, impervious to progress and regress. So far, so good.

Milo had staked out a corner booth in the southeast corner of Musso’s larger room. Twenty-foot ceilings painted a grim beige you don’t see anymore, green print hunting scenes on the walls, oak paneling nearly black with age, strong drinks at the bar.

An encyclopedic menu touts what’s now called comfort food but used to be just food. Some items take time and the management warns you not to be impatient. Musso might be the last place in L.A. where you can order a slab of spumoni for dessert.

Cheerful green-jacketed busboys circled the cavernous space and filled water glasses for the half dozen parties enjoying a late lunch. Red-jacketed waiters who made Albert Beamish seem amiable waited for a chance to enforce the no-substitution rule.

A few booths featured couples looking happily adulterous. A table in the middle of the room hosted five white-haired men wearing cashmere sweaters and windbreakers. Familiar but unidentifiable faces; it took a while to figure out why.

A quintet of character actors— men who’d populated my childhood TV shows without ever getting star billing. All of them looked to be pushing a robust eighty. Lots of elbow-bending and laughter. Maybe the bottom of the funnel wasn’t necessary for grace.

Milo was working on a beer. “Computer lines are finally back up. I just had Sean run the property search and guess what: Nothing for Brad, but Billy owns ten acres in Latigo Canyon. A short drive above where Michaela and Meserve pretended to be victims.”

“Oh, my,” I said. “Just land, no house?”

“That’s how it’s registered.”

“Maybe there are no-code shacks on the property,” I said.

“Believe me, I’m gonna find out.” He looked at his Timex.