“Brad’s the dominant one but he doesn’t own any land of his own?”

“Not even the house in Santa Monica Canyon. That’s Billy’s. So’s the duplex in Beverly Hills.”

“Three parcels each for Billy and Nora,” I said. “Nothing for Brad.”

“Could be one of those tax things, Alex. He takes a salary for managing all the shared buildings, has some IRS reason not to own.”

“On the contrary, property tax is deductible. So are depreciation and expenses on rentals.”

“Spoken like a true land baron.”

I’d made serious money buying and selling properties during a couple of booms. Had opted out of the game because I didn’t like being a landlord, put the profits in bonds and clipped coupons. Not too smart if net worth was your goal. I used to think my goal was serenity. Now, I had no idea.

I said, “Maybe Cousin Marcia can clue us in.”

He tilted his head toward the back of the room. “Yup, being a veteran detective, I’d say that’s her.”

The woman who stood to the right of the bar was six feet tall, forty or so, with curly dishwater hair and a piercing stare. She wore a black crewneck and slacks, carried a cream leather handbag.

Milo said, “She’s checking the premises like a cop,” and waved.

She waved back and approached. The purse was printed with a world-map design. A gold crucifix pendant was her only jewelry. Up close, her hair was wiry, combed in a way that obscured half her right eye. The iris and its mate were bright and searching and gray.

Narrow face, sharp nose, outdoor skin. No resemblance I could see to Reynold Peaty. Or to the Dowds.

“Lieutenant? Marcia Peaty.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Milo introduced me, minus my title.

I pictured Al Beamish scowling.

Marcia Peaty shook our hands and sat. “I remember this place as having great martinis.”

“You from L.A. originally?”

“Raised in Downey. My father was a chiropractor, had an office there and right here in Hollywood, on Edgemont. A good report card used to earn me lunch with him. We always came here, and when no one was looking, he let me try his martinis. I thought they tasted like swimming pool acid but never let on. Wanting to be mature, you know?” She smiled. “Now I like them all by myself.”

A waiter came over and she ordered the cocktail on the rocks, with olives and an onion. “My version of salad.”

The waiter said, “Another beer?”

Milo said, “No, thanks.”

“You?”

The memory of Beamish’s single malt leased space in my palate. “Coke.”

The waiter frowned and left.

Milo said, “What can I do for you, Ms. Peaty?”

“I’m trying to find out what happened to Reyn.”

“How’d you hear about it?”

“I’m a colleague— used to be.”

“Las Vegas PD?”