“Maybe they didn’t but once the parents were dead he wrangled his way in as a trustee of the estate. Cozying up to the lawyers, greasing someone’s palm, making the case that he was the best choice— someone with smarts who had Billy’s and Nora’s best interests at heart. If Nora and Billy agreed, why not? Once he was in, he was set. Trustees don’t come up for review unless someone complains about abuse of fiduciary responsibility. Nora and Billy get their needs met, everyone’s happy.”

“The PlayHouse and the family manse for her, takeout pizza and a wide-screen for Billy.”

“Meanwhile Brad collects the monthly rent checks.”

“Think he’s siphoning off cash?”

“Wouldn’t shock me.”

He strode to the parking attendant’s booth, paid for both our cars.

I said, “Now you’re veering into Mother Teresa territory.”

He gazed skyward and pressed his palms together. “Hear that? How about some evidentiary manna?”

“God helps those who help themselves,” I said. “Time to check the small print on BNB’s letters of incorporation.”

“First, I want to face Brad one-on-one.”

We sat in his unmarked talking about the best approach. The final decision was another chat about Reynold Peaty’s shooting, Milo talking, me scoping out the nonverbal cues. Mentioning the phone calls to Armando Vasquez if the timing seemed right.

We took separate cars to the strip mall on Ocean Park. The door to BNB Properties was locked and no one answered. As Milo turned to leave, the door at the end of the second-floor landing caught my eye.

Sunny Sky Travel

We Specialize in Tropical Getaways

Posters in the window. Sapphire ocean, emerald palm trees, bronze people hoisting cocktails.

At the bottom: BRAZIL!!!

Milo followed my gaze, had the door open by the time I got there.

* * *

A young cat-eyed woman wearing a sleeveless raspberry top sat at a computer station typing. Soft eyes, Rubenesque roundness. A nameplate on the desk said Lourdes Texeiros. A hands-free phone headset rested atop a nest of black curls. The walls were papered with more posters. A revolving rack of brochures filled a corner.

She smiled at us, said, “Hold on a sec,” to the hands-free mouthpiece. I went over to the rack, found what I was looking for.

Turneffe Island, Belize; Posada La Mandragora, Buzios, Brazil; Hotel Monasterio, Tapir Lodge, Pelican’s Pouch. Housed in adjacent compartments.

“Can I help you guys?”

“Your neighbor a few doors down, Mr. Bradley Dowd,” said Milo, flashing the badge. “How well do you know him?”

“The real estate guy? Did he do something?”

“His name came up in an investigation.”

“White-collar crime?”

“He make you uneasy?”

“No, I don’t know him, he’s hardly ever at his office. He just seems like a white-collar guy. If he did something.”

Dark eyes sharpened with curiosity.

Milo said, “Does he come to his office by himself?”