“Deep-pocketbook. Brad’s got nominal power but he serves at the discretion of the estate. Nora’s a ditz but it would be hard to claim she’s not of sound mind, legally. If she demanded control over her own assets, it would pose a major complication for Brad. If she convinced Billy to do the same, it would be a disaster.”

“Bye-bye, façade.”

“Banished when he’s of no further use,” I said. “Just like when he was a kid.”

We walked in silence to the cars.

He said, “Michaela and Tori and the Gaidelases and Lord knows how many others get done for blood-lust and Nora and Meserve get done for money?”

“Or a mixture of blood-lust and money.”

He considered that. “Nothing new about that, I guess. Rick’s relatives didn’t just lose their lives in the Holocaust. Their homes and their businesses and all their other possessions got confiscated.”

“Take it all,” I said. “The ultimate trophy.”

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 41

We took the Seville to Santa Monica Canyon.

No Porsche or any other car in Brad Dowd’s driveway. Lights out in the redwood house, no reply to Milo’s knock.

I joined the traffic crawl on Channel Road, finally made it down to the coast highway, hit moderate flow from Chautauqua to the Colony. Once we got past Pepperdine University, the land yawned and stretched and the road got easy. The ocean was slate. Hungry pelicans dove. I made it to Kanan Dume Road with some sunlight to spare, turned up onto Latigo Canyon.

An assessors’ map of Billy Dowd’s property rested in Milo’s lap. Ten acres, no building permits ever issued.

The Seville’s no mountain car and I slowed as the pitch steepened and the turns pinched. Nothing on the road until I neared the spot where Michaela had run across screaming.

An old tan Ford pickup was parked there on the turnoff. An old tan man stood looking into the brush.

Plaid shirt, dusty jeans, beer gut hanging over his buckle. Filmy white hair fluffed in the breeze. A long, hooked nose sliced sky.

Smoke seeped from under the truck’s hood.

Milo said, “Pull over.”

* * *

The old man turned and watched us. His belt buckle was stippled brass, an oversized oval featuring a bas-relief horse head.

“You okay, Mr. Bondurant?”

“Why shouldn’t I be, Mr. Detective?”

“Looks like an over-heat.”

“It always does that. Pinhole leak in the radiator, long as I feed it faster than it gets hungry, I’m okay.”

Bondurant shuffled over to the truck, reached in the passenger window, and took out a yellow plastic jug of antifreeze.

“Liquid diet,” said Milo. “You’re sure the block won’t crack?”

“You worried about me, Mr. Detective?”

“Protect and serve.”

“Find out anything about the girl?”

“Still working on it, sir.”

Bondurant’s eyes vanished in a mesh of fold and crinkle. “Meaning nothing, huh?”

“Looks like you’ve been thinking about her.”