Pressing his own cousin into murderous service, then setting him up to be executed.

Coming on to another cousin— a female cop— at the same time he was being investigated by her colleagues in a showgirl’s disappearance.

Why not? Why would blood ties mean anything to him?

Marcia Peaty had no problem seeing Brad as evil but she was certain Cousin Reynold had just been a penny-ante loser.

Ex-cop, but way off. She’d be dealing with that for a long time. If she were my patient, I’d work at getting her to see she was human, nothing less, nothing more.

When you got down to it, rules and exceptions were hard to separate.

Church deacons sneak into dark houses and strangle families. Diplomats and CEOs and other respectable types embark on sex tours of Thailand.

Anyone can be fooled.

But for arrogance, Brad and Nora might’ve plied their hobby for years.

How long would it have taken before he looted the trust fund completely and decided Nora was no longer useful?

The jet card and the island off Belize said not long.

Did Nora— numbed, callous, perpetually stoned— have any idea her life had been saved?

What kind of life lay ahead for her? Initial severe depression, for sure, once the reality of prison life set in. If she was deep enough to suffer. If she coped and set up a prison theater, things could get rosier. Casting, directing. Experiencing. A few years down the line, she might even merit one of those rehab-miracle puff-pieces in the Times.

Or maybe I had too much faith in the system and Nora would never see the inside of a penitentiary cell.

Back on McCadden Place, walking her stuffed dog.

Stavros Menas was wasting no opportunity to shout that she was just another of Brad’s victims.

Milo and I had heard her joking about Meserve’s head but both of us could be made to look foolish on the stand and L.A. juries distrusted cops and shrinks. The disks showed her having consensual sex with Brad and Meserve but nothing more. No forensic evidence tied her directly to the killings and nowadays juries expected nifty science.

Menas would rack up billable hours trying to get everything ruled inadmissible. Maybe he’d put Nora on the stand and she’d finally get a starring role.

One way or the other, he’d earn his million.

The lawyers vying for stewardship of Billy Dowd’s diminished life would also do fine.

Still no callback from the judge who’d warehoused Billy and sentenced him to eating soft food with plastic utensils.

The time I’d visited, he’d called me his friend, put his his head on my shoulder, and wet my shirt with his tears.

What use is a child with no meaning?

Amelia Dowd had no idea what crop she’d cultivated.