Three references: a previous landlord in Brooklyn, the manager of the Foot Locker where Dylan Meserve had worked before getting arrested, and Nora Dowd, Artistic Director of the PlayHouse, in West L.A., where the young man had been listed as a “creative consultant.”

Jabber examined what he’d written down before passing it along to Milo.

“Guy’s an actor?” He laughed.

“You rent to a lot of actors?”

“Actor means bum. Samir’s stupid.”

* * *

I followed Milo to the West L.A. station, where he parked his unmarked in the staff lot and got into the Seville.

“Meserve stopped his mail soon after he got busted,” he said. “Probably planning to rabbit if things didn’t work out in court.” He searched his notepad for the acting school’s address. “What do you think of that ‘creative consultant’ business?”

“Maybe he apprenticed to earn extra money. Michaela blamed Dylan for the hoax but obviously Nora Dowd didn’t.”

“How’d Michaela feel about that?”

“She didn’t talk about Nora’s reaction to Dylan. She was surprised at Nora’s angry reaction to her.”

“Dowd boots her but keeps him on as consultant?”

“If it’s true.”

“Meserve faked the reference?”

“Meserve’s been known to embellish.”

Milo phoned Brooklyn, located the landlord Dylan had cited as a reference. “Guy said he knew Dylan’s father because he’s a part-time musician himself and they used to gig. He has a vague memory of Dylan as a kid but never rented him an apartment.”

“Creative consultant,” I said.

“Let’s talk to the consultee.”

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 8

The PlayHouse was an old one-story Craftsman house on an oversized lot, just north of Venice Boulevard, in West L.A. Plank siding painted deep green with cream trim, low-set bulk topped by sweeping eaves that created a small, dim porch. The garage to the left had old-fashioned barn doors but looked freshly painted. The landscaping was from another age: a couple of four-story cocoa palms, indifferently pruned bird of paradise grown ragged, agapanthus, and calla lilies surrounding a flat, brown lawn.

The neighborhood was working-class rental residential, mostly boxy multi-units and boxy houses awaiting demolition. Nothing denoted the acting school’s function. The windows were dark.

Milo said, “Guess she doesn’t need to advertise. Or keep daytime hours.”

I said, “If most of the aspirants have day jobs, it’s an evening business.”

“Let’s check it out, anyway.”

We walked up to the porch. Floored with green board, thickly varnished. The window in the paneled oak door was blocked with opaque lace. A hand-hammered copper mailbox perched to the right. Milo flipped the lid and peered inside. Empty.

He pushed a button and chimes sounded.

No answer.

Two doors down an old Dodge Dart backed out toward the street. Hispanic man around thirty at the wheel, leaving a pale blue bungalow. Milo walked over, rolled his arm.