Back at his office, he tried the coroner’s office again and asked for a rundown on young Caucasian Jane Does in the crypt. The attendant said the computer was down, they were short-staffed, a hand search of the records would take a long time.

“Any calls from a guy named Louis Giacomo? Father of a missing girl...well, he probably will. He’s having a hard time, go easy...yeah, thanks, Turo. Let me ask you something else: What’s the average transfer time to cremation nowadays? Just an estimate, I’m not gonna use it in court. That’s what I thought...when you do check the inventory, go back a couple of years, okay? Twenties, Caucasian, five five, a hundred twenty. Giacomo, first name Tori.” He spelled it. “She could be a blonde or brunette or anything in between. Thanks, man.”

He hung up, swiveled in his chair. “Sixty, seventy days and it’s off to the furnace.” Spinning back to his phone, he called the PlayHouse again, listened for a few seconds, slammed the receiver down. “Last time, it just rang. This time I got sultry female voice on tape. The next class— something called ‘Spontaneous Ingathering’— is tomorrow night at nine.”

“Nocturnal schedule, like we guessed,” I said. “Sultry, huh?”

“Think Lauren Bacall getting over the flu. Maybe it’s Ms. Dowd. If she’s an actor herself, velvety pipes wouldn’t hurt.”

“Voice-overs are a mainstay for unemployed actors,” I said. “So are coaching gigs, for that matter.”

“Those who can’t do, teach?”

“Entire universities operate on that premise.”

He laughed. “Okay, let’s see what DMV has to say about the golden-throated Ms. Dowd.”

* * *

Nora Dowd’s DOB made her thirty-six, five two, a hundred and ten pounds, brown and brown. One registered vehicle, a six-month-old, silver Range Rover MK III. Home address on McCadden Place in Hancock Park.

“Nice neighborhood,” he said.

“Bit of a drive to the school. Hollywood’s just across Melrose from Hancock Park, you’d think a Hollywood address would attract screen-hopefuls.”

“Maybe Dowd got a break on the rent. Or she owns the place. McCadden and her wheels says she’s got bucks.”

“A wealthy dilettante who does it for fun,” I said.

“Hardly a rare bird,” he said. “Let’s see if this one sings.”

* * *

Wilshire Boulevard near Museum Mile was disrupted by filming and we sat with the engine idling, an audience for nothing. Half a dozen triple-sized trailers filled an entire block. A fleet of carelessly parked smaller vehicles choked an eastbound lane. A squadron of cameramen, sound techs, gaffers, gofers, retired cops, and unionized hangers-on laughed and loafed and stalked the catered buffet. Two large men walked past, each carrying a lightweight, folding director’s chair. Stenciled names on the canvas backs that I didn’t recognize.