Bouncy step but she faltered a couple of times.

She gave us a wide berth, started to walk south.

Milo said, “Ms. Dowd?”

She stopped. “Yes?” One single syllable didn’t justify a diagnosis of sultry, but her voice was low and throaty.

Milo produced another card. Nora Dowd read it, handed it back. “This is about poor Michaela?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Under the shiny gray cap of hair, Nora Dowd’s face was round and rosy. Her eyes were big and slightly unfocused. Bloodshot; not the pink of Lou Giacomo’s orbs, these were almost scarlet at the rims. Elfin ears protruded past fine, gray strands. Her nose was a pert button.

Middle-aged woman trying to hold on to a bit of little girl. She seemed well past thirty-six. Turning her head, she caught some light and a corona of peach fuzz softened her chin. Lines tugged at her eyes, puckers cinched both lips. The ring around her neck was conclusive. The age on her driver’s license was a fantasy. Standard Operating Procedure in a company town where the product was false promises.

The white thing sat still, too still for any kind of dog I knew. Maybe a fur hat? Then why had she talked to it?

Milo said, “Could we speak to you about Michaela, ma’am?”

Nora Dowd blinked. “You sound a little like Joe Friday. But he was a sergeant, you outrank him.” She cocked a firm hip. “I met Jack Webb once. Even when he wasn’t working, he liked those skinny black ties.”

“Jack was a prince, helped finance the Police Academy. About Michae— ”

“Let’s walk. I need my exercise.”

She surged ahead of us, swung her arms exuberantly. “Michaela was all right if you gave her enough structure. Her improv skills left something to be desired. Frustrated, always frustrated.”

“About what?”

“Not being a star.”

“She have any talent?”

Nora Dowd’s smile was hard to read.

Milo said, “The one big improv she tried didn’t work out so well.”

“Pardon?”

“The hoax she and Meserve pulled.”

“Yes, that.” Flat expression.

“What’d you think of that, Ms. Dowd?”

Dowd walked faster. Exposure to sunlight had irritated her bloodshot eyes and she blinked several times. Seemed to lose balance for a second, caught herself.

Milo said, “The hoax— ”

“What do I think? I think it was shoddy.”

“Shoddy how?”

“Poorly structured. In terms of theater.”

“I’m still not— ”

“Lack of imagination,” she said. “The goal of any true performance is openness. Revealing the self. What Michaela did insulted all that.”

“Michaela and Dylan.”

Nora Dowd again surged forward. Several steps later, she nodded.

I said, “Michaela thought you’d appreciate the creativity.”

“Who told you that?”

“A psychologist she talked to.”

“Michaela was in therapy?”

“That surprises you?”

“I don’t encourage therapy,” said Dowd. “It closes as many channels as it opens.”

“The psychologist evaluated her as part of her court case.”

“How silly.”