The white fluffy thing Nora Dowd had left on her porch was a stuffed toy. Some sort of bichon or Maltese. Flat brown eyes.

Milo picked it up, had a close look. Said, “Oh, man,” and handed it over.

Not a toy. A real dog, stuffed and preserved. The pink ribbon around its neck supported a heart-shaped, silver pendant.

Stan

Birth and death dates. Stan had lived thirteen years.

Blank look on the white fluffy face. Maybe it was the glass eyes. Or the limits of taxidermy.

I said, “Could be Stan as in Stanislavsky. She probably talks to it and takes it with her on walks. Saw us and thought better of it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Eccentric rather than psychotic.”

“I’m so impressed.” He took the dog and put it back on the floor. “Stanislavsky, eh? Let’s method act the hell out of here.”

As we drove past Albert Beamish’s Tudor, the drapes across the living room window fluttered.

Milo said, “Neighborhood crank, love it. Too bad he didn’t recognize Meserve. But with his vision, that means nothing. He sure hates the Dowds.”

I said, “Nora has two brothers who own a lot of property. Ertha Stadlbraun said Peaty’s landlords are a pair of brothers.”

“So she did.”

* * *

By the time we reached Sixth Street and La Cienega, he’d confirmed it. William Dowd III, Nora Dowd, and Bradley Dowd, doing business as BNB Properties, owned the apartment building on Guthrie. It took several other calls to get an idea of their holdings. At least forty-three properties registered in L.A. County. Multiple residences and office buildings and the converted house on the Westside where Nora availed herself to would-be stars.

“The school’s probably a concession to Crazy Sister,” he said. “Keeps her out of their hair.”

“And far from their other properties,” I said. “Something else: All those buildings mean lots of janitorial work.”

“Reynold Peaty looking in all kinds of windows...if he’s moved from peeping to violence, lots of potential victims. Yeah, let’s check it out.”

* * *

Corporate headquarters for BNB Properties was on Ocean Park Boulevard near the Santa Monica Airport. Not one of the Dowd sibs’ properties, this one was owned by a national real estate syndicate that owned half of downtown.

“Wonder why?” said Milo.

“Maybe some sort of tax dodge,” I said. “Or they held on to what their father left them, didn’t add more.”

“Lazy rich kids? Yeah, makes sense.”

It was four forty-five and the drive at this hour would be brutal. Milo called the listed number, hung up quickly.

“ ‘You’ve reached the office, blah blah blah. If it’s a plumbing emergency, press 1. Electrical, press 2.’ Lazy rich kids are probably drinking at the country club. You up for a try, anyway?”

“Sure,” I said.