“There’s no reason to suspect him, sir. If I hear otherwise, I’ll let you know.”

Dowd fiddled with a hand-stitched lapel. “There’s no subtext here, is there, Detective? You’re not suggesting I fire him?”

“I’d prefer that you don’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“No sense stirring things up, Mr. Dowd. If Peaty’s turned his life around, more power to him.”

“That’s how I feel...that poor girl. How was she killed?”

“Strangled and stabbed.”

Dowd winced. “Any idea by who?”

“No, sir. Here’s another routine question: Do you know Dylan Meserve?”

“I’m aware of who he is. Is there any sense asking why he’s part of your routine?”

“He hasn’t been seen for a while and when we tried to talk to your sister about him, she ended the conversation.”

“Nora,” said Brad wearily. His eyes shot to the doorway. “Hey, bro. Smells good, thanks.”

Billy Dowd toted an open cardboard carton, using both hands, as if his cargo was precious. Inside was a hero-sized sandwich wrapped in orange paper. Aromas of tomato paste, oregano, and basil filled the office.

Brad turned so his brother couldn’t see and slipped Milo a yellow business card. Perfect match to his shirt. “Anything I can do to help, Detective. Feel free to call me if you have any further questions— that smells fantastic, Billy. You’re the man.”

“You’re the man,” said Billy gravely.

“You, too, Bill.”

Billy Dowd’s mouth screwed up.

Brad said, “Hey, we can both be the man.” He took the sandwich and cuffed his brother’s shoulder lightly. “Right?”

Billy considered that. “Okay.”

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 16

By the time we made it to the door, Brad Dowd had his dinner unwrapped and was saying, “This hits the spot, Bill.”

As we climbed down to the strip mall’s first level, Milo said, “That sandwich smelled good.”

* * *

We parked near the far west end of the airport. The coffee from Café DiGiorgio was dark and strong. Milo pushed the seat back as far as it would go and got to work on his meatball and pepper sandwich.

After four ferocious bites, he stopped to breathe. “Looks like ol’ Bradley watches out for his sibs.”

“Looks like they both bear watching.”

“What’s your diagnosis on Billy?”

“The best word’s probably ‘simple.’ ”

“And Nora’s a spacey doper.”

“You’re ready to take the state boards,” I said.

He scanned blue sky. No sleek white jets to feed his fantasies. He fished out Brad Dowd’s yellow business card and handed it over.

Crisp, substantial paper. Bradley Dowd’s name embossed in chocolate italics, above a phone number with an 825 prefix.

“Gentleman’s calling card,” I said. “You don’t see that too often.”

“Once a rich kid, always a rich kid. I’ll call him tonight, find out what he didn’t want to talk about in front of his brother.”

* * *