“Rick says I should keep my kidneys hydrated but plain water tastes like plain water...anyway, Tori is no longer Jane Doe 342-003. Wish I had the rest of the body but she was listed as an unsolved Hollywood homicide and the D’s report spelled things out pretty clearly.”

He drank some more, put the glass in the sink.

“She was found four months after she disappeared, dumped in some brush on the L.A. side of Griffith Park. All that was left were scattered bones. Coroner thought he spotted damage to some of the cervical vertebrae and there are definitely some relatively superficial knife cuts in her sternum and a couple in the thoracic ribs. Tentative cause of death is strangulation/stabbing.”

I said, “Two young, female acting students, similar wounds and Nora Dowd didn’t rule out Tori attending her classes.”

“No answer at Nora’s home or the school. I’ll be at the PlayHouse tonight, mingling with the beautiful people. After I meet with Brad Dowd. He called, apologized for cutting off the conversation, invited me to his house.”

“Eager to talk about Dylan,” I said. “Where does he live?”

“Santa Monica Canyon. Care to join me? I’ll drive.”

* * *

Bradley Dowd lived on Gumtree Lane, a mile north of Channel Road, just east of where Channel descends steeply to Pacific Coast Highway.

A darkening sky and a tree canopy brought early night. The air was still and unseasonably warm and no ocean aroma brined the canyon.

Usually it’s ten degrees cooler near the coast. Maybe it’s me, but patterns seem to be shaking up more often.

The house was a one-story redwood and glass box set in a low spot along the leafy road, well back from the street. The wealth of vegetation made it hard to make out where the property began and ended.

High-end box, with polished-copper trim and a porch supported by carved beams. Carefully placed spots illuminated flower beds and luxuriant ferns. The wooden address plate imbedded in the fieldstone gatepost was hand-painted. A gray or beige Porsche sat in the front of the gravel driveway. Hanging succulents graced the porch, which was set up with Adirondack chairs.

Brad Dowd stood near one of the chairs, one leg bent so that his shoulders sloped to the right. He wore a T-shirt and cutoffs, held a long-necked bottle in one hand.

“Park right behind me, Detective.”

When we got to the porch, he hoisted the bottle. Corona. The T-shirt said Hobie-Cat. His feet were bare. Muscular legs, knobby, misshapen knees. “Join me?”

“No, thanks.”

Dowd sat, gave another wave. We repositioned two chairs and faced him.

“Any problem finding me?”

“None,” said Milo. “Thanks for calling.”

Dowd nodded and drank. Crickets chirped. A hint of gardenia blew by and dissipated.

“Pretty out here, sir.”

“Love it,” said Brad. “Nothing like peace and quiet after a day dealing with leaks, short circuits, and various other minor disasters.”