He cocked his head toward the open door. “Coffee or a soft drink for the road?”

“We’re good,” said Milo, getting up.

“Then I’m hitting the sack. Buenas noches.”

“Early to bed?”

“Busy day ahead.”

“Beats honest labor,” Milo said.

Brad Dowd laughed.

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 17

Milo took Channel Road down toward the coastline. “There’s time till the class at the PlayHouse. How about we grab a couple of beers at a place I know.”

“Coronas?”

“Good brand.”

“As long as Brad Dowd’s not offering.”

“Never fraternize with the citizenry. What’d you think of our grown-up surfer dude?”

“You saw the knots, too.”

“And the board.”

“He’s the family guardian, takes well to the job.”

He reached PCH, stopped at the long red light that can keep you there for what seems to be hours. The ocean’s always changing. Tonight the water was flat and gray and infinite. Slow, easy tide, steady and metallic as a drum machine.

“Maybe I’m making too big a deal out of this, Alex, but Brad’s parting words seemed off: asking me to keep both Nora and Billy out of the investigation. We’d been focused on Nora, why bring in Billy?”

“Could be force of habit,” I said. “He lumps the two of them together because they both need protection.”

“Maybe that’s it.”

“Billy interests you?”

“Adult male with immature social skills who needs to be supervised covertly?” As we waited, he ran a DMV check on William Dowd III, hung up before the light changed. “Wanna guess how many vehicles are registered to Billy?”

“None.”

“And just like Peaty, never had a license.”

“Tagging along with Brother Brad,” I said. “When Brad drops in at the PlayHouse, Billy’s right there with him. All those good-looking starlets-in-training.”

“Getting an eyeful of girls like Michaela and Tori Giacomo, could be overstimulating.”

“Billy seemed gentle,” I said. “But crank up the id and who knows?”

“What if the real reason Brad didn’t want to talk to us in front of Billy was because he was afraid Billy would give something away? And here’s something else: Billy lives in an apartment in Beverly Hills. Reeves Drive, just off Olympic.”

“Couple of miles from Michaela’s place.”

“A guy with no wheels could walk it.”

“Same problem as Peaty,” I said. “How to transport a body. And I don’t see Billy getting away with an unregistered ride. Not with Brad that protective.”

That turned him silent until we reached Santa Monica’s gold coast. Beachside mansions, once private enclaves, were now exposed to the clamor and the reality of the public sand that fronted them. The clapboard monster William Hearst had built for Marion Davies was ready to crumble after years of Santa Monica city council dithering. A moment later, the exoskeleton of the pier came into view, lit up like Christmas. The Ferris wheel rotated, slow as bureaucracy.