Milo drove the ramp up to Ocean Front, continued onto Pacific Avenue, crossed into Venice. “So now I’ve got two strange guys with access to the PlayHouse.”

I thought about that. “Billy stopped living with Brad two years ago, right before Tori’s disappearance.”

“Why would Brad get Billy out of his house at this point in their lives? These guys are middle-aged, all of a sudden it’s time for a change?”

“Brad wanted to keep his distance from Billy? But if he suspected something, he’d tighten the leash.”

“So what’s the answer?”

“Don’t know.”

“For all we know,” he said, “Brad did try to clamp down and Billy’s a lot more difficult than he seems. Hell, maybe Billy insisted on breaking away. Brad pays some nice lady to ‘look after him,’ because he knows Billy bears watching. Meanwhile, if something does happen, he’s across town in Santa Monica Canyon.”

“Less liability,” I said.

“He thinks in those terms— foundations, tax breaks, keeping things organized. That rung of the social ladder, it’s a whole different world.”

He looked at his watch. “Let’s see how Nora reacts when I push her a bit. How long it takes for her to cry to Brother Brad.”

* * *

Over the years I’ve accompanied Milo to lots of taverns and beer joints and cocktail lounges. A couple of gay bars as well. It’s an illuminating experience watching him function in that sphere.

This was a new dive, a narrow, dark tunnel of a place called Jody Z’s, at the southern edge of Pacific, just above the Marina. Arena rock on the jukebox, silent football rerun on TV, tired men at the urethane bar, rough paneling and fishnets and glass globes.

Plastic sawdust on the floor. What was the point of that?

A short drive to Robin’s house on Rennie. In another time and place, Milo might have mentioned that. The set of his jaw said the only things on his mind were the murders of two young women.

Once we’d finished a couple of beers and rehashed what we knew, there was little to talk about and he started to blend in with the dispirited clientele.

Phoning Michaela’s landlord in La Jolla, he confirmed the appointment tomorrow morning. Ground his teeth. “Bastard’s doing me a big, freaking favor.”

He looked over at the blackboard. Three specials, including the promise of fresh clam chowder. He chanced it.

“Not too bad,” he said, spooning.

“ ‘Not too bad’ and ‘seafood’ shouldn’t be uttered in the same sentence,” I said.

“If I die, you get the first eulogy. I wonder if Nora really gave in when Brad asked her to cool it with Meserve. Brad did raise one good point: Meserve’s nowhere to be found.”