“Hooking up with a movie star, huh?”

“Maybe she settled for someone who looked like one.”

“Meserve or another PlayHouse Adonis.”

“With her level of naiveté, someone who’d been around just a bit longer could’ve seemed impressive.”

“Wonder how long Meserve’s been getting insight from Nora Dowd.”

“Longer than two years,” I said. “He was there before Michaela arrived.”

“And when Tori showed up. So where the hell is he...okay, thanks, let me toss this around while I wait for Michaela’s landlord.”

* * *

The day floated by with all the importance of a cork in the ocean. I considered calling Allison, then Robin, then Allison again. Settled for neither and filled Saturday by running and sleeping, doing scutwork around the house.

Sunday’s balm and glorious blue skies made matters worse; this was a day to be with someone.

I drove to the beach. The sun had brought people and cars to the coastline. Golden-haired girls promenaded in bikini tops and sarongs, surfer dudes peeled in and out of wetsuits, tourists gawked at natural wonders of all types.

On PCH, a conspicuously crawling highway patrol car lowered the pace to race-walk from Carbon Beach to Malibu Road. The southern entry to Latigo Canyon was closer but that meant more miles of winding road. I kept going to Kanan Dume and turned off.

Alone.

I tooled up the canyon, both hands on the wheel as the twists tested the Seville’s mushy suspension. Despite being up here years ago, the sharpness of the curves and the dead drops if you steered wrong surprised me.

Not a spot for a leisurely cruise and after dark the route would be treacherous unless you knew it well. Dylan Meserve had hiked up here and returned to play out a fraudulent kidnapping.

Maybe because of the isolation. I had yet to encounter another vehicle challenging the mountains.

I drove another few miles, managed to turn around on a skinny ribbon of asphalt, hooked right on Kanan, and drove into the Valley.

Tori Giacomo’s last known address was a dingy white multiplex. Old cars and trucks filled the street. True to her father’s description, the people I saw were mostly brown-skinned. Some were dressed for church. Others looked as if faith was the last thing on their minds.

Laurel Canyon south led me back into the city and Beverly Boulevard east took me to Hancock Park. No Range Rover in Nora Dowd’s driveway and when I walked up to the door and knocked, no response.

Go west, aimless man.

* * *

The weeds where Michaela had been dumped had fluffed, obscuring any history of violence. I stared at plants and dirt, got back in the car.