“My brother’s a cop.” Six feet of sun-damaged sinew stepped out onto the landing. The black shirt was a body-conscious tee that said Think: It’s Not Illegal Yet. Below that, baggy shorts printed with leaping dolphins ended at knees enlarged by random bumps. Bare feet sported ragged nails and more protrusions. Calcium deposits, your basic surfer knots.

He looked around thirty-five, accounting for sun damage. A thumb hooked toward Melvin Jaron Wedd’s door. “He do something?”

“We’re here to talk to him.”

“He hasn’t been here for days.”

“Any idea where he’s gone?”

“He’s gone all the time. Obviously, he’s got somewhere else to crash.”

“When’s the last time you saw him, Mister …”

“Robert Sommers.” Cornrow grinned crookedly, as if his name provided unceasing amusement. “The last time was … a couple of weeks ago? I’m not good with time. Except for the tide tables.”

“Chasing waves?” said Milo.

“Whenever I can,” said Sommers.

“Follow the big ones?”

Sommers grinned. “Not to Peahi or anything like that, I’m only Laird Hamilton in my dreams. My folks have a place in Malibu, sometimes I bunk down with them.” Wider grin. “Dump some laundry, too. Mom claims she still misses me.”

“Nice to have that kind of freedom.”

“I’m a Web designer so I’m flexible.”

“We heard Wedd does something in show business.”

Sommers huffed. “That could mean he’s part of a catering crew.”

“How long have you been living next to him?”

“I’ve been here around three years, he moved in later, maybe two, two and a half. I don’t have problems with him, he keeps to himself. Not your friendly type, though. He’ll never be the first to say hi and when he answers it’s like he’s being forced to do it. Guess that makes him your basic loner. My brother says that can be a danger sign but I can’t say anything weird goes on here.”

Milo said, “Your brother a detective?”

“Malibu Sheriff, rides a cruiser up and down PCH. One time he stopped me, made like he was going to ticket me. Revenge for all those times I kicked his ass.”

Milo said, “You got a warning instead.”

Sommers flexed a muscle and laughed. “More like I warned him.”

“Do you recall when Mr. Wedd’s car was stolen?”

“So that’s what you’re here about. What, you recovered it?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh,” said Sommers. “That little Bimmer was sweet, I wouldn’t replace it with a Monstro-mobile.”

“The Explorer.”

“Explorer all ghettoed up with crazy wheels, black paint job, black windows.”

“What kind of crazy wheels?” said Milo.

“Big,” said Sommers, drawing a wide circle with his hands. “Chromed, reversed, had to be serious cash. And the whole thing’s jacked up. Maybe he’s got hydraulics to lowride it, never seen him do it, but people get crazy with their cars.”