Gone Read online

  “Got a new tenant for this one?”

  Jabber shrugged. “It won’t take long. The place is high-demand.”

  Milo looked around the small dismal room. “Location, location, location.”

  “You got it. Close to everything, Lieutenant. The studios, the freeways, the beach, Beverly Hills.”

  “I know it’s not your area of expertise, sir, but I’m trying to trace Mr. Meserve’s activities. If he hadn’t asked for an extension, would there be some reason you’d simply let him go for three months?”

  Jabber’s eyelids half closed.

  Milo moved closer, used his height and bulk to advantage. Jabber stepped back. “Off the record?”

  “Is it a sensitive topic, Mr. Jabber?”

  “No, no, not that...to be honest, this is a big building and we’ve got others even bigger. Sometimes things get...overlooked.”

  “So maybe Meserve got lucky and just sneaked by.”

  Jabber shrugged.

  “But eventually,” said Milo, “his failure to pay rent would’ve caught up with him.”

  “Of course, yeah. Anyway, we got at least his first month and damage deposit. He’s not getting nothing back ’cause he didn’t give notice.”

  “How’d you find out he was gone?”

  “Phone and electricity got shut off for nonpayment. We pay the gas but the utilities notify us when the other stuff goes.”

  “Kind of an early warning system.”

  Jabber smiled uneasily. “Not early enough.”

  “When did the phone and electricity get shut off?”

  “You’d have to call the main office.”

  “Or you could.”

  Jabber frowned, pulled out a cell phone, punched an auto-dial three-digit code. “Samir, there? Hey, Sammy, Ralph. I am, yeah, the usual...tell me, when did the juice get squeezed off at Overland D-14? Why? ’Cause the cops wanna know. Yeah...who knows, Sammy, they’re here now, want to talk to them yourself...okay, then, just tell me so I can get them outta— so they can find out what they wanna know. Listen, I got six more to deal with, Sammy, including two in the Valley and it’s already eleven...yeah, yeah...”

  Ninety seconds passed. Phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder, Jabber walked into the kitchenette, opened cabinets, ran his finger inside drawers. “Fine. Yeah. Okay. Yeah, I will, yeah.”

  He clicked off. “Utilities went four weeks ago. One of our inspectors said there’d been no mail for six weeks.”

  “Four weeks ago and you just came by today.”

  Jabber colored. “Like I said, it’s a big company.”

  “You the owner?”

  “I wish. My father-in-law.”

  “That him you were talking to?”

  Jabber shook his head. “Brother-in-law.”

  “Family affair,” said Milo.

  “By marriage,” said Jabber. His lips twisted into a tight, pale blossom. “Okay? I gotta lock up.”

  “Who’s the inspector?”

  “My sister-in-law. Samir’s wife. Samir has her come around, check things out. She’s not too bright, never told anyone about the no-mail.”

  “You have any idea where Mr. Meserve went?”

  “I wouldn’t know him if he walked in right now. Why all the questions? What’d he do?”

  Milo said, “Would anyone at the company have information about him?”

  “No way,” said Jabber.

  “Who rented to him?”

  “He probably used one of the services. Rent-Search, or one of them. It’s on-line or you can call, mostly people do it on-line.”

  “How’s it work?”

  “Applicant submits an application to the service, service passes it along to us. Applicant qualifies, he puts down the deposit and the first month and moves in. Once we get occupancy, we pay a commission to the service.”

  “Meserve have a lease?”

  “Month to month, we don’t do leases.”

  “Leases don’t keep the vacancy rate down?”

  “You get a bum,” said Jabber, “doesn’t matter what’s on paper.”

  “What does it take to qualify as a tenant?”

  “Hey,” said Jabber. “Lots of homeless would kill for a place like this.”

  “You ask for references?”

  “Sure.”

  “Who did Meserve give?”

  “Like I said, I’m just the— ”

  “Call your brother-in-law. Please.”

  * * *

  Three references: a previous landlord in Brooklyn, the manager of the Foot Locker where Dylan Meserve had worked before getting arrested, and Nora Dowd, Artistic Director of the PlayHouse, in West L.A., where the young man had been listed as a “creative consultant.”

  Jabber examined what he’d written down before passing it along to Milo.

  “Guy’s an actor?” He laughed.

  “You rent to a lot of actors?”

  “Actor means bum. Samir’s stupid.”

  * * *

  I followed Milo to the West L.A. station, where he parked his unmarked in the staff lot and got into the Seville.

  “Meserve stopped his mail soon after he got busted,” he said. “Probably planning to rabbit if things didn’t work out in court.” He searched his notepad for the acting school’s address. “What do you think of that ‘creative consultant’ business?”

  “Maybe he apprenticed to earn extra money. Michaela blamed Dylan for the hoax but obviously Nora Dowd didn’t.”

  “How’d Michaela feel about that?”

  “She didn’t talk about Nora’s reaction to Dylan. She was surprised at Nora’s angry reaction to her.”

  “Dowd boots her but keeps him on as consultant?”

  “If it’s true.”

  “Meserve faked the reference?”

  “Meserve’s been known to embellish.”

  Milo phoned Brooklyn, located the landlord Dylan had cited as a reference. “Guy said he knew Dylan’s father because he’s a part-time musician himself and they used to gig. He has a vague memory of Dylan as a kid but never rented him an apartment.”

  “Creative consultant,” I said.

  “Let’s talk to the consultee.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The PlayHouse was an old one-story Craftsman house on an oversized lot, just north of Venice Boulevard, in West L.A. Plank siding painted deep green with cream trim, low-set bulk topped by sweeping eaves that created a small, dim porch. The garage to the left had old-fashioned barn doors but looked freshly painted. The landscaping was from another age: a couple of four-story cocoa palms, indifferently pruned bird of paradise grown ragged, agapanthus, and calla lilies surrounding a flat, brown lawn.

  The neighborhood was working-class rental residential, mostly boxy multi-units and boxy houses awaiting demolition. Nothing denoted the acting school’s function. The windows were dark.

  Milo said, “Guess she doesn’t need to advertise. Or keep daytime hours.”

  I said, “If most of the aspirants have day jobs, it’s an evening business.”

  “Let’s check it out, anyway.”

  We walked up to the porch. Floored with green board, thickly varnished. The window in the paneled oak door was blocked with opaque lace. A hand-hammered copper mailbox perched to the right. Milo flipped the lid and peered inside. Empty.

  He pushed a button and chimes sounded.

  No answer.

  Two doors down an old Dodge Dart backed out toward the street. Hispanic man around thirty at the wheel, leaving a pale blue bungalow. Milo walked over, rolled his arm.

  No badge, but people tend to obey him. The man lowered his window.

  “Morning, sir. Know anything about your neighbor?”

  Big shrug. Nervous smile. “No hablo Ingles.”

  Milo pointed. “The school. La Escuela.”

  Another shrug. “No se.”

  Milo looked into his eyes, waved him away. As the Dart sped off, we returned to the porch, where Milo jabbed the button several mor
e times. A chime sonata went unanswered.

  “Okay, I’ll try again tonight.”

  As we turned, footsteps sounded from inside the PlayHouse. Lace wiggled in the window but didn’t part.

  Then nothing.

  Milo swiveled and rapped the door hard. Scratches, as a bolt turned. The door swung open and a heavy man holding a broom and looking distracted said, “Yeah?” Before the word was out of his mouth, his eyes tightened and distraction gave way to calculation.

  This time Milo had the badge out. The heavy man barely glanced at it. His second “Yeah?” was softer, wary.

  He had a splotchy, pie-tin face, a meaty, off-kilter nose, brambles of curly graying hair that flew from his temples, muttonchops that petered to a colorless grizzle. The mustache atop parched lips was the sole bit of disciplined hair: clipped, precise, a gray-brown hyphen. Tight eyes the color of strong tea managed to be active without moving.

  Wrinkled gray work shirt and matching pants, open sandals, thick white socks. Dust and sweepings flecked white cotton toes. The tattoos that embroidered his fleshy hands promised to snake up under his sleeves. Blue-black skin art, crude and square-edged. Hard to decipher, but I made out a tiny little grinning demon’s head, more impish than satanic, leering at a puckered knuckle.

  Milo said, “Is Nora Dowd here?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about Dylan Meserve?”

  “Nope.”

  “You know Mr. Meserve?”

  “I know who he is.” Low, slurred voice, slight delay before forming syllables. His right hand gripped the broom handle. The left had gathered shirt fabric and stretched it over his substantial belly.

  “What do you know about Mr. Meserve?” said Milo.

  The same hesitation. “One of the students.”

  “He doesn’t work here?”

  “Never saw that.”

  “We were told he’s a creative consultant.”

  No answer.

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  Small yellow teeth made a play at a cracked upper lip. “A while.”

  “Days?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Weeks?”

  “Could be.”

  “Where’s Ms. Dowd?”

  “Dunno.”

  “No idea?”

  “Nossir.”

  “She’s your boss.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Want to guess where she might be?”

  Shrug.

  “When did you see her last?”

  “I work days, she’s here at night.”

  Out came Milo’s pad. “Your name, please.”

  No answer.

  Milo edged closer. The man stepped back, just as Ralph Jabber had.

  “Sir?”

  “Reynold.”

  “First name, please.”

  “Reynold. Last name’s Peaty.”

  “Reynold Peaty.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Is that Peaty with two e’s or e-a?”

  “P-E-A-T-Y.”

  “You work here full-time, Mr. Peaty?”

  “I do the clean up and the lawn mowing.”

  “Full-time?”

  “Part-time.”

  “Got another job?”

  “I clean buildings.”

  “Where do you live, Mr. Peaty?”

  Peaty’s left hand flexed. Gray shirt fabric shimmied. “Guthrie.”

  “Guthrie Avenue in L.A.?”

  “Yessir.”

  Milo asked for the address. Reynold Peaty thought for a moment before giving it up. Just east of Robertson. A short walk from Michaela Brand’s apartment on Holt. Close to the death scene, too.

  “Know why we’re here, Mr. Peaty?”

  “Nossir.”

  “How long have you been working here?”

  “Five years.”

  “So you know Michaela Brand.”

  “One of the girls,” said Peaty. His bushy eyebrows twitched. The fabric over his gut vibrated harder.

  “Seen her around?”

  “Coupla times.”

  “While you were working days?”

  “Sometimes it stretches,” said Peaty. “If I get here late.”

  “You know her by name.”

  “She was the one did that thing with him.”

  “That thing.”

  “With him,” Peaty repeated. “Pretending to be kidnapped.”

  “She’s dead,” said Milo. “Murdered.”

  Reynold Peaty’s lower jaw jutted like a bulldog’s, rotated as if chewing gristle.

  “Any reaction to that, sir?” said Milo.

  “Terrible.”

  “Any idea who’d want to do something like that?”

  Peaty shook his head and ran his hand up and down the broom shaft.

  “Yeah, it is terrible,” said Milo. “Such a pretty girl.”

  Peaty’s small eyes narrowed to pupil-glint. “You think he did it?”

  “Who?”

  “Meserve.”

  “Any reason we should think that?”

  “You asked about him.”

  Milo waited.

  Peaty rolled the broom. “They did that thing together.”

  “That thing.”

  “It was on TV.”

  “You think that might be connected to Michaela’s murder, Mr. Peaty?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why would it be?”

  Peaty licked his lips. “They didn’t come here together no more.”

  “For acting lessons.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Did they come separately?”

  “Just him.”

  “Meserve kept coming but not Michaela.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Sounds like a lot of your days stretch into nights.”

  “Sometimes he’s here in the day.”

  “Mr. Meserve?”

  “Yessir.”

  “By himself?”

  Head shake.

  “Who’s he with?”

  Peaty shifted the broom from hand to hand. “I don’ wanna get in trouble.”

  “Why would you?”

  “You know.”

  “I don’t, Mr. Peaty.”

  “Her. Ms. Dowd.”

  “Nora Dowd comes here during the day with Dylan Meserve.”

  “Sometimes,” said Peaty.

  “Anyone else here?”

  “Nossir.”

  “Except you.”

  “I leave when she tells me I done enough.”

  “What do she and Meserve do when they’re here?”

  Peaty shook his head. “I work.”

  “What else can you tell me?” said Milo.

  “About what?”

  “Michaela, Dylan Meserve, anything else that comes to mind.”

  “Nothing,” said Peaty.

  “The hoax Michaela and Dylan tried to pull off,” said Milo. “What’d you think about that?”

  “It was on TV.”

  “What do you think of it?”

  Peaty tried to chew on his mustache but the clipped hair was too short for a tooth hold. He tugged at his right muttonchop. I tried to think of the last time I’d seen a set that overgrown. College days? Portrait of Martin Van Buren?

  Peaty said, “It ain’t good to lie.”

  “I agree with you there. My job, people are always lying to me and it really gets on my nerves.”

  Peaty’s eyes dropped to the porch planks.