“Nora had always deferred to him. Maybe that changed.”
“Meserve shows up,” he said.
“And captures her affections,” I said. “Another self-styled player, good-looking, ambitious, manipulative. Younger than Brad, but not unlike him. Could be that’s what attracted Nora to him in the first place. Whatever the reason, she wasn’t giving him up the way she had the others.”
“Meserve worms his way into her affections and her pocketbook.”
“Deep-pocketbook. Brad’s got nominal power but he serves at the discretion of the estate. Nora’s a ditz but it would be hard to claim she’s not of sound mind, legally. If she demanded control over her own assets, it would pose a major complication for Brad. If she convinced Billy to do the same, it would be a disaster.”
“Bye-bye, façade.”
“Banished when he’s of no further use,” I said. “Just like when he was a kid.”
We walked in silence to the cars.
He said, “Michaela and Tori and the Gaidelases and Lord knows how many others get done for blood-lust and Nora and Meserve get done for money?”
“Or a mixture of blood-lust and money.”
He considered that. “Nothing new about that, I guess. Rick’s relatives didn’t just lose their lives in the Holocaust. Their homes and their businesses and all their other possessions got confiscated.”
“Take it all,” I said. “The ultimate trophy.”
CHAPTER 41
We took the Seville to Santa Monica Canyon.
No Porsche or any other car in Brad Dowd’s driveway. Lights out in the redwood house, no reply to Milo ’s knock.
I joined the traffic crawl on Channel Road, finally made it down to the coast highway, hit moderate flow from Chautauqua to the Colony. Once we got past Pepperdine University, the land yawned and stretched and the road got easy. The ocean was slate. Hungry pelicans dove. I made it to Kanan Dume Road with some sunlight to spare, turned up onto Latigo Canyon.
An assessors’ map of Billy Dowd’s property rested in Milo ’s lap. Ten acres, no building permits ever issued.
The Seville ’s no mountain car and I slowed as the pitch steepened and the turns pinched. Nothing on the road until I neared the spot where Michaela had run across screaming.
An old tan Ford pickup was parked there on the turnoff. An old tan man stood looking into the brush.
Plaid shirt, dusty jeans, beer gut hanging over his buckle. Filmy white hair fluffed in the breeze. A long, hooked nose sliced sky.
Smoke seeped from under the truck’s hood.
Milo said, “Pull over.”
The old man turned and watched us. His belt buckle was stippled brass, an oversized oval featuring a bas-relief horse head.
“You okay, Mr. Bondurant?”
“Why shouldn’t I be, Mr. Detective?”
“Looks like an over-heat.”
“It always does that. Pinhole leak in the radiator, long as I feed it faster than it gets hungry, I’m okay.”
Bondurant shuffled over to the truck, reached in the passenger window, and took out a yellow plastic jug of antifreeze.
“Liquid diet,” said Milo. “You’re sure the block won’t crack?”
“You worried about me, Mr. Detective?”
“Protect and serve.”
“Find out anything about the girl?”
“Still working on it, sir.”
Bondurant’s eyes vanished in a mesh of fold and crinkle. “Meaning nothing, huh?”
“Looks like you’ve been thinking about her.”
The old man’s chest swelled. “Who says?”
“This is the spot where you saw her.”
“It’s also a turnoff,” said Bondurant. He hefted the antifreeze. Stared at the brush. “Naked girl, it’s like one of those stories you tell in the service and everyone thinks you’re lyin’.” He licked his lips. “Few years back that woulda been something.”
Sucking in his belly, he hitched his jeans. The roll of fat shimmered down, covered the horse’s eyes.
Milo said, “Know your neighbors?”
“Don’t got any real ones.”
“No neighborhood spirit around here?”
“Let me tell you how it’s like,” said Charley Bondurant. “This used to be horse land. My grandfather raised Arabians and some Tennessee walkers- anything you could sell to rich folk. Some of the Arabians made it to Santa Anita and Hollywood Park, a couple of ’ em placed. Everyone who lived here was into horses, you could smell the shit miles away. Now it’s just rich folk who don’t give a damn about anything. They buy up the land for investment, drive up on Sunday, stare for a coupla minutes, don’t know what the hell to do with themselves, and go back home.”
“Rich folk like Brad Dowd?”
“Who?”
“White-haired fellow, mid-forties, drives all kinds of fancy cars.”
“Oh, yeah, him,” said Bondurant. “Guns those things too damn fast coming down the mountain. Exactly what I mean. Wearing those Hawaiian shirts.”
“He here often?”
“Once in a while. All I see is the damn cars speeding by. Lots of ragtops, that’s how I know about the shirts.”
“He ever stop to talk?”
“You didn’t hear me?” said Bondurant. “He speeds by.” A gnarled hand slashed the air.
“How often is once in a while?” said Milo.
Bondurant half turned. His hawk-nose aimed at us. “You want a count?”
“If you’ve got charts and graphs, I’ll take them, Mr. Bondurant.”
The old man completed the turn. “He’s the one who killed her?”
“Don’t know.”
“But you’re thinking he could be.”
Milo said nothing.
Bondurant said, “You’re a quiet guy, except when you want something from me. Let me tell you, government never did much for the Bondurant family. We had problems, no help from the government.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Coyote problems, gopher problems, draught problems, prowling hippie problems. Damned mourning cloak butterfly problems- I say ‘butterfly,’ you think cute ’cause you’re a city boy. I think problem. One summer they swarmed us, laid their eggs in the trees, destroyed half a dozen elms, nearly polished off a sixty-foot weeping willow. Know what we did? We DDT’ed ’em.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “That ain’t legal. You ask the government can I DDT, nope, against the law. You say what should I do to protect my elm trees, they say figure something out.”
“Butterfly homicide’s not my thing,” said Milo.
“Caterpillars all over the place, pretty fast-moving for what they were,” said Bondurant. “I had fun stepping on ’em. The car guy kill the girl?”
“He’s what we call a person of interest. That’s government double-talk for I’m not gonna tell you more.”
Bondurant allowed himself half a smile.
Milo said, “When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Maybe a couple of weeks ago. That don’t mean nothing. I’m asleep by eight thirty, someone’s driving past I ain’t gonna see it or hear it.”
“Ever notice anyone with him?”
“Nope.”
“Ever see anyone else go to that property?”
“Why would I?” said Bondurant. “It’s above me a good mile and a half. I don’t go prowling around. Even when Walter Maclntyre owned the land I never went up there because everyone knew Walt was nuts and excitable.”
“How so?”
“I’m talking years ago, Mr. Detective.”
“Always interested in learning.”
“Walter Maclntyre didn’t kill no girl, he’s been dead thirty years. The car guy must’ve bought the land from Walter’s son, who’s a dentist. Walter was also a dentist, big practice in Santa Monica, he bought the land back in the fifties. First city folk to buy. My father said, ‘Watch and see what happens,’ and he was right. Walter started off like he was gonna fit in. Built this huge horse barn but never put no horses in it. Every weekend he’d be up here, driving a truck, but no one could figure out why. Probably staring at the ocean and talking to himself about the Russians.”