Middle-aged woman trying to hold on to a bit of little girl. She seemed well past thirty-six. Turning her head, she caught some light and a corona of peach fuzz softened her chin. Lines tugged at her eyes, puckers cinched both lips. The ring around her neck was conclusive. The age on her driver’s license was a fantasy. Standard Operating Procedure in a company town where the product was false promises.

The white thing sat still, too still for any kind of dog I knew. Maybe a fur hat? Then why had she talked to it?

Milo said, “Could we speak to you about Michaela, ma’am?”

Nora Dowd blinked. “You sound a little like Joe Friday. But he was a sergeant, you outrank him.” She cocked a firm hip. “I met Jack Webb once. Even when he wasn’t working, he liked those skinny black ties.”

“Jack was a prince, helped finance the Police Academy. About Michae- ”

“Let’s walk. I need my exercise.”

She surged ahead of us, swung her arms exuberantly. “Michaela was all right if you gave her enough structure. Her improv skills left something to be desired. Frustrated, always frustrated.”

“About what?”

“Not being a star.”

“She have any talent?”

Nora Dowd’s smile was hard to read.

Milo said, “The one big improv she tried didn’t work out so well.”

“Pardon?”

“The hoax she and Meserve pulled.”

“Yes, that.” Flat expression.

“What’d you think of that, Ms. Dowd?”

Dowd walked faster. Exposure to sunlight had irritated her bloodshot eyes and she blinked several times. Seemed to lose balance for a second, caught herself.

Milo said, “The hoax- ”

“What do I think? I think it was shoddy.”

“Shoddy how?”

“Poorly structured. In terms of theater.”

“I’m still not- ”

“Lack of imagination,” she said. “The goal of any true performance is openness. Revealing the self. What Michaela did insulted all that.”

“Michaela and Dylan.”

Nora Dowd again surged forward. Several steps later, she nodded.

I said, “Michaela thought you’d appreciate the creativity.”

“Who told you that?”

“A psychologist she talked to.”

“Michaela was in therapy?”

“That surprises you?”

“I don’t encourage therapy,” said Dowd. “It closes as many channels as it opens.”

“The psychologist evaluated her as part of her court case.”

“How silly.”

“What about Meserve?” said Milo. “He didn’t fail you?”

“No one failed me. Michaela failed herself. Yes, Dylan should have known better but he got swept along. And he comes from a different place.”

“How so?”

“The gifted are allowed more leeway.”

“Was the hoax his idea or Michaela’s?”

Five more steps. “No sense speaking ill of the dead.” A beat. “Poor thing.” Dowd’s mouth turned down. If she was trying to project empathy, her chops were rusty.

Milo said, “How long did Michaela take classes with you?”

“I don’t give classes.”

“What are they?”

“They’re performance experiences.”

“How long was Michaela involved in the experiences?”

“I’m not sure- maybe a year, give or take.”

“Any way to fix that more precisely?”

“Pree-cise-lee. Hmm…no, I don’t think so.”

“Could you check your records?”

“I don’t do records.”

“Not at all?”

“Nothing ’tall,” Dowd sang. She rotated her arms, breathed in deeply, said, “Ahh. I like the air today.”

“How do you run a business without records, ma’am?”

Nora Dowd smiled. “It’s not a business. I don’t take money.”

“You teach- present experiences for free?”

“I avail myself, provide a time and place and a selectively judgmental atmosphere for those with courage.”

“What kind of courage?”

“The kind that enables one to accept selective judgment. The balls to dig deep inside here.” She cupped her left breast with her right hand. “It’s all about self-revelation.”

“Acting.”

“Performing. Acting is an artificial word. As if life is here”- cocking her head to the left- “and performance is out here, on another galaxy. Everything’s part of the same gestalt. That’s a German word for the whole being bigger than the sum of the parts. I’m blessed.”

Milo said, “With teaching- availing talent?”

“With an uncluttered consciousness and freedom from worry.”

“Freedom from record-keeping’s pretty good, too.”

Dowd smiled. “That, as well.”

“Does not charging mean freedom from financial worry?”

“Money’s an attitude,” said Nora Dowd brightly.

Milo pulled out the photo of Tori Giacomo and held it in front of her face. Her pace didn’t falter and he had to speed up to keep it in her line of vision.

“Not bad looking in a Saturday Night Fever kind of way.” Dowd fended off the photo and Milo dropped his arm.

“You don’t know her?”

“I really can’t say. Why?”

“Her name is Tori Giacomo. She came to L.A. to be an actress, took lessons, disappeared.”

Nora Dowd said, “Disappeared? As in poof?”

“Did she ever avail herself at the PlayHouse?”

“Tori Giacomo…the name doesn’t ring a bell but I can’t give you a yes or no because we don’t take attendance.”

“You don’t recognize her but you can’t say no?”

“All sorts of people show up, especially on nights when we do group exercises. The room’s dark and I certainly can’t be expected to remember every face. There is a sameness, you know.”

“Young and eager?”

“Young and oh-so hungry.”

“Could you take another look, ma’am?”

Dowd sighed, grabbed the photo, stared for a second. “I simply can’t say yes or no.”

Milo said, “Big crowds show up but you did know Michaela.”

“Michaela was a regular. Made sure to introduce herself to me.”

“Ambitious?”

“High level of hunger, I’ll give her that. Without serious want there’s no chance of reaching the bottom of the funnel.”

“What funnel is that?”

Dowd stopped, faltered again, regained her balance, and shaped a cone with her hands. “At the top are all the strivers. Most of them give up right away, which allows those who remain to sink down a little more.” Her hands dropped. “But there are still far too many and they bump against each other, collide, everyone hungry for the spout. Some tumble out, others get crushed.”

Milo said, “More room in the funnel for those with balls.”

Dowd looked up at him. “You’ve got a Charles Laughton thing going on. Ever think of performing?”

He smiled. “So who gets to the bottom of the funnel?”

“Those who are karmically destined.”

“For celebrity.”

“That’s not a disease, Lieutenant. Or should I call you Charles?”

“What’s not?”

“Celebrity,” said Dowd. “Anyone who makes it is a gifted winner. Even if it doesn’t last long. The funnel’s always shifting. Like a star on its axis.”

Stars didn’t have axes. I kept that nugget to myself.

Milo said, “Did Michaela have the potential to make it all the way to the spout?”

“As I said, I don’t want to diss the dead.”

“Did you get along with her, Ms. Dowd?”

Dowd squinted. Her eyes looked raw and inflamed. “That’s a strange question.”

“Maybe I’m missing something, ma’am, but you don’t seem too shaken up by her murder.”

Dowd exhaled. “Of course I’m sad. I see no reason to reveal myself to you. Now if you’ll let me complete my- ”

“In a sec, ma’am. When’s the last time you saw Dylan Meserve?”

“Saw him?”

“At the PlayHouse,” said Milo. “Or anywhere else.”

“Hmm,” said Dowd. “Hmm, the last time…a week or so? Ten days? He helps out from time to time.”

“Helps how?”

“Arranging chairs, that sort of thing. Now I need to get some cleansing exercise, Charles. All this talk has polluted the good air.”

She jogged away from us, moving fast, but with a choppy, knock-kneed stride. The quicker she ran, the more pronounced was her clumsiness. When she was half a block away, she began shadowboxing. Swung her head from side to side.