“Misdemeanor arrest.”

Beamish said, “Nowadays, that could include homicide.”

“You don’t like Ms. Dowd.”

“Don’t have use for any of them,” said Beamish. “Those persimmons. I’m talking the Japanese variety, tart, firm, nothing like those gelatinous abominations you get in the market. When my wife was alive she loved making compote for Thanksgiving. She was looking forward to Thanksgiving. That wastrel filched every one. Stripped the tree naked.”

He returned the photo. “Never seen him but I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“What’d you think of that pet of hers?”

“What pet, sir?”

Albert Beamish laughed so hard he began coughing.

Milo said, “You okay, sir?”

Beamish slammed the door.

The white fluffy thing Nora Dowd had left on her porch was a stuffed toy. Some sort of bichon or Maltese. Flat brown eyes.

Milo picked it up, had a close look. Said, “Oh, man,” and handed it over.

Not a toy. A real dog, stuffed and preserved. The pink ribbon around its neck supported a heart-shaped, silver pendant.

Stan

Birth and death dates. Stan had lived thirteen years.

Blank look on the white fluffy face. Maybe it was the glass eyes. Or the limits of taxidermy.

I said, “Could be Stan as in Stanislavsky. She probably talks to it and takes it with her on walks. Saw us and thought better of it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Eccentric rather than psychotic.”

“I’m so impressed.” He took the dog and put it back on the floor. “Stanislavsky, eh? Let’s method act the hell out of here.”

As we drove past Albert Beamish’s Tudor, the drapes across the living room window fluttered.

Milo said, “Neighborhood crank, love it. Too bad he didn’t recognize Meserve. But with his vision, that means nothing. He sure hates the Dowds.”

I said, “Nora has two brothers who own a lot of property. Ertha Stadlbraun said Peaty’s landlords are a pair of brothers.”

“So she did.”

By the time we reached Sixth Street and La Cienega, he’d confirmed it. William Dowd III, Nora Dowd, and Bradley Dowd, doing business as BNB Properties, owned the apartment building on Guthrie. It took several other calls to get an idea of their holdings. At least forty-three properties registered in L.A. County. Multiple residences and office buildings and the converted house on the Westside where Nora availed herself to would-be stars.

“The school’s probably a concession to Crazy Sister,” he said. “Keeps her out of their hair.”

“And far from their other properties,” I said. “Something else: All those buildings mean lots of janitorial work.”

“Reynold Peaty looking in all kinds of windows…if he’s moved from peeping to violence, lots of potential victims. Yeah, let’s check it out.”

Corporate headquarters for BNB Properties was on Ocean Park Boulevard near the Santa Monica Airport. Not one of the Dowd sibs’ properties, this one was owned by a national real estate syndicate that owned half of downtown.

“Wonder why?” said Milo.

“Maybe some sort of tax dodge,” I said. “Or they held on to what their father left them, didn’t add more.”

“Lazy rich kids? Yeah, makes sense.”

It was four forty-five and the drive at this hour would be brutal. Milo called the listed number, hung up quickly.

“ ‘You’ve reached the office, blah blah blah. If it’s a plumbing emergency, press 1. Electrical, press 2.’ Lazy rich kids are probably drinking at the country club. You up for a try, anyway?”

“Sure,” I said.

Olympic Boulevard seemed the optimal route. The lights are timed and parking restrictions keep all six lanes open during L.A. ’s ever-expanding rush hour. The boulevard was designed back in the forties as a quick way to get from downtown to the beach. People old enough to remember when that promise was kept get teary-eyed.

This afternoon, traffic was moving at twenty miles per. When I stopped at Doheny, Milo said, “The love-triangle angle fits, given Nora’s narcissism and nuttiness. This woman thinks her dog’s precious enough to be turned into a damned mummy.”

“Michaela insisted she and Dylan weren’t lovers.”

“She’d want to keep that from Nora. Maybe from you, too.”

“If so, the hoax was really stupid.”

“Two naked kids,” he said. “The publicity wouldn’t have thrilled Dowd.”

“Especially,” I said, “if she really doesn’t feel that blessed.”

“Never made it to the bottom of the funnel.”

“Never made it, lives alone in a big house, no stable relationships. Needs to smoke up before greeting the world. Maybe clinging to a stuffed dog is just massive insecurity.”

“Playing a role,” he said. “Availing herself. Okay, let’s see if we can tête-à-tête with the rest of this glorious family.”

The site was a two-story strip mall on the northeast corner of Ocean Park and Twenty-eighth, directly opposite the lush, industrial park that fronted Santa Monica ’s private airport. BNB Properties was a door and window on the second floor.

Cheaply built mall, lemon-yellow sprayed-stucco walls stained by rust around the gutters, brown iron railings rimming an open balcony, plastic tile roof pretending to evoke colonial Spain.

The ground floor was a take-out pizza joint, a Thai café and its Mexican counterpart, and a coin-op laundry. BNB’s upstairs neighbors were a chiropractor touting treatment for “workplace injuries,” Zip Technical Assistance, and Sunny Sky Travel, windows festooned by posters in bright, come-on colors.

As we climbed pebble-grained steps, a sleek, white corporate jet shot into the sky.

“ Aspen or Vail or Telluride,” said Milo. “Someone’s having fun.”

“Maybe it’s a business trip and they’re going to Podunk.”

“That tax bracket, everything’s fun. Wonder if the Dowd brothers are in that league. If they are, they’re skimping on ambience.”

He pointed at BNB’s plain brown door. Chipped and gouged and cracking toward the bottom. The corporate signage consisted of six U-stick, silver foil parallelograms aligned carelessly.

BNB inc

A single, aluminum-framed window was blocked by cheap, white mini-blinds. The slats tilted to the left, left a triangle of peep-space. Milo took advantage, shading his eyes with his hands and peering in.

“Looks like one room…and a bathroom with the light on.” He straightened. “Some guy’s in there peeing, let’s give him time to zip up.”

Another plane took off.

“That one’s Aspen for sure,” he said.

“How can you tell?”

“Happy sound from the engines.” He knocked and opened the door.

A man stood by a cheap, wooden desk staring at us. He’d forgotten to zip the fly of his khaki Dockers and a corner of blue shirt peeked out. The shirt was silk, oversized and baggy, a stone-washed texture that had been fashionable a decade ago. The khakis sagged on his skinny frame. No belt. Scuffed brown penny loafers, white socks.

He was short- five five or six- looked to be around fifty, with down-slanted medium brown eyes and curly gray hair cut in a tight Caesar cap. White fuzz on the back of his neck said it was time for a trim. Same for a two-day growth of salt-and-pepper beard. Hollow cheeks, angular features, except for his nose.

Shiny little button that gave his face an elfin cast. Either he’d used the same surgeon as his sister or stingy nasal endowment was a dominant Dowd trait.