Dowd winced. “Any idea by who?”

“No, sir. Here’s another routine question: Do you know Dylan Meserve?”

“I’m aware of who he is. Is there any sense asking why he’s part of your routine?”

“He hasn’t been seen for a while and when we tried to talk to your sister about him, she ended the conversation.”

“Nora,” said Brad wearily. His eyes shot to the doorway. “Hey, bro. Smells good, thanks.”

Billy Dowd toted an open cardboard carton, using both hands, as if his cargo was precious. Inside was a hero-sized sandwich wrapped in orange paper. Aromas of tomato paste, oregano, and basil filled the office.

Brad turned so his brother couldn’t see and slipped Milo a yellow business card. Perfect match to his shirt. “Anything I can do to help, Detective. Feel free to call me if you have any further questions- that smells fantastic, Billy. You’re the man.”

“You’re the man,” said Billy gravely.

“You, too, Bill.”

Billy Dowd’s mouth screwed up.

Brad said, “Hey, we can both be the man.” He took the sandwich and cuffed his brother’s shoulder lightly. “Right?”

Billy considered that. “Okay.”

By the time we made it to the door, Brad Dowd had his dinner unwrapped and was saying, “This hits the spot, Bill.”

As we climbed down to the strip mall’s first level, Milo said, “That sandwich smelled good.”

We parked near the far west end of the airport. The coffee from Café DiGiorgio was dark and strong. Milo pushed the seat back as far as it would go and got to work on his meatball and pepper sandwich.

After four ferocious bites, he stopped to breathe. “Looks like ol’ Bradley watches out for his sibs.”

“Looks like they both bear watching.”

“What’s your diagnosis on Billy?”

“The best word’s probably ‘simple.’ ”

“And Nora’s a spacey doper.”

“You’re ready to take the state boards,” I said.

He scanned blue sky. No sleek white jets to feed his fantasies. He fished out Brad Dowd’s yellow business card and handed it over.

Crisp, substantial paper. Bradley Dowd’s name embossed in chocolate italics, above a phone number with an 825 prefix.

“Gentleman’s calling card,” I said. “You don’t see that too often.”

“Once a rich kid, always a rich kid. I’ll call him tonight, find out what he didn’t want to talk about in front of his brother.”

I got home at six, cleared a tapeful of junk messages, listened to one from Robin that had come in ten minutes ago.

“I could tell you this is about shared grief for our late pooch but it’s really…a booty call. I guess. Hopefully, you’re the only one listening to this. Please erase it. Bye.”

I called her back. “I erased it.”

“I’m lonely,” she said.

“Me, too.”

“Should we do something about it?”

“I think so.”

“That’s not exactly rabid desire, but I’ll take what I can get.”

I was at her house in Venice by seven. We spent the next hour in bed, the rest of the evening reading the paper and watching the last third of Humoresque on The Movie Channel.

When the film was over, she got up without a word and left for her studio.

I tried to sleep, didn’t have much success until she returned to bed. I was up just after seven when western light streaming through her curtains couldn’t be denied.

She stood naked, by the window, holding a cup of tea. She’d always been a coffee drinker.

I croaked something that approximated “Morning.”

“You dreamed a lot.”

“I was noisy?”

“Active. I’ll get you some coffee.”

“Come back to bed, I’ll get it.”

“No, relax.” She padded out and returned with a mug, stood by the bed.

I drank and cleared my throat. “Thanks. You’re into tea, now?”

“Sometimes.”

“How long have you been awake?”

“Couple of hours.”

“My activity?”

“No, I’ve turned into an early riser.”

“Cows to milk, eggs to collect.”

She smiled, put on a robe, sat on the bed.

I said, “Come back in.”

“No, once I’m up, I’m up.” She forced a smile. I could smell the effort.

“Want me to leave?”

“Of course not,” she said too quickly. “Stay as long as you like. I don’t have much for breakfast.”

“Not hungry,” I said. “You’ve got work to do.”

“Eventually.”

She kissed my forehead, got up, and moved to her closet and began getting dressed. I went to shower. By the time I was out and dried and dressed, her band saw was humming.

I had breakfast at John O’Groats on Pico, going out of my way because I was in the mood for Irish oatmeal, and the company of strangers seemed like a good idea. I sat at the counter and read the paper. Nothing on Michaela. No reason for there to be.

Back home, I did some paperwork and thought about Nora Dowd’s flat responses to Milo’s questions.

Not bothering to fake sympathy or interest in Michaela’s murder. The same for Tori Giacomo’s disappearance.

But Dylan Meserve’s name had pulled out some emotion and Brother Brad didn’t want to talk about Dylan in front of the most vulnerable Dowd sib.

I got on the computer. Nora’s name pulled up a single citation: inclusion in a list of acting workshops listed by city that appeared on a site called StarHopefuls.com.

I printed the list, called all the West Coast programs, fabricated a casting-director cover story and asked if Tori Giacomo had ever been a student. Mostly, I got confusion. A few times, I got hang-ups, meaning I could use some acting lessons myself.

By noon, I had nothing. Better to stick with what I was getting paid to do.

I finished the report on Dr. Patrick Hauser and took a run down to the nearest mailbox. I was back at my desk, clearing paper, when Milo rang the doorbell.

“I called first,” he said.

“Out jogging.”

“I envy your knees.”

“Believe me, don’t. What’s up?”

“Michaela’s landlord promises to be there tomorrow morning, I got subpoenas for her phone records but my contact at the phone company says I’m wasting my time. Account was shut off for nonpayment weeks before she died. If she had a cell account, I can’t find it. On the positive side, God bless the angels at the coroner’s.” He stomped in. “Your knees really hurt?”

“Sometimes.”

“If you weren’t my buddy, I’d gloat.”

I followed him into the kitchen. Instead of raiding the fridge he sat down and loosened his tie.

“Michaela’s autopsy was prioritized?” I said.

“Nope, more interesting. My buddies at the crypt looked through the Doe files, found some possibles and traced one of ’em to a bone analyst doing research on identification. Forensic anthropologist on a grant, what she does is collect samples from various cases and try to classify them ethnically. In her trove was an intact skull with most of the teeth still embedded. Young, Caucasian female homicide victim found nineteen months ago, the rest of the body was incinerated six months after discovery. Their forensic odontologist said the dentition was distinctive. Lots of cosmetic bridgework, unusual for someone that young.”

“Someone trying to look their best. Like an aspiring actress.”

“I got the name of Tori Giacomo’s dentist in Bayside and thanks to the magic of digital photography and e-mail, we had a positive I.D. within the hour.”

“How’s her dad taking it?”

“Don’t know,” he said. “I had no way to reach him here in L.A., so I called his wife. Contrary to what Giacomo told us, she comes across like a sensible, stable lady. Has been expecting the worst for a while.” He slumped. “Prince that I am, I didn’t disappoint her.”