He got up, filled a glass with water from the tap. “Got any lemon?”

I sliced one, dropped a wedge into his glass.

“Rick says I should keep my kidneys hydrated but plain water tastes like plain water…anyway, Tori is no longer Jane Doe 342-003. Wish I had the rest of the body but she was listed as an unsolved Hollywood homicide and the D’s report spelled things out pretty clearly.”

He drank some more, put the glass in the sink.

“She was found four months after she disappeared, dumped in some brush on the L.A. side of Griffith Park. All that was left were scattered bones. Coroner thought he spotted damage to some of the cervical vertebrae and there are definitely some relatively superficial knife cuts in her sternum and a couple in the thoracic ribs. Tentative cause of death is strangulation/stabbing.”

I said, “Two young, female acting students, similar wounds and Nora Dowd didn’t rule out Tori attending her classes.”

“No answer at Nora’s home or the school. I’ll be at the PlayHouse tonight, mingling with the beautiful people. After I meet with Brad Dowd. He called, apologized for cutting off the conversation, invited me to his house.”

“Eager to talk about Dylan,” I said. “Where does he live?”

“Santa Monica Canyon. Care to join me? I’ll drive.”

Bradley Dowd lived on Gumtree Lane, a mile north of Channel Road, just east of where Channel descends steeply to Pacific Coast Highway.

A darkening sky and a tree canopy brought early night. The air was still and unseasonably warm and no ocean aroma brined the canyon.

Usually it’s ten degrees cooler near the coast. Maybe it’s me, but patterns seem to be shaking up more often.

The house was a one-story redwood and glass box set in a low spot along the leafy road, well back from the street. The wealth of vegetation made it hard to make out where the property began and ended.

High-end box, with polished-copper trim and a porch supported by carved beams. Carefully placed spots illuminated flower beds and luxuriant ferns. The wooden address plate imbedded in the fieldstone gatepost was hand-painted. A gray or beige Porsche sat in the front of the gravel driveway. Hanging succulents graced the porch, which was set up with Adirondack chairs.

Brad Dowd stood near one of the chairs, one leg bent so that his shoulders sloped to the right. He wore a T-shirt and cutoffs, held a long-necked bottle in one hand.

“Park right behind me, Detective.”

When we got to the porch, he hoisted the bottle. Corona. The T-shirt said Hobie-Cat. His feet were bare. Muscular legs, knobby, misshapen knees. “Join me?”

“No, thanks.”

Dowd sat, gave another wave. We repositioned two chairs and faced him.

“Any problem finding me?”

“None,” said Milo. “Thanks for calling.”

Dowd nodded and drank. Crickets chirped. A hint of gardenia blew by and dissipated.

“Pretty out here, sir.”

“Love it,” said Brad. “Nothing like peace and quiet after a day dealing with leaks, short circuits, and various other minor disasters.”

“Trials and tribulations of being a landlord.”

“Are you one, too, Detective?”

“God forbid.”

Brad laughed. “It beats honest labor. The key is to keep things organized.”

He’d left the front door cracked six inches. Serape throws on chairs, a kilim ottoman, lots of leather. Propped in a corner was a white surfboard. Longboard, the type you don’t see much anymore.

The knobs on Dowd’s knees made sense. Surfer’s knots.

Milo said, “There was something about Dylan Meserve you wanted to tell us.”

“Thanks for waiting. I didn’t want Billy to hear.”

“Protecting Billy,” I said.

Dowd turned to me. “Billy needs protection. Sometimes it’s hard for him to put things in perspective.”

“Something about Meserve bother him?” said Milo.

Brad Dowd’s brow creased. “No, I just like to keep him away from what he doesn’t need to know…sure I can’t get you guys one of these?”

“We’re fine,” said Milo. “You take care of Billy.”

“He doesn’t need special care- he’s not retarded or anything like that. When he was born, there was an oxygen problem. We used to live together, then a couple of years ago I realized he needed his independence, so I got him his own place. A nice lady lives upstairs. Billy thinks they’re just neighbors, but she gets paid to be there for him. Anyway, about Meserve, it’s no big deal. My sister had a thing for him and I consider him a first-class sleazeball.”

“A mutual thing?”

Dowd stretched his legs, pointed his toes, massaged a knot. Maybe calcium explained the wince. “In some ways, Nora can be a bit of an adolescent. All the time she spends with young people doesn’t help.”

I said, “Dylan wasn’t her first thing?”

“I didn’t say that.”

I smiled.

Brad Dowd drank beer. “No sense bullshitting. You know how it is, a woman gets to a certain age, the whole youth culture thing. Nora’s entitled to her fun. But with Meserve it was getting a little out of hand, so I talked to her and she realized I was right.”

“You didn’t want Billy to hear this because…”

Brad Dowd’s mouth got tight. “It was a bit of a hassle. Convincing Nora. She’d have been a lot more upset if Billy got involved. If he tried to comfort her or something like that.”

“Why’s that?” said Milo.

“Nora and Billy aren’t close…the truth is, when we were kids, Billy was a source of embarrassment to Nora. But Billy thinks they’re close- ” He stopped. “This is family stuff you don’t need to know.”

Milo said, “So Nora broke up with Meserve?”

“It didn’t require a formal declaration because the two of them were never officially…” He smiled. “I almost said ‘going steady.’ ”

“How’d Nora end it with Meserve?”

“By keeping her distance. Ignoring him. Eventually, he got the point.”

“How was their relationship getting out of hand?” I said.

Brad frowned. “Is this really relevant to that poor girl’s murder?”

“Probably not, sir. We ask all sorts of questions and hope for the best.”

“Is Meserve a suspect?”

“No, but close friends of the victim are considered individuals of interest, and we haven’t been able to locate Meserve to talk to him.”

“I understand, Detective. But I still don’t see why my sister’s private life needs to be aired.”

I said, “Was there something about Meserve that bothered you more than her other ‘things’?”

Dowd sighed. “In the past, Nora’s relationships were short-lived. Mostly because the men who interest Nora aren’t the type with long-term plans. Meserve seemed different to me. Manipulative, as if he was planning something. That hoax he pulled proves it, right?”

Milo said, “Planning what?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“You suspected he was out for Nora’s money.”

“I started to get concerned when Nora gave him a paid job at the PlayHouse. Creative consultant.” Dowd snorted. “You need to understand: Nora doesn’t charge a penny for her classes. That’s a crucial point, tax-wise, because the PlayHouse- the building, the upkeep, any supplies- is funded by a foundation we set up.”

“You and your sibs.”

“Basically, I did it for Nora, because acting’s her passion. We’re not talking some huge financial undertaking, there’s just enough endowment to keep the classes going. The building’s one of many we inherited from our parents and the rent we forego is a nice deduction against the profit from some other rentals in our portfolio. I’m the nominal head of the foundation so I approve expenditures. Which is why when Nora came to me wanting salary for Meserve, I knew it was time to talk. There was simply nothing in the budget to accommodate that. And it confirmed my suspicions that Meserve was out for something.”

“How much did she want to pay him?”