Giggle. “Umm, not really.”
“It means isolated and quiet. Away from all the hassle. The Sturm und Drang.”
No response from the girl.
“Know why we’re auditioning you in a hermetic place?”
“Nora said it was serene.”
“Serene,” said Brad. “Sure, that’s a good word. Like one of those meditation things, ohmmmm, Shakti, bodhi vandana, cabalabaloo. Ever do any meditation?”
“I did Pilates.”
“ I. Did. Pilates…”
“Brad.”
Off-screen sigh. “A hermetic place means less distraction. Right?”
“Right- Brad.”
“A hermetic, serene place strips away superfluous elements so it’s easier to find your center. Not like back in class where everyone’s looking and judging. No one will judge you here. Never.”
The girl smiled again.
“What do you think of that?” said Brad.
“It’s good.”
“It’s good?”
“It’s real good.”
“Brad!”
Blue eyes jumped. “Brad.”
“It’s. Good- ”
“It’sgoodBrad. I’m sorry I’m kinda nervous.”
“Now, you interrupted me.”
“Sorry. Brad.”
Ten-second silence. The girl fidgeted.
Brad Dowd said, “Totally forgiven.”
“Thanks. Brad.”
Ten more seconds. The girl worked at relaxing her posture.
“Okay, we’re serene and hermetic and ready to do some serious work. Do you like Sondheim?”
“Um, don’t know him- Brad.”
“Doesn’t matter, we’re not going musical, this is a drama day. Lower your left shoulder strap- make sure it’s the left one because that’s your good side, your right side’s a little weak. Be sure not to take off your whole top, this isn’t porno, we just need to see your undraped posture à la classical sculpture.”
The camera pulled back, showed the girl sitting primly on a folding chair, wearing a skimpy red top held in place by spaghetti straps. Bare, tan, slender legs, advertised by a short, denim skirt. Sandaled feet planted on the ground. High-heeled brown sandals.
“Go ahead,” said Brad.
Looking confused, she reached up and loosened the right strap.
“Left!”
“Sorry, sorry, always had trouble with- sorry, Brad, always had trouble…” She switched to the left, fumbled, lowered.
The camera moved in on smooth, golden shoulder. Drew back to a full-body view.
Fifteen seconds passed.
“You’ve got a beautiful torso.”
“Thanks, Brad.”
“Know what a torso is?”
“The body- Brad.”
“The upper body. Yours is classical. You’re very lucky.”
“Thanks, Brad.”
“Think you’ve also got talent?”
“Umm, I hope so- Brad.”
“Oh, c’mon, let’s hear some insouciance, some confidence, some superstar can-do attitude.”
Blue eyes batted. The girl sat up straight, tossed her hair. Pumped a fist and shouted. “I’m the best! Brad!”
“Up for anything?”
“Sure. Brad.”
“Well, that’s good.”
Five seconds. Then: clang clang. Thud thud thud thud thud.
Noise from behind made the girl turn.
“Don’t move,” barked Brad.
The girl froze.
“Here’s your costar.”
“I- umm- oh- didn’t know there was going to be- ”
“A star’s got to be up for anything.”
The girl’s head began to swivel again. Froze, once more, responding to a command that never came.
“Good,” soothed Brad. “You’re learning.”
The girl licked her lips and smiled.
The gray behind her turned flesh-colored.
Hirsute expanse of chest and belly. Tattooed arms.
The camera trailed lower to a bearish clump of pubic hair. A limp penis dangled inches from the girl’s cheek.
The girl’s shoulders stiffened.
“I- uh- ”
“Relax,” said Brad Dowd. “Remember what Nora taught you about improv.”
“But- sure. Brad.”
“Remain perfectly still- think body control…that’s a good girl.”
The hairy bulk pulsated. Tattoos jumped.
The camera panned up to a sweat-glossed dinner-plate face. Frizzy muttonchops. Clipped mustache.
Reynold Peaty’s hands lowered onto the girl’s shoulders. His right thumb slipped under the right spaghetti strap. Toyed with the string. Slid it off.
The girl jumped and twisted, craned to see him. His left hand gripped the top of her head and held her in place.
“He’s hurting- ”
“Mouth shut!” said Brad Dowd. “Don’t want to catch flies.”
Peaty’s right hand reached around and clamped over the girl’s mouth.
She made frantic little muffled noises. Peaty’s hand slapped her so hard, her eyes rolled back. With one hand, Peaty pulled her up by her hair. The other edged closer to her throat.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Perfect,” said Brad. “This is Reynold. The two of you are going to improvise a little skit.”
I flicked off the picture.
Milo was wide awake, looking sadder than I’d ever seen him.
I said, “You told me so,” and walked out of the room.
CHAPTER 46
The next week was emotional bouillabaisse.
Trying, with no success, to get Billy Dowd more appropriate lodgings and regular therapy.
Fending off Erica Weiss’s requests for another deposition, so she could “slam the final nail in Hauser’s coffin.”
Ignoring increasingly strident calls from Hauser’s defense attorney.
I hadn’t been to the station since viewing the DVD. Six minutes watching a girl I’d never met.
The day I moved Robin in, I pretended my head was clear. After I schlepped the last carton of her clothes into the bedroom, she sat me down on the edge of the mattress, rubbed my temples, and kissed the back of my neck. “Still thinking about it, huh?”
“Using unfamiliar muscles. The ribs don’t help.”
“Don’t waste energy trying to convince me,” she said. “This time I know what I’m getting myself into.”
My contact with Milo was limited to one eleven p.m. phone call. His voice, thick with fatigue, wondering if I could take care of some “ancillary stuff” while he coped with the mountain of evidence on what the papers were calling the “Bomb Shelter Murders.”
One nitwit columnist in the Times trying to connect it to “Cold War paranoia.”
I said, “Sure. What’s ancillary stuff?”
“Anything you can do better than me.”
That came down to being a grief sponge.
A forty-five-minute session with Lou and Arlene Giacomo lasted two hours. He’d lost weight since I’d seen him and his eyes were dead. She was a quiet, dignified woman, hunched over like someone twice her age.
I sat there as his rage alternated with her anguished accounts of Life With Tori, the two of them trading off with a rhythm so precise it could’ve been scripted. As the time ground on, their chairs edged farther and farther apart. Arlene was talking about Tori’s confirmation dress when Lou shot to his feet, snarling, and left my office. She started to apologize, changed her mind. We found him down by the pond, feeding the fish. They left silently and neither answered my calls that night. The clerk at their hotel said they’d checked out.
The widowed mother of Brad Dowd’s Las Vegas victim, Juliet Dutchey, turned out to be a former showgirl herself, a veteran of the old Flamingo Hotel. Mid-fifties and still toned, Andrea Dutchey blamed herself for not discouraging her daughter from moving to Vegas, then switched to squeezing my hand and thanking me for all I’d done. I felt I’d done nothing and her gratitude made me sad.
Dr. Susan Palmer came in with her husband, Dr. Barry Palmer, a tall, quiet, well-coiffed man who wanted to be anywhere else. She started off all business, crumpled fast. He kept his mouth shut and studied the prints on my wall.