Michaela Brand’s mother was too ill to travel from Arizona so I spoke with her over the phone. Her air machine hissed in the background and if she cried, I didn’t hear it. Maybe tears required too much oxygen. I stayed on the line until she hung up without warning.
No relative of Dylan Meserve surfaced.
I phoned Robin at her studio and said, “I’m finished, you can come back.”
“I wasn’t escaping,” she said. “Just doing my job.”
“Busy?”
“Pretty much.”
“Come home anyway.”
Silence. “Sure.”
I called Albert Beamish.
He said, “I’ve been reading about it. Apparently, I can still be shocked.”
“It’s shocking stuff.”
“They were spoiled and indolent but I had no idea they were fiends.”
“Beyond persimmons,” I said.
“Good God, yes! Alex- may I call you that- ”
“Sure. Mister Beamish.”
He chortled. “First off, thanks for informing me, that was uncharacteristically courteous. Especially coming from a member of the me-generation.”
“You’re welcome. I think.”
He cleared his throat. “Second, do you golf?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Never got into it.”
“Damn shame. At least you drink…perhaps one day, should you have time…”
“If you bring out the good stuff.”
“I only stock the good stuff, young man. What do you take me for?”
Two weeks after his arrest, Brad Dowd was found dead in his cell. The noose he’d used to hang himself had been fashioned from a pair of pajama pants he’d ripped into strips after lights-out. He’d been on suicide watch, housed in the High Power ward where things like that weren’t supposed to happen. The guards had been diverted by a neighboring inmate pretending to go crazy and smearing his cell with feces. That prisoner, a gang leader and murder suspect named Theofolis Moomah, underwent a miraculous recovery the moment Brad’s body was cut down. A search of Moomah’s cell uncovered a stash of extra commissary cigarettes and a roll of fifty-dollar bills. Brad’s attorney, a downtown court regular who’d defended several gang leaders, express-mailed his bill to the arraignment judge.
Stavros Menas, Esq. called a press conference and bellowed that the suicide supported his claim that Brad had been a “mad Svengali,” and his client an unwitting dupe.
The D.A. offered a contradictory analysis.
Get ready for a circus the animal-rights people wouldn’t mind.
I vowed to forget about all of it, figured the whydunit would stop eating at me eventually.
When it didn’t, I got on the computer.
CHAPTER 47
The woman said, “I still can’t believe you tracked me down that way.”
Her name was Elise Van Syoc and she was a Realtor working out of the Coldwell Banker Encino office. It had taken a long time but I’d found her using her maiden name, Ryan, and a decades-old nickname.
Ginger.
Groovy bass player for the Kolor Krew!
Her identity and a print of the photo I’d seen at the PlayHouse finally surfaced courtesy www.noshotwonders.com, a cruelly mocking compendium of failed pop bands flung by the gargantuan slingshot that was the Internet.
When I called her, she said, “I’m not getting involved in any court stuff.”
“It’s not about court stuff.”
“What, then?”
“Curiosity,” I said. “Professional and personal. At this point, I’m not sure I can separate the two.”
“That sounds complicated.”
“It’s a complicated situation.”
“You’re not writing a book or doing a movie?”
“Absolutely not.”
“A psychologist…whose therapist are you, exactly?”
I tried to explain my role.
She cut me off. “Where do you live?”
“Beverly Glen.”
“Own or rent?”
“Own.”
“Did you buy in a long time ago?”
“Years ago.”
“Have any equity?”
“Total equity.”
“Good for you, Dr. Delaware. A person in your situation might find it a good time to trade up. Ever think about the Valley? You could get a much bigger place with more land and some cash back. If you’re open-minded about the other side of the hill.”
“I pride myself on being open-minded,” I said. “I’m also big on remembering people who’ve extended themselves for me.”
“Some negotiator- you absolutely promise I won’t end up in court?”
“Swear on my trust deed.”
She laughed.
I said, “Do you still play bass?”
“Oh, please.” More laughter. “I got asked to join because I had red hair. She thought it was some kind of omen- the Kolor Krew, get it?”
“Amelia Dowd.”
“Crazy Mrs. D…this is sure taking me back. I don’t know what you think I can tell you.”
“Anything you remember about the family would help.”
“For your psychological insights?”
“For my peace of mind.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a horrendous case. I’m pretty close to haunted.”
“Hmm,” she said. “I guess I can sum it up in one sentence: They were nuts.”
“Could we discuss it, anyway?” I said. “Time and place of your choosing.”
“Would you seriously consider a trade-up?”
“I hadn’t thought about it, but- ”
“Good time to start thinking. Okay, I need lunch anyway, what the heck. Meet me at Lucretia on Ventura near Balboa, hour and a half, I need you to be prompt. Maybe I can show you life on the other side of the hill can be tasty.”
The restaurant was big, pale, airy, nearly empty.
I arrived on time. Elise Van Syoc was already there, bantering with a young male waiter as she nursed a cosmopolitan and chewed on a single Brazil nut. “Ginger” was no longer a redhead. Her coif was puffy, collar-length, ash-blond. Tailored black pantsuit, tailored face, wide amber eyes. A deal-closing smile accompanied a firm, dry handshake.
“You’re younger than you sound, Dr. Delaware.”
“You, too.”
“How sweet.”
I sat down and thanked her for her time. She glanced at a diamond Movado. “Did Brad and Nora really do what everyone’s saying?”
I nodded.
“How about some juicy tidbits?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“But I do.”
“You really don’t,” I said.
“What, it’s disgusting?”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Yuck.” She sipped her cosmopolitan. “Tell me anyway.”
I parceled out a few details.
Elise Van Syoc said, “How’d you get all that equity working with the police? It can’t pay very well.”
“I’ve done other things.”
“Such as?”
“Investments, private practice, consults.”
“Very interesting…you don’t write?”
“Just reports, why?”
“It sounds like a good book…I’m afraid this isn’t going to be lunch, just a drink. I’ve got an escrow to close, huge place south of the boulevard. And there’s really nothing I can tell you about the Dowds other than they were all weirdos.”
“That’s a good place to start.”
The waiter came over, lean, dark, hungry-eyed. I asked for a Grolsch and he said, “For sure.”
When he brought the beer, Elise Van Syoc clinked her glass against mine. “Are you in a relationship? I’m asking in terms of your space needs.”
“I am.”
She grinned. “Do you cheat?”
I laughed.
She said, “Nothing ventured,” and finished the last bit of Brazil nut.
I said, “The Kolor Krew- ”
“The Kolor Krew was a joke.”
“How’d you get involved?” I said. “The other three members were sibs.”
“Like I told you over the phone, I was recruited by Crazy Mrs. D.”
“Because of your hair color.”
“That and she thought I had talent. I was in the same class as Nora at Essex Academy. My dad was a surgeon and we lived on June Street. Back then I thought I liked music. Took violin lessons, switched to the cello, then I conned my dad into getting me an electric guitar. I sang like a goose on downers, wrote ridiculous songs. But try telling me, I thought I was Grace Slick. Brad and Nora really killed all those people?”