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the estate. Nora s a ditz but it would be hard to claim she s not of
soundmind, legally. If she demanded control over her own assets, it would pose
amajor complication for Brad. If she convinced Billy to do the same, it would
bea disaster.
 Bye-bye, façade.
 Banished when he s of no further use, I said.  Just like when he was akid.
We walked in silence to the cars.
He said,  Michaela and Tori and the Gaidelases and Lord knows how manyothers
get done for blood-lust and Nora and Meserve get done for money?
 Or a mixture of blood-lust and money.
He considered that.  Nothing new about that, I guess. Rick s relativesdidn t
just lose their lives in the Holocaust. Their homes and their businessesand
all their other possessions got confiscated.
 Take it all, I said.  The ultimate trophy.
CHAPTER 41
We took the Seville to Santa Monica Canyon.
No Porsche or any other car in Brad Dowd s driveway. Lights out in theredwood
house, no reply to Milo s knock.
I joined the traffic crawl on Channel Road, finally made it down to the coast
highway,hit moderate flow from Chautauqua to the Colony. Once we got past
Pepperdine University, the land yawned andstretched and the road got easy. The
ocean was slate. Hungry pelicans dove. Imade it to Kanan Dume Roadwith some
sunlight to spare, turned up onto Latigo Canyon.
An assessors map of Billy Dowd s property rested in Milo slap. Ten acres, no
building permits ever issued.
The Seville sno mountain car and I slowed as the pitch steepened and the turns
pinched.Nothing on the road until I neared the spot where Michaela had run
acrossscreaming.
An old tan Ford pickup was parked there on the turnoff. An old tan man
stoodlooking into the brush.
Plaid shirt, dusty jeans, beer gut hanging over his buckle. Filmy white
hairfluffed in the breeze. A long, hooked nose sliced sky.
Smoke seeped from under the truck s hood.
Milo said,  Pull over.
The old man turned and watched us. His belt buckle was stippled brass,
anoversized oval featuring a bas-relief horse head.
 You okay, Mr. Bondurant?
 Why shouldn t I be, Mr. Detective?
 Looks like an over-heat.
 It always does that. Pinhole leak in the radiator, long as I feed it
fasterthan it gets hungry, I m okay.
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Bondurant shuffled over to the truck, reached in the passenger window, andtook
out a yellow plastic jug of antifreeze.
 Liquid diet, said Milo.  You re sure theblock won t crack?
 You worried about me, Mr. Detective?
 Protect and serve.
 Find out anything about the girl?
 Still working on it, sir.
Bondurant s eyes vanished in a mesh of fold and crinkle.  Meaning
nothing,huh?
 Looks like you ve been thinking about her.
The old man s chest swelled.  Who says?
 This is the spot where you saw her.
 It s also a turnoff, said Bondurant. He hefted the antifreeze. Stared atthe
brush.  Naked girl, it s like one of those stories you tell in the serviceand
everyone thinks you re lyin . He licked his lips.  Few years back thatwoulda
been something.
Sucking in his belly, he hitched his jeans. The roll of fat shimmered
down,covered the horse s eyes.
Milo said,  Know your neighbors?
 Don t got any real ones.
 No neighborhood spirit around here?
 Let me tell you how it s like, said Charley Bondurant.  This used to behorse
land. My grandfather raised Arabians and some Tennessee walkers anything you
could sell torich folk. Some of the Arabians made it to Santa Anita and
Hollywood Park,a couple of  em placed. Everyone who lived here was into
horses, you couldsmell the shit miles away. Now it s just rich folk who don t
give a damn aboutanything. They buy up the land for investment, drive up on
Sunday, stare for acoupla minutes, don t know what the hell to do with
themselves, and go backhome.
 Rich folk like Brad Dowd?
 Who?
 White-haired fellow, mid-forties, drives all kinds of fancy cars.
 Oh, yeah, him, said Bondurant.  Guns those things too damn fast comingdown
the mountain. Exactly what I mean. Wearing those Hawaiian shirts.
 He here often?
 Once in a while. All I see is the damn cars speeding by. Lots of
ragtops,that s how I know about the shirts.
 He ever stop to talk?
 You didn t hear me? said Bondurant.  He speeds by. A gnarled hand
slashedthe air.
 How often is once in a while? said Milo.
Bondurant half turned. His hawk-nose aimed at us.  You want a count?
 If you ve got charts and graphs, I ll take them, Mr. Bondurant.
The old man completed the turn.  He s the one who killed her?
 Don t know.
 But you re thinking he could be.
Milo said nothing.
Bondurant said,  You re a quiet guy, except when you want something from
me.Let me tell you, government never did much for the Bondurant family. We
hadproblems, no help from the government.
 What kind of problems?
 Coyote problems, gopher problems, draught problems, prowling hippieproblems.
Damned mourning cloak butterfly problems I say  butterfly, you thinkcute
 cause you re a city boy. I think problem. One summer they swarmed us,laid
their eggs in the trees, destroyed half a dozen elms, nearly polished offa
sixty-foot weeping willow. Know what we did? We DDT ed  em.
He folded his arms across his chest.  That ain t legal. You ask thegovernment
can I DDT, nope, against the law. You say what should I do toprotect my elm
trees, they say figure something out.
 Butterfly homicide s not my thing, said Milo.
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 Caterpillars all over the place, pretty fast-moving for what they were, said
Bondurant.  I had fun stepping on  em. The car guy kill the girl?
 He s what we call a person of interest. That s government double-talk forI m
not gonna tell you more.
Bondurant allowed himself half a smile.
Milo said,  When s the last time you sawhim?
 Maybe a couple of weeks ago. That don t mean nothing. I m asleep by
eightthirty, someone s driving past I ain t gonna see it or hear it.
 Ever notice anyone with him?
 Nope.
 Ever see anyone else go to that property?
 Why would I? said Bondurant.  It s above me a good mile and a half. Idon t
go prowling around. Even when Walter Maclntyre owned the land I neverwent up
there because everyone knew Walt was nuts and excitable.
 How so?
 I m talking years ago, Mr. Detective.
 Always interested in learning.
 Walter Maclntyre didn t kill no girl, he s been dead thirty years. The carguy
must ve bought the land from Walter s son, who s a dentist. Walter was alsoa
dentist, big practice in Santa Monica, he bought the land back in the fifties.
Firstcity folk to buy. My father said,  Watch and see what happens, and he
wasright. Walter started off like he was gonna fit in. Built this huge horse
barnbut never put no horses in it. Every weekend he d be up here, driving a
truck,but no one could figure out why. Probably staring at the ocean and
talking tohimself about the Russians.
 What Russians?
 The ones from Russia, said Bondurant.  Communists. That s what Walter was
nuts about. Convincedhimself any minute they were gonna come swarming over and
make us allpotato-eatin communists. My father had no use for communists but
he saidWalter took it too far. A little you-know-what. A finger rotated near
his leftear.
 Obsessive.
 You want to use that word, fine. Bondurant hitched his jeans again
andreturned to his truck on bandy legs. He put the antifreeze back on
thepassenger seat, slapped the palm of his hand on the hood. The smoke had
reducedto occasional wisps.
He said,  Ready to go. Hope you find whoever killed that girl. Beautifulthing,
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