Gone by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

am?”
    “Blocks from Michaela. Not much farther to the crime scene.”
    “
And
he’s weird.” He glanced back at the door. Rang the bell several times.
    No response.
    “Wonder what time he got to work this morning.” Another bell-push. We waited. He put his pad away. “I’d love to check this place out but I’m not even gonna think about heading round back and giving some lawyer an illegal entry angle.”
    He grinned. “One day in and I’ve got trial fantasies. Okay, let’s see what we can do within the boundaries of The Law.”
    We descended the porch and headed for the car.
    “It’s probably no big deal,” he said. “Not getting inside. Even if Peaty is the bad guy, why would he bring evidence to work? What do you think of him probability-wise?”
    “A definite maybe,” I said. “Talking about Michaela clearly made him nervous.”
    “Like he had a crush on her?”
    “She was a beautiful girl.”
    “And way out of his league,” he said. “Working around all those starlet wannabes could be frustrating for a guy like that.”
    We got into the Seville.
    I said, “When Peaty shook his head, stray hairs fell out. Fellow that hirsute and unruly, you’d think he’d have left some trace on the body, or at least at the scene.”
    “Maybe he had time to clean up.”
    “Guess so.”
    “There was some wind last night,” he said. “The body coulda been there a while before the poodle came by. For all we know, the damned
dog
licked up trace evidence.”
    “The owner let it nose the body?”
    Milo rubbed his face. “The owner claims she yanked it away the minute she saw what it was. Still…”
    I started up the car.
    He said, “I need to be careful not to tunnel in on anyone too quickly.”
    “Makes sense.”
    “Sometimes I do that.”
     
CHAPTER 9
     
    A DMV check revealed no vehicles currently registered to Reynold Peaty. No California driver’s license. Ever.
    “Hard to transport a body without wheels,” I said.
    Milo said, “Wonder how he gets to work.”
    “The bus. Or a stretch limo.”
    “Your attempt at humor is refreshing. If he bears further watching, I’ll check out the bus routes, see if he’s a regular.” He laughed.
    I said, “What?”
    “He comes across dumb and weird but think about it: He sweeps up at an
acting
school.”
    “He was playing us?”
    “The world’s a stage,” he said. “Sure be nice to have the script.”
    “If he was performing, why would he put on a weird act?” I said.
    “True… let’s head back.”
    I drove toward the West L.A. station as he phoned the MTA and learned which buses Peaty would’ve taken from Pico-Robertson to the PlayHouse. Transfers and the need to cover several blocks on foot stretched a half-hour car trip to at least a ninety-minute journey.
    I said, “Michaela’s Honda show up yet?”
    “Nope… you’re thinking Peaty coulda jacked her?”
    “The hoax might’ve given him ideas.”
    “Life imitating art.” He punched numbers on his cell, talked briefly, hung up. “No sign of it yet. But we’re not talking conspicuous. A Civic, black no less. If the plates are off or replaced, it could take a long time to spot it.”
    “If Peaty is the bad guy,” I said, “maybe he decided to drive to work this morning and ditched it within walking distance of the PlayHouse.”
    “That would be pretty damned stupid.”
    “Yes, it would.”
    He chewed his cheek. “Mind turning around?”
     
     
    We cruised the half-mile radius surrounding the acting school, peering up and down streets and alleys, driveways and parking lots. Taking more than an hour, then expanding to another half mile and spending another hundred minutes. Spotting lots of Civics, three of them black, all with plates that checked out.
    On the way back to the station, Milo tried the coroner’s office and learned that Michaela’s autopsy was scheduled in four days, maybe longer if the body count stayed high. “Any way to prioritize? Yeah, yeah, I know… but if