“Nothing urgent.”

“If you feel like it, take a run out to the beach. Check out the second house, just in case she’s bunked out there and not telling anyone. It’s a long drive and I don’t want to kill that much time- course I don’t think it’ll lead anywhere.”

“Sure.”

“Here’s the address,” he said.

I took the slip of paper and continued to drive.

He looked at his watch. “Might as well leave soon. While the sun’s still out. Play sleuth and work on your tan- hell, take out your boogie board and catch a wave.”

“Watson goes gnarly?”

“Something like that.”

21

No messages at home. I stayed long enough to give the fish a heavy feed, hoping to keep them away from the few egg clusters that remained. Then back on Sunset, heading west, by two-thirty.

Day at the beach.

I pretended it was going to be fun.

I hit Pacific Coast Highway, saw blue water and brown bodies.

Robin and I had done this drive, so many times.

Linda and I had done it once. The second time we’d been out together.

Alone was different.

I stayed away from those thoughts, paid attention to the Malibu coastline. Never the same, always inviting. Kama Sutra real estate.

Probably why people went into hock in order to get a piece of it. Living with black flies and corrosion and highway mayhem, and waxing amnesiac about the inevitable cycle of mud slides, fires, and killer storms.

Arthur Dickinson’s piece was choice. Five miles up from Point Dume, past the sprawling public beach at Zuma, and a left turn onto Broad Beach Road just past the rodeo rink at Trancas Canyon.

Western Malibu, where the tacky motels and surf shops have long disappeared, ranches and tree farms fill the landside of Pacific Coast Highway, and the dinner hour is dominated by sunsets of unlikely hue.

The address Milo had given me took me to the far end of the road. A half mile of white silicon heaped into sine-wave dunes. Fifty-by-a-hundred-foot mounds of dubious geology going for four million plus. At that price, architecture becomes a competitive sport.

The Dickinson/Ramp place was a one-story saltbox with silvered wood sides and a flat brown gravel roof, behind a low chain-link fence that provided no privacy and gave the public visual access to the beach. The house was flanked on both sides by free-form, two-story ice cream scoops. One was vanilla stucco, still under construction; the other, pistachio trimmed with raspberry. Both lots were blocked by prison-bar electric gates. Green tennis-court tarp behind Vanilla. A FOR SALE sign in front of Pistachio. Alarm warnings on both.

But no security system for the saltbox. I lifted the latch and walked right in.

No landscaping, either- just a thorny mess of orange bougainvillea climbing part of the fence. Instead of a garage, a cement pad over sand, wide enough for two vehicles. A yam-colored VW van with a ski rack on its roof was parked carelessly, taking up both widths. Nowhere to conceal a Rolls-Royce.

I approached the house, absorbing the heat of the sand through the soles of my shoes. Still wearing a jacket and tie and feeling like a salesman for something. I could smell the tang of the ocean, see the high-tide spray percolate over the dunes. A V-formation of brown pelicans cut through the sky. A hundred feet beyond the breakers, someone was windsurfing.

The front door was brine-eaten pine with a knob that had greened and crusted. The windows were cloudy and moist to the touch and someone had finger-written CLEAN ME on one of the panes. Glass wind chimes dangled over the doorway, swaying and striking one another, but the roar of the ocean killed their song.

I knocked. Got no answer. Knocked again, waited, and went over to one of the streaked windows.

Single room. Unlit. Hard to make out details, but I squinted and discerned a small, open-shelved kitchen to the left, combo bedroom and living area filling the rest of the space. Futon unrolled on a dull pine floor. A few pieces of furniture- bargain rattan with Hawaiian print cushions, beanbag chair, plain-wrap coffee table. On the beach side, sliding glass doors led to a shaded patio. Through them I could see a couple of folding lounges, a rise of dune, and teal-colored water.

A man stood out on the sand, directly in front of the patio. Knees bent, back rounded, curling a barbell.

I walked around.

Todd Nyquist. The tennis instructor was braced ankle-deep in the sand, wearing skimpy black briefs, a leather power-lifter’s girdle, and fingerless weight gloves, straining and grimacing as he hefted and lowered. The iron discs on the bar were the size of manhole covers. Two on each end. His eyes were clenched shut, his mouth was open, and his long yellow hair was wet and limp and drooping down his back. Sweating and grunting, he kept lifting, keeping his back immobile, putting all the strain on his arms. Curling in rhythm to the beat that blared from a boombox near his feet.

Rock ’n’ roll. Thin Lizzie. “The Boys Are Back in Town.”

Manic beat. It had to be torture keeping up with it. Nyquist’s biceps were engorged flesh carvings.

He did six more solid reps, then a few shaky ones, until the music stopped. Letting out a hoarse cry that could have been pain or triumph, he bent his knees further and, with his eyes still closed, lowered the barbell into the sand. He exhaled noisily, began to straighten, shook his head and sprayed sweat. The beach was nearly empty. Despite the weather, only a handful of people strolled along the shoreline, mostly with dogs.

I said, “Hello, Todd.” He hadn’t come fully upright and the surprise nearly knocked him off his feet.

He recovered gracefully, planting his soles, then bouncing like a dancer. Opening his eyes wide, he stared, processed, and gave a wide smile of recognition.

“The doctor, right? I met you over at the big house.”

“Alex Delaware.” I came closer and held out my hand. My shoes filled with sand.

He looked at his gloved hands and kept them up in the air. “Wouldn’t, if I were you. Pretty rank, Doc.”

I lowered mine.

“Just doing my pumps,” he said. “What brings you out here?”

“Looking for Mrs. Ramp.”

“Here?” He seemed genuinely baffled.

“They’re looking for her everywhere, Todd. Asked me to come down here and check.”

“That’s really weird,” he said.

“What is?”

“Uh, the whole thing. Her disappearing. It really is freaky. Where could she be?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“Yeah. Right. Well, you won’t find her here, that’s for sure. She’s never been here. Not once. At least not since I’ve been living here.” He turned toward the ocean, stretched, and inhaled. “Can you imagine owning a place like this and never being here?”

“It is gorgeous,” I said. “How long have you been living here?”

“Year and a half.”

“You rent the place?”

He smiled wider, as if proud to possess some important secret. Removing the gloves, he fluffed his hair. More sweat droplets flew.

“It’s a trade thing,” he said. “Tennis and personal training for Mr. R. in return for a place to stay. But it’s not really my crib. Mostly I’m other places, traveling around- last year I went on two cruises. Up to Alaska, and down to Cabo. Did an exercise class for old ladies. I also give lessons at the Brentwood Country Club, and I’ve got lots of friends in the city. I sleep here maybe once or twice a week.”

“Sounds like a good deal.”

“It is- do you know what this place would rent for? Even being dinky.”

“Five thousand a month?”

“Try ten for an all-year-round, eighteen to twenty during the summer, and that’s with the heat not even working. But Mr. and Mrs. R., they’ve been really cool about letting me stay here when I want, just as long as I make the drive over to Smogsville and give Mr. R. a good workout when he wants.”