True Detectives

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Frostig’s employment record was spotless. Ten years at Lockheed, eight at Amgen, the rest at SoundMyte Inc.

  M.A. in math and certified as a CPA before starting at the aerospace giant, which meant passing rigorous tests. But he’d settled for bookkeeper, with a much lower pay scale.

  Someone who didn’t like to be challenged?

  Or losing his wife had knocked him low?

  Maybe grief was why Frostig looked so old. Now his only kid was gone, poor guy.

  Still, there were all kinds of ways to cope and if Aaron found himself in that situation, he’d be up on his feet, feisty and furious, sparring with Bad God. Transforming righteous anger into constructive energy.

  That wasn’t theory; he knew about loss.

  Doorbell rings early one summer morning. Mom trudges over to see what’s up, still in her pajamas, those blearily gorgeous blue morning eyes of hers.

  Aaron tails her, like he always does, earning his nickname. My little Puppy Dog. Wearing his Batman p.j.’s, the taste of Froot Loops sweet and slick in his mouth, cartoons playing on the tube, just another morning.

  Except it isn’t.

  Mom opens the door.

  Big, unhappy men stand there and look nervous and start to talk.

  Mom loses her balance, falls to the floor.

  Aaron rushes forward but the big men are handling the situation. One of them glances at him and the guy’s lip trembles and he’s a tough-looking man, the kind who wouldn’t be bothered by anything small, and that’s when Aaron knows something terrible has happened.

  We bear our own crosses.

  Still, Aaron couldn’t help the small bit of contempt that he felt facing Frostig in his crappy little living room, the guy hunched, all weighed down, unfocused, advertising the fact that life’s been beating him up at regular intervals.

  Might as well wear a Kick Me sign.

  The best revenge was living well. Cold-cock Bad God and move on.

  He said, “I know this is tough, sir.”

  “Yes.”

  The room was cramped, dim, crowded with cheap furniture, anything not peach or green was fake pecan. Not a stick of upgrade since the eighties and the TV was one of those old heaps with the puffy gray screen.

  No cable or satellite box.

  Was Frostig one of those guys whose lips curled at the idea of entertainment?

  A single photo of Caitlin stood on an otherwise empty coffee table.

  High school graduation picture, the inevitable Can-I-finally-unlock-my-face? grin.

  Pretty girl, tan, some freckles peeking through. Lots of nice, thick, straight blond hair, intelligent brown eyes under carefully crafted brows.

  No mom in her life but she knew how to be feminine.

  Definitely nice enough for guys to notice; maybe the wrong guy had noticed.

  Maitland Frostig continued to sit there, looking as if he were dreading a prostate exam. Aaron said, “Appreciate your meeting with me, sir.”

  Even though it should’ve been just the opposite.

  “What would you like me to tell you, Mr. Fox?”

  “Anything, sir.”

  “Anything,” said Frostig, as if the word were foreign. “That’s pretty broad.”

  “You know her better than anyone,” said Aaron.

  Frostig blinked. “She’s a good girl. Let me show you her room.”

  A short walk past a kitchen that appeared unused, took them to a ten-by-twelve space. Pink walls, a single high window, beige drapes that managed to clash.

  Beige bedspread on a twin-sized mattress.

  A cheap desk took up half of one wall. The dresser across the room was similar: boxy, no style, five drawers. The only decorative touches were three framed prints of flowers that looked as if they’d been cut from an old book.

  No posters, no cute girlie touches, no mementos of adolescence.

  “Have you changed anything?”

  The suggestion seemed to offend Frostig. “Of course not.”

  “Caitlin’s a serious girl.”

  “Pardon?”

  “This seems like the room of a mature, serious person.” More like a jail cell.

  Frostig said, “Caitlin’s extremely serious.” Backed into a corner as Aaron checked out the closet, pawed through drawers.

  White cotton underwear and bras, Levi’s, two pairs of black slacks, an assortment of Made-in-China tops. The overall feel: budget-conscious, leaning toward conservative.

  Pepperdine was a Baptist school.

  “Is Caitlin religious?”

  “We’re not churchgoers.”

  Aaron went through the closet again. The girl seemed to have no outside interests. “Is anything missing, sir?”

  “No one goes in here. I vacuum the rug, that’s all.”

  “There don’t seem to be many personal items, Mr. Frostig.”

  “Caitlin keeps cosmetics in the bathroom. The upper shelf in the medicine cabinet is hers.”

  Is this guy thick? “I was referring to yearbooks, diaries, that kind of thing.”

  “If you haven’t found them, they’re not here,” said Frostig. “Caitlin’s not sentimental.”

  “Philosophy major,” said Aaron, tossing in one of those irrelevancies that sometimes shake people up so they say something impulsive.

  “Yes,” Frostig.

  Fun dad.

  Aaron had entered the case figuring a voluntary rabbit was unlikely. Now he wondered. How long could any sane person live here?

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s sit back down and you can tell me about the last time you saw your daughter.”

  “The last time was that morning,” said Frostig. “Seven forty a.m. I leave the house at seven forty-five to be at work by nine. Sometimes I arrive early and get an early jump. Caitlin wakes up at seven and has breakfast while I’m having coffee. She leaves for Pepperdine at different times, depending on when her first class is. Generally, we see each other at night, except when Caitlin’s working late, in which case I’m asleep by the time she arrives home. But I hear her come in. It’s not a mansion.”

  “The last time anyone saw her was leaving the Riptide just before two a.m. Tell me about her job there.”

  “Riptide,” said Frostig. “No the. They probably think that’s avant-garde.” His mouth turned down. “She worked there for four months prior to disappearing.”

  “I’m sensing you didn’t approve.”

  “It’s a bar. They might call it something else, but it’s a bar and that means people drinking too much.”

  “You’re wondering if that had something to do with her disappearance.”

  “I felt Caitlin could do better than work in a bar. Caitlin’s opinion was that the location—on the way home from Pepperdine—made it convenient. I suppose that’s true, strictly speaking, but there are other restaurants she could have chosen.”

  “Why’d she choose Riptide?”

  “Her boyfriend worked there.”

  “Rory Stoltz.”

  Nod.

  “Tell me about him,” said Aaron.

  “Nice boy. From what I saw. The police talked to him. He has nothing to offer.”

  “You don’t suspect him.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Often people are ... harmed by those they know.”

  Frostig blinked. “Everyone says he’s a nice boy. Caitlin says he’s a nice boy.”

  “She talked to you about him.”

  Frostig scratched his chin. “Caitlin isn’t one for discussion. She told me she was dating him. She didn’t ask my permission. Do you have children, Mr. Fox?”

  “No, sir.”

  “If you ever do, you’ll see that higher education can cause a certain ... confidence to set in.”

  “Thinking she’s grown up and maybe she isn’t,” said Aaron.

  Frostig’s eyebrows rose. “She’s grown up. Always has been. College made her think that was sufficient.”

  “For—”

  “Making important de
cisions.”

  “As in—”

  “Working at Riptide. I went over there, Mr. Fox. It was my first stop when Caitlin didn’t return home. The second was Pepperdine, which was useless because Caitlin commuted, wasn’t considered part of ‘campus life.’”

  “What’d you learn at Riptide?”

  “What you’ll learn if you waste your time there. They looked at me as if I was a nuisance.”

  “They weren’t helpful.”

  “Not in the least.” Frostig’s voice tightened. His eyes were scalpel-cuts. “Caitlin worked her usual shift, nothing unusual happened. I’ve learned from Web-surfing that the clientele is a mixture: locals who like to drink and so-called celebrities.”

  “Such as?”

  “People I’ve never heard of. The management claimed no one had an altercation with Caitlin, no one followed her out. The police claim they followed up on that. They even suggested that she ran away voluntarily, which is utter garbage. She’s never used her credit card and her car hasn’t turned up. This is California. Where’s someone going to go without a car?”

  Guy was unwilling to imagine his daughter beyond the borders of the Golden State. Seeking her own truths out in the big, bad universe.

  Aaron said, “Good point.”

  “I’m glad you see it that way, Mr. Fox. The police certainly didn’t.”

  “Fifteen months and they don’t see it as a suspicious disappearance?”

  “He doesn’t,” said Frostig. “One detective, and obviously not very experienced. I haven’t talked to him recently because what’s the point?”

  “When’s the last time you did talk to him?”

  “Eight months ago. It was obvious further contact with him wouldn’t be useful. I phoned his superiors but those calls were never returned.”

  “Frustrating.”

  Frostig’s look said, What else is new?

  “What have you done personally to look for Caitlin?”

  “I haven’t hired any other detectives, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I mean anything.”

  “The Web,” said Frostig. “I’m on it constantly. Plugging in Caitlin’s name, checking missing persons sites. I’ve logged onto philosophy chat rooms, because Caitlin was interested in philosophy.”

  “People talking about the meaning of life?”

  “People will talk about anything, Mr. Fox. The computer grants permission.”

  “To ...?”

  “Communicate.”

  “Was Caitlin into cyberspace?”

  “She didn’t have her own computer,” said Frostig. “We share.”

  Talk about lack of privacy. A voluntary rabbit was looking more and more feasible.

  Aaron said, “What’d you guys do, divide up the time?”

  “We guys,” said Frostig, frowning. “Caitlin used the computer for academic purposes.”

  “Homework.”

  “Term papers. But feel free to examine the computer. I was just offering an example of the lengths to which I go to find Caitlin.”

  “What else can you tell me about Caitlin, sir?”

  “About Caitlin,” said Frostig, as if redigesting the concept.

  What an oddball. Half an hour in this place and Aaron felt ready to molt his skin. Voluntary rabbit was climbing toward Probability.

  Maitland Frostig said, “She’s a good girl with a good brain. She’s neat and diligent and reliable.”

  Sounded more like a Boy Scout than a daughter.

  “I don’t want to think,” said Frostig.

  “About?”

  “Where she could be after all this time.”

  “What was the name of the police detective you spoke to?”

  “The police,” said Frostig, “are utterly useless.”

  “Even so, sir.”

  “You’re going to waste time going over old ground. On Mr. Dmitri’s dollar.”

  Aaron forced himself to smile. “Generous man, your boss.”

  Frostig turned his back, headed to the living room. Walked through the room and positioned himself by the front door.

  Aaron said, “Is there some reason you’re uncomfortable with my taking on your daughter’s case?”

  “Because you’re black? Absolutely not.”

  Race hadn’t entered Aaron’s head. Frostig had seen nothing but the color of Aaron’s skin.

  “It’s not you, Mr. Fox. I’m not hopeful, that’s all. Fifteen months and no one’s given me the time of day.”

  “Now that’s changed, Mr. Frostig.”

  “I suppose it has.” Frostig’s smile was unsettling. “I apologize if I’ve been rude. I certainly haven’t intended any rudeness.”

  “None observed.”

  “Well that’s polite of you, Mr. Fox. I’m sure you’ll do your best.”

  Aaron opened the door and let in a sliver of evening. He said, “The name of that police detective, sir.”

  “Reed,” said Frostig. “Moses Reed. You’re wasting your time.”

  Aaron walked to his car, head spinning in a whole new direction.

  CHAPTER

  5

  The big detective room echoed.

  Just Moe Reed at his desk and D-3 Delano Hardy in a far corner, on the phone, talking to someone about a court appearance.

  Hardy had as many years on the job as Sturgis—had partnered with Sturgis back when the lieutenant still did that. Moe, still feeling like a trainee, had made it his business to eavesdrop when the older detectives talked.

  Delano’s case sounded like a gang shooting, bad guy nabbed early, easy confession. Routine, nothing to learn. Moe was just about to pay attention to his own work when tension snaked into Hardy’s voice and his volume rose.

  Turned out this bad guy was a fifteen-year-old girl and her lawyers were pushing a child abuse/diminished capacity defense. On top of that, she was Hispanic and Hardy was black, so the race card was going to be used to sully the confession.

  Hardy grunted, drank coffee, grunted.

  Sturgis made those same sounds when he was pissed. Maybe that was the mark of decades on the job. Or getting old. Moe wondered if someday he’d end up sounding like a wounded steer.

  He tasted his own coffee, long cold. Drinking out of one of those body-outline mugs from the coroner’s gift shop. Present from Liz. Cute, but it didn’t improve the taste of D-room swill.

  Flipping through the Frostig file, he found Rory Stoltz’s cell number, phoned, got voice mail. Rory sounding cheerful and confident. Whatever grief he’d mustered was long gone.

  At the landline, Rory’s mother answered and as Moe identified himself he searched the file for her name. Martha. Work number, the Peninsula in Beverly Hills where she was a room-service coordinator.

  “Have you found Caitlin?” she said.

  “Unfortunately not, ma’am. I’m trying to reach Rory.”

  “Why?”

  “Doing follow-up.”

  “Rory’s busy at school.”

  “Any idea when he’ll be free?”

  “He’s an adult,” said Martha Stoltz. “I don’t keep tabs on him.”

  “Does he still live at home?”

  Silence. It’s not a trick question.

  “Ma’am—”

  “I don’t understand why you’re calling, Detective Reed. You talked to Rory, what, three, four times? Asking the same questions over and over. It was very upsetting to Rory. He felt you were trying to trip him up.”

  “I wasn’t, ma’am,” Moe lied. “Sometimes we need to do that just to be thorough.”

  “It really bothered him, that you could suspect him. Rory was so fond of Caitlin. No one was more upset when she disappeared.”

  “I hear you, ma’am, but sometimes we need to reinterview.”

  “Well, Rory’s in plain sight, living his life.”

  Before Moe could respond, she hung up.

  Why all the anger? Maybe she’d had a bad day. Or she really was fed up with her only child being drawn into a murde
r investigation.

  He called Pepperdine administration, tried to wangle Rory’s class schedule out of a perky secretary, then her supervisor.

  No go. Maybe someone with more experience could’ve pulled it off, maybe not.

  At ten a.m. he took a walk, the way he’d seen Sturgis do, covering half a mile of the working-class residential neighborhood that surrounded the station.

  No slam-bam insights. He phoned Liz. She answered, sounding groggy, but when she said, “It’s you,” her voice lightened, and she appended, “Sweetie.”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No, I’m just lying here with a monster headache and thinking about everything that’s piled up while I was gone.”

  “Poor baby.”

  “What bugs me, Moses, is I know the physiology of jet lag, did everything I could to hydrate. But no matter how much water I pump, my eyes are gritty and my skin feels like crepe paper.”

  Moe imagined that. Chocolate-brown paper, smoothing under his touch. “You’ll be fine before you know it. How was the flight?”

  “The usual delays and they ran out of beverages, except for booze, talk about dehydration.” She laughed. “The guy next to me was about a thousand pounds. He popped two Ambiens and snored like a choo-choo the entire flight. Try climbing Mount Fleshy to get to the john.”

  Moe laughed along with her. “Well, now you’re back and I’ll take care of you.”

  “Good, I could use some care, Moses. When do you want to hang?”

  “Unless something breaks, I’ll be free at four, five.”

  “Caitlin?”

  “Yup.”

  “You transfer and they send it along,” said Liz. “Totally unjust.”

  “It’ll work itself out. You shutting in all day?”

  “I was planning to go to the lab to clear my desk. But I’m feeling so punk I think I’ll pass. So anytime. Want me to order something in?”

  “Whatever you want. See you at five, with bells.”

  “Bells, huh? Plan on sliding down the chimney?”

  “Oh, man,” he said. “Symbolism this early in the day.”

  Liz cracked up. “You bring it out in me, Moses. That’s why we’re going steady.”

  Feeling better, he turned back, detoured for a maple bear claw from a coffee shop on Santa Monica, ate it on the way, and reapproached the Frostig file with elevated blood sugar.