True Detectives

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Swinging his car keys violently, he headed for the Porsche.

  Moe said, “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  Aaron stopped, turned. “The point you seem to be missing is I do have confidence in you, Moses. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t waste time sharing info and believe me there’s plenty of brain-dead morons with gold shields I wouldn’t give the time of day. Caitlin’s iced over, bro. You’ve got parts of the puzzle, I’ve got others. The smart thing would be to cooperate. Like that damned song you always listened to on Sesame Street.”

  “I hated Sesame Street. That was you.”

  “No, no, no, Moses. Electric Company was my thing. Morgan Freeman at his best.”

  “So we play share-zies,” said Moe. “Maybe I get my clearance up, either way you rake in nice dough.”

  “Like that’s a felony?”

  “You play too loose it could be felonious. I can’t afford to jeopardize the investigation.”

  “Like I’m going to infect you with something? Give me a break, Moses. I worked the job, I know the drill. And the hard truth is, either way, I’m going to keep digging. As in, looking into Mason Book the moment my ass hits my desk chair. Because there’s more to him than you’re telling me. He bugs you and I’m going to find out why.”

  “The timing is what bugs me,” said Moe. “Book’s suicide attempt was exactly one week after Caitlin disappeared.”

  “Really ... what, a guilt reaction?”

  “It’s a possibility. Book’s an actor and probably a long-term dope fiend, so he’d have plenty of reasons to be messed up mentally.”

  “Oh, man,” said Aaron. “I’ve had a bad feeling about Caitlin almost from the beginning—something psycho. Now I’m visualizing big-time ugly.”

  “As in?”

  “As in one of those vicious gangbangs—something that went too far for them to let her leave alive. As in Book and some buddies, maybe one or more of the Dement boys, because they’d know firsthand about abusing women. Maybe Rory himself, for that matter.”

  “They killed her to keep her quiet,” said Moe, “or even uglier, she died in the process.”

  “Let’s say Book’s high when it happens, a few days later his head clears, he realizes what he’s done and cuts his wrists ... of course that means the guy’s capable of feeling remorse.”

  Same thing Sturgis had said.

  Moe said, “His name pulls up four million Google hits. I spent hours, couldn’t find a single useful factoid on the suicide attempt other than he was at Cedars for a week on the VIP ward.”

  “Special Imp,” said Aaron.

  “You’ve been there?”

  Big smile. “Not as a patient, but I’ve visited. Top floor, city view, nice carpets, private security out in the hall. Not that it means better medical care. In fact, I hear sometimes you don’t want to be a celeb in a hospital.”

  “Why not?”

  “People like that, never hear the word no, everyone’s afraid of them. Normal patient squawks about getting woken up middle of the night to check vitals, staff says, ‘Roll over anyway’ VIP patient squawks, staff backs off. The case I was involved in was two years ago, grandson of a gazillionaire goes in for minor knee surgery, ends up with no legs. I’m not going to tell you it was Cedars or any other place in specific. But trust me, special treatment runs both ways.”

  “Who’s your contact at Special Imp?”

  Aaron shook his head. “Don’t have one, they’re tighter than the Pentagon. But this is good, something’s shaping up.” Risking a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Co-op-er-a-tion, Big Bird would be proud.”

  Moe twitched but didn’t yank the hand off. “What we’ve got is mutual interest. Now tell me everything you know.”

  “What makes you think I haven’t?”

  Moe’s turn to smile.

  “Fine,” said Aaron, “but I really did give you the crux. Don’t waste your time searching for other disapperances of Riptide clients because there aren’t any. There was a couple named Rensselaer, shortly after Caitlin dropped off the earth. Turns out they were on a fugitive run from a check-kite thing, got found. The only other tidbit that could possibly interest you is Lem Dement’s got a big spread in Malibu, sixty-plus acres, used to be a summer camp. Rumor has it he’s building his own church there.”

  “How close to Pepperdine?”

  “Ten miles north, which would put it farther from Riptide, so I don’t see anything profound there.”

  “With a big spread, be easy to hide a body.”

  Aaron nodded. How did I miss that? Must be sleep deprivation.

  “What else?” said Moe.

  “That’s it, cross my heart. How about we continue to do our separate things, either of us gets something interesting, we confer.”

  “I’ll do the calling,” said Moses. “From my personal cell.”

  Aaron smiled. “Got a phobia of cooties?”

  “Got a phobia of being associated with something that could go extralegal.”

  “I already told you—”

  “You going back inside to be with Mom?”

  “Just to say good-bye.”

  “Say it for me.” Moe strode to his unmarked, got in, drove out of the courtyard.

  When he was gone, Aaron felt like the only man in the universe.

  CHAPTER

  17

  Instead of driving to Liz’s place, Moe sped east on Sunset through the Strip, aiming his GPS at the Hollywood Hills.

  His quest took him up into a pretty neighborhood, dark and secluded, lots of gated properties, not much visible from the street. Exactly what a celeb would want. Especially one with a guilty conscience.

  After months of nothing, he was getting hyped up about Caitlin. Rory Stoltz gofering for Mason Book didn’t mean much by itself, and, when you got down to it, neither did the timing of Book’s wrist-slash. But toss it together ...

  Aaron thought it worth pursuing ...

  The GPS lady offered a soothing welcome as he reached the mouth of Swallowsong Lane. Moe’s unmarked Crown Vic was conspicuous up here. The No Outlet sign clinched it: Park below and continue on foot.

  As he climbed Swallowsong, the air felt crackly—coppery, electric, like something was ready to ignite. From somewhere higher in the hills, a coyote screamed.

  Something was getting killed. Welcome to real life.

  He found the property soon enough. Big gates, fancy metalwork. Darkness beyond, no indication anyone lived there.

  Maybe no one did and it was just one of those party houses, used for dope-raves, porn shoots, that whole lifestyle.

  He lingered, imagining Caitlin stepping into a humongous-view house, maybe a bit scared, but awestruck. Drinking more than she was used to. Or worse. Before she knows it, her soft, tan body is stretched out on a strange bed and ... Moe cut his inner movie and began the downward climb.

  It was nine eleven, over an hour past the time he’d told Liz he’d drop by. He phoned her from the car.

  She said, “So sorry, honey.”

  “For what?”

  “Being late. I just got home. Meetings out in La Puente, construction dig for a shopping center unearthed some remains, they needed to make sure it’s not an Indian burial site. I figured I’d get back on time but a big rig rolled over on the freeway. I tried to reach you but my battery went dead. Were you waiting long?”

  “Not a sec, I’m just on my way now,” he said. “My own excavation.”

  “Oh ... that makes me feel better.”

  She sounded tired. Moe said, “Still up for hanging out?”

  “As in chips and dip?” She laughed. “Yeah, I think I can muster energy for hanging out.”

  She greeted him wearing a baggy red tee and sweats, hair pinned up carelessly, no makeup, a can of Coke Zero in one hand. Kissing him quick and hard, she fetched him a beer. “This is a test. Seeing me at my worst.”

  “Not much of a challenge.”

  They sat on the couch. “Um, one more thing, Mos
es. It’s that time of the month. Came on a little early.”

  “Hey,” he said, “we can drink white wine, watch Oprah reruns, talk about our feelings.”

  “Or shoes.”

  “Don’t push it.”

  ♦

  They drank beer, talked about nothing, watched a Project Runway rerun because Liz liked the show and Moe found it hilarious.

  After five minutes, some guy bitching about not enough time to stitch an A-line, whatever that was, Moe felt himself nodding off. Before he could shake himself awake, Liz’s head grew heavy on his chest. Seconds later she was sleeping.

  He switched off the tube, managed to dislodge her without disrupting her dreams, covered her with a throw, and walked silently into her bedroom, where he activated her laptop.

  An hour of Web-surfing produced consensus: Mason Book had been plagued by drug problems since his adolescence in Nebraska.

  The former Michael Lee Buchalter was a self-admitted “crappy student” and high school dropout who’d done pills, weed, paint, whatever, to get through night shifts at a fetid meatpacking plant outside Omaha.

  Driving to L.A. on a whim, Buchalter worked a series of dead-end jobs until a female studio head, watching him hose her Benz at a WeHo car wash, was struck by the lanky, tousle-haired midwesterner’s “aw-shucks star quality. I thought finally, someone both men and women could relate to, a Jimmy Stewart for our time.”

  If Jimmy had snorted heroin.

  Cleaned up and renamed by his patron, tutored by acting coaches, Book demonstrated a surprising ability to don the identities of others, was a star within eighteen months. His affair with the studio head lasted another half a year, at which time she found someone younger.

  No sign that being dumped had affected Book; he’d gone on to headline a series of madcap box-office smashes, always emitting low-key, self-effacing aplomb.

  Then came the wrist-slash.

  Moe probed for details beyond tabloid basics, got nothing. The Internet was nothing more than a grindstone, sucking up kernels of data and reprocessing until any substance was gone.

  He switched his search to lem dement, hoping for a direct link to the house on Swallowsong, came up empty. mason book lem dement was just as useless. He paired the house’s address and the suicide try. Zip. Book had been EMT’d, variously, from his “Hollywood Hills lair,” “view crib above Sunset,” or “bachelor pad overlooking the Strip.”

  An image search produced page after page of red-carpet photo-op thumbnails starring Book and a slew of actresses. Moe found surprisingly few candid paparazzi shots and every portrait was complimentary, playing on the actor’s lean body, aquiline, slightly oversized features, amiable slouch, heavy mop of too-yellow hair.

  Book’s smile was custom-made for the camera. Even a couple of photos taken after the wrist-slash were kind. The guy actually looked pretty happy.

  Near-miraculous recovery?

  Soft treatment from the photo corps meant the candid shots were anything but and Moe was pretty sure he knew why. Book, like the smartest celebs, had worked out an arrangement with the digital leeches: When you catch me, I oblige with a couple of money poses. In return, you don’t make me look like a strung-out hype.

  On the other hand, Book’s ability to sneak out of ColdSnake—if he was the skinny guy Aaron had seen—said he wasn’t being pap-stalked.

  Maybe the guy was old news and no one cared. Guy hadn’t made a movie in how long ... Moe clicked keys.

  Three years. In Industry terms, that could be Jurassic.

  He returned to the image gallery, checked out the kind of woman Book favored in public.

  A whole lot of women, with some variation in hair color and skin tone, but the dominant arm-candy flavor was leggy and blond. No rarity in L.A., but both criteria fit Caitlin Frostig.

  Picking up the hostess? Why not? Book was thirty-three, had never been married, and one tab termed him “still on the prowl.” Had the actor taken that literally?

  Nice story line, but no facts to back it up, and Moe started to wonder if a few suggestions by Aaron had launched him on a massive wrong turn.

  Aaron had leeway, but his options were limited to butt-numbing scut and reinterviews of witnesses.

  He needed to get out on the street and do something.

  He peeked into the living room. Liz had stretched herself out on the sofa, her face mostly covered by the throw.

  Moe sat back down, faced the flat black window that gazed into cyberspace.

  lem dement children produced references to the director’s “huge brood,” “slew of kids,” “clear slap in the face of overpopulation,” “religious fanatical tribe.” Moe was about to try something else when he turned to the thirtieth page of citations and came across a one-year-old Malibu Sunrise article about Dement’s plan to build a replica of a wooden church in Krakow, Poland, that had been destroyed during World War II.

  The reporter had some trouble grasping why anyone would want to construct a personal house of worship, but the tone was gushing: Hollywood biggie creates One Big Happy Family.

  Lem Dement’s new fundamentalist leanings might be at odds with Westside sensibilities, but rich and famous trumped everything.

  The puff piece was illustrated by a photo of the entire clan posed in front of a log-sided building. Dement looked relaxed, wearing his fishhook hat and a plaid shirt. Wife Gemma, a fair-haired stick-figure whose pretty-but-pinched features contrasted with Dement’s ruddy, porcine mug, looked stiff and uncomfortable.

  The two of them flanked the kids, standing as far from each other as possible.

  The three youngest kids were towheaded, bronzed, and prepubescent, with that easy smile that came from being brought up soft.

  Ambrose, Faustina, and Marguerite glowed with optimism.

  Not so Mary Giles and Paul Miki, the skinny, sullen teenagers posed behind them.

  At the back, scowling, were a pair of long-haired, bearded hulks in black T-shirts. Pug-pusses and barrel torsos shouted No paternity test required.

  Japhet and Ahab Dement could’ve been twins. Moe would’ve cast them as evil twins—hillbilly pig-farming mutants lurching down from the hills in one of those family-gets-lost-in-the-hinterland splatter flicks.

  Japhet waving a chain saw, Ahab swinging grappling hooks. You wouldn’t even need to change their names.

  Moe clicked for a long time before finding the picture of Ax that Aaron had described. Yup, Ahab “Ax” Dement, son of director Lem did appear to be horning in on Mason Book’s body contact with a tall, starved blond beauty.

  Another half an hour produced something that had eluded Aaron: Mason Book had been spotted by one of the free weeklies in a club named Ant during a gig by Ax’s band, Demented. The actor’s presence was deemed the most memorable aspect of a “drearily predictable, Prozac-inducing, thrilling-as-lettuce attempt to meld the least redeemable aspects of Metal and Emo.”

  The date was three weeks prior to Caitlin’s disappearance. Moe searched for info on the band. Nothing. Same for the club.

  Logging onto the LAPD search engine, he entered his password, got okayed, asked DOJ, NCIC, and every other satellite of the Big Cop in the Sky what they knew about Ahab Dement.

  DMV reported the guy’s middle name—Petrarch—as well as a couple of speeding tickets and six parkers issued to a Dodge Ram pickup registered at a Solar Canyon address in Malibu.

  If Ax was a felonious bad boy, he’d gotten away with it.

  The letdown brought on a wave of fatigue. Moe checked on Liz again, saw scurrying motion beneath her eyelids, a faint smile on her lips. Dreaming away at warp speed. Maybe even about him.

  Settling on the floor, he watched her for a while. Then, thinking about chain saws and grappling hooks, he covered her feet, dimmed the lights, let himself out.

  CHAPTER

  18

  Mr. Dmitri folded his reading glasses, slipped them into his shirt pocket along with Aaron’s expense accounting. Taking a bite out of his kebab pit
a, he studied Aaron.

  “Wish there was more to report, sir, but these things take time.”

  “Russian trains take time, Mr. Fox. Sometimes they don’t arrive.”

  “This train will arrive.”

  Dmitri sipped orange soda through a straw.

  Aaron eyed his own lunch. Billed as a burger, looked like a burger, how could you go wrong? But the seasoning was weird, cumin or something, smelled like an old person’s closet.

  Dmitri’s secretary had woken him at seven a.m., calling for a lunch appointment with the boss. Some place called Ivan’s, Burbank Boulevard, North Hollywood.

  Aaron put on a good suit for what he expected to be some Russian hangout, thick-necked guys in black leather jackets listening to balalaika music, feasting on blinis, caviar, whatever those types liked.

  Ivan’s turned out to be a take-out falafel joint with two outdoor benches for seating and now Aaron was looking out to a pigeonspecked parking lot as clunkers drove in and out. The air was hot and noxious, reeked like a snot-clogged nose.

  The good old Valley. He wondered if Moe ever ate here. Nah, not healthy enough.

  Dmitri said, “You think this actor could be involved.”

  “It’s worth pursuing.”

  “Because there is nothing else.”

  “The timing of the suicide attempt and the fact that the boyfriend now works for Book is suggestive.”

  “Maybe the actor and maybe Dement’s son. Maybe the son is a nasty bigot like his father.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Aaron.

  “But that is maybe not relevant, the girl was white.”

  “At this point it’s hard to say what’s relevant and what isn’t.”

  Dmitri chomped, got hummus on his meaty chin, swiped himself clean. “Five hundred dollars for ‘special communications.’”

  The bribe for that weasel O’Geara at the cell phone company. Two-year relationship and the lowlife ups his rate fifty percent.