“Asshole!”
“What wrong with you?”
A huge black guy in blue velvet sweats got out of an Infiniti and moved toward the truck. Moe unlatched his seat belt, had one hand on his 9mm, the other on his door handle when the Ram revved loud and peeled out.
The black guy gaped, then everyone started honking him. Scowling, he ambled back to his car, drove off. Within seconds, Sunset was moving again and the Ram was nowhere in sight.
It took a while for Moe to muscle himself into the flood of happy travelers and by the time he’d reached twenty per, he spotted the truck. Nearly two blocks up but—elevated by the sprung chassis and big tires—an easy target.
He made a few lane changes, gained ground, got a block behind. Then three car lengths, where he stayed.
Tossing a carrot stick into his mouth, he chewed in rhythm with the pounding of his heart.
The truck stayed on the boulevard all the way through Hollywood and into Echo Park, driving through dark blocks of the gussied-up thrifts posing as antiques shops and the fly-by-night boutiques that signaled the district’s flimsy gentrification. Laundromats, Latino bars, and liquor stores cast their votes for Old School. Off in the distance the grid-lit downtown skyline beckoned.
This far east, fewer cars traveled Sunset. Moe hung back. Lucky move, because the Ram veered without signaling and parked. Dousing his lights, Moe swung to the curb at the end of the preceding block. Reaching for his binoculars, he framed the truck.
Hard to see much in the dark. Soviet-surplus infrared scopes like Aaron probably had would be nice ...
The Ram sat there, same way it had when wreaking momentary havoc on the Strip.
Moe checked out the terrain. Quiet block, lots of shuttered windows, one functioning establishment marked by a smudge of neon at the far end. He refocused the binocs, made out the sign.
The T ll Tale in sputtering red, above a blue happy mask similarly malfunctioning.
Probably The Tall Tale. Poor bulb maintenance; your basic low-rent alky bar.
If Mason Book was a passenger in the truck, was he figuring he wouldn’t be recognized here? Risky. So was the possibility of some juicehead taking a random swing.
Maybe whoever was in the truck had no intention of getting out and this was a dope pickup.
If the quarry did enter the place, could Moe chance going in? He thought about that for a while, decided he’d dressed perfectly for the part. What Aaron called Moe’s 818 wardrobe would fit in a whole lot better than Aaron’s overpriced Italian stuff...
But clothes only made the man to a point, his muscles and obvious health would stand out. He’d lay on some stoop and shuffle, hang his arms in a way that narrowed his shoulders, mumble when he spoke, like the bar wasn’t his first stop of the night.
All that became hypothetical when two people exited the bar and walked toward the truck.
Big person, smaller person.
As they got closer, details blossomed. Small had long hair, unmistakable female curves. Big shuffled and slouched.
The two of them reached the truck and held a brief sidewalk conference with whoever was inside. Then they continued walking—in Moe’s direction. Passed Moe and gave him a look.
Tight clothing for her, baggy for him. She swung an undersized purse, had a loose-hipped walk, kind of theatrical. The two of them stopped at a compact car three vehicles behind Moe. The man took a long time to get his keys out, dropped them, cursed loud enough for Moe to hear.
Finally, they were both in the car and the black truck’s lights had switched on.
The car—a dark Corolla—pulled away first, driving with its own beams off for an entire block. The Ram pulled away, sped up until it was on the Corolla’s butt, continued to follow closely.
Forgetting the lights and the way the Corolla weaved signaled an obvious DUI. Moe hoped no patrol cars were around. Hoped the idiot didn’t hit someone and leave Moe feeling guilty for the rest of his life.
The truck and the car headed toward downtown but stopped short of the bright lights.
Out of Hollywood Division and into Rampart, where Central American gangs thrived and the potential for random bullets and other bad news was high.
The Corolla pulled into the parking lot of a place called the Eagle Motel. The Ram followed.
More faulty signage, this time a cracked plastic panel featuring a poorly rendered, leering raptor, more buzzard than National Symbol. Making matters worse, the crack ran down the bird’s beak, made the mascot look downright goofy. Smaller signs promised cable TV and movies on demand.
The layout was typical: a dozen rooms around a U-shaped parking lot. A dark-skinned clerk sat in a glaringly illuminated front office. Iron grating protected the door, but to Moe all that light made the clerk a sitting target.
Ax Dement got out of the Ram, but no one exited the passenger side.
Dement had the same badass-hick getup he’d displayed in the family photo: plaid Pendleton, jeans, motorcycle boots. Sleeves rolled to the elbows exposed chunky, inked-up forearms. Greasy hair was tied back in a ponytail; a full, unruly beard framed a nose that looked as if it had assaulted someone’s fist.
Big guy, like his dad. Hitching the jeans, Dement Junior swaggered to the motel office, pushed a button, pulled open the iron grate, then the door, emerged within seconds swinging a key on a chain.
Quick transaction. A regular?
Ax Dement nodded at the Corolla, which Moe now had a fix on: mud-brown, mashed in several places, primered in patches. He wrote down the tags as Dement lit up a cigarette, made his way to a room on the northern arm of the U.
Most distant room of twelve, that corner of the lot swathed in darkness.
The Toyota’s occupants got out.
The woman had teased-up dark hair and a coarse, blasé face. Midthirties, Anglo, five two in stiletto heels. White tank top, short red skirt; the purse was black patent leather. Gigantic red hoop earrings swung alongside a squarish face. Good overall figure, but a little thick and loose in places. Like someone who’d once been toned but had given up.
She ran a finger over her lips, fluffed her hair, gave a little hip wiggle that the guy with her didn’t notice because he was fumbling with a cigarette pack.
He was older—forty, forty-five. Anglo, five ten or eleven, skinny except for a protruding gut. Bald on top, but the hair on the sides was long—streaming down to his shoulders. A bushy mustache banditoed a weak-chinned, unmemorable face. A hugely oversized white tee tented over sag-jeans. Moe wondered if he wasn’t the only one concealing firepower.
The man lit up, started walking toward the room Ax Dement had entered. The woman followed, teetering as the asphalt fought her heels. One time, she tripped and had to flail to maintain balance. Her companion never noticed.
Moe hurried out of the Crown Vic, stood as close to the room as he could without being spotted.
No knock; they walked right in. Quick flash of incandescence before the door shut.
Your basic hooker-pimp-john dope party?
Moe hazarded a jog over to the Ram.
No passenger. So Mason Book’s plans for the evening didn’t include this level of slumming. For all he knew, Book didn’t even live at the house on Swallowsong, that was Dement Junior’s place, just another Industry brat living off Daddy.
For all he knew, the skinny guy Aaron had seen leaving ColdSnake wasn’t even Mason Book—no, that didn’t make sense, Stoltz worked for Book, why would he be driving anyone else in the middle of the night?
For all he knew, Stoltz was on the job tonight, had come by to pick Book up right after Moe left the scene.
For all he knew, none of it related to Caitlin Frostig.
Returning to his car, he ran the Corolla’s tags, expecting nothing.
Then the info flashed on the MDT screen and he was pierced by an icy-steel hit of adrenaline, that needle of excitement jabbing his brain.
A few more key-clicks and he was in heart-pumping cardiac marathon mode.<
br />
Wanting to pounce.
CHAPTER
20
Ax Dement left the motel first, after thirty-two minutes of party.
Moe, antsy the whole time, watched him go and decided to stay until the couple exited.
Hoping a couple would exit. Given what he’d learned. Talk about guilt... to his relief, the woman stepped out, tying her hair in a high ponytail. Heading straight for the motel’s front office, she got buzzed in without ringing the bell. Once inside, she placed her hand on the clerk’s shoulder. Smiled. Squatted and disappeared from view.
The lights went out for just under three minutes. The woman exited the office massaging the back of her neck, waited by the Corolla until her companion appeared.
He staggered to the car. She rubbed his bald head and the two of them got back in. The Corolla bumped out of the parking lot, turned right on Sunset.
Again, the idiot forgot to turn on his lights. This lapse extended for three and a half blocks.
The idiot had a name, courtesy Moe’s mobile terminal.
Raymond Allison Wohr.
Street moniker: Ramone W. Every mope considered a nickname his birthright.
Male white, five eleven, one eighty, brown and brown. A DOB that made him thirty-seven, an address in La Puente that was probably outdated.
A little younger than Moe’s guess, but no surprise given Wohr’s history.
The MDT had spat out a twelve-page sheet, and that didn’t include the sealed juvenile record. Nearly two decades of arrests, mostly dope. Lots of weed possessions, a few intents to sell the herb, pills, cocaine, a heroin charge that went nowhere. Wohr had served lots of county jail time awaiting trial, meaning he was no big-time player and no one cared enough to go his bail.
Despite that, his win-loss record wasn’t bad, split nearly evenly between acquittals and convictions. The latter had sent him on periodic trips to various branches of the California penal system where Wohr had been judged a possible “affiliate” of the Aryan Brotherhood, but never a member. Meaning the gang didn’t want him because he was too stupid, unpredictable, or lacked courage, but was willing to use him for low-level scut.
During Wohr’s intermittent spells of freedom, he amassed traffic violations, resulting in a license suspension, still in effect.
The Corolla was registered to Arnold Bradley Wohr, two years older. Same address in La Puente, no criminal record.
The older, law-abiding brother, giving his clunker to Ray out of pity, family loyalty, whatever?
Too bad, Arnie, you’ve left your law-abiding self damn vulnerable.
Raymond Wohr’s vehicular infractions included a couple of speeders, a trio of failures to make a full stop, some ticky-tacky license/reg stuff in La Puente that was probably a local uniform knowing Ramone was a mope and harassing the fool.
The kicker was four—count ’em!—driving without headlights and two DUIs, both of which Wohr had managed to beat.
As if not busy enough, Ramone W had also managed to rack up a slew of petty larcenies: the small-change shoplifting and sneak-thieveries that financed an impoverished druggie’s chemistry experiments.
Now he was pimping shopworn street girls to Hollywood brats.
Moe calculated how much of Wohr’s thirty-seven years had been spent behind bars, came up with just over fourteen, not counting juvey time. Your basic turnstile con, nothing particularly interesting until you got to Wohr’s latest involvement with the criminal justice system.
Eighteen months ago, he’d been hauled in by Hollywood Homicide—by Petra Connor and Raul Biro, talk about your small cop-world—as a person of interest in the murder of a woman named Adella Bertha Villareal.
No charges had been filed against Wohr, and as far as Moe could tell the case remained open.
Adella Villareal’s body had been found three months before Caitlin Frostig stepped into darkness and melted away.
There were limits to what the computer could teach him; the details he needed were in a blue-bound Hollywood murder book. He’d call Petra in the morning.
Now he followed Wohr’s illegal wheels west on Sunset, but this time the Corolla bypassed the boulevard at Virgil, continued north to Franklin, turned left.
Back into Hollywood, the quieter, seamier east end of the district, where European tourists sometimes ended up on deserted, creepy side streets, hoping to spot someone like Mason Book but more likely encountering someone like Raymond Wohr.
Said felon pulled in front of a cheesy-looking apartment building on Taft and Franklin and let his hooker girlfriend off. She looked cross as she turned her back on Wohr. Entered the building as Moe jotted the address.
Wohr continued south on Taft, parked just above Hollywood Boulevard, slouched, head down, hands in pockets, straight to a bar not dissimilar from The T ll Tale.
Bob’s Evening Lounge.
Cheap plywood door painted red, porthole window.
A bit of nautical? Shades of Riptide?
Moe watched as Wohr paused to light up a cigarette. Tossing the match on the sidewalk, Ramone W flung the door open.
Two minutes later, Moe was inside, too, at the far end of a sticky, urethaned bar, nursing a Bud, staring down at souvenir drink coasters from long-dead Vegas casinos, trapped in the varnish like insects in amber.
His fellow drinkers were half a dozen rummies well into their cups. Seven, including Raymond Wohr, rubbing his hairless crown and tossing back double bourbons. A cop show played on a fuzzy TV. A grubby pay-to-play pool table topped with wrinkled felt had attracted no comers. Wohr chain-smoked and drank and tried to follow the show when he could keep his eyes open. On the screen, big-bosomed blondes intimidated bad guys who looked like waiters at the Ivy, everyone double-handing their guns in absurd poses, tossing around “perp” and “forensics.”
Moe’s beer tasted diluted and sour and he avoided it while sneaking quick looks at Ramone W Up close, Wohr looked way older than thirty-seven, with silver streaking the long side hair, pitted, gravelly skin, a lumpy, rummy nose, kangaroo pouches beneath exhausted eyes.
It took fifteen minutes for the mope to finish drinking. In all that time, he’d talked to no one, no one had talked to him. Six doubles and to Moe’s eye, Wohr had entered the bar intoxicated.
Still, he managed to stay on his feet, was able to open the door on his second try.
Moe tossed cash on the bar, was back on Taft in time to see Wohr enter the same ratty building as the woman in the white tank top.
Pimping his girlfriend. A man of sterling character.
He drove back to West L.A. Division, found the big D-room empty except for a night-shift detective named Edmund Stickley filling out paperwork. Lots of empty desks, but Stickley had chosen Moe’s.
Moe had talked to him a few times; one of those older burnouts who liked catching cases at shift’s end, passing everything along.
He said, “Reed? You’re up past your bedtime.”
“Nightlife ain’t no good life,” said Moe, “but it’s high life.”
“The lyric is ‘my life,’” said Stickley. “Got something to do? I’ll move.”
“Don’t bother, I just need a screen.”
Stickley shifted to a neighboring desk anyway. Moe logged onto the reverse directory, plugged in the address of the apartment building on Taft, obtained eighteen landlines running to that address. Raymond Wohr’s name wasn’t among the registered users. Seven were female.
He began working his way through the list, found a match on his fourth try.
Alicia Constance Eiger, thirty-two, two-page biography emphasizing dope and prostitution.
Blond and brown in her most recent mug shot, nearly a year ago. Deep lines scored her face. The nightlife, indeed.
Moe Googled her name combined with murder victim Adella Bertha Villareal, pulled up zilch. Same for Villareal by herself. The media hadn’t covered the crime and no one close to the victim had created a website.
The criminal data banks also came up empty,
as did missing persons sites. No easy link to Caitlin, too bad.
Maybe because the cases weren’t connected.
Nothing else to do before daybreak. Moe felt like jumping out of his skin but left the station and drove toward the 405 on-ramp. Changed his mind and stayed on Pico, going east, took Beverly Glen to Sunset and sped east.
Climbing toward Swallowsong Lane for the second time, he found his eyelids lowering. He tuned to a hard-rock radio station, cranked it loud.
None of that worked and he was considering pulling over for a catnap when high-intensity headlights snapped him alert.
Some idiot speeding toward him. Racing down the narrow street, passing within inches of the Crown Vic.
Moe strained to catch a glimpse of the fool.
Silver Porsche Cabriolet. Top up, driver’s window open.
Aaron’s face expressionless as he downshifted for the next curve.
CHAPTER
21
When Moe was six years old, a girl in his class whispered in his ear: “Your brother’s a monkey.”
Moe had just started first grade, didn’t know if this was part of getting out of kindergarten. He ignored the girl and returned to his addition workbook.
The girl giggled. Later, out on the yard, she brought an older boy, probably a third-grader, to where Moses was bouncing a ball by himself, the way he liked to do.
“This is my brother,” she said.
The big boy smirked.
Moe looked around for Aaron. None of the fifth-graders were on the yard.
Bounce bounce bounce.
The big boy punched air and moved closer. He and the girl laughed.
He said, “Your brother’s a monkey nigger” and placed his hand on Moe’s chest.
Moe lowered his head and charged, churning his arms like they were a machine. His hands turned into rocks and his legs were real fast-kicking robot legs that couldn’t stop.
Suddenly the big boy was on the ground and Moe was sitting on top of him, and he still couldn’t stop moving. Tasting blood but not feeling any hurt anywhere and red was shooting out of the big boy’s nose along with snot and the big boy was screaming and crying.
True Detectives Page 14