True Detectives

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Each time Moe’s fist pounded into the boy’s head and his body he made a hopeless noise, kind of like Oh no.

  It took two teachers to pull Moe off. The big boy did nothing but cry.

  In the principal’s office, Moe got a bad feeling from Mr. Washington and refused to talk until Mommy showed up.

  He whispered everything into her ear.

  She listened and nodded and translated for the principal.

  “That’s certainly not good, Mrs. Reed. If it indeed happened that way.”

  “It happened that way, Mr. Washington. Moses never lies.”

  Washington, black as coal, broad as a garage door, said, “Indeed.”

  “Trust me, Mr. Washington. You’ll never meet a more honest child.”

  The principal studied her, then Moe.

  “Has he ever caused problems before, Mr. Washington?”

  “This is first grade, Mrs. Reed. We’ve only been in session for two weeks.”

  “Call his preschool. Moses had an impeccable behavior record. For him to do something like this, there had to be a good reason.”

  “There’s never a good reason for violence, Mrs. Reed.”

  “Ah,” said Mom. “I wonder if the protesters in Selma, Alabama, feel differently. Not to mention residents of the Warsaw ghetto, the Navajo—”

  “I don’t believe I need a history lesson, Mrs. Reed.”

  “I’m sure you don’t and I’m sorry for being presumptuous. However, if that kind of racist sentiment is common among your student body, it’s no surprise there’d be some sort of—”

  “Our student body is excellent, Mrs. Reed. Let’s not get off target. Moses beat a boy bloody. Now, I’m sure you believe he’s a good boy. But this isn’t what you’d call a good start. Under no circumstances can any sort of physical acting-out be tolerated. No circumstances, whatsoever.”

  “Of course not, sir. And he will be duly punished, I can assure you.”

  Mommy never punishes me. Oh, no!

  Moe tried to catch her eye but she kept looking at Mr. Washington like Moe wasn’t in the room.

  Mr. Washington said, “I suppose we can call this to a close with a warning. For Moses, and for your other son.”

  “What’s Aaron done?”

  “Nothing. Yet. I’m trying to ensure it stays that way. There’ll be no personal vendettas, absolutely no attempt on anyone’s part to get even.”

  “What about the other side?” said Mom. “Will they be warned as well?”

  “Side?” said Mr. Washington. “That’s confrontational terminology, Mrs. Reed.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way, sir. I just wanted to make sure that no one aggresses against my boys.”

  “Your boys will not be aggressed against. What I need from you is an iron-cast assurance that they won’t bother anyone else.”

  “They will not, I swear.” Suddenly, Mommy was touching Moe, squeezing his hand like she did when holding him back from traffic. Maybe a little harder.

  He looked at her. What was on her face had nothing to do with comfort or safety. Flat, like a mask. He shivered.

  Mommy squeezed again.

  Mr. Washington said, “Well, I sincerely hope you’re right because here we are, just two weeks in, and already Moses is skating on thin ice.” He shuffled some papers.

  Mommy said, “Everything will be perfect.”

  “Perfect?” Washington smiled. His desk clock ticked. “So as not to keep this exclusively negative, Mrs. Reed, I will tell you that Aaron is one of our top fifth-grade students as well as an excellent athlete. That would imply a certain degree of self-discipline.”

  “You bet,” said Mommy. “Aaron’s always been super-disciplined.”

  Washington lowered his eyes to Moe. “And this one?”

  “This one as well, sir.”

  Washington picked up a pencil, studied the eraser.

  Mommy said, “Both my boys are wonderful. They never give me a lick of trouble.”

  “It’s good that you think so, Mrs. Reed. Have a nice day.”

  “You, too, Mr. Washington. Thank you for your flexibility.”

  The principal hoisted his enormity from a creaking chair, came over to Moe, cast a gigantic shadow. “Son, your mother says you’re wonderful. Don’t make her change her mind.”

  Moe mumbled.

  “What’s that, son? Speak up.”

  “Mom never lies.”

  “An honest family,” said Washington, lowering a huge hand onto Moe’s quaking shoulder.

  Clutching Moe’s now sweaty fingers, Mommy led him—pulled him— through endless beige school corridors into abrupt, stunning sunlight, across the play yard and past the guard at the gate.

  “Morning, Mr. Chávez.”

  “Morning.” Chávez, always friendly, turned away.

  Mommy pulled Moe harder.

  He said, “Ow.”

  Silence.

  She always talks. This is different. Oh, no!

  When they were inside the van, she said, “Belt up, buster, we’re going for a ride.”

  “Where?”

  “Baskin-Robbins.” Leaning over, she kissed the tip of his nose. “Even tough-guy heroes need Jamoca Almond Fudge.”

  ♦

  By the time Aaron came home an hour later on the upper-grade bus, Moe and Mommy were waiting at the kitchen table with the ice cream and glasses of milk. Aaron breezed past them. The door to his bedroom slammed.

  Mommy said, “Well, that was different,” and went after him.

  Moe heard loud voices ringing through the door. He sat there for a while, finally got up to listen.

  “... don’t need his help!”

  “... not the point, Aaron, it was a vile thing to say and he was trying to defend you—”

  “... don’t need his defending!”

  “... what we call spur of the moment, darling. He didn’t think, he just loves you, so he acted—”

  “... loved me he’d mind his own business!”

  “... think you’re being a little harsh on—”

  “... always embarrassing, he’s so weird. Everyone calls him a retard because he stands around by himself and bounces that stupid ball and doesn’t talk and I have to always stick up for him and say he’s not a retard. Since he came to school it’s been—”

  “Well, I’d certainly hope you stick up for him. Retarded! That’s horrid—”

  “... acts so weird—whatever. Just tell him to stay out of my face. Okay?”

  Silence.

  “Okay, Mom? He really needs to stay out of my face!”

  “Aaron, I really don’t understand this attitu—”

  “He’s making me look like a fag who needs to be protected! I can protect myself, okay? The only reason he’s trying to be a big-shot hero is ’cause you’re always talking about how they were heroes. But they weren’t! Not both of them! My dad was a hero, Jack was just a stupid drunk who sat there while—”

  Sharp report.

  “Oh, God, I’m so sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to hit you, I’ve never hit you, how did that happen!”

  Silence.

  “Aaron, honey, please. Talk to me, I don’t know what got into me, please forgive me, please please—”

  “He brings problems.”

  “Oh, Aaron—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I forgive you.”

  Later, when Aaron came out of the room, saw that Moe had been listening, he sneered: “What do you want? Hero.”

  “I... I...”

  “I ... I... I ... I ... blah blah blaaah.” Shoving Moe aside, Aaron continued to the kitchen. “Mmm, kinda hungry. Gonna get me some big-time hero ice cream.”

  It was that same smug, mocking tone Moe heard over the phone.

  Eight a.m., still tired. The laughter in Aaron’s voice when Moe said, “What?” caused Moe’s hands to clench.

  “I said nice to see you last night, however briefly. Thought you’d want to know that Rory Stoltz picked Mason Book up just after you left the
first time.”

  Aaron had been able to watch him, unseen. He had been unaware of Aaron. Until hours later, the Porsche speeding by. Big Brother wanting Moe to know.

  “You’re sure it was Book?”

  “No one but, Moses. I got a clear look through the passenger window. Older than he looks on screen. Haggard, like he’s been through some rough times.”

  “Where’d Stoltz take him?”

  “Nowhere in particular, they just drove.”

  “Where?”

  “All the way to Ocean Front, I’m thinking Yes! They’re going to stop at Riptide. But Stoltz turned the other way—north—got on PCH, kept in the slow lane and cruised under the speed limit. Now I’m thinking they’re gonna head over to Lem Dement’s place in Solar Canyon, maybe do a little early-morning praying. Negative, again. They made it as far as the Colony, turned around, went home. Ten minutes after Stoltz drops Book off, the gates open and he drives away himself.”

  “Moonlight cruise up the coast,” said Moe. “Sounds kind of romantic.”

  “Yeah, I thought about that, maybe Book’s got a secret life and his head’s in Stoltz’s lap. But anytime it was safe, I got close and they were just sitting there. Book looked like he was heading for a funeral. So if he did give the kid head, he did it at Olympic pace. I honestly don’t think it happened, Moses. Stoltz is Book’s gofer, Book’s got insomnia, he makes a call, the kid’s there to do his bidding. That’s the whole point of walking-around guys. They make you feel important. My question is, what’s Book losing sleep over?”

  “Dope can do all sorts of things to your cycles.”

  “True. But what we’ve been guessing—guilt over Caitlin—could also explain it. Not that I saw overt guilt. More like stupor. So how was your night?”

  “Uneventful.”

  “Sorry you missed the action.”

  “Moonlight cruise?” said Moe. “Sounds like you didn’t catch much, either.”

  A beat.

  “Okay,” said Aaron, “but at least we know for a fact that Book crashes in Dement’s house. Whether or not Ax lives there remains to be seen.”

  No, it doesn’t.

  Moe said, “Something actually happens, feel free to call.”

  Before Aaron could answer, he clicked off, punched in a number at Hollywood Division.

  CHAPTER

  22

  Petra Connor was one of those women you could get distracted by, if she wasn’t so smart and business-like that you forgot she was a girl.

  Thin as a model, but none of that brain-dead dullness in her wide, dark eyes. Flawless ivory skin, the graceful moves of a dancer or a runner. Shiny black hair that she wore in a neat, functional cap.

  The few times Moe had seen her, she wore black pantsuits, and this morning was no exception—something with a little stretch to it, tailored to hug her fatless frame while concealing the bulk of her weapon.

  Her partner, Raul Biro, Moe had never met. Before leaving the station, he’d stopped in at Sturgis’s office, inquired about the guy.

  The Loo said, “Really bright, works like a dog, probably gonna be a star.”

  Moe didn’t want to be paranoid, but he was still wondering what that meant as he drove to Hollywood Station.

  When he met Biro, he was surprised. The guy looked like a kid. Though his hair was from another era—combed back and slicked at the sides, sprayed in place on top. Aztec features, the build of a lightweight wrestler. Aaron would’ve approved of Biro’s smooth tan suit, white shirt, powder-blue tie.

  All put-together, like he never expected to get his hands dirty.

  Sturgis said he was a worker, go know.

  The three of them sat around a table in a Hollywood interview room. After some small talk about Sturgis, Delaware, the marsh murders, Petra patted the blue folder to her left. Thin; not a good sign. “Adella Villareal, not one of our triumphs.”

  Biro clicked his tongue.

  Moe said, “Maybe my dead end can intersect with yours.”

  Petra said, “That would be nice, let’s do some show-and-tell.”

  Moe did the polite thing and talked first, summarizing his history with Caitlin, the links among Rory Stoltz, Mason Book, and Ax Dement, Dement’s motel party with Raymond Wohr and Alicia Eiger.

  No reason to mention Aaron’s involvement.

  In the retell, it sounded like an air sandwich.

  “Eiger’s a new name for us so we asked Vice,” said Petra. “They know her, your basic aging street girl. They didn’t know her as shacking with Wohr and back when we questioned Wohr he claimed there was no woman in his life.”

  Biro said, “At least not a live one.”

  Moe said, “Villareal was his girlfriend?”

  “If only it was that simple,” said Petra. “No, that’s doubtful—let’s start at the beginning. Adella was hit on the back of the head, but not hard enough to kill her. We figured that for a subduing blitz before she was strangled manually. She was fully clothed. No signs of sexual assault, no forensic evidence of any sort.”

  She flipped the murder book open, turned pages, slid the file over to Moe.

  Five-by-seven shot of a really pretty Hispanic girl holding an infant wrapped in a blue blanket and flashing a megawatt smile.

  Moe had checked out Adella Villareal’s stats last night. Twenty-four years old at the time of her death, a DMV photo that showed her as dark-haired, decent looking but nothing like this.

  Same girl, no question about it, but this portrait—maybe happiness—made her beauty-queen gorgeous, with long, lustrous hair curled at the ends, lightened to chestnut, streaked with honey. A fitted white blouse and brown slacks showed off nice curves.

  Moe said, “When was this taken?”

  Petra said, “Twenty-two months ago, Phoenix, her family’s house. The baby was a month old, she flew home to show him off. Boy named Gabriel. Four months later, she was dead.”

  Biro frowned. “Night she was murdered, she had the baby with her. He hasn’t been seen since.”

  Moe said, “Oh, man.”

  Petra said, “If I was the praying type, I’d ask God to make it a kidnapping.”

  Biro said, “We looked into that, never got any sort of lead. No whacks with fake pregnancies, no other snatches or attempts.”

  Moe said, “Who’s the dad?”

  “Good question.”

  Petra said, “Adella grew up in a conservative family, Dad’s an auto mechanic, Mom provides home health care for old people. I was also raised in Arizona, know her neighborhood. Solid working class, lots of religion. Adella was a decent student, high school cheerleader, until tenth grade when she started hanging with a different crowd, got into some dope trouble, ended up posing for the wrong kind of pictures. Her parents found out, there was a huge scene, Adella ran away to L.A.”

  “High school porn?” said Moe.

  Biro said, “She got wangled into some nudies by a guy claiming to work for Hustler. What he called art shots—getting explicit with herself.”

  Petra said, “By today’s standards no huge freak, but by her parents’ standards she was speeding in the fast lane to hell. After she left, there was a total breakdown in communication—zero contact. Until one day the bell rings and Adella’s standing there, with a one-month-old. Paternity never came up because Adella never volunteered and the family didn’t want to pressure her, afraid she’d leave again, they’d never hear from her. Despite their treading on eggshells, she only stayed three days, Mom woke up, found her bed and the crib empty. She and Adella had just bought the crib—fun shopping trip. Poor woman was upset. Now she’s shattered. Family gave us names of some tough kids Adella hung with in Phoenix, as well as the photographer. We worked them all, no dice. The Villareals are salt of the earth but the sad truth is they’re clueless about Adella’s life for the last eight years.”

  Biro said, “She lived in a single on Gower, not a dump, but nothing fancy. Slept on a foldout couch with the kid next to her in a porta-crib, most of what
was in there was baby-stuff. We found some pay stubs, traced back to a poker club in Gardena where she cocktail-waitressed for three years until a few months before the pregnancy. Wohr tended bar at the same place but only for a month before he got fired for not reporting his felony record. We got interested in him because surveillance cameras showed her walking with him to her car several times and another dealer remembers the two of them hanging out during smoke breaks. Wohr’s sheet is thick, but there’s no violence against women. But you know how it is. Guys get away with stuff, decide to kick it up a notch. We looked at him right away.”

  Petra said, “Once we found him. He’d been off parole for a while, last address was way out of date. One of our cruisers finally spotted him on the boulevard. He claimed to be living in La Puente but that turned out to be his brother’s house, where he crashes from time to time. We never did put him at a local address.”

  Moe said, “Now he’s got one.”

  “Pimping and living with a hooker,” said Biro. “Interesting.”

  “Brother Arnold,” said Moe. “The car Wohr’s driving illegally is registered to him. Maybe somewhere down the line, we can leverage that.”

  Biro said, “You’re figuring to lean on the reverend.”

  “He’s a minister?”

  “Runs a small neighborhood church, feeds the homeless, has a wife, two kids, all of them about as wholesome and straight as it gets.”

  Moe groaned.

  Petra said, “But feel free to talk to him. To anyone. We’ve put this one in the fridge, welcome anything new.”

  “Does your gut say don’t bother with the rev? With Wohr, period?”

  “There’s no evidence implicating Wohr, but our gut’s not strong on this one.”

  “He have an alibi for the time frame of the murder?”

  “That’s part of the problem, we’re not sure of the time frame. Adella’s cell phone record breaks off thirty days before she was found, but she wasn’t dead nearly that long, coroner estimates two, three days tops. She d.c.’d the account, switched to pay-as-you-gos.”

  “Hiding something?” said Moe.