True Detectives

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Out of visual range of the northernmost bungalow that served as the motel’s front office.

  As he pulled in, Gemma Dement cruised past. Five minutes later, she was walking toward him, looking grave, Fendi lenses flashing coppery light. On the surface, all business, but her body language disputed that: swinging a key on a dolphin-shaped holder in wide, playful arcs. Like a kid ready for an adventure.

  Once they were inside the small, dim, mildewed room, she drew the drapes, tugged several times to make sure no sliver of daylight intruded.

  One step short of total darkness. Aaron’s pupils dilated as he strained to follow her movements. She moved easily, familiar with the layout.

  What the hell have I gotten into?

  As he stood there, she got into that humming thing again. Powered up the twelve-inch flat-screen sitting atop a tilting bureau. Punched a code without consulting the guide.

  Home away from home.

  The station she selected was all music. So-called smooth jazz, heavy on repetition and low on imagination.

  Lots of brush-percussion. Lots of lazy saxophone.

  Oh, Lord, a porno soundtrack.

  He still hadn’t budged from just inside the door when she marched to the bed, folded back a corner of the comforter, ordered, “Get naked and comfy. I’ll be back in a jif.”

  She took her purse into the bathroom. Aaron listened for telltale sounds, anything weird. Heard nothing.

  Okay, this was the choice point: make his escape and possibly miss the chance for a serious lead, or go with it.

  Seconds later, he was under the covers, clothes folded neatly over a chair, wallet, watch, cell phone safe at the bottom.

  He watched numbers shift on the cheap digital clock next to the TV.

  “A jif” stretched another four minutes, during which he fantasized about terrible things.

  She’s got a gun.

  A razor.

  I’m an idiot.

  The bathroom door opened and she was at the side of the bed, standing lean and unclad, brown-pelted crotch inches from his nose, ready for inspection.

  Not a young woman’s body, but beautiful. That long-waisted configuration he liked, but still plenty of leg. That nice belly curve women developed when they didn’t get crazy about starvation. Those child-bearing hips defined by angular bones. Generous breasts, no false advertising by the T-shirt. A little droopy but for some reason that appealed to him. She’d pulled her hair into a ponytail. The diamond ring was nowhere to be seen. That last fact—and her ass—got him instantly hard.

  As she bent at the waist and leaned over him, he smelled her breath, astringent with alcohol. Gin, the junipers were in bloom. She’d fortified herself with a bathroom belt.

  He touched her. Mixed business with pleasure and looked for bruises.

  None but the single camouflaged patch. How many internal wounds, he had no idea.

  Gemma Dement got in bed and his nose filled with booze and perfume. Clapping one hand on his head, she fed him her left nipple.

  “Suck it hard but don’t bite it. Keep your eyes closed. I really am much older.”

  Aaron wondered how he’d itemize this on his next bill to Mr. Dmitri.

  He went into it expecting craziness—manic sex, followed by tears, guilt, some sort of histrionics.

  Sobbing discussion of guilt and atonement.

  She worked him like a pro, athletic, silent, not even breathing hard. Positioned herself serially, as if playing for an unseen camera.

  While she was in the bathroom, he’d gone over every damned inch of the room to make sure there wasn’t any camera.

  They stayed in a lock until she eased away yet again. Did something with her legs that looked unlikely, managed to guide him in.

  “Comfortable?”

  “Oh ... yeah.”

  Obliging, considerate, business-like. Going along with anything he wanted, then rewriting the script without warning as she assumed a new pose.

  This was choreography and she was in charge.

  That should’ve bothered Aaron. He enjoyed himself, anyway, had to work at holding out, wanting to keep this level of pleasure for as long as he could.

  She knew he was ready before he did, said, “Come in my pussy, it’s safe. Or anywhere else, it’s your choice.”

  The detachment in her voice caused him momentary self-doubt, an instant of diminished blood supply.

  She did something with her hand and her mouth and he was back in the saddle.

  “Anytime, Artie,” she said. “You’ve already rocked my world.”

  ♦

  Afterward, she said, “Please stay in bed,” and went to dress in the bathroom. When she emerged, her hair was loose and she looked as if she’d just taken a pleasant nature walk.

  As she moved to the door, Aaron said, “You’re leaving?”

  “You’re the one on vacation. Regards to Kansas City.”

  They got some crazier little women in Malibu.

  Aaron sprang out of bed, hurried to her side. “Stay. You’re beautiful.”

  Looking down, she laughed. Took hold of him, gave a playful tug. “You’re a healthy boy, my lawyer. Sorry, bye.”

  “You’re leaving me here to atone all by myself.”

  Anger tightened her face. She stepped away from him.

  Disgusted.

  Aaron said, “What did I say?”

  Her face churned, turned ugly. Got pretty again. Spit flew with each word: “Atonement is for assholes who actually sin. Let me out of here.”

  CHAPTER

  28

  Moe sat at Liz’s computer searching for Web images of Adella Villareal with either Ax Dement or Mason Book.

  Book was everywhere, lanky and blond and handsome and heavy-lidded.

  Dement Junior showed up a handful of times, always as a second-row leech, almost always unidentified.

  Adella was nowhere.

  Being strangled, with who-knows-what done to your baby, didn’t merit attention unless someone wrote a movie about it.

  He thought about Caitlin babysitting for Adella. Set up by Rory? Or had Adella come into Riptide, chatted with the friendly college girl? Why would Caitlin, going to school, already with a job, have taken on an additional gig all the way in Hollywood?

  Maybe Adella had charmed her. Or Caitlin had been introduced to Adella by someone more high-status than Rory, like Mason Book.

  He had two points of entry: Rory or Raymond Wohr. The kid could refuse to talk to him—with that mother of his, a likely response. The last thing Moe needed was Rory going the lawyer route. Maybe a highpowered lawyer hired by Mason Book ... Wohr was definitely a better bet. He’d find some way to brace the lowlife.

  Liz awoke and called him into the bedroom. Later, they showered together, she left for the lab, and Moe dressed for the job. Glad she wasn’t there to see today’s work clothes.

  Driving to Hollywood, he phoned Petra Connor to inform her he’d be working her turf.

  She said, “Have fun. We’ve been to Vice, seeing if we missed anything. No one has information about Adella selling her body. Wohr and Eiger are low-level hustlers with no showbiz connections anyone’s aware of.”

  Moe said, “Wohr’s twisted,” and recounted his talk with the Reverend Arnold.

  Petra said, “His own niece. What a dirtbag.”

  “What I keep thinking about is he showed no feelings for the baby, basically ignored it.”

  “And who doesn’t like babies.”

  “Exactly. In my mind, he’s shaping up as all kinds of bad.”

  “Makes sense,” she said. “You’re on him today?”

  “Soon as I get to his crib. I’m at La Brea and Santa Monica.”

  “Welcome to Hollyweird.”

  He parked six blocks from the apartment on Taft, psyched himself up to shuffle slow, look glassy-eyed.

  Dressing for the job meant forgoing shaving, a gray watchcap pulled low on his head, a T-shirt rescued from the bottom of his laundry hamper, his
grungiest jeans and crappiest sneakers, under a stale-smelling, previously worn green hoodie he’d just bought from a street vendor at Hollywood and Highland for nine bucks.

  He’d checked the garment carefully, couldn’t shake the feeling some sort of microscopic vermin had set up house in polyester.

  Street cred came with a price.

  If he was even pulling it off.

  No one paid him attention as he rounded Hollywood Boulevard, so maybe he was.

  Slouching, sucking in his cheeks and jamming one hand deep into a jeans pocket as if he had a stash buried down there, he half stumbled up Raymond Wohr and Alicia Eiger’s block.

  One apartment building after another, a few half decent. Theirs wasn’t, with cracked stucco, sagging gutters, a brown lawn. Up above Franklin, the housing got a little nicer. Better to avoid that and not chance alarming some nervous citizen. He turned west on Franklin, covered a couple of blocks, reversed himself, lit up a cigarette that never touched his lips. Repeated the whole damn drill several times.

  The aimless routine of a lonely, addled loser.

  Lots of cars, few people; L.A.’s motto.

  On his fourth circuit, he encountered a tough-looking, crew-cut, multipierced girl walking an off-leash white pit bull that looked to be ninety pounds of muscle.

  Huge, big-toothed critter. The dog spotted him, padded forward. Moe’s gun was tucked in the small of his back, he hoped to God it wouldn’t come to that.

  The dog reached him. Sniffed his shoes. Licked his hand.

  Inhaling, Moe petted an iron-ingot neck.

  The girl said, “Iggy likes you, man. You’re cool.”

  Street cred, indeed.

  On his seventh trip down Taft, he spotted Ramone W and Alicia Eiger arguing on the sidewalk. Too far to hear what they were saying, but the body language was clear.

  Both of them in sweatshirts and jeans, no makeup for her, her hair was as ragged as Ramone’s side fringe. She wore unfashionable horn-rimmed eyeglasses. The two of them could’ve been any pair of shopworn street people.

  She was doing most of the talking, Ramone just stood there looking miserable.

  Letting Eiger yap, staring over her head, not even faking paying attention. She finally figured out she was being shined on, poked his chest until she got eye contact. More monologue. Again, Ramone zoned out.

  Eiger poked him again, started waving her hands, trying to stir up a response.

  He nodded stupidly.

  Eiger wasn’t satisfied, stepped up closer, embarked on another tirade.

  A Mohawked kid walking by turned to stare and she switched her ire to him. The kid held out his hands peacefully, hurried off. Eiger resumed her rant. This time Ramone tried to shush her with a finger over his lips.

  She hauled off and hit him hard, across the face.

  Ramone staggered back, rubbed the offended spot. Moe’s hand snaked around to his gun, expecting the return blow, a full-out brawl.

  Stepping into the middle of it would be a disaster for the case, but letting a psychopath maul a woman in public was out of the question.

  Alicia Eiger didn’t seem worried. She clapped her hands on her hips, dared Ramone to retort.

  Stupid woman. Cemeteries were full of them.

  Moe inched forward so he’d have enough time to be effective. As far as he could tell, neither of them noticed him.

  Raymond’s shoulders tightened up. Eiger taunted him. Flipped him off. Ramone shrugged, sagged, turned his back on her and walked south, toward Hollywood Boulevard.

  She mouthed a word. Moe read her lips.

  Stupid.

  Maybe he should talk to this charmer. But while he was considering his options, Eiger stomped back inside her building.

  ’scuse me, ma’am, LAPD Homicide. Why is Ramone stupid?

  Moe shuffled past the shabby building. Ramone was out of sight, probably drowning his sorrow at Bob’s or some similar dive.

  Moe considered checking out the bar. Was he good enough to nurse a beer on a neighboring stool, get the guy talking?

  What chance was there Ramone would admit to being a total pussy?

  Speaking of which.

  Witnessing the encounter had shaken up Moe’s preconceptions. He’d been thinking of Ramone as a murderous thug but the mope had just come across scary as milk.

  He walked back to his car. Encountered a few other dog-walkers, including an old, bent woman with a tiny, fluffy white mutt who snarled viciously as Moe passed.

  She said, “Good boy, Champ. He’s a bum.”

  When he returned to his desk at West L.A., Aaron was sitting in his chair, playing a BlackBerry. At the sight of Moe, his brother sprang up. “I may have something for you.”

  “May,” said Moe.

  “Where can we talk?”

  That assumed a lot; Moe’s instinct was to say so. But something in Aaron’s demeanor stopped him: no wise-ass glint in his eyes, that intense purpose on his face—the same look Aaron had worn back when he was throwing long passes or adjusting his batting stance. Completing the pass, more often than not. Great RBI.

  Moe said, “Let’s go.”

  Once they were in a windowless room and Aaron had checked for hidden mikes, he said, “I may have found Caitlin’s burial spot.”

  Still totally unaware of Adella Villareal, Raymond Wohr, Alicia Eiger. Moe indulged himself in brief self-satisfaction, saying “Tell me about it” as he sat back.

  Aaron described Mason Book and Ax Dement’s drive to Leo Carrillo, the clearing where they’d smoked up and sniffed heroin.

  “You know for sure it was heroin.” Getting picky about a probably irrelevant detail because between this and Eiger chewing Ramone a second asshole, his head was swimming with uncertainty.

  “Did a presumptive test.” Now Aaron’s know-it-all grin was back. “Home chemistry set, Moses. I can’t promise you the place is the tomb—the ground wasn’t disturbed. But it’s been a long time, stuff grows. And before you ask, sure, it’s possible the two of them just love getting high at the beach. But it’s a helluva ride from the Hollywood Hills just for that. Why not enjoy their dope behind gates up on Swallowsong? I think the spot has psychological significance and they were engaging in some sort of ritual.”

  “Returning to the scene of the crime.”

  Aaron crossed his legs, smoothed a lapel, stared at Moe, trying to figure out if he was being put on.

  For some reason, Moe felt like a pain in the ass. “It happens with psych crimes, right? Reliving the thrill.”

  Aaron relaxed. “It does ... look, I know this isn’t hard evidence, Moses, but it was all I could do not to go back with a shovel myself. I meant what I said about not getting in your way. A cadaver dog could answer the question pretty easily.”

  “I’m not hearing enough justification to call in the K-9s. Especially in a public park—in Malibu. Coastal Commission would probably get involved.”

  Listen to me: like every other regulation-spouting suit.

  “Okay,” said Aaron. “I just want you to know whatever I learn.”

  His brother’s glum expression threw Moe. Self-doubt had never seemed part of Aaron’s repertoire.

  “I’m not saying it’s not interesting, Aaron, it is. Especially with Malibu coming up over and over. Everything about Caitlin seems to hover around the coastline.”

  Except her babysitting gig in Hollywood.

  Aaron brightened. “My thought exactly. Caitlin and Rory go to school at Pepperdine, work in Santa Monica, Lem Dement’s ranch is in Solar Canyon. And now I’ve seen Mason Book take two nighttime trips to PCH.”

  “Restless sleeper,” said Moe.

  “Guilt can do that to you. Though it doesn’t look like Mr. Book’s remorse extends to self-mutilation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just before you arrived I was clearing a text message.” Tapping the BlackBerry. “One of my sources heard a rumor there were no cut marks on Book’s arms, or anywhere else on his body during hi
s supposed suicide stay at Cedars. No sign, period, that he’d placed his life in danger.”

  “Who’s the source?”

  “Sorry,” said Aaron. “And given all the hubbub over at the U. about patient confidentiality, you don’t want to know.”

  Good point. Moe said, “Reliable source?”

  “Very.”

  “Someone who works at Cedars?”

  Aaron smiled. “Someone who’s connected to someone who knows someone who works at Cedars. But before you dismiss it, I will tell you we’re talking an embittered Industry person being edged out of a job on the way to career oblivion.” Quoting Merry Ginzburg word for word. “Strong motivation to help clear the case.”

  “Why?”

  “I promised a scoop once the dust settles.”

  “Once, not if,” said Moe. “Nothing like optimism.”

  “Only way to live, bro—sorry.” Aaron adjusted his jacket. Today’s was smooth silk the color of dark chocolate, a hue black men pulled off better than anyone. Moe was thankful he’d stopped at his locker and changed out of his bum clothes. Tossing the green hoodie into the trash because he couldn’t shake the feeling it was alive.

  He said, “If Book didn’t try to off himself, why was he hospitalized? And why announce he’s a suicide?”

  “Good questions, Moses.”

  “Exhaustion,” said Moe. “Isn’t that how celebs spin when they check in for detox?”

  “No detox here,” said Aaron. “No drugs of any sort—that’s what tipped off my source’s source. It was like the guy was using the place for a hotel.”

  Moe said, “Maybe no prescription drugs, but he had friends bring in recreational chemicals—maybe suicide was a cover for something worse career-wise. Like a total mental meltdown. If Book fell apart totally, his handlers wouldn’t want it publicized. Better to cover with a half-truth.”

  Aaron’s eyes widened. “I like that. Going off the deep end, total blithering lunatic ... people shy away from crazy, but depression, suicide—climbing back up from adversity—that’s the cover of People. That’s Oprah being your new best friend—yeah, that makes sense, Moses.”