“Sounds like a bestseller,” said Moe.
“More than we could ever hope for,” said Petra.
Both of them using a mocking tone. Wohr had instincts. “Something wrong with that?”
Moe said, “What’s wrong with that is we’re not dope cops.”
“Uh-uh, no way, I can’t give you sex stuff,” said Wohr, lying effortlessly. “Don’t know about that, not my thing.”
“Don’t want to rat out other pedos?”
“I’m not a—I don’t know that stuff, sir. Like you said before, it’s human need, I mind my own business.”
“Sticking mostly to peeping, huh?”
Head shake. “I’m not saying that, either. I just don’t know that stuff.”
“So the way you look at it,” said Moe, “it’s all victimless—a business transaction, who cares how a guy gets off.” He slapped his forehead. “Oh, yeah, judges and juries care. But guess what? I don’t. And neither does Detective Connor.”
Moe leaned in close, fighting to keep his nostrils open after a cloud of Wohr’s reek blew his way. The stink of jail and fear and poor personal habits.
“We’re not sex cops, either, Ramone.”
Wohr’s eyes swung wide to the left. “What are you?”
“We’re murder cops.”
Wohr’s head snapped up and back as he tried to retreat as far as possible from Moe. The way they’d tucked his chair into the corner meant he wasn’t going anywhere.
“Aw, man.”
“You keep saying that, Ramone. Like it’s some prayer, going to get you redeemed.”
Wohr lowered his head to his lap, clasped both hands behind his own neck. “No, no, that I really don’t do.”
Moe waited.
Wohr looked up.
“Hear that, Detective Connor?”
Petra slipped her cell into her purse. “Uh-uh, sorry, what?”
“Mr. Wohr says he really doesn’t do murder.”
Ramone said, “Nope, man—sir—ma’am. Someone told you that, they’re lying.”
“Who would tell us that?”
Eye-dance. “No one.”
“Why would anyone tell us that, Ramone?”
“No reason—they wouldn’t.”
“They, meaning ...”
“No one.” Wohr folded scrawny arms across his chest.
Moe turned to Petra. “Remember what they taught us about guys who like little girls? It’s all about power and control. And we know the same thing goes for murder. Especially sicko murder.” Back to Wohr: “No bigger power-trip than being in charge when the lights go out.”
Ramone’s hands shot out palms-forward. “No way, no, no, no.”
Moe sighed.
Petra’s knowing smile was perfect: You believe this guy?
Ramone W scratched his head, then his arms, rocked a bit. “Aw, man. Gimme paper and a pen, I’ll write you a book on dope—you can trade it to the dope cops, you give ’em something, they give you something, everyone walks away happy.”
Petra said, “You’ve got an interesting view of police work.”
“Hey—ma’am, everything gets traded.”
“Guess that’s true,” said Moe. “Including human life.”
When Wohr didn’t answer, he went on: “Everything’s got a price. Everyone. Some lives are expensive, some lives are cheap. Cheap lives get traded away easy so expensive lives can continue. Experienced individual such as yourself knows which is which.”
“Aw, man, I don’t know nothing about that, you want that there’s all sorts of guys right here who can tell you good stuff, just walk over to general pop and say tell me about that. Not me, sir, no way, no.”
Long speech. It took Wohr’s breath away and he sat back, trying to regain wind.
Moe said, “Expensive lives, cheap lives.” A beat. “Guess Adella Villareal’s life was pretty cheap.”
Wohr sat there. Not moving, not blinking. None of the eye-calisthenics Moe had expected.
Could I be that wrong?
“That name’s not familiar to you, Ramone?”
Wohr let out a long, raspy sigh. Now his eyes were bobbling, like floats on a trout line. Scratching hard enough to raise welts on his arms. He forced the eyes still, but the resulting stare—scared, frozen—was the biggest giveaway of all.
Yes!
Moe said, “Adella and Gabriel. Tiny little baby. A tiny life means super-cheap in your world?”
Wohr buried his face in his hands. Rocked some more.
“Cheap lives,” said Moe. “We know a lot.”
Wohr’s fingers spread, revealing runny eyes. “That was not me, sir.”
“That?”
“What happened.”
“What happened? Like we’re talking about a something, not a someone? A what, not a who? This is a mommy and a baby we’re discussing, Ramone. Human beings. They got murdered and we know who did it and we know you’re involved.”
Wohr’s eyes rounded and for a bizarre instant, terror made the old dope fiend look young, almost child-like—still vulnerable to surprise. A second later, the old weariness/wariness returned and the guy was squinting—first at Moe, then Petra. Figuring the odds.
Moe said, “You can help yourself, Ramone.”
“How much can I help myself?”
“What do you mean?”
Sly smile. “Business transaction. What’s the deal?”
“I’m not going to lie to you, friend, ’cause that would be wasting everyone’s time. And you’ve been around long enough to know reality. Anything official is up to the D.A. But we’re murder cops, the D.A. listens to us.”
“Misdemeanor,” said Wohr. “No jail time?”
“On what?”
“Delishus.”
Meaning he wasn’t worried about his involvement in murder. Or was the mope that clever?
Moe said, “Detective Connor?”
Petra said, “Theoretically, if two murders get cleared, I can’t see any problem with that.”
Moe said, “Clearing three murders would be even better.”
“No doubt,” said Petra.
“Three?” said Ramone. Confusion clouded the mope’s face.
Uh-oh.
Moe made the plunge. “Caitlin Frostig.”
“Who?” Not a hint of evasiveness in the squinty eyes. Real confusion.
“Caitlin Frostig,” said Moe. “Adella’s babysitter. Pretty blond girl.”
Wohr said, “Oh, her.”
“You know her.”
“I seen her once, maybe twice. She also got killed?”
“Is that a real question, Ramone?”
“Yes, sir, yes, yes, yes, sir—I met her once. Coming to pick up Addie, like you said, Addie’s going out, that girl’s there with the baby. One, two times is all—yeah, it was two. That’s it, sir. She got dead, I don’t know about it.”
“But you do know about a dead mommy. And a dead baby,” said Moe, remembering the Reverend Wohr’s account of his brother’s cold attitude toward the infant. “Little, tiny baby with a name. Gabriel. Like the angel. Now he is a little angel, Ramone.”
Wohr didn’t respond.
“Dead baby, dead mommy, dead babysitter, Ramone. Quite a scoreboard for a guy who doesn’t know about stuff like that.”
Wohr’s bony butt levitated out of the chair and for a second Moe thought he’d need to restrain the idiot. But Wohr sank down heavily, hugged himself, shook his head. Tugged at his cheeks.
“You’re in it for triple murder, Ramone.”
“Oh, Jesus God.”
“Maybe you’re not that bad of a person,” said Moe. “Maybe it really bothers you.”
“Aw, man—you should—in here.” Slapping his forehead. “Bad pictures, sir. Even though I never actually seen nothing.”
“Pictures of what?”
“You know.”
“Tell me, Ramone.”
“Dead people. I worked hard at turning them off. The pictures.”
“Trying to s
witch the channel.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Did getting paid to forget help, Ramone?”
“Huh?”
“One of your transactions,” said Moe. “Keep your mouth shut for the opportunity to keep pimping to rich folk.”
Stolid silence, but no denial.
Moe went on, “You might’ve cleared your own head but the law doesn’t see it that way, Ramone. You’re in the middle of it. It won’t be any big stretch making this a three-strikes deal, Ramone. But even without that, we’re talking ...” To Petra: “Like forever?”
She said, “I’d guess forever plus a hundred years or so.” She edged closer to Wohr. “Poor little Gabriel. Talk about a tiny skeleton, like a toy, at first you don’t even think it’s real.”
“You found him?” Wohr blurted.
“Any reason we shouldn’t?”
“No, no, no. I just...”
Moe hardened his voice. Crowded Wohr. Got closer to Petra, in the process. Her girl-scent helped take the edge off Wohr’s stench. “You just what, Ramone?”
“I never heard he got found.”
“But you heard he got killed.”
Silence.
“Here’s the deal, Ramone: Some people don’t like surprises, but we do. Helps relieve the boredom. We’ve got all sorts of surprises about things you can’t even imagine.”
Wohr’s eyes passed from Moe to Petra, back to Moe. The guy’s body was slumped and shaky and pathetic, but the eyes belonged to a stronger, shrewder man.
All the dope he’d pumped, all the booze he’d soaked up, his IQ could be down to double digits and he’d still retain a certain type of cunning.
He said, “You know what you know, but I don’t know nothing.”
Moe sensed it: The danger point, any minute the mope could clam, ask for a lawyer.
Time to take another plunge. “Well, then, Ramone, we’ll share—so everyone will know everything. You got paid off to keep quiet about the murders, but it was only a small-time payment. You never cashed in like you could’ve.”
Wohr’s eyes froze but he couldn’t plug up the sweat glands slicking his face and neck.
Petra’s perfume no longer masking the stink.
Wohr’s mustache trembled.
Moe said, “Maybe you didn’t cash in because you were scared. Maybe you’re basically a small-time guy, happy with small-time compensation—happy to keep peddling skin to rich folk. Maybe making nice to rich folk lets you pretend your own life is expensive, not cheap like Adella and Gabriel and Caitlin.”
Wohr shook his head.
“Thing is, Ramone, that flesh you kept peddling was Alicia’s and she had enough, wanted you to cash in big. She was tired of partying in shitty motels like the Eagle because you were too scared to make demands. She got frustrated. Downright pissed-off frustrated. To the point where she bitch-slapped you on the street, front of the whole neighborhood.”
“No one saw nothing,” Wohr snapped.
Moe smiled. “You think?”
Realizing his error, Wohr shook his head hard enough to fling sweat. Droplets landed on Moe’s khakis. Petra’s black pants, too. Neither cop moved to wipe it off.
Wohr said, “What I’m sayin’, Alicia wouldn’t do that, she never hit me.”
“Then how do you think we know about it, Ramone? I was there.” Letting that sink in. Describing Eiger’s and Wohr’s clothes made Wohr shake like he’d detoxed too fast.
Moe said, “She called you stupid, disrespected you, then hauled off and bitch-slapped you.” Moe rattled off the address on Taft. “I saw it, Ramone. Not a love pat, a real hard smack, you could hear it up the block. And what do you do? You just slink off like some beat-down dog, go get juiced up at Bob’s, then you buy some dope from another mope over near Cherokee, then you wander around Hollywood all day and into the night, walking and drinking and smoking, like some useless, abused mutt. And then, because you still can’t get rid of the anger at being disrespected but you can’t stand up to Alicia, you go looking for someone you can control. Because Delishus looks ten and reminds you of all those little girls you peep when they don’t know you’re lurking outside their bedroom windows.”
“I don’t do that—”
“Your niece Sarah says you do.”
Ramone’s mouth dropped open.
Moe smiled. “It’s your day for surprises, my friend. Just like you were surprised to find Officer Kennedy right there when Delishus’s head was where it shouldn’t.”
“Aw ... no.” Moan of despair, not denial.
Placing both hands on Wohr’s shoulders, Moe exerted pressure. “We know everything. And you still don’t have the smarts to stop playing with us in order to better your situation.”
Wohr lowered his chin to his chest. Sniffled.
Moe gave an eye-signal to Petra.
She said, “I, for one, am feeling sorry for you, Ramone, because you’re not a violent person. But who I’m really feeling sorry for is Alicia. Poor girl was getting smart, all she wanted to do was stop selling her body. How long has she been on you to make some serious dough from those murdering bastards?”
Head shake.
“How long, Ramone?” she said, gently. “Probably right from the beginning, right? Because Alicia saw an easy big payoff—I mean, we’re talking multiple murder, rich folk, kind of a no-brainer.”
“Too scary,” muttered Wohr.
“To pressure the rich folk?”
Nod.
“Unfortunately, Alicia didn’t see it that way,” said Petra. “Maybe because you were still selling her to the people who did those murders.”
“Alicia doesn’t get it,” said Wohr.
Present tense dictated the next move.
Moe released Wohr’s shoulders from his grip, drew two Polaroids out of a blazer pocket.
Alicia Eiger’s multi-stabbed back, and a full-frontal close-up of her gray, lifeless face.
“Ramone, Alicia is never going to get anything anymore.”
Wohr stared. Began shaking violently. “Oh, Jesus God.” Lurching forward, he retched. Both detectives scooted back. Nothing but stink emerged from his gaping mouth. “Oh, Jesus, oh Jesus God Jesus.”
Feeling masterfully cruel—enjoying the feeling—Moe said, “Oh, yeah, four murders. Add a dead girlfriend to the scorecard. And you set her up.”
Wohr’s legs shot back, hit the legs of his chair. “No way, no, no, no—”
Moe and Petra moved back in. Inches away, totally in the mope’s face. Moe held the Polaroids in one hand, used the other to take hold of Wohr’s jaw and rotate Wohr back toward the images.
Expecting Wohr to shut his eyes. But Wohr punished himself and looked.
Some capacity for guilt?
Moe said, “Hitting her back wouldn’t have been nice, but it sure would’ve beat making that call, Ramone.”
Wohr murmured unintelligibly. Moe released the pressure on the guy’s jaws. Wohr rubbed his mandible. “You didn’t have to hurt me.”
“You don’t need me to get hurt, Ramone. You’re hurting yourself just fine. Maybe, like Detective Connor said, you’re not a bad person, but you sure are a weak person. Always taking the easy way out. But funny thing, that always seems to put you in a hard place, doesn’t it?”
Slow nod.
“We’ve got your throwaway cell, Ramone. We know about the call you made to set up Alicia.”
Hoping hoping hoping.
Wohr licked his lips. Blinked hard.
Victory!
“That’s accessory to Murder One, Ramone. Now we’re giving you the chance to help yourself, friend. But you’ve just got to stop lying—to yourself. We already know the truth.”
Wohr groaned. Knuckled an eye.
“Maybe you never intended to get Alicia killed, maybe you just thought they’d scare her. But that’s not how a jury’s going to think.”
“She hit me,” said Wohr. “Again. I got tired of it.”
“There you go,” said Petra. �
�Mitigating circumstances.” More like motive and evidence of premeditation. “If we had a history of domestic violence calls to your crib, that might help you. Without that, who’s going to believe a big strong man was afraid of a small woman?”
Wohr said, “You don’t know Alicia. She’s fierce.”
“Was fierce,” said Moe, waving the Polaroids. “Even if we believe you, who cares? We’re not who you’re going to have to convince.”
Wohr didn’t answer.
Moe checked his watch. Stood and did a Milo stretch. In addition to looking relaxed, it felt good after all those hours sitting.
Petra got up, too.
Moe’s yawn was genuine. He pocketed the photos. “We gave you a chance to better your situation and once again, you made the wrong choice. Hope you enjoy incarceration, Ramone, because that’s all you’ve got ahead of you.”
Petra opened the door, called for a jailer.
Raymond Wohr said, “Gimme a pen and paper. I’ll write you a different book.”
When the detectives agreed, the fool started crying.
CHAPTER
36
Dr. Steve Rau said, “A private eye.”
“I work for a private eye, Steve. I’m an actress by training.”
“Obviously a good one.”
More stunned than angry. But no one liked being lied to. His wife had made a fool of him, Liana had no way of knowing if this was turning into bad déjà vu.
She’d positioned herself close to the door, just in case.
After the night they’d spent together, kind of a cart-after-the-horses thing.
Steve said, “Liana ...” As if trying on her real name for size. “So that first time was an assignment?”
“My boss and I are looking into Caitlin Frostig, that girl who disappeared.” Making herself sound more important than she was.
Performer’s reflex, because life was an audition.
“And I brought her up before you asked,” said Steve. “You must’ve thought that was a strange ... I also told you about a couple who disappeared, talk about purveyor of good cheer. Later—when I got home that night—I did a little computer research. Turns out the couple was running from the law and got caught.” Smile. “But you probably know that.”
“I do.”
“I felt like an idiot,” he said. “Meeting you and bringing up people vanishing. No reason you’d ever call me, you probably thought I was bizarre ... so you were back there tonight to work?”
True Detectives Page 27