True Detectives

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “That was the plan, Steve. It kind of got sidetracked.”

  “Pardon?”

  “This,” she said. “Everything that’s happened tonight. That had nothing to do with work.”

  Though if you happen to have info I can use, I won’t complain.

  “Oh,” he said. “Well, I was thrilled to see you. Liana.” Tasting her name. “I like that better than Laura—not that Laura’s not a fine ... you really are Liana?”

  “Want to see a birth certificate?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I should be, Steve. You have every right not to trust me.”

  “Since that first time, I’ve been hanging out at Riptide more regularly than before, hoping to see you again. I pretty much gave up. I did have to do some traveling—delivering papers. Have you been back before tonight?”

  “No,” she said.

  “So this is almost... karma ... though I guess it really isn’t that remarkable, just simple probability. I’m there high-frequency, so anytime you drop in, there’s a good chance we’ll meet.”

  Liana smiled. “Sounds like another learned paper.”

  He slumped. “Mr. Smooth.”

  “You’re a good guy. Stop being so hard on yourself.”

  She got up, sat beside him on his parents’ fusty old sofa. He reached for her hand, hesitated. She made the move, squeezed his fingers.

  “Liana, tonight, seeing you again—it was as ... life was finally working out. If that’s coming on too strong, I don’t care. Nor do I care what brought you there in the first place.”

  “You’re not coming on too strong.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “So we can keep seeing each other? That’s what I care about—I don’t see why it should interfere with your assignment—is that what you call it?”

  “It’s just a job, Steve.”

  “Sounds like an interesting job.”

  “Not usually.”

  He played with her fingers. “Undercover operative. Your mission should you choose to accept it.” Slowly spreading grin. “Do you get to wear costumes?”

  What do you think this is?

  Liana said, “The truth is, Steve, I do it because I can’t do what I really want.”

  Putting herself out there.

  “Acting’s a tough thing,” he said. “I admire your perseverance.”

  “The only acting I’ve done for years is voice-overs. For cartoons.”

  “Really? Can I hear a few?”

  “Some other time.” She kissed him. It made her feel better.

  They sat there for a while, holding hands.

  He said, “There’s no way you could stay the night?”

  “I have an audition tomorrow.”

  “Private eye or voice-over?”

  “The latter,” she said. “Goofy squirrel.” She rattled off a line of stupid rodent dialogue.

  He cracked up. “How about this: I’ll set the alarm and we’ll both get up early.”

  “Not tonight, Steve.” She reached for her bag, pulled out her genuine business card. “Here’s my number. I promise it’s real.”

  He studied it. “You’re in the Valley.”

  “Does that disqualify me?”

  “Hey,” he said, “Sherman Oaks born and bred until Mom and Dad decided to socially climb. When can I see you again? Give me a time or I won’t be able to concentrate.”

  “If work doesn’t get in the way, how about tomorrow, say eight?”

  “I’ve got meetings till eight. Nine, okay? I’ll make a reservation— you like Italian?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Excellent. Il Travino, not far from you in Tarzana.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  The next kiss was his move. Longer and softer. For a beaten-down quasi-nerd, his technique was getting good. That second time, in bed, he’d made her feel things she hadn’t felt for a long time. Even that bear-pelt was something she could get used to.

  He said, “Now I feel great—let me walk you down.”

  “Steve, at the risk of being totally tacky, I’m going to do something totally work-related right now.” She drew out the photo of Adella Villareal and her blue-blanketed baby. “This is another girl related to the case. They found her strangled in Griffith Park.”

  Steve winced. Nodded. “I’ve definitely seen her at Riptide. Several times. Never at the bar, always in a corner table, back in the VIP area. Years ago, when the celebs were still—this is that kind of case?”

  “Could be,” said Liana.

  “She had a baby? I wouldn’t have thought so.”

  “Why not?”

  “She seemed more of a party girl... I guess anyone can be a parent. The baby’s okay?”

  “No one’s seen the baby since his mama got killed.”

  “Oh, my God. Okay, okay, let me remember what I can ... I never saw her with Caitlin. She was always in the back room. Dolled up, laughing. The reason I remember her is because she was extremely ... she was a good-looking girl.”

  “Sexy,” said Liana.

  “In a flashy way. Maybe overdressed ... you’ve been to Riptide, it’s casual. And she was never alone—this could get interesting for you and your boss, Liana. Because she was always with the same people.”

  He told her who.

  She took hold of his face and kissed him hard.

  “What’d I do to deserve that?”

  “Delivered good news, sweetie. Smooch the messenger. Maybe I will stay the night. But first I need to text my boss.”

  CHAPTER

  37

  If Mason Book had chosen to press his face against a cold glass pane of the house, he might’ve caught a glimpse of Aaron Fox watching him.

  The actor sat in a square black leather chair, robe flapped open on an emaciated body. Sobbing.

  Guy looked way older than on screen, not just because of no makeup and heartless lighting. His cheekbones jutted in a way that couldn’t be healthy. Vertical creases scored his face, hair well overdue for a color-rinse was showing some gray among the blond.

  Thirty-three and starting to look like a withered old man.

  Career transition, friend. Time to move on to character roles.

  As a matter of fact, I’ve got a screenplay for you, but you’re not going to dig the ending.

  Aaron tried to figure a way to gain entry without setting off something he couldn’t control.

  He’d come with a host of little helpers, each in a designated pocket of his black, waterproof Swiss cargo pants: flashless pen camera, his cell phone for photo backup, mini infrared binoculars, similarly undersized tape recorder outfitted with one of Mr. Dmitri’s speakers.

  Plastic wrist ties, in the event it came to that.

  Ditto the Filipino fighting knife.

  One of the pockets twitched. His cell phone vibing.

  Could he chance taking it out and allowing the screen to create illumination?

  As spaced out as Book appeared, too risky.

  Plus, whoever was calling, it couldn’t be more important than what was happening right now. He no longer needed to hear about things; time to make things happen.

  Reminding himself to maintain a strict dual focus—observe Book while looking out for the return of Ax Dement or any unwelcome visitor—he sidled along the glass.

  There were seams, but so tight that even this close they were tough to make out.

  The entire house was constructed of huge glass panels, some of them had to be doors. But which ones?

  He hazarded another few feet closer to the hovering nose of the house. Hearing one of his rubber soles let off a tiny rubbery squeak and stopping short.

  Mason Book sat there.

  Now Aaron was close enough to see blotches and zits marring the actor’s once boyish face. Book’s nose was a sharp, bony protuberance. Matched the angle of the house’s snout.

  As if the actor was a toy—an action figure—manufactured to fit the structure.
>
  Book sat there, continued to suffer.

  Stardom, indeed.

  Suddenly he was up, standing, shaking, robe wide open.

  Turning and facing the exact spot where Aaron crouched.

  Hair shooting all over the place, eyes glazed, all skin and ribs, like a turkey carcass.

  Looking straight at Aaron but not seeing him.

  The actor belted his robe, headed for the rear of the house, passed through room after room.

  The structure was a voyeur’s dream. Ramone W would love it.

  Maybe Ramone had been here.

  Who knew what kind of ugly went on here?

  Book stopped in a cold, bright kitchen. Black cabinets, limestone floors, two Wolf ranges, two fridges, both Traulsens, one steel-fronted, one a glass see-through.

  When remodeling, Aaron had priced the brand. Opted to supercharge his Porsche and buy five Antonelli suits instead.

  Book stood in front of the steel fridge. Did nothing for a long time, finally opened the door. On his second try, straining both no-muscle arms.

  Breathing hard; Aaron could see the rapid rise and fall of his robe.

  Something wrong with his heart due to all the starvation?

  Book took something out of the fridge. Soda can—no, same size but the cover was white, lots of small print. Larger red letters.

  Book held the can straight out in front, as if it were dangerous. Carrying it that way, he trudged back to the front of the house.

  Sank into the same square chair, almost tripping over his own feet in the process, nearly losing hold of the can.

  Panting, openmouthed, he held the can to his cheek. Stretched his arms out again and studied the white cylinder.

  Offering Aaron a closer view of the red lettering. Aaron whipped out the mini-binocs.

  ISO-CAL INTENSIVE

  Balanced Protein Nutritional Supplement

  Book’s prescription snack, probably brought by that house-calling anorexia doctor.

  The actor put the can on the floor, cried some more.

  All weepy because he couldn’t bring himself to take in calories?

  Aaron was in no mood to be understanding. Rich man’s pathology; no eating disorders in the Sudan.

  Book retrieved the can, labored to pop the top, finally succeeded. Bent his elbow and brought the can closer to his lips.

  Stopped. Stood. Upended the can and poured thick white liquid onto the floor.

  Standing there until the can was empty, he placed it gingerly in the middle of the mess he’d created.

  Slipping out of his robe, he strode, naked, with sudden purpose, toward the glass wall where Aaron was stationed.

  Straight at Aaron.

  Aaron hustled backward, was ten feet away when Book used both hands to push at the glass.

  The wall swung open.

  Mason Book stepped out into the night, skeletal, goose-bumped, bleached-out hair feathery in the breeze.

  Off in some other galaxy, the actor made his way toward the structure’s proboscis. His progress was painfully slow, his body recalcitrant.

  Finally, he got to the snout, slipped under it.

  Aaron moved in closer. Book continued toward the cliff-edge. The actor’s eyes widened as they filled with the heat and light and color of the city.

  Book pressed his hands together. Rocked on his heels. Shrunken genitals dangled. The guy’s limbs were sticks, his back flecked by scatters of rosy rash.

  Book kept his hands pressed together. Rocked some more.

  Some sort of prayer ritual?

  Book bent his knees, moved forward so his feet curled over the cliff-edge.

  Spread his arms wide.

  Oh, shit!

  Aaron became a bullet.

  Screaming bullet. Hoping his voice would freeze the idiot.

  Just the opposite.

  Book turned, saw Aaron. Smiled.

  Bent his legs again and took off in flight.

  CHAPTER

  38

  Skin and bones helped.

  But even a flimsy hundred-twenty-pound sack of dehydrated sinew could wrench your arms out of their sockets when you were flat on your belly in the dirt, all scuffed up and scraped from the slide, fighting to hold on.

  Gripping the damned thing by its ankles as it dangled toward oblivion, and gravity kept kicking your ass.

  Book wasn’t resisting.

  But he wasn’t helping, either.

  Idiot just hung there, silent, limp. Deadweight. A weird kind of patience—like he was just waiting for Aaron to let go of his ankles so he could do his thing.

  Not so easy, you sick, pathetic, murderous bastard.

  Having another set of hands on board would’ve fixed the situation in seconds. Moe’s power-lifter guns ...

  Aaron said, “Hang ... in there, buddy.”

  Book giggled.

  “’s funny?”

  “Hang in there,” said Book, in that easily recognizable, reedy but charming voice. “I’m hanging.”

  Every syllable caused the idiot’s body to jerk. Each twitch ratcheted up the agony in Aaron’s shoulders, the searing strain in his abdomen, back, and hips.

  Thank God the fool was a self-starver ... Aaron felt his grip loosen, braced his toes in the dirt. Pulled up again on Book.

  Again, Book slid up toward him, only to slip back as Aaron’s muscles failed to stand up to the increased pressure. This time, the downward jolt nearly caused him to lose his hold. The pain in his shoulders was unbearable.

  Sucking in breath, concentrating, focusing, thinking of dead people, a dead baby, how this asshole wasn’t going to weasel out so easily, he said, “Press your hands against the side of the mountain, buddy. So that you’re not just hanging there loose.”

  “It’s not a mountain,” said Book. “It’s a hill.”

  “Whatever.”

  Book giggled again. Like this was just another role. Asshole.

  “Do it—brace yourself.”

  “Why?”

  “I ...” gritting his teeth, “said so.”

  Book didn’t respond.

  “Do it.” Aaron’s jaws clenched tighter. His hands felt ready to detach from his wrists. A few more seconds of this and ... “Do it!”

  “Okay, okay.” Whining, like the spoiled brat he was.

  “Both hands. Press ... hard.”

  Book obeyed. Aaron’s relief was immediate. Sucking in oxygen, he bore down, inhaled again and prayed and released his left hand and shimmied it up Book’s scrawny calf. Getting a grip on bone and not much more.

  He dug his fingernails into Book’s flesh. It had to hurt. Book didn’t even murmur.

  Aaron let go of his right hand, dug that into Book’s other calf.

  “I’m going to count to three. On three, push back. Hard.”

  “Huh?”

  “Like you’re trying to flip yourself up.”

  “Wh—”

  Aaron concentrated on reserving breath. Delivered his rapid speech: “Do it or I’ll tell everyone about the baby and the world will find out you were no noble suicide.”

  Silence.

  “Do it.”

  No answer.

  “Baby Gabriel. People magazine, Us, the Enquirer—”

  “Okay, okay,” said Book, with a catch in his throat.

  “On three. You push back.” Shutting out the pain, as he marshaled his strength, Aaron felt his own legs flutter. Muscle strain? No, the damned cell was vibing again.

  You’ve reached Fox Investigations. Mr. Fox is currently out of the office and quite possibly about to screw up royally ...

  “Ready, Mason?”

  “You know my name.”

  Imbecile.

  “Of course I do. Ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “On three. Push hard.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Here goes: Action. Camera. “One. Two. Three”

  Book’s push was wimpy and Aaron’s grip on the legs slipped, but he managed to pull Book u
p high enough to claw under the idiot’s rib cage, continued yanking, mindlessly groping—tugging the guy upward.

  Book’s body flopped like that of a fought-out fish, Aaron got hold of Book’s long, wild hair, yanked violently.

  He dragged the bastard well clear of the cliff, dropped him harder than necessary, flat on his back. Fought for breath.

  Mason Book, wearing a beard of grit and blood, looked up at Aaron with what seemed like wonderment.

  Aaron stood over him, gasping, feeling his heart in his throat about to rip loose and fly out of his mouth like some bloody bird. His clothes were torn, his body felt as if it had done a full-day shift in a cement mixer. Blood all over his palms, knees, cheeks, elbows. Maybe mixed with Book’s. He hoped the bastard wasn’t infected with anything.

  Book smiled. “I know you.”

  “That so.”

  “Black Angel.”

  CHAPTER

  39

  When Liana’s third text to Aaron went unanswered, she was comfortable switching her cell off and retiring to bed with Steve.

  If Mr. Fox is free to party, I’m off shift.

  The chest-hair washcloth was back in place, she was wearing one of Steve’s T-shirts, he was in p.j. bottoms, and both of them were trying to sleep.

  The towel bounced as Steve made a Huh-huh sound that rumbled through torso and terry cloth.

  “Are you laughing, young man?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “What’s funny?”

  “Imagining.”

  “What?”

  “Not important.”

  “Hey, big guy, it’s all about communication.”

  “It’s kind of juvenile.”

  “Always happy to get in touch with my inner child.” She nudged his ribs.

  “Okay, okay.” Now he sounded fully awake. “I was thinking about detective work. One thing I’m not bad at is research. Give me a topic, I burrow like a mole. I was imagining you and me—like Nick and Nora Charles. Some fantasy, huh?”

  My aspirations, sir, are more along the line of this thing we have going, whatever it is, lasting long enough for me to find out if you’re really as sweet and kind and understanding as you seem to be. If you are, I can do some expert patchwork on your self-esteem, which is really the only thing missing from the picture—and who knows, maybe you wouldn’t be as nice if you got too puffed up. So I’d need to be careful about not overdoing it, turning you into the typical arrogant man. But I’ll bet I could do it just right. Then I could remodel this place—meet your parents and convince them it’s in everyone’s best interests, believe me, honey, I could get them to like me, show them I’m the perfect girl for their boy, look how much you smile nowadays. As opposed to when that grasping bitch was on the scene. My fantasy, Steve-o, involves you and me living up here on the Wilshire Corridor, both our cars in the garage, the doormen greeting me by name, carrying my packages. Getting you to chill more, take some fun vacations, I’ll show you how to live. Including that. Lots of that. Between RAND and my voice-overs, we’d do just fine in the money department. I’d sell my condo, add to the kitty, I’m talking a full loving partnership, not some kept-woman situation. And your parents would like me so much, they’d kick in some dough for the ...