Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

Instead of driving to Liz's place, Moe sped east on Sunset through the Strip, aiming his GPS at the Hollywood Hills.

His quest took him up into a pretty neighborhood, dark and secluded, lots of gated properties, not much visible from the street. Exactly what a celeb would want. Especially one with a guilty conscience.

After months of nothing, he was getting hyped up about Caitlin. Rory Stoltz gofering for Mason Book didn't mean much by itself, and, when you got down to it, neither did the timing of Book's wrist-slash. But toss it together…

Aaron thought it worth pursuing…

The GPS lady offered a soothing welcome as he reached the mouth of Swallowsong Lane. Moe's unmarked Crown Vic was conspicuous up here. The No Outlet sign clinched it: Park below and continue on foot.

As he climbed Swallowsong, the air felt crackly-coppery, electric, like something was ready to ignite. From somewhere higher in the hills, a coyote screamed.

Something was getting killed. Welcome to real life.

He found the property soon enough. Big gates, fancy metalwork. Darkness beyond, no indication anyone lived there.

Maybe no one did and it was just one of those party houses, used for dope-raves, porn shoots, that whole lifestyle.

He lingered, imagining Caitlin stepping into a humongous-view house, maybe a bit scared, but awestruck. Drinking more than she was used to. Or worse. Before she knows it, her soft, tan body is stretched out on a strange bed and… Moe cut his inner movie and began the downward climb.

It was nine eleven, over an hour past the time he'd told Liz he'd drop by. He phoned her from the car.

She said, “So sorry, honey.”

“For what?”

“Being late. I just got home. Meetings out in La Puente, construction dig for a shopping center unearthed some remains, they needed to make sure it's not an Indian burial site. I figured I'd get back on time but a big rig rolled over on the freeway. I tried to reach you but my battery went dead. Were you waiting long?”

“Not a sec, I'm just on my way now,” he said. “My own excavation.”

“Oh… that makes me feel better.”

She sounded tired. Moe said, “Still up for hanging out?”

“As in chips and dip?” She laughed. “Yeah, I think I can muster energy for hanging out.”

She greeted him wearing a baggy red tee and sweats, hair pinned up carelessly, no makeup, a can of Coke Zero in one hand. Kissing him quick and hard, she fetched him a beer. “This is a test. Seeing me at my worst.”

“Not much of a challenge.”

They sat on the couch. “Um, one more thing, Moses. It's that time of the month. Came on a little early.”

“Hey,” he said, “we can drink white wine, watch Oprah reruns, talk about our feelings.”

“Or shoes.”

“Don't push it.”

♦

They drank beer, talked about nothing, watched a Project Runway rerun because Liz liked the show and Moe found it hilarious.

After five minutes, some guy bitching about not enough time to stitch an A-line, whatever that was, Moe felt himself nodding off. Before he could shake himself awake, Liz's head grew heavy on his chest. Seconds later she was sleeping.

He switched off the tube, managed to dislodge her without disrupting her dreams, covered her with a throw, and walked silently into her bedroom, where he activated her laptop.

An hour of Web-surfing produced consensus: Mason Book had been plagued by drug problems since his adolescence in Nebraska.

The former Michael Lee Buchalter was a self-admitted “crappy student” and high school dropout who'd done pills, weed, paint, whatever, to get through night shifts at a fetid meatpacking plant outside Omaha.

Driving to L.A. on a whim, Buchalter worked a series of dead-end jobs until a female studio head, watching him hose her Benz at a WeHo car wash, was struck by the lanky, tousle-haired midwesterner's “aw-shucks star quality. I thought finally, someone both men and women could relate to, a Jimmy Stewart for our time.”

If Jimmy had snorted heroin.

Cleaned up and renamed by his patron, tutored by acting coaches, Book demonstrated a surprising ability to don the identities of others, was a star within eighteen months. His affair with the studio head lasted another half a year, at which time she found someone younger.

No sign that being dumped had affected Book; he'd gone on to headline a series of madcap box-office smashes, always emitting low-key, self-effacing aplomb.

Then came the wrist-slash.

Moe probed for details beyond tabloid basics, got nothing. The Internet was nothing more than a grindstone, sucking up kernels of data and reprocessing until any substance was gone.

He switched his search to lem dement , hoping for a direct link to the house on Swallowsong, came up empty. mason book lem dement was just as useless. He paired the house's address and the suicide try. Zip. Book had been EMT'd, variously, from his “Hollywood Hills lair,” “view crib above Sunset,” or “bachelor pad overlooking the Strip.”

An image search produced page after page of red-carpet photo-op thumbnails starring Book and a slew of actresses. Moe found surprisingly few candid paparazzi shots and every portrait was complimentary, playing on the actor's lean body, aquiline, slightly oversized features, amiable slouch, heavy mop of too-yellow hair.

Book's smile was custom-made for the camera. Even a couple of photos taken after the wrist-slash were kind. The guy actually looked pretty happy.

Near-miraculous recovery?

Soft treatment from the photo corps meant the candid shots were anything but and Moe was pretty sure he knew why. Book, like the smartest celebs, had worked out an arrangement with the digital leeches: When you catch me, I oblige with a couple of money poses. In return, you don't make me look like a strung-out hype.

On the other hand, Book's ability to sneak out of ColdSnake-if he was the skinny guy Aaron had seen-said he wasn't being pap-stalked.

Maybe the guy was old news and no one cared. Guy hadn't made a movie in how long… Moe clicked keys.

Three years. In Industry terms, that could be Jurassic.

He returned to the image gallery, checked out the kind of woman Book favored in public.

A whole lot of women, with some variation in hair color and skin tone, but the dominant arm-candy flavor was leggy and blond. No rarity in L.A., but both criteria fit Caitlin Frostig.

Picking up the hostess? Why not? Book was thirty-three, had never been married, and one tab termed him “still on the prowl.” Had the actor taken that literally?

Nice story line, but no facts to back it up, and Moe started to wonder if a few suggestions by Aaron had launched him on a massive wrong turn.

Aaron had leeway, but his options were limited to butt-numbing scut and reinterviews of witnesses.

He needed to get out on the street and do something.

He peeked into the living room. Liz had stretched herself out on the sofa, her face mostly covered by the throw.

Moe sat back down, faced the flat black window that gazed into cyberspace.

lem dement children produced references to the director's “huge brood,” “slew of kids,” “clear slap in the face of overpopulation,” “religious fanatical tribe.” Moe was about to try something else when he turned to the thirtieth page of citations and came across a one-year-old Malibu Sunrise article about Dement's plan to build a replica of a wooden church in Krakow, Poland, that had been destroyed during World War II.

The reporter had some trouble grasping why anyone would want to construct a personal house of worship, but the tone was gushing: Hollywood biggie creates One Big Happy Family.