Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

Merry's sandwich came, arranged sloppily on a plain beige plate. Redhead turned to leave. Merry barked: “More water.”

The girl whined something inaudible.

Aaron said, “H-3-O?”

“In-joke, dear. Heavy water, they use it in nuclear reactors. The implication being I'm going to blow this place up unless someone leases a working brain.”

“I'm impressed.”

“I was a chem major, premed at Duquesne, for about three days. Decided honest labor wasn't my thing. Everyone said I'd have a shot at national anchor. Now the suits are dumping me and I've got as many prospects as Lem Dement at Wilshire Temple.”

“Sorry,” said Aaron.

“Maybe I'll go back to Pittsburgh, live with real folk.”

“Don't, I'll miss you.”

“Sure you will.”

“Anything else you can tell me about the Dements?”

“Don't know the kids but I'll bet they're a nasty bunch. Just look at that movie. Violence for its own bloody sake couched in piety. Bad rolemodeling, too. Talk is Lem pounds on the little woman.”

“Really.”

“Can I prove it?” she said. “But she's got that look, you know? Long-suffering? And a friend of mine did some camera work on the Jesus flick swears the one time she showed up on the set, he saw bruises on her neck. He was thinking I could use that, but A , all they let me do was happy news and B , without something close to proof they'd never run it.”

“Domestic violence,” said Aaron. “Interesting.”

“I hate that term, sounds like the house is punching you. He's a wife-beater, Aaron.”

“She bore him seven kids.”

“Talk about insane.” She nibbled her sandwich.

Aaron said, “Mason Book.”

Merry stopped chewing. “Now, sir, you've piqued my interest.”

“Why?”

“Book's a screwed-up junkie but he's still got potential to relist himself with the As. All that charisma, and he can actually act. What's going on, Aaron? Some crazy thing between him and Dement's kid? Something hot I could use to springboard myself back into un-civilization?”

“Not yet, Mer.”

She put the sandwich down. “Aaron, this is a real bad time for me. I'm being treated like a thimbleful of spit, my retirement fund's not what it should be because I thought the good times would never end, and I haven't been laid in so long I might as well stitch up the honey pot. My parents would love me back in Pittsburgh so they can I-told-you-so forever. If you've got something big brewing, you have to cue me in.”

Aaron stirred his tea. “There's nothing to tell.”

“But there could be.”

“It's possible.”

She grabbed his sleeve. “Oh, Lord, give me a clue. You know I'm discreet.”

Aaron had tested Merry's ability to keep a secret three times by feeding her fake leaks. Twice she'd passed, one time she'd failed.

“There's really nothing, way too early. If something does develop, you'll be first. I swear.”

Her grip on his arm tightened. “First doesn't count, I need to be only. Promise me an exclusive. The one you gave me on that celebutard earned me brownie points for a month.”

“Deal,” said Aaron.

Her hand loosened, dropped off. She whispered, “Can't you at least give me a hint?”

“If you can find out more about any link between Book and Ax Dement-without arousing attention-I might end up with more than a hint.”

“Book and Dement,” she repeated, as if committing a phrase to memory. “We've got to be talking dope. Because Book's never met a drug he doesn't like and seeing as Dement's a waiter with nothing going on but spare time, he probably smokes, sniffs, shoots, whatever, just to keep from dying of boredom.”

Aaron said nothing.

Merry smiled. “Oh, Denzel,” she said, raising her voice, “you are nothing if not strong and silent.”

Over in the corner, the servers quaked with confusion.

Moe ate raw vegetables, listened to police calls, watched the mouth of Swallowsong Lane.

It was eleven p.m. and he'd been there since nightfall, dressed for the long haul in a baggy sweatshirt and jeans, brown corduroy car coat at the ready if he needed to hide his gun.

The chance it would get that exciting was low; during the last three hours, only one vehicle had rolled toward the No Outlet sign. Pale blue Prius driven distractedly by a ponytailed, cell-phoning brunette in her forties. Moe had noticed the vehicle in the driveway of a neighboring property, so no link to the house at the top of the hill.

The calls on the police band were the usual: 415 disturbances, burglar alarms likely to be false, a few traffic stops that required further attention when license checks turned up wants and warrants.

A deep, throbbing rumble from the intersection made him switch off the radio. A black Dodge Ram truck rolled down from Swallow-song, barreled through the stop sign, sped past before Moe could run the tags or see who was inside.

But make, model, and color matched Ax Dement's drive.

Aggressive hunk of metal, strutted high on oversized, black-rimmed wheels. From the sound of the engine, lots of aftermarket beef. Not your typical Industry-brat ride, but in that family portrait Ax had been working the Rural Shitkicker bit.

The truck was long out of view but Moe could still hear it. His choice was follow or wait around on the off chance Mason Book would go tooling by, either alone or chauffeured by Rory Stoltz.

For all he knew, Book was in Ax's passenger seat right now, playing good ole boy. But if so, Moe didn't see it as a club prowl; the Ram would attract too much attention on the Westside.

Were Book and Ax slumming?

Looking for some unsuspecting female to gang?

No serious reason to believe that, but Moe turned the ignition key.

By the time he reached Sunset, traffic was sludged up, everyone too irate to let him in. He idled and cursed his indecision. Then a burst of horns and shouted curses directed him to the source of the jam: the black Ram was five yards up, perpendicular to the flow, blocking every eastbound lane.

Easy enough to reconstruct what had happened: The truck had bullied its way into the slow-moving stream, only to get stuck when the light turned red.

The light turned green.

All the vehicles east of the truck took off but the Ram didn't budge, leaving its western neighbors stranded.

More cell phone distraction?

No, too much time was passing for that.

No engine breakdown, the Ram was growling.

“Move it, asshole!”

“C'mon dickbrain!”

“Moooove!”

Burst of horns. Dumb move on Ax's part if Mason Book was a passenger.

Unless Book was too stoned to care.

Or he liked the attention.

The honks grew deafening. The Ram's brights flashed twice, talk about a screw-you move.

More noise. The Ram's driver's window rolled down and a thick, tattooed arm right-angled upward, flipped the world a giant bird.

“Asshole!”

“What wrong with you?”

A huge black guy in blue velvet sweats got out of an Infiniti and moved toward the truck. Moe unlatched his seat belt, had one hand on his 9mm, the other on his door handle when the Ram revved loud and peeled out.

The black guy gaped, then everyone started honking him. Scowling, he ambled back to his car, drove off. Within seconds, Sunset was moving again and the Ram was nowhere in sight.

It took a while for Moe to muscle himself into the flood of happy travelers and by the time he'd reached twenty per, he spotted the truck. Nearly two blocks up but-elevated by the sprung chassis and big tires-an easy target.

He made a few lane changes, gained ground, got a block behind. Then three car lengths, where he stayed.