Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

Tossing a carrot stick into his mouth, he chewed in rhythm with the pounding of his heart.

The truck stayed on the boulevard all the way through Hollywood and into Echo Park, driving through dark blocks of the gussied-up thrifts posing as antiques shops and the fly-by-night boutiques that signaled the district's flimsy gentrification. Laundromats, Latino bars, and liquor stores cast their votes for Old School. Off in the distance the grid-lit downtown skyline beckoned.

This far east, fewer cars traveled Sunset. Moe hung back. Lucky move, because the Ram veered without signaling and parked. Dousing his lights, Moe swung to the curb at the end of the preceding block. Reaching for his binoculars, he framed the truck.

Hard to see much in the dark. Soviet-surplus infrared scopes like Aaron probably had would be nice…

The Ram sat there, same way it had when wreaking momentary havoc on the Strip.

Moe checked out the terrain. Quiet block, lots of shuttered windows, one functioning establishment marked by a smudge of neon at the far end. He refocused the binocs, made out the sign.

The T ll Tale in sputtering red, above a blue happy mask similarly malfunctioning.

Probably The Tall Tale. Poor bulb maintenance; your basic low-rent alky bar.

If Mason Book was a passenger in the truck, was he figuring he wouldn't be recognized here? Risky. So was the possibility of some juicehead taking a random swing.

Maybe whoever was in the truck had no intention of getting out and this was a dope pickup.

If the quarry did enter the place, could Moe chance going in? He thought about that for a while, decided he'd dressed perfectly for the part. What Aaron called Moe's 818 wardrobe would fit in a whole lot better than Aaron's overpriced Italian stuff…

But clothes only made the man to a point, his muscles and obvious health would stand out. He'd lay on some stoop and shuffle, hang his arms in a way that narrowed his shoulders, mumble when he spoke, like the bar wasn't his first stop of the night.

All that became hypothetical when two people exited the bar and walked toward the truck.

Big person, smaller person.

As they got closer, details blossomed. Small had long hair, unmistakable female curves. Big shuffled and slouched.

The two of them reached the truck and held a brief sidewalk conference with whoever was inside. Then they continued walking-in Moe's direction. Passed Moe and gave him a look.

Tight clothing for her, baggy for him. She swung an undersized purse, had a loose-hipped walk, kind of theatrical. The two of them stopped at a compact car three vehicles behind Moe. The man took a long time to get his keys out, dropped them, cursed loud enough for Moe to hear.

Finally, they were both in the car and the black truck's lights had switched on.

The car-a dark Corolla-pulled away first, driving with its own beams off for an entire block. The Ram pulled away, sped up until it was on the Corolla's butt, continued to follow closely.

Forgetting the lights and the way the Corolla weaved signaled an obvious DUI. Moe hoped no patrol cars were around. Hoped the idiot didn't hit someone and leave Moe feeling guilty for the rest of his life.

The truck and the car headed toward downtown but stopped short of the bright lights.

Out of Hollywood Division and into Rampart, where Central American gangs thrived and the potential for random bullets and other bad news was high.

The Corolla pulled into the parking lot of a place called the Eagle Motel. The Ram followed.

More faulty signage, this time a cracked plastic panel featuring a poorly rendered, leering raptor, more buzzard than National Symbol. Making matters worse, the crack ran down the bird's beak, made the mascot look downright goofy. Smaller signs promised cable TV and movies on demand.

The layout was typical: a dozen rooms around a U-shaped parking lot. A dark-skinned clerk sat in a glaringly illuminated front office. Iron grating protected the door, but to Moe all that light made the clerk a sitting target.

Ax Dement got out of the Ram, but no one exited the passenger side.

Dement had the same badass-hick getup he'd displayed in the family photo: plaid Pendleton, jeans, motorcycle boots. Sleeves rolled to the elbows exposed chunky, inked-up forearms. Greasy hair was tied back in a ponytail; a full, unruly beard framed a nose that looked as if it had assaulted someone's fist.

Big guy, like his dad. Hitching the jeans, Dement Junior swaggered to the motel office, pushed a button, pulled open the iron grate, then the door, emerged within seconds swinging a key on a chain.

Quick transaction. A regular?

Ax Dement nodded at the Corolla, which Moe now had a fix on: mud-brown, mashed in several places, primered in patches. He wrote down the tags as Dement lit up a cigarette, made his way to a room on the northern arm of the U.

Most distant room of twelve, that corner of the lot swathed in darkness.

The Toyota's occupants got out.

The woman had teased-up dark hair and a coarse, blasé face. Midthirties, Anglo, five two in stiletto heels. White tank top, short red skirt; the purse was black patent leather. Gigantic red hoop earrings swung alongside a squarish face. Good overall figure, but a little thick and loose in places. Like someone who'd once been toned but had given up.

She ran a finger over her lips, fluffed her hair, gave a little hip wiggle that the guy with her didn't notice because he was fumbling with a cigarette pack.

He was older-forty, forty-five. Anglo, five ten or eleven, skinny except for a protruding gut. Bald on top, but the hair on the sides was long-streaming down to his shoulders. A bushy mustache banditoed a weak-chinned, unmemorable face. A hugely oversized white tee tented over sag-jeans. Moe wondered if he wasn't the only one concealing firepower.

The man lit up, started walking toward the room Ax Dement had entered. The woman followed, teetering as the asphalt fought her heels. One time, she tripped and had to flail to maintain balance. Her companion never noticed.

Moe hurried out of the Crown Vic, stood as close to the room as he could without being spotted.

No knock; they walked right in. Quick flash of incandescence before the door shut.

Your basic hooker-pimp-john dope party?

Moe hazarded a jog over to the Ram.

No passenger. So Mason Book's plans for the evening didn't include this level of slumming. For all he knew, Book didn't even live at the house on Swallowsong, that was Dement Junior's place, just another Industry brat living off Daddy.

For all he knew, the skinny guy Aaron had seen leaving ColdSnake wasn't even Mason Book-no, that didn't make sense, Stoltz worked for Book, why would he be driving anyone else in the middle of the night?

For all he knew, Stoltz was on the job tonight , had come by to pick Book up right after Moe left the scene.

For all he knew, none of it related to Caitlin Frostig.

Returning to his car, he ran the Corolla's tags, expecting nothing.

Then the info flashed on the MDT screen and he was pierced by an icy-steel hit of adrenaline, that needle of excitement jabbing his brain.

A few more key-clicks and he was in heart-pumping cardiac marathon mode.

Wanting to pounce.

Ax Dement left the motel first, after thirty-two minutes of party.

Moe, antsy the whole time, watched him go and decided to stay until the couple exited.

Hoping a couple would exit. Given what he'd learned. Talk about guilt… to his relief, the woman stepped out, tying her hair in a high ponytail. Heading straight for the motel's front office, she got buzzed in without ringing the bell. Once inside, she placed her hand on the clerk's shoulder. Smiled. Squatted and disappeared from view.