Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

“Well, I'd certainly hope you stick up for him. Retarded! That's horrid-”

“… acts so weird-whatever. Just tell him to stay out of my face. Okay?”

Silence.

“Okay, Mom? He really needs to stay out of my face!”

“Aaron, I really don't understand this attitu-”

“He's making me look like a fag who needs to be protected! I can protect myself, okay? The only reason he's trying to be a big-shot hero is 'cause you're always talking about how they were heroes. But they weren't! Not both of them! My dad was a hero, Jack was just a stupid drunk who sat there while-”

Sharp report.

“Oh, God, I'm so sorry, honey. I didn't mean to hit you, I've never hit you, how did that happen!”

Silence.

“Aaron, honey, please. Talk to me, I don't know what got into me, please forgive me, please please-”

“He brings problems.”

“Oh, Aaron-”

“Yeah, yeah, I forgive you.”

Later, when Aaron came out of the room, saw that Moe had been listening, he sneered: “What do you want? Hero. ”

“I… I…”

“I… I… I… I… blah blah blaaah.” Shoving Moe aside, Aaron continued to the kitchen. “Mmm, kinda hungry. Gonna get me some big-time hero ice cream.”

It was that same smug, mocking tone Moe heard over the phone.

Eight a.m., still tired. The laughter in Aaron's voice when Moe said, “What?” caused Moe's hands to clench.

“I said nice to see you last night, however briefly. Thought you'd want to know that Rory Stoltz picked Mason Book up just after you left the first time.”

Aaron had been able to watch him, unseen. He had been unaware of Aaron. Until hours later, the Porsche speeding by. Big Brother wanting Moe to know.

“You're sure it was Book?”

“No one but, Moses. I got a clear look through the passenger window. Older than he looks on screen. Haggard, like he's been through some rough times.”

“Where'd Stoltz take him?”

“Nowhere in particular, they just drove.”

“Where?”

“All the way to Ocean Front, I'm thinking Yes! They're going to stop at Riptide. But Stoltz turned the other way-north-got on PCH, kept in the slow lane and cruised under the speed limit. Now I'm thinking they're gonna head over to Lem Dement's place in Solar Canyon, maybe do a little early-morning praying. Negative, again. They made it as far as the Colony, turned around, went home. Ten minutes after Stoltz drops Book off, the gates open and he drives away himself.”

“Moonlight cruise up the coast,” said Moe. “Sounds kind of romantic.”

“Yeah, I thought about that, maybe Book's got a secret life and his head's in Stoltz's lap. But anytime it was safe, I got close and they were just sitting there. Book looked like he was heading for a funeral. So if he did give the kid head, he did it at Olympic pace. I honestly don't think it happened, Moses. Stoltz is Book's gofer, Book's got insomnia, he makes a call, the kid's there to do his bidding. That's the whole point of walking-around guys. They make you feel important. My question is, what's Book losing sleep over?”

“Dope can do all sorts of things to your cycles.”

“True. But what we've been guessing-guilt over Caitlin-could also explain it. Not that I saw overt guilt. More like stupor. So how was your night?”

“Uneventful.”

“Sorry you missed the action.”

“Moonlight cruise?” said Moe. “Sounds like you didn't catch much, either.”

A beat.

“Okay,” said Aaron, “but at least we know for a fact that Book crashes in Dement's house. Whether or not Ax lives there remains to be seen.”

No, it doesn't.

Moe said, “Something actually happens, feel free to call.”

Before Aaron could answer, he clicked off, punched in a number at Hollywood Division.

Petra Connor was one of those women you could get distracted by, if she wasn't so smart and business-like that you forgot she was a girl.

Thin as a model, but none of that brain-dead dullness in her wide, dark eyes. Flawless ivory skin, the graceful moves of a dancer or a runner. Shiny black hair that she wore in a neat, functional cap.

The few times Moe had seen her, she wore black pantsuits, and this morning was no exception-something with a little stretch to it, tailored to hug her fatless frame while concealing the bulk of her weapon.

Her partner, Raul Biro, Moe had never met. Before leaving the station, he'd stopped in at Sturgis's office, inquired about the guy.

The Loo said, “Really bright, works like a dog, probably gonna be a star.”

Moe didn't want to be paranoid, but he was still wondering what that meant as he drove to Hollywood Station.

When he met Biro, he was surprised. The guy looked like a kid. Though his hair was from another era-combed back and slicked at the sides, sprayed in place on top. Aztec features, the build of a lightweight wrestler. Aaron would've approved of Biro's smooth tan suit, white shirt, powder-blue tie.

All put-together, like he never expected to get his hands dirty.

Sturgis said he was a worker, go know.

The three of them sat around a table in a Hollywood interview room. After some small talk about Sturgis, Delaware, the marsh murders, Petra patted the blue folder to her left. Thin; not a good sign. “Adella Villareal, not one of our triumphs.”

Biro clicked his tongue.

Moe said, “Maybe my dead end can intersect with yours.”

Petra said, “That would be nice, let's do some show-and-tell.”

Moe did the polite thing and talked first, summarizing his history with Caitlin, the links among Rory Stoltz, Mason Book, and Ax Dement, Dement's motel party with Raymond Wohr and Alicia Eiger.

No reason to mention Aaron's involvement.

In the retell, it sounded like an air sandwich.

“Eiger's a new name for us so we asked Vice,” said Petra. “They know her, your basic aging street girl. They didn't know her as shacking with Wohr and back when we questioned Wohr he claimed there was no woman in his life.”

Biro said, “At least not a live one.”

Moe said, “Villareal was his girlfriend?”

“If only it was that simple,” said Petra. “No, that's doubtful-let's start at the beginning. Adella was hit on the back of the head, but not hard enough to kill her. We figured that for a subduing blitz before she was strangled manually. She was fully clothed. No signs of sexual assault, no forensic evidence of any sort.”

She flipped the murder book open, turned pages, slid the file over to Moe.

Five-by-seven shot of a really pretty Hispanic girl holding an infant wrapped in a blue blanket and flashing a megawatt smile.

Moe had checked out Adella Villareal's stats last night. Twenty-four years old at the time of her death, a DMV photo that showed her as dark-haired, decent looking but nothing like this.

Same girl, no question about it, but this portrait-maybe happiness-made her beauty-queen gorgeous, with long, lustrous hair curled at the ends, lightened to chestnut, streaked with honey. A fitted white blouse and brown slacks showed off nice curves.

Moe said, “When was this taken?”

Petra said, “Twenty-two months ago, Phoenix, her family's house. The baby was a month old, she flew home to show him off. Boy named Gabriel. Four months later, she was dead.”

Biro frowned. “Night she was murdered, she had the baby with her. He hasn't been seen since.”

Moe said, “Oh, man.”

Petra said, “If I was the praying type, I'd ask God to make it a kidnapping.”

Biro said, “We looked into that, never got any sort of lead. No whacks with fake pregnancies, no other snatches or attempts.”