Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

After as much of that as he felt like enduring, he cranked up the hot water and shampooed his wheat-colored crew cut. Soaped up the rest of his thick, iron-hard body and dried off.

The soap part used to take longer. His own hands no longer aroused him. Not since Liz.

He thought about calling her, just to hear her voice, remembered she'd just gotten back from that bone conference in Brussels, would be suffering through her usual jet lag, better to give her some time.

By seven a.m. he was dressed in the usual blue blazer, khakis, white shirt and striped tie and black oxfords. Breakfast was hot tea, three bowls of Special K, and nonfat milk chased with a boneless chicken breast. By half past seven he was climbing into his latest heap, a rust-scarred Dodge. The drive from North Hollywood to West L.A. could be brutal and he wanted to be at his desk early, even if the detectives figured him for a hot dog who needed to prove himself.

Forget yesterday. What have you done…

He'd been part of the team that closed the marsh murders, high-profile, great P.R. for the department. Success had earned him a nod from Deputy Chief Weinberg and quick approval of his transfer from Pacific to West L.A. Division.

Since arriving at his new desk, the only attention he'd received from downtown were memos on the case he thought he was leaving behind.

In Re: Caitlin Frostig.

Nice girl, Caitlin. From all he'd gathered.

For the last eight months she'd been nothing but a thorn in his butt.

He'd made it to Pacific Homicide a year ago, not bad for twenty-eight, got assigned to a no-brainer gang shooting that he closed in seventy-four hours.

His second case was Caitlin Frostig, already missing for half a year by the time her file got transferred from the unsolveds of an old D who dropped dead of a heart attack.

Not a homicide case, strictly speaking. But someone with pull- Moe never found out who-wanted the case prioritized.

He started the way you're supposed to, with family. In Caitlin's case that boiled down to a mumbly-nerd father who'd raised her alone since she was little but didn't seem to know much about her beyond the obvious. The other man in her life was a boyfriend named Rory Stoltz who came across so wholesome that he set off Moe's antennae.

Also, nine times out of ten it's Romeo who kills Juliet.

This Romeo turned out to be alibied for the night Caitlin walked out of the Riptide. Moe dug into Stoltz's background anyway, turned up nothing but All-American Lad, basically Caitlin's male counterpart. Still living at home, waiting tables at the same place, studying hard. Both of them A students at Pepperdine, Malibu.

Rory's eyes got misty when he recounted meeting Caitlin in a philosophy class.

Moe questioned him to the nth, nothing there.

Caitlin's dad let Moe search her room. No sign of foul play-none anywhere in the little frame house on Rialto, south side of Venice. Hip-ness encroached all around the neighborhood but Maitland Frostig hadn't changed a doily since his wife's death sixteen years before.

Real quiet, real depressed guy. Moe got permission to trace Caitlin's Discover card. No recent activity.

No California Jane Doe DBs matched the missing girl and from what Moe could gather, she'd led an exceptionally boring life: studying hard, working at night, no social life other than Rory Stoltz. Moe rechecked Stoltz, came up empty. Turned to missing persons databases, working his way east until he'd covered the entire country. He even tried police departments in Mexico, for what that was worth.

Last step was dealing with Canada, which was no easy feat, place was huge and the cops were cautious. Still, he managed to cover Our Northern Neighbor.

Zilch. As Milo Sturgis would say.

He talked to Sturgis about Caitlin, because the lieutenant had been his guru on the marsh murders.

Be honest, Moses, Sturgis solved the marsh murders and you tailed along.

Talk about continuing education; working with someone that seasoned was a semester at Homicide Harvard. Wanting to learn more from the lieutenant was the reason he'd requested transfer to West L.A.

If he lost Caitlin Frostig along the way because her file bore a Pacific Division number, all the better.

Once news of his request got out, the wisecracks from the other Pacific D's were a pain in the butt.

Changing your sexual orientation, Detective Reed?

Is that eye shadow? Or just too much Ecstasy at that Boystown dance club, what's it called, oh yeah, Do Me Bob.

Don't ask, don't tell. Most of all, please don't swell.

Moe ignored them. When he'd started with Sturgis, to be honest, there was that initial discomfort.

Hard to believe a big, gruff guy like that was… who cared what people did in private, the thing was the job and Sturgis did the job.

Some years-lots of years-the lieutenant ended up with the best close record in the department.

Moe let the jokes sail past. If the transfer didn't come through, staying here would be hell.

It came through.

The Frostig file traveled with him.

Second day at his new desk, he left the big detective room and knocked on the doorjamb of the tiny office set well away from the big detective room.

Sturgis was in there, unlit cigar in his mouth, big feet on his desk, reviewing what looked to be cold cases.

“What?”

Moe told him.

Sturgis said, “Sounds like you've done everything.”

“That's what I thought, but any suggestions, Loo?”

“Not from what you've told me.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“You might wanna check with Dr. Delaware.”

“This is a psycho case?” said Moe. “You're assuming she's dead?”

Sturgis stretched, played with the cigar. “Kiddo, everything's psychological, but that doesn't mean we need shrinks for it. Mostly, it's a matter of connecting dots. But this kind of thing… sometimes he comes up with an idea out of left field-didja happen to notice the coffee situation out in Times Square?”

“Still hot,” said Moe. “I'll get you a cup.” “Cream, two sugars.”

Delaware was friendly enough, but no wisdom there, either, and Moe figured this was one that wouldn't close unless some bones turned up somewhere.

If she was dead. Boring life like hers, maybe she'd gotten an itch for more.

Last week, he'd made his way through the maze that was Federal Records for the second time. As far as anyone could tell, no one had commandeered Caitlin's Social Security number, no other signs of identity theft.

The unused credit card did make him wonder. If the girl was alive, what was she doing for dough?

Maybe working in a small town where the locals weren't nosy. Or she'd joined a cult. Run away with the circus.

Met a rich guy and got swept off her feet.

Any of that was true, she wouldn't want to be found.

He thought about that pretty face, the slender body, the cloud of blond hair. Six feet under or discarded with haphazard brutality in some remote gully.

Or weighed down and dumped in deep water, psycho killer watching her fade from view…

Time and bacteria doing their inevitable thing.

Death one, Moses zero.

Aaron met with Maitland Frostig at the man's crummy little ihouse.

He'd already introduced himself to Frostig at work, entering Frostig's cubicle in the accounting bay of Mr. Dmitri 's factory, letting him know he'd be taking on Caitlin's case.

Expecting some sort of grateful reaction, but Frostig just nodded and kept staring at his computer screen.

Aaron glanced at the screen. Columns of numbers. Frostig's fingers rested on the keyboard, poised to resume typing. Skinny, white-haired guy, saggy skin, sun-spotted hands. Looking a lot older than the forty-seven listed in his personnel file.