Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

Deciding to cash in big-time, she leans on Rich Daddy.

Becomes a problem.

Call in Ramone W, or someone like him, a psychopathic lowlife capable of anything.

One question: Why wouldn't Rich Daddy keep her happy by up-ping the support?

Because he's a narcissistic asshole used to doing things his way, sees no reason why some vagina he pumped who should've taken precautions has the right to share The Lifestyle.

Why the hell hadn't she aborted in the first place? Because she'd set out to screw him-literally and financially-from the beginning.

She'll just keep asking, you ll never be free.

Better to eliminate the problem.

Two problems.

The pictures rushed back into Moe's head. Little blue-swaddled package, moldering somewhere. The rest of the world became background noise as he hunkered down trying to logic out how Caitlin Frostig fit into the picture.

Caitlin had worked at a bar where celebs had once hung out. Maybe that included Ax Dement and/or Mason Book.

Adella's pimp supplied sex and drugs to Ax Dement. Maybe also to Mason Book.

Maybe, maybe maybe… something missing…

Then it hit him. Rory Stoltz knew everyone: Caitlin, Book, and Dement.

Had the All-American boy-ambitious, maybe too ambitious- been sucked into something dark and nasty? Did his adoring mommy sense that about her only child? Did that explain her hostility when Moe cornered her at work?

Rory Stoltz, All-American Walking-Around Guy. Did his duties including passing cash to Adella? Or to a hired killer?

Worse?

If Rory was the glue connecting Adella to Caitlin, this stretched all the way to Mason Book.

How did Caitlin figure in?

Maybe Rory had told her too much and Caitlin, a moral girl, freaked out.

Now she's a problem.

Would Rory go along with offing his girlfriend?

Caitlin was dead and Rory was still working for Mason Book. The world he'd entered, women were to be used. Discarded when no longer useful.

Uh-oh, one little logical obstacle: At the time of Adella's murder Rory was waiting tables at Riptide, not working as Book's heel-and-fetch.

Moe thought about that, decided it wasn't an insurmountable problem. Just because Rory hadn't been formally hired didn't mean he wasn't bootlicking the actor. How many crimes had grown out of booze-soaked bar conversation? A whole bunch of wrong-time, wrong-place.

What if Book had sensed something weak-spined about Rory?

Hey, wanna help solve some problems, kid?

What if Rory had earned the P.A. job because he'd passed the amorality test?

Passing the test, but flunking life.

♦

Moe logged online and looked up employment agencies in L.A. Narrowed the list to half a dozen that specialized in personal assistants, private chefs, chauffeurs, other industry-type jobs.

An hour later, he'd confirmed that Rory Stoltz had never registered with any of them.

Expanding the search to an additional six agencies, even though they didn't specialize in high-life gigs, brought the same answer. Same for the Pepperdine student employment office, where Moe's easy lie about being a lawyer whom Stoltz wanted to work for was believed, no questions asked.

New skill set, he'd never been a good bullshitter, Mom always kidded him about his face being a one-way mirror into his soul. Nothing like on-the-job training.

And maybe the same applied to Rory. Just another California kid hoping for a toehold in the industry, Master Stoltz had learned all sorts of new skills.

Stuff you couldn't put on a résumé.

No agency registration wasn't proof Rory had been hired because of a relationship begun at Riptide-Moe had yet to place Mason Book and Ax Dement at the bar-but it did add weight to the balance scale.

So let's assume, for the moment, that Rory had connected, early on, to Ax Dement and Book, and lost his moral footing quickly.

Either because he didn't have much to begin with, or celebrity, charisma, and wealth were a lot more seductive than cramming for exams and backseat tumbles with Caitlin.

This was a city-this was a world -where people got famous for showing up, where sex tapes were career-enhancing, nothing was beyond the pale.

Why not sell out your girlfriend if it meant Something Big?

Moe revisited the screenplay he'd outlined. Turned it over, again and again. Each time, it got uglier. Made more sense.

Now how to prove it?

Focus on the victim.

♦

A film crew was actually shooting in Hollywood, jamming up La Brea between Melrose and Sunset, and the drive to Adella Villareal's last known residence on Gower took a smog-choked hour.

When Moe finally reached the address, he found it surprisingly un-crappy, a nice twenties-era, six-unit château-type with all sorts of fancy moldings and trim. Painted peach with a burbling fountain out front.

No answers at the three ground-floor units, but no big deal, Adella had lived on the second.

The tenant now residing in her single was a cute young Asian woman in a white coat. A Kaiser Hospital name tag said Karen Chan, M.D., R-II, Medicine. Chan looked around eighteen, despite eyes drooping with fatigue as she braced herself in the doorjamb and informed Moe the unit had been spotless when she'd moved in.

“But talk to Mrs. Newfield, next door. She knows about that girl, talked to me about it.”

“What she say?”

“That my ‘predecessor’ was murdered and it was never solved. Like that was supposed to scare me. But the rent's great and with what they pay residents, no way I'm leaving. Then I found out the girl hadn't even been killed here, so what's the big deal?”

“Why would Mrs. Newfield try to scare you?”

“I'm not saying she did, it was more like sharing the anxiety. Like she's still freaked out. Anyway, I need to get some sleep. Going to be on call again before I know it.”

Moe thanked her and continued up the corridor.

His knock was followed by a strained “Who is it?” through the door.

“Police.”

“Who?”

“Police, ma'am.”

“About what?”

“Adella Villareal.”

Two beats. “Hold on.”

The door cracked an inch. Dark eyes peered out behind a chain.

Moe parted his blazer, showed the badge on his shirt pocket.

“Hold on.” Silver-nailed fingers fumbled with the chain. The door swung open quickly, as if destined for that position. The woman who stared at Moe was his height and broad-hipped. Seventy, seventy-five, with shoe-polish black hair cut in a pageboy. Gray-shadowed brown eyes were a pretty good match to her nail polish. Thickly powdered skin was the color and consistency of wet tissue paper. She wore a pearl-gray kimono printed with mauve fish. Diamond-colored gems strung around a scrawny neck were too huge to be real.

“Detective Reed, ma'am.”

“You're new.”

Did he look that green? “Pardon?”

“The first time the cops sent a woman. I was in the hospital with gallstones, my husband talked to her. Totally useless, what with his memory. Leonard said she was pretty, kept going on about it, trying to get my goat. He succeeded. I burned his dinner for a week. She came back and talked to me-the female. Didn't seem interested in what I had to say.”

Moe smiled.

“I'd have thought,” said the woman, “that she'd be interested, seeing as Leonard's memory is useless.”

“Did you call to let her know you were available?”

“That's my responsibility? You've got to be kidding.”

“True,” said Moe. “Well, I'm here, ma'am.”

“A new one,” said woman, looking him up and down. “They're growing 'em young nowadays.”

“I'm interested in anything you have to say, ma'am. May I come in?”