Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

Ida Newfield said, “That's her. Leonard thought she was cute. I thought she was bland. So she's a hooker, too?”

“No, ma'am,” said Moe, “just a girl who got involved with too much stuff.”

The woman was typical.

Another leggy, tan, bleach-blond soldier in the army of those who lunched but didn't eat much.

By Aaron's estimate, well-to-do X-ray types made up a third of the crowd at the Cross Creek shopping center in the heart of Malibu.

This one wore her texturized ash-and-gold just over the shoulders, with feather bangs. A youthful look she could still pull off, at least from a distance. If she'd been tucked, her surgeon deserved a medal for subtle.

Aaron approved of her style-long-sleeved, sage-green polo shirt, probably from Ron Herman or Fred Segal, low-slung velvet pants the color of good bourbon, chocolate-brown designer sneakers-Gucci, he was pretty sure. Diamond studs sparked her ears. Not showy but big enough to get the message across: Someone cares about me.

The black BMW X5 SUV that she drove poorly while yakking on her cell phone filled out the picture. Only her walk differentiated her from the loose-limbed, confident Battalion of the Privileged: She held her head kind of low, moved on the slowish side, stopped several times midstride, looking blank, before resuming the inevitable trudge to the Starbucks.

Typical to the casual observer, but Aaron was watching on a whole different level.

He'd been following Gemma Dement for over two hours by the time she entered the coffee chapel. Found a spot for himself at an outdoor table of an oh-so-cute vegan café just across the narrow lane that ran through the oh-so-cute boutiques.

Lunch would be noodles with fake shrimp. Good chopstick skills helped him blend in.

The Starbucks was jammed. Fifteen minutes later, she was still in there.

No sweat, he was fully awake, into the hunt. Finally.

He'd been in Malibu all morning, after alarming himself up at five thirty feeling like someone had dumped a bucket of turd in his mouth. Forcing himself to work out extra-hard, then assaulting his body with a cool shower.

Shocking himself alert so he could be back at Leo Carrillo early. Trying not to think about last night's traffic ticket, the damned Chippie.

Idiot wanted to stick him with three separate violations. Added to the speeder he'd gotten a few months ago, that could put his license in jeopardy. Unmoved by Aaron's P.I. credentials or the Xerox of the nice letter his captain had written him when he left the department, the stubborn bastard's only concession was knocking it down to two.

Sign here, sir. Have a good evening, sir. Drive carefully, sir.

Driving like a brain-dead geezer, he still reached the state park by seven a.m. On the beach side, the tide was moderate and gentle. No surfers, the only vehicle in sight a Winnebago pulled to the side so its tourist inhabitants could snap cell phone pix of water and sky.

The yellow gates were open. Over in the land-side parking lot, the ranger's booth was empty. Aaron began scouring the area from where the truck had parked to the beginning of the entry trail for a roach, a plastic bag, anything interesting. He'd covered the asphalt and was moving toward the neighboring brush when an open-sided parks department jeep cruised in and parked next to his Porsche.

The driver was a young woman with short brown hair, wearing the ranger uniform. Small girl, athletic body, pixie face. She appraised Aaron with sharp little cop eyes and got out.

He'd made sure to dress beachy without sinking into tacky: white silk aloha shirt printed with discreet, teal-blue palm trees from a boutique Bologna designer, cream linen pants, Italian glove-leather sandals, no socks. Today's watch was a chrome TAG Heuer that said I don't need to flaunt. He'd splashed on Givenchy men's cologne and that was still working.

The lady-ranger said, “Morning, sir. Looking for something?” L. Martin.

“I am, but I doubt I'll find it.” Rolling his wrist. “Lost my other watch on Sunday, I was here with my kids, took a walk. Wasn't until I was all the way back to Beverly Hills before I noticed it was gone.” He grimaced. “Band must've broke.”

Mention of the high-priced city arched the ranger's eyebrows.

Is this guy for real? Some sort of celebrity? Too small for a basketball player… an actor?

She eyed the TAG. “At least you've got another one.”

“The one that fell off was just a cheapie digital. But my kids gave it to me for Father's Day, the whole sentimental-value thing.”

“Bummer,” she said. “You think it fell off here?”

“I'm starting here. We only made maybe half a mile before the kids ran out of steam-do you have a lost and found?”

“We do, but there are no watches in there. T-shirts, towels, hats- you tell me you attended the Better Than Ezra concert tour, I can help you.”

Aaron grinned. “You wouldn't happen to have a Smokey Robinson tee?”

The ranger grinned back. “No such luck-you know him?”

“Smokey? No, I just love his music.”

“Oh.” Clear disappointment. She pointed toward the path leading into the park. “Best thing is retrace your steps. Good luck. Maybe the Force will be with you today.”

“From your mouth to God's ears.”

♦

Perhaps the Deity liked cute females in snug uniforms, because it only took a few minutes for Aaron to find the spot.

Two clear sets of shoe prints veered off the road into a thicket of eucalyptus and lower shrubs, well before the campgrounds. A section of broken branches had cued him in. Once he got past the trees, the ground grew smooth and the roaches were obvious. Two little nubby brown paper things, easy to miss if you weren't looking.

Aaron stooped, didn't touch a thing, as he took in the area. Small clearing, backed by stubbier, denser trees, tangles of spiky plants.

Smooth-soled footwear had left deep impressions. A heavyweight. From the shape of the heel, maybe some kind of boot.

Longer, shallower impressions bore a tire-tread pattern.

Your basic Tijuana huarache sandal; maybe Mason Book wasn't into fashion footwear. Or the guy was rich enough not to care.

No sign of disturbance of the soil indicating a burial. But fifteen months had passed since Caitlin's disappearance, so that meant nothing.

Close to the path for a burial site. Though he supposed a couple of arrogant, entitled killers might be that reckless.

He gloved up, collected the doobie-butts, dropped them in a plastic ziplock. Something near a rock caught his eye. Five burned paper matches. A foot from those, a one-inch square plastic bag.

Empty, but he was able to make out a couple of tiny granules trapped in a corner. Brownish. Maybe Mexican tar.

He sniffed. Sometimes H gave off weird smells-a vinegar-and-cat-piss cocktail. This stuff was odorless. Maybe good H.

Bagging the Baggie, he looked around for anything else interesting.

Off to his left, maybe ten yards away, the trees ruffled and a dark shape protested his presence with a high-pitched squawk.

Shooting upward, a missile-shaped creature cleared the tree canopy. Aaron made out the wide, fringed wings of the hawk as it soared out of view.

He thought of Mr. Dmitri. Little birdie, indeed.

♦

Stopping at the Hows Market at PCH and Trancas, he bought a bagel and a quart of milk, ate and drank in the parking lot while watching construction workers drive in and out in trucks. A couple of maids in uniforms entered on foot, probably from the big houses that lined Broad Beach.

A few of the hard-hats checked out the C4S. Aaron, concealed by tinted windows, chewed on his breakfast and wondered why Ax Dement and Mason Book had driven all the way to western Malibu in order to smoke up.