Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

Had to be something about that particular spot.

Lacking authority, he couldn't very well return with a shovel.

Even for Moe to return, there'd have to be probable cause.

State park, Coastal Commission, he could just picture the scene. Probably end up like that TV show a few years back, some talk-show dude opening Al Capone's vault, building the suspense up for weeks, then the damned thing turns out empty.

A paunchy guy with a tool belt came close to the Porsche and attempted to look through the passenger window.

Aaron slid the window down, guy nearly fell over.

“Morning.”

“Yeah, hey-cool wheels. Do the X-17 upgrade on it?”

“Nah,” said Aaron. “Paid fifteen grand less and got it up to 415.”

“Awesome… have a nice day, man.”

“You, too.”

Aaron had chosen his own wheels for today because a black man at the beach needed to look as rich as possible. Plus he missed the car's fantastic handling. Not to mention the general aura of cool that engulfed him when he got behind the wheel.

Keeping the top up, though, because this day at the beach was a job, like any other.

As he nourished himself, he made calls to people who owed him favors.

Remembering the diminishing pattern of phone calls between Mason Book and CAA, he started with a talent agent at a competing outfit whose divorce had gone smoother because of what Aaron had learned about the guy's much younger not-so-loving wife.

The guy said, “I've got a meeting in five. Why're you asking about Mason?” Dropping the star's name in that casual way that said I play in that league. Even though the guy's client list topped out at soap opera fill-ins.

Aaron said, “Nothing juicy and this needs to be confidential because we all know what happens when things aren't confidential.”

Confident the guy would remember his ex's proclivity for being shat on by Japanese businessmen. Reduced alimony and full custody of the Lhasa apso was one thing, being suckered so everyone knew it was another.

“Of course.” Pompous, as if there'd never been any question about being discreet. “So what do you want to know?”

“Is Mason still hot?”

“Hot?”

“In demand.”

“Maybe not as much as he used to be, but a helluva lot of people would still be happy to work with him. Once they know he's okay.”

“Okay, as in…”

“You're the private eye. You're telling me you don't know?”

“I need specifics, Ken.”

“Word has it there isn't a drug Mason's met that he didn't date.”

“That serious, huh?”

“His last shoot took way longer than usual. Because of looong naps. Coke and weed don't do that. Catch my drift?”

“Heroin.”

“They say it has that effect.”

“Does he shoot or smoke?”

“How would I know-smoke, I'd bet. Can't afford any needle marks.”

Aaron said, “But the picture did get finished.”

“Loose Change for Danny? Hell, yeah, made a nice profit. Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

The agent laughed. “Depends on who the accountants are. I did a project with Pam DeMoyne-from Shadows of Our Days? She was amazing, I'm talking on a level with Streep and Mirren. But the suits sent it straight to video anyway-I'll send you a DVD. It's really great, historical story about Shakespeare's secret gay life, Pam was Anne Hathaway, she was-”

“The accountants,” Aaron prompted.

“Right,” said Ken. “The accountants. I got Pam a twenty-five percentage of net, which is amazing, even if it is net, at that level you should see some payout. Never saw a dime of royalties. We do an audit, there's a three-hundred-thousand ‘distribution fee.’ I say what's that, they hem and haw, finally they tell me it's the price of driving the film from the production office in Westwood to the editor in Burbank.”

“High-priced taxi. I'll take the gig.”

“Oh, yeah. So did Book's last picture make money? Probably, because he's got clout, they might be afraid to pull bullshit like that.”

“But maybe diminishing clout.”

“He hasn't worked in what… a year and a half, two, three? Are you snooping around because something nasty's gonna pop, Aaron? Like he's over the edge and the studio's gonna be suing him for breach?”

“Nothing like that, Ken. Now tell me about Ax Dement.”

“Who?”

“Lem's oldest son. I hear he hangs out with Book.”

“News to me,” said Ken. “I've got no time for hangers-on.”

“Would you work with Lem?”

“You mean because he's a fascist and a racist and a fundamentalist hypocrite? Not my idea of integrity, Aaron.”

Aaron said, “What if the accounting was good?”

Ken laughed. “In that case, sure. But don't tell my mother.”

Aaron's second call was to Liana Parlat.

“How about another trip to Riptide, same fee structure.”

She said, “Sure. Maybe I'll run into Dr. Rau again. But could it be in a couple of nights?” “Busy?”

“Cartoon audition. I need to sound like an obnoxious twelve-year-old.”

“Not much of a stretch,” said Aaron.

Liana laughed and whined nasally: “Thanks. Dad.”

“You never called Rau, huh?”

“Not because I'm scared, Aaron. Because I've been working.”

“Another brat voice?”

“One of those classy animations under consideration at one of the so-called edgy networks. Disgusting family, even more disgusting flatulent dog.”

“Gas noise is part of your repertoire?”

“Actually, I'm under consideration for Sinead, the twelve-year-old daughter.” Putting on a high, reedy voice: “‘Oh man, Daddy-person, when you said this was a field trip, I didn't know we'd actually be out in the field listening to the growls and howls of Gyro's bowels.

“Here I come, Mr. Oscar.”

“Beats honest labor, Mr. Fox. As does lancing for you. What's the drill for my second visit?”

“Just sit around, soak up more atmosphere. If the topic ever comes up naturally, work Ax Dement into the conversation.”

“The son but not Lem?” she said. “You've got something concrete?”

“Not even close, Lee. The case is arctic but I'm sifting dirt wherever I can.” Smiling at his choice of words; the clearing at Carrillo was still on his mind.

She said, “It would sure be nice to dig up some downright filth related to that abusive asshole.” Resuming the kiddie voice: “‘Gee, sure, Mr. Fox-person. That would be a real field trip!’”

By ten a.m., Aaron had completed his fourth sally up and down the poorly paved, tree-lined highway that snaked past Len Dement's Solar Canyon spread, ten miles above PCH.

Each cycle raised the risk of being spotted. He tried to buffer the threat by stretching the time between passes, driving a good fifteen miles past the watch-zone before coming back down.

If nothing happened soon, it was back to the city with plastic bags and question marks.

Barely half a mile past the property, the real estate switched to public domain: undeveloped state conservancy land along an increasingly rutted road. Sloping granite on one side, shallow canyons on the other. Aaron eased the Porsche around curves, enjoying the way the four-wheel drive embraced the asphalt.

Small birds flittered above the brush, unaware or uncaring about hawks-man, there were a lot of winged creatures out here-gliding, scoping out the buffet. Swooping.

Google Earth had defined Dement's sixty-plus acres with an aerial shot. Only one access, a single-lane entry road from the roadside gate connecting to a few acres of flat pad. The big rectangle right of center had to be the main house. Farther back, to the left, several smaller outbuildings sprouted like buds. No sign of any church under construction, but maybe the picture was old.