Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

Twenty Solar Canyon, a cinch to find. The gate was mesh, manually operated, nearly flush with the road. Barbed-wire fencing stretched from the posts a good five hundred feet in either direction.

No mailbox, no address numerals, no fake-o cowboy brand over the gate, like some of the other places he'd spotted driving up.

On the other hand, no snarling dogs or No Trespassing warnings, any other go-away.

On his third pass, he hazarded a stop, looked for a well-concealed security camera, failed to find one. So either high-tech developments had gotten past him, or Dement didn't bother to keep watch.

Figuring a camera would be too conspicuous?

The guy had tons of dough but chose to live away from the Industry hubbub of Beverly Hills, Brentwood, the Colony, Broad Beach.

A place meant to be ignored.

Beginning his fifth pass, Aaron was ready to call it quits when a black X5 crested the road above the gate and rolled down erratically.

He zoomed past, parked precariously on the narrow highway, just out of view of the SUV, ran down to where he could see and not be seen.

The X5 was idling, its driver's door open. A slim, fair-haired woman was unlocking the gate with a key. Once she'd pushed the heavy metal frame wide, she returned to the SUV, drove out a few yards, got out again, relocked the gate.

Aaron's long-range lens captured the whole tedious routine. Maybe Lem Dement didn't want people coming and going that easily. By the time the X5 was gone, Aaron was inspecting digital images, include a nice close-up of the woman's face.

But no need to guess; he'd memorized every face in the Malibu paper's family portrait of the Dement clan.

Gemma Dement hadn't changed a bit.

Seven-hundred-dollar Fendi shades hid Mrs. Lem Dement's eyes. The rest of her face was blank.

Coming straight at him-had he gotten that rusty?

Bracing himself for a confrontation, Aaron chopsticked a phony shrimp, pretended to savor. As she got closer, he opened the book he'd brought for cover. Paperback biography of George Washington Carver. Looking intellectual never hurt, especially intellectually black.

Gemma Dement kept coming. Even with sunglasses on, he sensed she was staring at him.

Big mess, where had he screwed up? The designer jeans boutique? The organic market? The bikini shop?

Two hours of stalking while the woman looked but never bought. She'd seemed preoccupied but obviously, she'd figured it out.

Okay, Plan B: If she hassled him, he'd fake surprise, work the charm, hoping she'd feel foolish and walk away.

If she persisted-got nasty or downright paranoid-he'd find a way to let her know he'd found her attractive but was no weirdo.

What was the worst she could do, call for one of those brain-dead security types in charge of policing the shopping center? By the time they arrived, he'd be gone.

What did he look like, ma'am?

They all look the same.

Now she was ten feet away.

She stopped, did that absent-eyed thing. Stood right in the middle of the narrow street. No cars gliding past, but still, a woman could get pulverized that way.

Good-looking woman; finding her attractive wasn't a lie. Back at the bikini shop, he'd pretended to be interested in the surf-wear place next door, had gotten close enough to her to eye some details.

She'd tried on several swimsuits, frowned a lot, always dissatisfied. But not because she couldn't pull off skimpy. Under her clothes was a tight body. Lines on her face, but so what?

Fifties, but secure? Despite what Liana claimed about her being pounded regularly by Lem?

Aaron hadn't spotted any bruises or other telltale marks, but cotton and velvet were hiding most of her flesh.

She resumed walking, beelined for his table. Shit.

He put his nose in the book, faking concentration. Gemma Dement got close enough for him to smell her perfume.

Something light, grassy.

Aaron braced himself.

She glided by, entered the vegan joint.

He wiped sweat from his hairline, returned to his food. Hazarded an over-the-shoulder peek inside the restaurant.

No other customers at the order-counter. Skinny woman, but nice ass, that bit of extra cheek that gilded the lily. Looked natural, maybe no lipo.

Five minutes later, she was outside, carrying a plate of something green and beige.

Two other tables were positioned to the north of Aaron's, both empty.

She chose the nearer one. Chose the seat closest to his.

Fluffing her hair and straightening her back, she sat like a charm school grad, shoulders square, platinum butt barely touching the cushion. Inspecting her mushroom/sprout/tofu whatever, she unwrapped her own chopsticks.

Stared in Aaron's direction until he was forced to look up.

Smiled.

Said, “Yum.”

He finished a couple of pages on peanut technology, went inside and ordered iced tea. All the place served was hot and green but he cajoled the counter kid for a cup of ice, tossed in some sugar because the brew tasted like liquefied lawn trimmings.

When he got back to his table, Gemma Dement was still there, maybe even a little closer. Eating daintily and reading her own book. Something by Anna Quindlen.

Didn't Quindlen write about abused women and the like?

This time it was Aaron who tried to get eye contact going.

She didn't bite. Began humming. Closed her book, dropped it into her bag, picked up her plate, and placed it on Aaron's table.

Toed the purse over to a chair directly across from Aaron and sat down.

“Good afternoon.” Throaty voice, maybe a smoker. But no smell of smoke, just that fresh, clean fragrance.

Aaron didn't have to fake surprise. “Afternoon.”

She nodded, as if he'd said something predictable. Her eyes were aqua-blue, same color as the sea this morning.

Gemma Dement said, “Of course, it could've been Good morning.”

“Pardon?”

“Proper fit is such a hassle. But you know that by now.”

Aaron stared.

Her smile was crooked, oddly girlish. “We didn't exchange greetings an hour ago. When I was agonizing over bikinis and you were watching me struggle.”

Aaron didn't answer.

Gemma Dement clasped her hands prayerfully and leaned closer. “Please don't tell me I imagined you watching. You brightened my day.”

“I did?” said Aaron, amazed at how he'd morphed into an aw-shucks geek. Gee, Mrs. Robinson.

“You certainly did. Mr… Reader.” Reaching across the table, she touched his book. Short nails, no polish. Clean hands. Had Aaron imagined the tremor that passed through them quickly?

He said, “Light reading.” Felt a welcome rise of internal warmth as her fingers quivered again. Her weakness fed his strength. Time to work the woman.

She said, “Doesn't look light to me.”

“It is compared with what I usually have to deal with.”

Another skewed smile, this one hard to characterize. Aaron thought he spotted a dark splotch of skin peeking above the hem of her T-shirt, frosted by a granular patch of cover-up. Texture was the giveaway, the color was perfect, blended expertly with her golden skin.

Long years of practice hiding bruises?

She said, “Now I'm supposed to ask what you usually have to deal with.”

“Not unless you care.”

She laughed. “Has to be something boring-are you a professor?”

Aaron said, “Attorney. Legal briefs.”

“Ah,” she said, sitting back. “One of those.”

Aaron spread his arms. “Here come the lawyer jokes.”

“Don't know any lawyer jokes. I'm not much for jokes period.” She turned serious, as if illustrating. “So tell me, Mr. Lawyer Who's Also a Recreational Reader, why have you been watching me for the last hour?”