Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

At least he'd gotten away with half the surveillance.

“Because you're gorgeous,” he said.

Her face went blank. That same glazed expression as when she stopped midstride and spaced out.

Aaron said, “You stood out.”

Did her eyes just get wet? She'd swiped them too quickly for Aaron to be sure.

“Please forgive me if I freaked you out. I thought of approaching you, then I saw your ring.” Eyeing her four-carat diamond.

She said, “Oh, that,” twisted the gem out of sight. Her other hand rose. She smoothed down hair.

Pulling out his little alligator card case, Aaron slid out the topmost rectangle, pre-positioned like a magician's trick deck.

High-quality paper, pale blue, embossed navy lettering proclaiming the credentials of Arthur A. Volpe, Attorney at Law. The Kansas City address terminated at a mail-drop, the phone fed to the sad bachelor pad of Arthur A. Wimmer, a distant cousin of Mom's. Arthur was a problem drinker who claimed to be a chemist but couldn't hold down a steady job. Aaron's yearly retainer went toward answering the line in a business-like voice and saying the right things. Decent dough for maybe an hour all year.

Gemma Dement scanned the card quickly, gave it back. “Lawyer on vacation.”

“Long-overdue vacation.”

She pouted. “All by your lonesome?”

“Aptly put,” he said. “L.A.'s a tough place when you don't know anyone.”

“Volpe,” she said. “You're Italian?”

Aaron searched her face for irony. Saw dead-serious curiosity.

“Mom's side is from Milan.” Picking the city, the way he usually did when questioned, because it was the hub of fashion.

“Like that character on that show -Homicide. ”

“Lieutenant Giardello,” said Aaron. “He was half Sicilian, that's the south. Milan is up north.”

“Well,” she said, “sorry for not knowing Italian geography. I like that show. Lots of guilt and atonement. Don't you think that makes for a good story?”

“Absolutely,” said Aaron. “Nothing like guilt as a motivator.”

Spinning the line off lightly. Gemma Dement's blue eyes clouded. She forked her food, didn't eat. “Volpe. What does that mean?”

“It's Italian for ‘fox.’”

“Do you go there regularly? The Old Country, I mean.”

“Never been there. My Italian cousins keep telling me I need to go. Eventually, I'll get around to it.”

“Too much lawyer work.”

“Way too much. I do real estate litigation and there's never a shortage.”

“Meanwhile, you come to Malibu and watch much older women agonize over bikinis.”

“Slightly older women.”

“Liar,” she said, cheerfully.

“May I ask your name?”

Eyeblink. “Gloria. Like in the song… well, Mr. Volpe the lonely, busy attorney. You did make my day. By noticing.”

“Gloria,” said Aaron, “you are extremely easy to notice.”

Pulling the line off with utter sincerity because he meant it. Up close, the tight and lean was even more impressive, the total package enhanced by generous breasts too soft and bouncy not to be real. Those lovely little bumps of unfettered nipple. He imagined her dressing quickly but expertly in a mansion ranch house, green acres vivid through a crystalline window. Nothing to do today but try on bikinis.

Eyes the color of the ocean as the sun kissed it.

The dark patch right beneath the hem of her shirt, oddly appealing. Aaron wanted to help her. Knew he couldn't, she was nothing more than… a potential data bank.

Rich, good-looking woman who paid for her humongous diamond and the rest of her lifestyle with pain.

Guilt and atonement.

She'd given him something to work with.

He said, “Going back to the whole guilt thing, I guess the difference between good people and bad is the level of atonement.”

She said, “Speaking of which.”

“Pardon?”

“You could atone for your sin.”

“What sin is that?”

“Standing there watching while I went through those bikinis. What if I was the type to get freaked out?”

“I really am sorry. It was just…”

“Just what?”

“What I said before. You're an extremely-”

She silenced him with a finger over his lips. Her skin was warm, slightly dank, maybe even a little greasy. As if she'd used lotion recently. Or was secreting something.

Aaron could feel little bubbles of his own sweat popping in his hair.

Gemma Dement shifted closer. Her hand lowered to his. She rubbed the space between his thumb and forefinger. Pretty blatant, out in public like this.

People walked by, no one seemed to notice.

No one recognizing her. A woman ignored.

Aaron's lips were dry. He restrained himself from licking.

Gemma Dement's eyelids lowered. Big, curling lashes. Another flash of Pacific. Twelve cylinders of perfume.

“Your sin,” she said, “was watching me but not following through.”

He followed in the Porsche as her X5 drove out of the Cross Creek lot, turned right at the light, continued north on PCH.

She drove faster and better than she had on the ride from home. No absentminded sways, no cell phone distraction.

Aaron kept to the speed limit, he couldn't afford to do otherwise.

As if sensing it, Gemma Dement slowed down so he could stay with her.

Like a dance.

Like a woman fixing herself to your rhythm. Putting you back inside when you popped out.

Where was she taking him? Back to the ranch? Lem out of town on some shoot, the kids in school, whatever staff was around that discreet?

A woman that blatant, he could see why she got beat up.

No, scratch that, there was never an excuse.

Still…

What was he getting himself into?

Just south of Point Dume-well before Solar Canyon-she stuck an arm out of the driver's window, jabbed three times to the left.

Aaron pulled into the center island behind her, hoping no Chippie would happen by. The X5 waited for traffic to pass then swooped up a steep blacktop driveway.

At the top was a series of white, clapboard bungalows. A sign on a post read Surf 'n Sea Beach Hotel.

Daily and Weekly Rates, Premium Cable, the AAA seal of approval.

Hotel, my ass, this was your basic fifties-era motel.

Not the first time the job had taken him to a drive-in tryst. Only this time, he'd be more than a guy with a camera.

Rigors of the job; little Moe had no idea.

When the coast was clear, he turned.

She'd waited fifteen feet in, half hidden by a cloud of bougainvillea. Her arm shot out again. Aaron was supposed to hook a right. He complied, found several parking spaces shaded by a gigantic coral tree. Messy thing, the Porsche was sure to get dirty, but he could see why she'd picked the spot.

Out of visual range of the northernmost bungalow that served as the motel's front office.

As he pulled in, Gemma Dement cruised past. Five minutes later, she was walking toward him, looking grave, Fendi lenses flashing coppery light. On the surface, all business, but her body language disputed that: swinging a key on a dolphin-shaped holder in wide, playful arcs. Like a kid ready for an adventure.

Once they were inside the small, dim, mildewed room, she drew the drapes, tugged several times to make sure no sliver of daylight intruded.

One step short of total darkness. Aaron's pupils dilated as he strained to follow her movements. She moved easily, familiar with the layout.

What the hell have I gotten into?

As he stood there, she got into that humming thing again. Powered up the twelve-inch flat-screen sitting atop a tilting bureau. Punched a code without consulting the guide.

Home away from home.

The station she selected was all music. So-called smooth jazz, heavy on repetition and low on imagination.