Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

Finally, he said, “Thank you, Mr. Fox.”

Aaron suggested tomorrow night, eight p.m., Frostig's residence.

Frostig said, “Sure.” His fingers started moving. Numbers shifted.

Frostig's employment record was spotless. Ten years at Lockheed, eight at Amgen, the rest at SoundMyte Inc.

M.A. in math and certified as a CPA before starting at the aerospace giant, which meant passing rigorous tests. But he'd settled for bookkeeper, with a much lower pay scale.

Someone who didn't like to be challenged?

Or losing his wife had knocked him low?

Maybe grief was why Frostig looked so old. Now his only kid was gone, poor guy.

Still, there were all kinds of ways to cope and if Aaron found himself in that situation, he'd be up on his feet, feisty and furious, sparring with Bad God. Transforming righteous anger into constructive energy.

That wasn't theory; he knew about loss.

Doorbell rings early one summer morning. Mom trudges over to see what's up, still in her pajamas, those blearily gorgeous blue morning eyes of hers.

Aaron tails her, like he always does, earning his nickname. My little Puppy Dog. Wearing his Batman p.j.'s, the taste of Froot Loops sweet and slick in his mouth, cartoons playing on the tube, just another morning.

Except it isn't.

Mom opens the door.

Big, unhappy men stand there and look nervous and start to talk.

Mom loses her balance, falls to the floor.

Aaron rushes forward but the big men are handling the situation. One of them glances at him and the guy's lip trembles and he's a tough-looking man, the kind who wouldn't be bothered by anything small, and that's when Aaron knows something terrible has happened.

We bear our own crosses.

Still, Aaron couldn't help the small bit of contempt that he felt facing Frostig in his crappy little living room, the guy hunched, all weighed down, unfocused, advertising the fact that life's been beating him up at regular intervals.

Might as well wear a Kick Me sign.

The best revenge was living well. Cold-cock Bad God and move on.

He said, “I know this is tough, sir.”

“Yes.”

The room was cramped, dim, crowded with cheap furniture, anything not peach or green was fake pecan. Not a stick of upgrade since the eighties and the TV was one of those old heaps with the puffy gray screen.

No cable or satellite box.

Was Frostig one of those guys whose lips curled at the idea of entertainment?

A single photo of Caitlin stood on an otherwise empty coffee table.

High school graduation picture, the inevitable Can-I-finally-unlock-my-face? grin.

Pretty girl, tan, some freckles peeking through. Lots of nice, thick, straight blond hair, intelligent brown eyes under carefully crafted brows.

No mom in her life but she knew how to be feminine.

Definitely nice enough for guys to notice; maybe the wrong guy had noticed.

Maitland Frostig continued to sit there, looking as if he were dreading a prostate exam. Aaron said, “Appreciate your meeting with me, sir.”

Even though it should've been just the opposite.

“What would you like me to tell you, Mr. Fox?”

“Anything, sir.”

“Anything,” said Frostig, as if the word were foreign. “That's pretty broad.”

“You know her better than anyone,” said Aaron.

Frostig blinked. “She's a good girl. Let me show you her room.”

A short walk past a kitchen that appeared unused, took them to a ten-by-twelve space. Pink walls, a single high window, beige drapes that managed to clash.

Beige bedspread on a twin-sized mattress.

A cheap desk took up half of one wall. The dresser across the room was similar: boxy, no style, five drawers. The only decorative touches were three framed prints of flowers that looked as if they'd been cut from an old book.

No posters, no cute girlie touches, no mementos of adolescence.

“Have you changed anything?”

The suggestion seemed to offend Frostig. “Of course not.”

“Caitlin's a serious girl.”

“Pardon?”

“This seems like the room of a mature, serious person.” More like a jail cell.

Frostig said, “Caitlin's extremely serious.” Backed into a corner as Aaron checked out the closet, pawed through drawers.

White cotton underwear and bras, Levi's, two pairs of black slacks, an assortment of Made-in-China tops. The overall feel: budget-conscious, leaning toward conservative.

Pepperdine was a Baptist school.

“Is Caitlin religious?”

“We're not churchgoers.”

Aaron went through the closet again. The girl seemed to have no outside interests. “Is anything missing, sir?”

“No one goes in here. I vacuum the rug, that's all.”

“There don't seem to be many personal items, Mr. Frostig.”

“Caitlin keeps cosmetics in the bathroom. The upper shelf in the medicine cabinet is hers.”

Is this guy thick? “I was referring to yearbooks, diaries, that kind of thing.”

“If you haven't found them, they're not here,” said Frostig. “Caitlin's not sentimental.”

“Philosophy major,” said Aaron, tossing in one of those irrelevancies that sometimes shake people up so they say something impulsive.

“Yes,” Frostig.

Fun dad.

Aaron had entered the case figuring a voluntary rabbit was unlikely. Now he wondered. How long could any sane person live here?

“Okay,” he said. “Let's sit back down and you can tell me about the last time you saw your daughter.”

“The last time was that morning,” said Frostig. “Seven forty a.m. I leave the house at seven forty-five to be at work by nine. Sometimes I arrive early and get an early jump. Caitlin wakes up at seven and has breakfast while I'm having coffee. She leaves for Pepperdine at different times, depending on when her first class is. Generally, we see each other at night, except when Caitlin's working late, in which case I'm asleep by the time she arrives home. But I hear her come in. It's not a mansion.”

“The last time anyone saw her was leaving the Riptide just before two a.m. Tell me about her job there.”

“Riptide,” said Frostig. “No the. They probably think that's avant-garde.” His mouth turned down. “She worked there for four months prior to disappearing.”

“I'm sensing you didn't approve.”

“It's a bar. They might call it something else, but it's a bar and that means people drinking too much.”

“You're wondering if that had something to do with her disappearance.”

“I felt Caitlin could do better than work in a bar. Caitlin's opinion was that the location-on the way home from Pepperdine-made it convenient. I suppose that's true, strictly speaking, but there are other restaurants she could have chosen.”

“Why'd she choose Riptide?”

“Her boyfriend worked there.”

“Rory Stoltz.”

Nod.

“Tell me about him,” said Aaron.

“Nice boy. From what I saw. The police talked to him. He has nothing to offer.”

“You don't suspect him.”

“Why would I?”

“Often people are… harmed by those they know.”

Frostig blinked. “Everyone says he's a nice boy. Caitlin says he's a nice boy.”

“She talked to you about him.”

Frostig scratched his chin. “Caitlin isn't one for discussion. She told me she was dating him. She didn't ask my permission. Do you have children, Mr. Fox?”

“No, sir.”

“If you ever do, you'll see that higher education can cause a certain… confidence to set in.”

“Thinking she's grown up and maybe she isn't,” said Aaron.

Frostig's eyebrows rose. “She's grown up. Always has been. College made her think that was sufficient.”

“For-”

“Making important decisions.”