Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

Fox said, “You're saying we should concentrate on Ax.”

“What you described, Aaron-holding up traffic, then peeling out and flipping off the crowd-paints an interesting picture. Blithe, reckless, hostile.”

“Stone sociopath,” said Reed.

“If you can nail him for acts of cruelty, I'll take that bet. And growing up with a father who abuses his mother could sure feed sexual violence.”

“Believing that's how a real man treats women.”

“Precisely.”

Fox said, “Mom gets pounded but sticks around and likes to talk about guilt and atonement, maybe because she raised a really bad boy.”

Alex said, “What was the emotional temperature of that talk?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did she seem remorseful? Angry? Or was she mouthing words as if they were scripted.”

Fox thought. “Maybe all of the above. The sense I got was a really screwed-up head.”

Reed observed his brother, as if expecting more.

Fox shrugged. “That's it.”

Reed said, “How does the religious aspect fit in, Doc? Ax's daddy gets big-rich off what's basically a splatter flick camouflaged as a hymn, now he's building a church on the family compound.” Before Alex could answer, he turned to his brother. “For all we know, they've got a damn cult blossoming there and Mason Book got sucked into it. Actors are ripe for that, right? Always into the Next Big Thing.”

Fox nodded.

Reed said, “Guy's an anorexic, addicted zombie with no will-hell, maybe they were programming him in the hospital and that's why he got admitted. Or someone else was de programming him, whatever. Any way you can find out who his doc was?”

Fox smiled. “Going through alternative channels? I'm sure gonna try-forget you heard that.” To Delaware: “Is this session confidential, like therapy?”

Delaware laughed. “I'll have to study that.”

Reed said, “What about the religious aspect, Doc?”

“Moe, a wise man once said, ‘Religion's a good thing for good people and a bad thing for bad people.’”

“Meaning anything's possible with this bunch… okay, so we concentrate on Ax.”

“Not necessarily,” said Alex. “Same as with Book, there's not enough evidence and Daddy's dough makes him a big fish. Rory Stoltz is a minnow but that protective mother and theoretical access to Book and Dement's legal resources cools him as an entry point. Also, he may be totally innocent.”

“Why theoretical?”

“Big fish eat little fish. They'd sacrifice him if it suited their purposes. On the other hand, you do have someone you could leverage, because he's likely to get into trouble and has really poor judgment.”

“Ramone W,” said Reed.

“A loser with impulse-control problems,” said Fox.

Alex said, “And no gates to hide behind.”

“I started watching him,” said Moe Reed, “and Petra Connor got a rookie in plainclothes to take over when I'm not there. Problem is, Doc, what I saw today surprised me big-time.” He described the sidewalk encounter with Alicia Eiger. “She smacked him upside the head and he just stood there and took it. And here I was thinking he's capable of mindless brutality.”

Fox said, “Maybe he was too stoned to react.”

“Still,” said Reed, “what kind of tough guy lets himself get smacked down in public by a woman? That doesn't smell of contract killer.”

Alex said, “Ramone got caught peeping his niece but it's likely that wasn't the only time he'd tried it. How old is he?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Interesting. Voyeurs generally start young and some progress to sexual violence. The fact that he's still watching implies a certain passivity.”

Reed said, “What does that say about his ability to get bloody and homicidal?”

“Maybe nothing,” said Alex. “Wars are planned by generals but carried out by foot soldiers.”

“Following orders,” said Fox. “Sure, why not, think Manson Family-think any whack-group-hell, that fits with a bizarro cult thing. We need dogs out in Carrillo, Moses.”

Reed didn't appear to have heard. “Fine, I'll keep on Wohr. Anything else, Doc?”

Delaware said, “Sounds like you're doing all the right things.”

Fox said, “And that sounds like therapy.”

Liana Parlat adjusted the washcloth draped over Steve Rau's right nipple.

Terry cloth was a lot easier on her cheek than Steve's steel-wool chest hair.

He said, “You okay?”

“Mmm.” She laced her arm over his barrel torso.

“If you're not, I could shave it.”

“And subject me to stubble?” Liana traced his jawline with a fingertip. Felt stirring under the bedcovers. Saw visual proof.

“Oh, my, Stephen.”

“It's been a long time, Laura. I probably forgot stuff I never knew.”

The use of her fake name bothered her. For the first time. She said, “Fishing for a compliment? Fine: You're a stud.”

That lowered the flag to half-mast. “Oh, no,” she giggled. “Sorry.”

A sensitive one. But so sweet. He'd entered Riptide half an hour after she'd been sitting at the bar. Accomplishing nothing because the place was nearly empty and the few rummies in sight were well on their way to stupor. The barkeep wasn't the guy she'd seen the first time-

Gus. The taut woman with some sort of southern accent projected the couldn't-care-less attitude of a temp, had trouble locating lime juice.

When Liana asked how long she'd been working there, she squinted as if faced with a calculus problem. “Um, four days. Tonight's my last.”

“Don't like it?”

“Dead. No tips.” She turned her back on Liana, checked her cell phone, let a filmy used beer mug sit on the bar.

A Diet Coke and two sips of a gimlet later, Liana was feeling low. She hated serving Aaron an empty plate.

Receiving Adella Villareal's photo had put it on a personal level.

Happy, beautiful girl. Baby in a blue blanket.

That flashed Liana back to the October of her senior year in high school.

Backseat oops that led to the bump. More family turmoil than if Liana had died, Mom closing up like a scared anemone, Dad even worse, shutting her out completely the entire pregnancy. Their relationship had never been the same; her feeling she'd failed him, his never saying the opposite, made her hate him.

Her brother and sister treated her like a freak.

Especially when she was forced to drop out of school because the rules said girls like her were a Serious Bad Influence.

Morning sickness and depression ravaged her body and her self-esteem. At four months and two days into the ordeal, cramps seized her and made her feel like a rotary razor was churning up her insides. Five hours after the pain started, she was spewing a bloody mass into a toilet at a truck stop.

Relieved.

Crushed by guilt.

Even though she'd done nothing to bring on the miscarriage. Or had she? All those prayers, wishes, bad thoughts. Maybe she hadn't eaten right. Dehydrated herself?

Or the stress her family had put her through had killed what had grown inside of her.

She got her GED, left home, found a waitress job.

Three years later, at the age of twenty-one, not really sure why, she had her tubes tied.

Adella Villareal had produced life. Only to have it taken from her.

Someone had to pay.

She was constructing revenge scenarios, knuckles white around her gimlet glass, when Steve entered the bar. She pretended not to notice when he looked at her. Continued the act as he ordered a beer and headed over.

Dressed casually this time. Dark green polo and khakis, nice match for his fair coloring. But still wearing clunky brown wingtips that went with a suit. The boy needed help.