Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

Wanting to soak in some quiet, he'd put his cell on vibrate. He'd just popped a can of Red Bull when it began bouncing on the passenger seat.

Merry Ginzburg. Finally.

“Long time, Ms. G.”

“If you keep calling me, darling, I'm going to start feeling popular again.”

“Busy day?”

“Meetings,” she said. “Then meetings about meetings. An unnamed local station might want me to highlight Industry dirt for their late-news broadcast. Not exactly Carbon Beach and Bentleys, but beggars can't be yadda yadda yadda. Anyway, I may have found out why you-know-who went to you-know-where.”

“It's a secure line,” said Aaron.

“Okay, then: My source's source talked to another source who had a source, so this could end up as one of those games of telephone, but like I said, beggars. What it comes down to is that Mr. Book no longer eats.”

“Really,” said Aaron.

“Anorexia's no longer a girl thing, Denzel. 'Specially in the Industry-all that pressure to be hollow-cheeked. But given someone of Book's status going cachectic, we're talking Big-Time Dirt.”

“Ca-what?”

“Morbidly malnourished, darling. It's a medical term. After I heard about poor Mason, I spent some time exploring the topic. Couldn't find any cyberlink between him and no-cal dieting, but I did enlarge my vocabulary. Cachectic. Nice, no? All sharp-edged, one of those onomato-whatever. Anyway, poor Mason was probably admitted to Cedars for intravenous sushi and Kobe beef. That would explain no meds, right? Maybe cachectic people can't handle chemicals. I've started making calls, still trying to find out who his doc is, once I do, I'll find a way to worm my way-”

“Don't,” said Aaron. “Please.”

“Don't what?”

“Don't take it any further, Mer.”

Long silence.

“Mr. Fox, Mr. Foxy-Fox. Why am I feeling you already know all of this and for some God-knows reason have allowed me to prattle like a meth-addled starlet trying to gain access to Spielberg's boot-tips?”

“I haven't,” said Aaron, lying smoothly. “It's serious info that I appreciate more than you can imagine. Which is exactly why I need you to keep a lid on.”

“Book not eating relates to murder?”

“I can't say more, Merry-please don't jump to any conclusions.”

“Without info, my dear, Merry's naturally creative mind jumps to all kinds of places.”

“I understand, but at this point, poking around further could jeopardize the investigation.”

Merry let loose with a throaty guffaw that rang in Aaron's ear and caused him to move the phone away. The same almost masculine laughter he'd heard when they slept together. Post-orgasmic glee, as if he'd just fucked a longshoreman. She was good enough, technically, but that laugh was wrong.

He said, “What's funny, Mer?”

“The way you just got all stuffy, darling. ‘Jeopardize the investigation.’ Right out of a two-bit teleplay.”

“But it's true nonetheless. I need you to be discreet.”

“Are we planning on solving this little mystery by the sixth commercial break, Denz? 'Cause if not, I can't see giving up a succulent morsel of dirt that could be peddled to any number of tabloids for considerably more dough than I'd earn in months at a shitty little local station-”

“Let it ride,” said Aaron. “When the time's right, I'll clue you in big-time. Enough dirt for an entire show.”

“So you say.”

“Have I ever failed you, Mer?”

“Of course you have, darling.”

“When?”

“You're a man,” she said. “You don't need to do anything to fail me, you just need to exist. But fine, I'll keep Book's problems under the radar. But not forever.”

“Thanks, Mer. Maybe after this is over we can have dinner. No business, just fun.”

Silence.

She said, “You, my love, are a total bastard.”

Aaron lacked the energy-and the facts-to argue.

Petra said, “We've got a problem. Instead of just watching Wohr, the rookie I put on him busted him last night, didn't hold up the paper long enough to keep him in our lockup. Early-morning bus took him to County.”

Moe said, “I'll call over there.”

“I already did. They can't find him.”

“Released by accident?”

“Doubtful,” she said. “I'm sure you've dealt with the system over there. Or lack of. All that overcrowding, guys sitting around, takes days to find 'em. I'm really sorry, Moe.”

Moe had never dealt with County. Petra wasn't much older than he was, but she was a vet. He said, “We'll work it out. What did Wohr get busted for?”

“Soliciting a prostitute. Underage prostitute, so it couldn't be just a citation. Ramone comes into lockup tagged as a pedo, doesn't get segregated, you know what could happen.”

“Oh, man.”

“I know, I know. If this screws up your case, I couldn't feel worse. Unfortunately, sorry don't pay the bills.”

“Hey, it happens.” Keeping his true feelings inside. It wouldn't have happened with West L.A. working the case. Me and Sturgis.

No logic to that chauvinism. No comfort in it, either.

Petra said, “In the rookie's defense, I'm not sure a more experienced cop would've done different. The prostie turned out to be seventeen, but I've seen her mug and she looks twelve.”

“Playing kiddie,” said Moe. “Where'd it happen?”

“Not far from Ramone's crib-alley off Western, near a chicken joint that's a known perv hangout. Rookie says Ramone never went home at all yesterday. Eiger being such a battle-ax probably scared him away.”

“Not so scared he didn't prowl for youngblood.”

“Or being humiliated made him want to dominate someone,” she said. “They ducked into the alley, by the time the rookie got there, hooker's head was you-know-where. Meaning an overt act, kind of hard to ignore.”

“The girl's in custody?”

“Nope, she ran off. But Ramone gave up her I.D. right away-he's a regular, but claimed she was legal. Delena Guzman, street name Delishus. Salvadoran, but so far no link to M-13 or any of the other monster gangs. Still, right now I wouldn't want to be Ramone.”

Moe said, “First his niece, now this. Delaware was right about him being chronically twisted.”

“Delaware's in on this one?”

“We just consulted him. All the psych overtones, I figured why not.”

“He's a smart guy,” said Petra. “Anything profound?”

“He thinks Mason Book could be anorexic.”

“Really,” said Petra. “Yeah, Book is kind of skeletal… so what does that mean?”

“It could explain Book going into the hospital and claiming suicide.”

“Tragic figure as opposed to pathetic X-ray.”

She'd decoded the psych angle right away. “I'll keep bugging County to locate Ramone. I've already called one of the sheriff jail captains, asked for our boy to get put on High Power or the psych ward. Guy said he'd try but their computer system's acting up, it's all they can do to keep tabs on gangbangers.”

“What's the captain's name?”

“Rojas. Sure, go ahead, add your name to the petition.”

Moe said, “Citizens to Keep Ramone W Safe.”

Petra said, “Only for as long as we can use him. After that, he's chum for the sharks.”

Captain Rojas was smooth-sounding, outwardly cooperative, more like a politician than a cop. Moe wondered if he was being shined on.

He hung up, blocked out noise from the D-room, considered his options.

At this point, not too many.

No way to get to any of the principals and now even Ray Wohr was out of reach.

Delaware's advice reverbed: Find a weak point and start wedging.