Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

Moe said, “She's not fat, the weather's temperate, there's no Santa Ana winds, and it hasn't rained in weeks. And I'll bet you're pretty consistent when you jab the liver.”

“Flattery is for chumps,” said Johansen. She grimaced and stretched. That reminded Moe of Sturgis. This thick, surly woman could be Ann to the Loo's Andy.

Petra said, “So much for talking for the victim.”

Johansen said, “Now it's guilt.”

“Guilt's a great motivator, Maidie.”

Moe wondered if Petra was thinking about Mason Book. He sure was.

Johansen said, “So is covering one's butt, Petra.” She stared down at the body. “If you absotively need something for a kick-start, I'd bet on within eight hours, give or take. Try to pin that on me, I'll plead Alzheimer's.”

Squarely within the time frame Raymond Wohr had been under surveillance. Damn.

Petra said, “How much give, how much take?”

Johansen shook her head. “Kids today.” She adjusted her glasses. “You want quotable quotes, my pretties, talk to someone who went to med school. Speaking of which, can we take her now?”

The rookie's name was Jennifer Kennedy.

Petra had never mentioned gender. Why should she?

Kennedy was ruddy and round-faced, not bad looking in a farm-girl way, with cornflower eyes and pasta-colored hair cut short and peaked on top-almost a faux-hawk. Three holes in one ear, two in the other. Moe wouldn't be surprised if her uniform hid some tats.

Sitting in a plastic chair in a Hollywood interview room, she worked hard at not showing anxiety.

Failing. The blue eyes gave it away. Despite the fact that Petra and Moe were proceeding gently.

Like Petra had said before they entered the room: no sense adding to the kid's stress.

The kid; Kennedy's stats put her at four years older than Moe. She'd worked as a secretary for a medical insurance company for eight years before entering the academy sixteen months ago.

Those same organizational skills led to precision: a carefully logged surveillance of Raymond Wohr, down to the minute.

No chance Wohr had been in his apartment from six p.m., when Kennedy had started watching him, until three a.m. when she'd busted him.

The only window of opportunity for him to stab Alicia Eiger, the two-hour lapse between the end of Moe's watch and the start of hers.

Ramone would've had time to backtrack to his crib, confront Eiger about the bitch-slap, wreak vengeance, clean up, and reemerge on the street to drink and lurk and troll for an underage hooker. Ditch bloody clothes.

But lack of violence in Ramone's past and the passive way he'd tolerated Eiger's abuse, combined with Maidie Johansen's educated time-of-death guess, made Moe wonder.

He said, “Tell us about the bust.”

Kennedy said, “Did I screw that up?”

“Wohr's a bad guy, he was having sex with a minor, you did the right thing.”

As if Moe had failed to comfort her, Kennedy looked at Petra.

“You had no choice, Jennifer. Wohr being in lockup is fine, we'll have access to him.”

Once we find him.

“Okay,” said Kennedy. “So what happened was obviously I was watching him and mostly it was a lot of nothing. Drinking, walking around, finding another bar, walking some more.”

Moe said, “Did he call anyone?”

“He could've, inside one of the bars, but not out on the street. Finally, he walked to Western, there were a bunch of girls working the chicken place, at first I wasn't sure if they actually were girls.”

Petra said, “Sometimes they're not.”

“The girl he went to,” said Kennedy, “it was obvious they had a prior relationship. Or whatever you want to call it. From how fast it was, there was no discussion, they just ducked into the alley. By the time I get a look, he's with his back against a wall and she's on her knees. She looked eleven, who knew?”

“She was a minor, Jennifer.”

Kennedy frowned. “Seventeen years, eight months. When I busted him, he went down easy, no resistance. Didn't react when I found that weed I logged. She ran but I made the decision to concentrate on him. She was so young looking. I wanted it to end. ”

They let Kennedy go and stayed in the room.

Moe said, “Solo officer in plainclothes tells him to assume the position, he doesn't fight.”

Petra said, “Female officer, no less.” She grinned. “I'm allowed to say that. Yeah, he's pretty darn passive, but even passive guys blow fuses.”

“I'm not feeling it,” said Moe. “That murder was brutal and someone took the time to pose her sexually, maybe to throw us off.”

“My instinct, too, Moe. Your question about calling someone-you think he set Eiger up with someone nasty enough to do it?”

“I'm sure going to find out if he's got a phone account. If not, we'll see if there's pay phones in any of those bars.”

Petra nodded. “One good thing about passive: We get him in a room, he could be workable.”

“I'm looking forward to it.” He thanked her, left Hollywood Station and drove to West L.A.

Thinking: I'm developing instincts.

Two hours later, he was still at his desk, going over Caitlin Frostig's file for the thousandth time. Raymond Wohr had no account at any phone company. Tracking pay phones in bars would take hours, but he had no choice.

Petra had just called, still wrestling with County Jail bureaucracy; no one in the custodial megalith had a clue as to Ramone Ws whereabouts. For all Moe knew, the mope had paid for his perv tag already- sliced, diced, stashed behind some jail boiler.

Eiger getting murdered so brutally after her tirade made Moe wonder if the motive wasn't revenge but someone shutting her up about something important.

As in two dead girls.

And a baby.

During her rant, Eiger had seemed to be exhorting Ramone. Trying to goad him to do something. Giving up and calling him stupid before whomping him upside the head. Had she known that he was in possession of explosive information, got frustrated because he wouldn't exploit the knowledge?

Explosive as in the paternity of Baby Gabriel? Something Caitlin might've learned getting close enough to Adella to sit for the infant?

Rich-guy paternity as in Mason Book?

If Ramone W knew or even suspected that, he sure hadn't profited. Living in that dump, pimping Eiger to Ax Dement and the motel clerk.

Too passive to exploit? But Eiger isn't, she nags him, he puts her off because he's too dumb, or too scared to figure out an angle?

Eiger, tired of being a commodity, loses patience, braces Ramone on the street, slaps him down.

Now she's dead.

If there was a link there, Moe figured it could've gone two ways.

Option A: Ramone finally gives in, makes a blackmail call, flubs, and turns Eiger into a victim. Narrowly misses getting killed himself. Remains in jeopardy.

Option B: Furious at Eiger for humiliating him, but a sneak, not an action guy, Ramone makes a call that tags her as dangerous. Turns Eiger into a victim. Is still in jeopardy.

Oh, yeah, the third option, C: None of the above.

Moe's hands clenched. His jaw hurt. He'd been grinding his teeth without realizing it.

Damn jail… scumbag had to show up, eventually. Moe was pretty sure he could crack the idiot open like a peanut.

When, not if. He had to believe in something.

Sitting in the dark, above Swallowsong Lane, Aaron checked his expense log.

He knew it by heart but nothing else to do, now that his sandwich was gone and he'd taken a couple of whizz-breaks in the bushes.

The glamorous side of private detecting. People like Mr. Dmitri didn't have a clue.

Aaron cheered himself with mental calculations of the final bill he'd present the Russian. Maybe his last bill to the Russian if he had nothing to show.