Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

Liana still hadn't called. Where the hell was she?

The chance that she might be in danger plagued him personally and professionally. He'd never had a better op than Liana and a part of him-some part he couldn't really label-felt deeply about her.

Nothing he could do now, so he shoved his worries into a filing cabinet at the back of his head.

The key was to keep everything compartmentalized.

Where are you, Lee? He assured himself yet again that she was smart. He'd briefed her fully on this one. Urged her to be careful.

It was just after one a.m. During the past five hours, six cars had driven up Swallowsong: Three vehicles ferried neighbors home and one of them, an old Mercedes diesel sedan, reemerged thirty minutes later with an elderly man behind the wheel and a woman of matching vintage prattling in the passenger seat.

Tux, gown, some kind of party, everyone in a good mood.

Probably one of those perfect couples, together for forty years.

Must be nice…

At ten thirteen p.m. Rory Stoltz chauffeured Mason Book home in his Hyundai, stayed with the actor for a mere twelve minutes before speeding down the hill.

Probably not an errand, the kid hadn't reappeared.

Shortly after eleven p.m., Ax Dement, solo in his pickup, did his customary run of the stop sign and zoomed up the hill. His stay was also brief-twenty-four minutes. Just long enough to smoke up or sniff or drink and savor the high.

Aaron caught a glimpse of Dement Junior's squat, bearded face as the truck sped away. Ax didn't look high, quite the contrary.

Preoccupied.

One fifteen.

Convinced Mason Book wouldn't be receiving any more visitors, Aaron left the Opel and began the silent hike up Swallowsong.

From his easy lope, no outward sign of the tension-the frustration- that seized every cell of his body. He realized his heart was pounding and he took some time to deep-breathe it slower.

Later, looking back, he'd marvel at his own daring. Or stupidity, depending on how you looked at it.

Right now, standing outside the Baroque gates of the house Mason Book rented from Lemuel Dement, noticing how many foothold opportunities the complex ironwork provided, tired of being stymied by the layout of the property-the curving drive and Italian cypresses that blocked any view of what lay beyond-he said, “What the hell.”

Whispering out loud. Feeling his lips move but inaudible above the distant buzz of traffic from the Strip. Leaves rustling in a warm, sweet Hollywood Hills breeze.

Making sure his Glock was buttoned down firmly in its nylon holster, running a lint-remover over his black nylon jacket to remove errant hairs, he gloved up, looked around. Breathed in deeply and placed two hands on the upper-left quadrant of the gate, nudged a toe into a convenient circle of space afforded by an iron curlicue.

Exhaled and hoisted himself up.

Standing on Lem Dement's private property-a black man in dark clothes and gloves, packing a gun-triggered a rush of what-ifs in Aaron's head.

There could be motion detectors. A guard dog.

A herd of guard dogs.

Maybe even a bodyguard or a rent-a-cop. Or two. Though in all the time he'd watched the house, he'd never spotted any muscle coming in or out.

Unless Ax Dement counted for that.

Less threatening employees could be a problem, too. Maids, butlers, houseboys, whatever. Not spotting any of those meant little if live-in help rarely left the premises.

With a big enough property-your own private town-there'd be no reason to leave. Especially with a gofer like Stoltz as the outside guy.

Black man in the Hills.

Nothing Aaron hadn't considered before vaulting the gate. Lord knew, he'd mulled this move in his head a million times.

Risks he'd chosen to disregard because two girls were dead and so was a baby and he was fed up with being hampered by rules and regs and whatnot bullshit. By the wet-blanket voice-in-his-head that passed itself off as Common Sense.

He was an Un common Man, not some damned civil servant.

Groupthink; he'd tasted that thin soup for ten years, spit it out in favor of a gourmet broth seasoned by Personal Initiative and Free Enterprise.

Let Moe and people like Moe deal with wants, warrants, orders from downtown, cover-your-ass freeze-tag. Hurdle after hurdle imposed by a brain-dead system.

Aaron hadn't heard from his brother since the meeting with Delaware.

Someone else who wasn't returning his calls.

Here we go: Intrepid Masai warrior faces the the abyss.

He smiled at the self-inflation. But there was truth to it. Two girls were dead. A baby, for God's sake, and he'd accomplished zero and Mr. Dmitri demanded results. Rules and regs were not going to cut it.

He'd quit the damned system because he was tired of being penned up like some pet pony.

Fearless black stallion stands tall among the dray horses. Snorts and bucks as he races for freedom.

No guard dog yet.

Not smart, Detective Fox.

Better to be a living fool than a dead cog. His life-the life he'd made for himself-was all about tough choices and living with the consequences.

The consequences had been sweet. Three hundred K a year, the Porsche, the private haberdashery, the women-he deserved a vacation once the case was buttoned up.

Once, not if.

Black man in the Hills.

Maybe moments away from the biggest disaster of his life.

He remained still for a long time, standing to the right side of the curving drive, concealed by columnar cypress shadows. Took a step forward. Waited some more.

No stampeding rottweilers, no concealed sensors that he could spot. Those suckers were easy to hide, he'd installed more than his share of them.

Twenty more steps brought no view of the house, just rough, winding concrete beneath his feet. Same for fifty. A hundred. Tree after tree forming opaque green-black walls. The property was vast.

Still no canine growl. No alarms, no warnings canned or live. No padded rent-a-cop footsteps.

Aaron kept going, hand on his Glock. Damned drive was what- half a mile long?

Italian cypresses said it was probably one of those Tuscan villas, maybe an eight-figure teardown-buildup, Lem Dement all flush from his biblical splatter flick.

Or maybe what lay up ahead was one of the old original Italianate mansions that had studded the Hollywood Hills during the Golden Age that Aaron had read about.

He liked that notion, kept most of his head focused on the job but allowed a small corner to be decorated by fantasy.

Big-snouted chromed monsters-Duesenbergs and Packards and Rolls Phantoms-tooling up this very drive on a warm night like this one. Liveried chauffeurs, laughing passengers. Bud-vases, champagne buckets in the trunk-the boot.

Gleaming chariots cruising up silently, dropping off the likes of Harlow and Gable and Cooper and Hedy Lamarr in the porte cochere of a fifty-room wedding-cake mansion. The entire place alive with golden light and witty chatter.

Slim stylish people in gowns and evening jackets talking in that clipped, self-satisfied almost English accent, highball glasses lofted gracefully by manicured hands.

A life filled with one cocktail party after another-in the mansion's great hall, a grand piano-Gershwin himself plinking the keys.

Billiards, brandy, cigars for the men.

Bird-chatter giggles and frothy girl-drinks for the women.

Everyone loving their life… as he trudged, ever watchful for threat, Aaron imagined the mansion's interior. Soaring arched windows offering heart-stopping views. The city spread in repose, a woman of leisure.

From that to Mason Book and Ax Dement in Hyundais and pickups, buying sex at the Eagle Motel. Smoking up and sniffing H in a damned state park.