Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

He said, “Now I feel great-let me walk you down.”

“Steve, at the risk of being totally tacky, I'm going to do something totally work-related right now.” She drew out the photo of Adella Villareal and her blue-blanketed baby. “This is another girl related to the case. They found her strangled in Griffith Park.”

Steve winced. Nodded. “I've definitely seen her at Riptide. Several times. Never at the bar, always in a corner table, back in the VIP area. Years ago, when the celebs were still-this is that kind of case?”

“Could be,” said Liana.

“She had a baby? I wouldn't have thought so.”

“Why not?”

“She seemed more of a party girl… I guess anyone can be a parent. The baby's okay?”

“No one's seen the baby since his mama got killed.”

“Oh, my God. Okay, okay, let me remember what I can… I never saw her with Caitlin. She was always in the back room. Dolled up, laughing. The reason I remember her is because she was extremely… she was a good-looking girl.”

“Sexy,” said Liana.

“In a flashy way. Maybe overdressed… you've been to Riptide, it's casual. And she was never alone-this could get interesting for you and your boss, Liana. Because she was always with the same people.”

He told her who.

She took hold of his face and kissed him hard. “What'd I do to deserve that?”

“Delivered good news, sweetie. Smooch the messenger. Maybe I will stay the night. But first I need to text my boss.”

If Mason Book had chosen to press his face against a cold glass pane of the house, he might've caught a glimpse of Aaron Fox watching him.

The actor sat in a square black leather chair, robe flapped open on an emaciated body. Sobbing.

Guy looked way older than on screen, not just because of no makeup and heartless lighting. His cheekbones jutted in a way that couldn't be healthy. Vertical creases scored his face, hair well overdue for a color-rinse was showing some gray among the blond.

Thirty-three and starting to look like a withered old man.

Career transition, friend. Time to move on to character roles.

As a matter of fact, I've got a screenplay for you, but you're not going to dig the ending.

Aaron tried to figure a way to gain entry without setting off something he couldn't control.

He'd come with a host of little helpers, each in a designated pocket of his black, waterproof Swiss cargo pants: flashless pen camera, his cell phone for photo backup, mini infrared binoculars, similarly undersized tape recorder outfitted with one of Mr. Dmitri's speakers.

Plastic wrist ties, in the event it came to that.

Ditto the Filipino fighting knife.

One of the pockets twitched. His cell phone vibing.

Could he chance taking it out and allowing the screen to create illumination?

As spaced out as Book appeared, too risky.

Plus, whoever was calling, it couldn't be more important than what was happening right now. He no longer needed to hear about things; time to make things happen.

Reminding himself to maintain a strict dual focus-observe Book while looking out for the return of Ax Dement or any unwelcome visitor-he sidled along the glass.

There were seams, but so tight that even this close they were tough to make out.

The entire house was constructed of huge glass panels, some of them had to be doors. But which ones?

He hazarded another few feet closer to the hovering nose of the house. Hearing one of his rubber soles let off a tiny rubbery squeak and stopping short.

Mason Book sat there.

Now Aaron was close enough to see blotches and zits marring the actor's once boyish face. Book's nose was a sharp, bony protuberance. Matched the angle of the house's snout.

As if the actor was a toy-an action figure-manufactured to fit the structure.

Book sat there, continued to suffer.

Stardom, indeed.

Suddenly he was up, standing, shaking, robe wide open.

Turning and facing the exact spot where Aaron crouched.

Hair shooting all over the place, eyes glazed, all skin and ribs, like a turkey carcass.

Looking straight at Aaron but not seeing him.

The actor belted his robe, headed for the rear of the house, passed through room after room.

The structure was a voyeur's dream. Ramone W would love it.

Maybe Ramone had been here.

Who knew what kind of ugly went on here?

Book stopped in a cold, bright kitchen. Black cabinets, limestone floors, two Wolf ranges, two fridges, both Traulsens, one steel-fronted, one a glass see-through.

When remodeling, Aaron had priced the brand. Opted to supercharge his Porsche and buy five Antonelli suits instead.

Book stood in front of the steel fridge. Did nothing for a long time, finally opened the door. On his second try, straining both no-muscle arms.

Breathing hard; Aaron could see the rapid rise and fall of his robe.

Something wrong with his heart due to all the starvation?

Book took something out of the fridge. Soda can-no, same size but the cover was white, lots of small print. Larger red letters.

Book held the can straight out in front, as if it were dangerous. Carrying it that way, he trudged back to the front of the house.

Sank into the same square chair, almost tripping over his own feet in the process, nearly losing hold of the can.

Panting, openmouthed, he held the can to his cheek. Stretched his arms out again and studied the white cylinder.

Offering Aaron a closer view of the red lettering. Aaron whipped out the mini-binocs.

ISO-CAL INTENSIVE

Balanced Protein Nutritional Supplement

Book's prescription snack, probably brought by that house-calling anorexia doctor.

The actor put the can on the floor, cried some more.

All weepy because he couldn't bring himself to take in calories?

Aaron was in no mood to be understanding. Rich man's pathology; no eating disorders in the Sudan.

Book retrieved the can, labored to pop the top, finally succeeded. Bent his elbow and brought the can closer to his lips.

Stopped. Stood. Upended the can and poured thick white liquid onto the floor.

Standing there until the can was empty, he placed it gingerly in the middle of the mess he'd created.

Slipping out of his robe, he strode, naked, with sudden purpose, toward the glass wall where Aaron was stationed.

Straight at Aaron.

Aaron hustled backward, was ten feet away when Book used both hands to push at the glass.

The wall swung open.

Mason Book stepped out into the night, skeletal, goose-bumped, bleached-out hair feathery in the breeze.

Off in some other galaxy, the actor made his way toward the structure's proboscis. His progress was painfully slow, his body recalcitrant.

Finally, he got to the snout, slipped under it.

Aaron moved in closer. Book continued toward the cliff-edge. The actor's eyes widened as they filled with the heat and light and color of the city.

Book pressed his hands together. Rocked on his heels. Shrunken genitals dangled. The guy's limbs were sticks, his back flecked by scatters of rosy rash.

Book kept his hands pressed together. Rocked some more.

Some sort of prayer ritual?

Book bent his knees, moved forward so his feet curled over the cliff-edge.

Spread his arms wide.

Oh, shit!

Aaron became a bullet.

Screaming bullet. Hoping his voice would freeze the idiot.

Just the opposite.

Book turned, saw Aaron. Smiled.

Bent his legs again and took off in flight.

Skin and bones helped.

But even a flimsy hundred-twenty-pound sack of dehydrated sinew could wrench your arms out of their sockets when you were flat on your belly in the dirt, all scuffed up and scraped from the slide, fighting to hold on.