Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

“He'd stopped beating her completely.”

“Yes, sir.”

“For how long?”

“Hmm… maybe a year. But…”

“But what?”

“She squeezes her own arm, sir. To bring up bruises. I don't know why, it's just something she does.”

“I see,” said Moe.

“I don't see,” said Ax. “Maybe where you'll send me, I'll get some insight.”

“How about giving me some insight about Caitlin Frostig.”

“Who?”

Moe repeated the name.

Ax Dement said, “Nope, never heard of her. Wish I did.”

“Why?”

“I want to change. Being helpful is part of that.”

On a beautiful sunny Monday, Moe Reed and Aaron Fox drove north on Pacific Coast Highway. Aaron was at the wheel of his Porsche. Both brothers wore sunglasses and short-sleeved shirts, Aaron's a three-hundred-dollar white Malo, Moe's a navy no-name polo.

At first glance, they were a pair of good-looking young men, out for a day of fun.

The Porsche had a tiny, barely functional backseat if they needed it.

They parked in the visitors’ lot of Pepperdine University, presented a warrant to the administration office, went to find Rory Stoltz.

Confronting the boy as he left a business management seminar, they escorted him away from his classmates onto the vast, perfectly green meadow of lawn that separated the campus from PCH.

Rory's blond hair was gelled and side-parted neatly, not spiked, the way he wore it when working for Mason Book. His shirt was an impeccable pale green buttondown, perfectly pressed by his mother. Same for straight-leg khakis.

Tall, lean, tan. Aaron thought: Ralph Lauren ad in the flesh.

Except for the face, which was ready to crumble. “You can't-”

“We just did,” said Moe.

Rory's face turned stupid-stoic, an obstinate kid digging himself deeper. He began picking at blades of grass.

“Here's what we know,” said Moe. “You do regular dope pickups for Mason Book and Ax Dement.”

Well-groomed fingers crushed grass, turned green at the tips. The kid had a manicure , for God's sake.

Not as good as mine, thought Aaron.

Moe said, “You've also been observed faking a dope pickup.”

The kid hung his head. His hands fluttered.

Moe said, “Not only do you pimp drugs for Book and Ax, but you rip them off when they ask for prescription dope. You put together your own stash at a discount price beforehand and quote them a higher price. They give you money and send you to score, you drive around for a while, do nothing, come back and hand over the goods, telling them you had to work hard to find it, and pocket the profit. Sometimes Mason Book tips you extra for your effort.”

Aaron said, “Those kinds of smarts, who needs a class in business management? How long did you think you could keep that up without someone finding out?”

“We found out really easily,” said Moe. “You were observed. And guess what, we just tossed your bedroom and found all that Xanax and Ritalin and Valium you've been stockpiling. We're figuring you buy wholesale from your fellow students.”

Rory shook his head.

“College is going to love you for setting off a big-time scandal. Forget your degree, we've got enough to put you away for years.”

The boy looked up.

“Years,” Moe repeated.

“I never bought, people gave me extra and I saved it.”

“Don't insult our intelligence, Rory.”

Silence.

“The thing is,” Moe went on, “we might not care about any of this.”

“Huh-pardon?”

“Your buddy Ax has been arrested for murder. He's desperate to save his own skin, can't talk fast enough. Meaning anyone even remotely associated with him is going to get sucked into some serious ugly. We're assuming you don't want to be one of those people.”

“Murder? I-I- didn't…”

Moe placed his hand on Rory's shoulder, felt the boy's muscles shrink in fear.

Useful move, it was going to become part of his repertoire.

“Rory, you need to tell us about Caitlin. Now. Even if you killed her. 'Cause we'll find out and make it even worse for you.”

“Kill her-no, no way I-” Gaping. “No, I never did that. I swear, no, never-”

The inevitable tears.

“Then what happened to her, Rory?”

More head shakes.

“Save your own ass, Rory.” Moe smiled. “Who knows? Maybe one day you will be a big-time agent.” To Aaron: “He could do it, right?”

Aaron said, “He's already got the moral qualifications.”

Rory's tan had splotched with pink. Blue eyes were filmed by shock and salt water. “Oh, God…”

Moe bore down. “What happened to Caitlin, Rory?”

A beat. Two.

Three. “I promised.”

“Now you're breaking your promise.”

Rory looked past-through them-at the highway. Blue infinity.

All that pretty paint and chrome speeding to pretty places. The ocean a soft teal blanket, ruffled by an unseen hand.

“You can't quote me,” he said.

Entitled little prick.

Moe said, “We can do anything we damn well please. Speak before I throw your ass in jail.”

“Okay, okay,” said Rory. “But you need to understand: I did my best. No matter what you say.”

The Convent of Santa Barbara is a one-hundred-fifty-year-old masterpiece of Baroque and Moorish revival, weathered brick walls adorned with arches and pillars, central courtyards jeweled by voluptuous gardens. Long designated a national landmark, the convent is central-casting-perfect for the role of Sacred Refuge.

The Sisters of Gethsemane Convent is a tract home on Santa Barbara's east side, set on an undistinguished, poorly paved street in one of the city's vulnerable working-class neighborhoods.

Just another stucco bungalow, hastily nailed up to accommodate returning World War II veterans.

The seven nuns who live at Gethsemane are immigrants from Central America and when they are not tending to sick children or Alzheimer's patients or homeless people, they answer to a Superior General in El Salvador who ignores them. The oldest nun, Sister Lourdes Echevarria, has lived half of her eighty-five years at the convent.

The tiny lot upon which the bungalow sits is one of many parcels of real estate amassed by the Catholic Church; its value has appreciated many times over since purchase in 1938. Six months ago, the bishop of Santa Barbara, ensconced in a lovely mansion in a more fashionable section of town, served an eviction order to the nuns. The house was to be sold to help pay a nearly billion-dollar settlement to victims of sexual predator priests. The order would be broken up, the nuns “redistributed” at the archdiocese's discretion.

Among themselves, the nuns discussed the injustice of having to give up their home to atone for the grievous sins of the priests. Publicly, they clung to their vows of obedience and awaited their fate.

Many of them cried when certain no one was listening.

Someone listened. Took the initiative to call a reporter at the Santa Barbara News-Press.

The resulting front-page story fomented local, then statewide outrage against the archdiocese. Evictions plans were halted, though on a temporary basis.

The Sisters of Gethsemane continue their good works and try not to think about the future.

The nuns wear white blouses and dark skirts and white flat shoes or sneakers. The three oldest cover their hair with blue kerchiefs. The bungalow is barely fourteen hundred square feet, partitioned into tiny rooms. The nuns own nothing and seven of them manage to sleep comfortably in bunk beds in two bedrooms.

A third bedroom at the rear is maintained for guests the nuns call “sojourners.”