Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

For sixteen months, a young woman with clipped dark hair, a soft voice, and willing hands has been the sojourner of residence. She calls herself Catherine and the nuns have never questioned whether or not that is her real name.

Catherine knocked on the door of the convent and asked if she could stay a few days. She insisted on pitching in with household chores, doing more than her share-doing the work of three, by Sister Lourdes's estimate. Days stretched to weeks, which stretched to months. Catherine asked if she could help outside the house as well, and she began accompanying Sister Maria-Guadalupe and Sister Maria-Anastasia as they made the rounds of a board-and-care home for severely retarded adults.

Catherine loves cleaning and feeding and singing to the patients. She changes their diapers without complaint.

The nuns love Catherine. All of them suspect it is she who phoned the reporter. The topic is never brought up because suspicion, accusation, and recrimination have no place in their world.

Of late, Catherine has put aside her young-person jeans and tops and has worn the white blouse and dark skirt favored by the nuns.

Alone in her bedroom, after a long day, she sometimes looks out the window at the vegetable garden that takes up most of the convent's backyard, marvels at tomatoes, eggplant, artichokes, grapevines. Cries.

Mostly, she is at peace.

Aaron and Moe watched her take out the garbage. Wheeling the third of two plastic bins to the curb, then stopping to look up at the sky.

Different hair, same face.

Not wanting to frighten her, they approached smiling.

She said, “You're here.”

Not a blink of surprise.

They'd warned Rory not to broadcast their arrival. The kid had defied them.

Gold stars for loyalty. Love.

Doing “the right thing,” again.

Moe introduced himself and Caitlin pretended to listen. He was willing to bet Rory's call had included their names and a detailed physical description.

Despite that, she hadn't rabbited.

“Pleased to meet you, Detective Reed.” Turning to Aaron.

He said, “Aaron Fox, Caitlin.”

“Pleased to meet you, as well, Mr. Fox.”

Pretty girl, clear-eyed, apple-cheeked. Same age as Rory, but she seemed more… adult.

Moe said, “We're not here to cause you problems. We know what your father did to you.” The plural pronoun came easy.

“That's in the past,” said Caitlin Frostig.

“It is, but it's still a crime.”

“I know, Detective Reed.”

“If you want to press charges-”

“I don't.”

“You're sure of that.”

“I am, Detective Reed. I've thought about it a lot and I don't.”

“We respect that, Caitlin. And we know how hard it would be. But what if your coming forward prevents the same thing from happening to another girl?”

“He'd never do that,” said Caitlin.

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I know.” Grazing one of the trash cans with her fingers. She studied the sky some more. Took in the cracked stucco front of the bungalow. Tomato plants trimmed the front of the little house, used as ornamental shrubs. Cherry tomatoes. Caitlin Frostig walked away and Moe was sure he'd lost her.

Picking a handful of tomatoes, she returned to the brothers. “Hungry?”

Moe quelled reflexive denial, took the four little red orbs she was offering. Popped one in his mouth. “Delicious.”

“Mr. Fox?”

“Thank you… really tasty, Caitlin.”

She said, “In terms of other girls, what happened between my father and myself was what psychologists call a situation-specific dynamic. My mother died when I was young. My father had no one and I became a substitute. I'm not saying it was right. But it won't happen to anyone else.”

Pronounced with clarity. Clinical detachment. Either she'd dealt with it and was ready to move on. Or the healing hadn't even begun.

Moe said, “I'm so sorry for what you went through.”

“Thank you… will it be necessary to tell him where I am?”

“Not if you don't want him to know.”

“I don't.”

“Then our lips are sealed.”

“Thank you so much.” Moving forward as if to kiss Moe's cheek, she stopped herself. “Would you like more tomatoes? They've grown like crazy, I'll get you a bag, take some for the road.”

Nice way to say please leave.

Moe said, “We'd like that.”

During the ride back to L.A. the brothers ate tomatoes and listened to music and didn't talk much.

Well before the transition to the 405 South, Moe said, “If you don't mind, stay on the 101 and take Laurel.”

Aaron said, “Making a detour to Swallowsong?”

“Drop me at Liz's. She lives on Fuller near Melrose.”

“No prob.”

Midway down the canyon: “Moses, we did okay.”

“It worked out.”

“This was beyond whodunit,” said Aaron.

Moe said, “Way beyond… Mom called yesterday night. I assume she called you, too.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Moe allowed himself a smile. “Kosher sausages are so yesterday. Welcome to organic, grass-fed bison. Ever have that?”

“Nope. She bought half an animal.”

“Buffalo Mom.”

Aaron said, “An eight-thousand-dollar barbecue grill. You believe that?”

Moe thought: Actually, sounds like something you'd like. Oh, yeah, you never cook. “Can you see her wearing one of those aprons, breathing in all that smoke?”

Aaron laughed. “Not easily… I thought I'd go. Make her feel good.”

Moe said, “No sense not going.”

“See you there, then.”

“Yeah.”

Aaron glanced at his brother. Moe was back to his serious self.

He could live with that. The two of them existed in a seismic world. Too much movement could crack the surface.

At Sunset, Moe said, “I appreciate it. Going out of your way and dropping me off.”

“Who says it's out of my way?”

“It's not?”

“Who knows?” said Aaron, smiling. “Another big-time whodunit.”

“Either way, thanks,” said Moe. “Bro.”

Moments later, Aaron watched as a beautiful black woman came out of her condo and greeted his brother with the warmest smile he'd ever seen. Cries of delight, big hug, a lingering kiss that would have embarrassed Moe if Aaron had stuck around to see all of it.

The air was warm but Aaron put up the top on the Porsche for the climb back up Laurel.

Wanting quiet as he phoned Merry Ginzburg and told her what she needed to know about Mason Book.

Parceling out appetizers, what amounted to a picayune scandal. The red meat, she didn't need to know.

With Ax Dement maintaining his loyalty, Book's name would never appear on any court papers. Wouldn't be associated in any way with drug use, suicide, the murder of the woman he'd helped lure to her death.

Aaron had spent some time with Book, was convinced Book really had been an unwitting dupe. Was certain the hourly fee for babysitting the actor wasn't influencing his opinion.

Liana agreed. Book didn't impress her. The man in her life was some number-crunching Ph.D. Aaron would have to check out.

Even the little he gave Merry was enough to rejuvenate her career. Maybe put some big bucks in Aaron's pocket if he played it right.

She said, “So I was right. He starves himself.”

“Almost died, Mer.”

“Thank you, Denzel.”

“Don't I always come through?”

Sigh. “You do.”

“Let's have dinner.”

“A pity meal?” she said. “That's sweet, but no thanks.”

“A good meal,” said Aaron. “No business.”

“That's impossible, my dear. For both of us.”

“You never know.”