True Detectives

CHAPTER 26

The woman was typical.

Another leggy, tan, bleach-blond soldier in the army of those who lunched but didn't eat much.

By Aaron's estimate, well-to-do X-ray types made up a third of the crowd at the Cross Creek shopping center in the heart of Malibu.

This one wore her texturized ash-and-gold just over the shoulders, with feather bangs. A youthful look she could still pull off, at least from a distance. If she'd been tucked, her surgeon deserved a medal for subtle.

Aaron approved of her style-long-sleeved, sage-green polo shirt, probably from Ron Herman or Fred Segal, low-slung velvet pants the color of good bourbon, chocolate-brown designer sneakers-Gucci, he was pretty sure. Diamond studs sparked her ears. Not showy but big enough to get the message across: Someone cares about me.

The black BMW X5 SUV that she drove poorly while yakking on her cell phone filled out the picture. Only her walk differentiated her from the loose-limbed, confident Battalion of the Privileged: She held her head kind of low, moved on the slowish side, stopped several times midstride, looking blank, before resuming the inevitable trudge to the Starbucks.

Typical to the casual observer, but Aaron was watching on a whole different level.

He'd been following Gemma Dement for over two hours by the time she entered the coffee chapel. Found a spot for himself at an outdoor table of an oh-so-cute vegan café just across the narrow lane that ran through the oh-so-cute boutiques.

Lunch would be noodles with fake shrimp. Good chopstick skills helped him blend in.

The Starbucks was jammed. Fifteen minutes later, she was still in there.

No sweat, he was fully awake, into the hunt. Finally.

He'd been in Malibu all morning, after alarming himself up at five thirty feeling like someone had dumped a bucket of turd in his mouth. Forcing himself to work out extra-hard, then assaulting his body with a cool shower.

Shocking himself alert so he could be back at Leo Carrillo early. Trying not to think about last night's traffic ticket, the damned Chippie.

Idiot wanted to stick him with three separate violations. Added to the speeder he'd gotten a few months ago, that could put his license in jeopardy. Unmoved by Aaron's P.I. credentials or the Xerox of the nice letter his captain had written him when he left the department, the stubborn bastard's only concession was knocking it down to two.

Sign here, sir. Have a good evening, sir. Drive carefully, sir.

Driving like a brain-dead geezer, he still reached the state park by seven a.m. On the beach side, the tide was moderate and gentle. No surfers, the only vehicle in sight a Winnebago pulled to the side so its tourist inhabitants could snap cell phone pix of water and sky.

The yellow gates were open. Over in the land-side parking lot, the ranger's booth was empty. Aaron began scouring the area from where the truck had parked to the beginning of the entry trail for a roach, a plastic bag, anything interesting. He'd covered the asphalt and was moving toward the neighboring brush when an open-sided parks department jeep cruised in and parked next to his Porsche.

The driver was a young woman with short brown hair, wearing the ranger uniform. Small girl, athletic body, pixie face. She appraised Aaron with sharp little cop eyes and got out.

He'd made sure to dress beachy without sinking into tacky: white silk aloha shirt printed with discreet, teal-blue palm trees from a boutique Bologna designer, cream linen pants, Italian glove-leather sandals, no socks. Today's watch was a chrome TAG Heuer that said I don't need to flaunt. He'd splashed on Givenchy men's cologne and that was still working.

The lady-ranger said, “Morning, sir. Looking for something?” L. Martin.

“I am, but I doubt I'll find it.” Rolling his wrist. “Lost my other watch on Sunday, I was here with my kids, took a walk. Wasn't until I was all the way back to Beverly Hills before I noticed it was gone.” He grimaced. “Band must've broke.”

Mention of the high-priced city arched the ranger's eyebrows.

Is this guy for real? Some sort of celebrity? Too small for a basketball player… an actor?

She eyed the TAG. “At least you've got another one.”

“The one that fell off was just a cheapie digital. But my kids gave it to me for Father's Day, the whole sentimental-value thing.”

“Bummer,” she said. “You think it fell off here?”

“I'm starting here. We only made maybe half a mile before the kids ran out of steam-do you have a lost and found?”

“We do, but there are no watches in there. T-shirts, towels, hats- you tell me you attended the Better Than Ezra concert tour, I can help you.”

Aaron grinned. “You wouldn't happen to have a Smokey Robinson tee?”

The ranger grinned back. “No such luck-you know him?”

“Smokey? No, I just love his music.”

“Oh.” Clear disappointment. She pointed toward the path leading into the park. “Best thing is retrace your steps. Good luck. Maybe the Force will be with you today.”

“From your mouth to God's ears.”

♦

Perhaps the Deity liked cute females in snug uniforms, because it only took a few minutes for Aaron to find the spot.

Two clear sets of shoe prints veered off the road into a thicket of eucalyptus and lower shrubs, well before the campgrounds. A section of broken branches had cued him in. Once he got past the trees, the ground grew smooth and the roaches were obvious. Two little nubby brown paper things, easy to miss if you weren't looking.

Aaron stooped, didn't touch a thing, as he took in the area. Small clearing, backed by stubbier, denser trees, tangles of spiky plants.

Smooth-soled footwear had left deep impressions. A heavyweight. From the shape of the heel, maybe some kind of boot.

Longer, shallower impressions bore a tire-tread pattern.

Your basic Tijuana huarache sandal; maybe Mason Book wasn't into fashion footwear. Or the guy was rich enough not to care.

No sign of disturbance of the soil indicating a burial. But fifteen months had passed since Caitlin's disappearance, so that meant nothing.

Close to the path for a burial site. Though he supposed a couple of arrogant, entitled killers might be that reckless.

He gloved up, collected the doobie-butts, dropped them in a plastic ziplock. Something near a rock caught his eye. Five burned paper matches. A foot from those, a one-inch square plastic bag.

Empty, but he was able to make out a couple of tiny granules trapped in a corner. Brownish. Maybe Mexican tar.

He sniffed. Sometimes H gave off weird smells-a vinegar-and-cat-piss cocktail. This stuff was odorless. Maybe good H.

Bagging the Baggie, he looked around for anything else interesting.

Off to his left, maybe ten yards away, the trees ruffled and a dark shape protested his presence with a high-pitched squawk.

Shooting upward, a missile-shaped creature cleared the tree canopy. Aaron made out the wide, fringed wings of the hawk as it soared out of view.

He thought of Mr. Dmitri. Little birdie, indeed.

♦

Stopping at the Hows Market at PCH and Trancas, he bought a bagel and a quart of milk, ate and drank in the parking lot while watching construction workers drive in and out in trucks. A couple of maids in uniforms entered on foot, probably from the big houses that lined Broad Beach.

A few of the hard-hats checked out the C4S. Aaron, concealed by tinted windows, chewed on his breakfast and wondered why Ax Dement and Mason Book had driven all the way to western Malibu in order to smoke up.

Had to be something about that particular spot.

Lacking authority, he couldn't very well return with a shovel.

Even for Moe to return, there'd have to be probable cause.

State park, Coastal Commission, he could just picture the scene. Probably end up like that TV show a few years back, some talk-show dude opening Al Capone's vault, building the suspense up for weeks, then the damned thing turns out empty.

A paunchy guy with a tool belt came close to the Porsche and attempted to look through the passenger window.

Aaron slid the window down, guy nearly fell over.

“Morning.”

“Yeah, hey-cool wheels. Do the X-17 upgrade on it?”

“Nah,” said Aaron. “Paid fifteen grand less and got it up to 415.”

“Awesome… have a nice day, man.”

“You, too.”

Aaron had chosen his own wheels for today because a black man at the beach needed to look as rich as possible. Plus he missed the car's fantastic handling. Not to mention the general aura of cool that engulfed him when he got behind the wheel.

Keeping the top up, though, because this day at the beach was a job, like any other.

As he nourished himself, he made calls to people who owed him favors.

Remembering the diminishing pattern of phone calls between Mason Book and CAA, he started with a talent agent at a competing outfit whose divorce had gone smoother because of what Aaron had learned about the guy's much younger not-so-loving wife.

The guy said, “I've got a meeting in five. Why're you asking about Mason?” Dropping the star's name in that casual way that said I play in that league. Even though the guy's client list topped out at soap opera fill-ins.

Aaron said, “Nothing juicy and this needs to be confidential because we all know what happens when things aren't confidential.”

Confident the guy would remember his ex's proclivity for being shat on by Japanese businessmen. Reduced alimony and full custody of the Lhasa apso was one thing, being suckered so everyone knew it was another.

“Of course.” Pompous, as if there'd never been any question about being discreet. “So what do you want to know?”

“Is Mason still hot?”

“Hot?”

“In demand.”

“Maybe not as much as he used to be, but a helluva lot of people would still be happy to work with him. Once they know he's okay.”

“Okay, as in…”

“You're the private eye. You're telling me you don't know?”

“I need specifics, Ken.”

“Word has it there isn't a drug Mason's met that he didn't date.”

“That serious, huh?”

“His last shoot took way longer than usual. Because of looong naps. Coke and weed don't do that. Catch my drift?”

“Heroin.”

“They say it has that effect.”

“Does he shoot or smoke?”

“How would I know-smoke, I'd bet. Can't afford any needle marks.”

Aaron said, “But the picture did get finished.”

“Loose Change for Danny? Hell, yeah, made a nice profit. Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

The agent laughed. “Depends on who the accountants are. I did a project with Pam DeMoyne-from Shadows of Our Days? She was amazing, I'm talking on a level with Streep and Mirren. But the suits sent it straight to video anyway-I'll send you a DVD. It's really great, historical story about Shakespeare's secret gay life, Pam was Anne Hathaway, she was-”

“The accountants,” Aaron prompted.

“Right,” said Ken. “The accountants. I got Pam a twenty-five percentage of net, which is amazing, even if it is net, at that level you should see some payout. Never saw a dime of royalties. We do an audit, there's a three-hundred-thousand ‘distribution fee.’ I say what's that, they hem and haw, finally they tell me it's the price of driving the film from the production office in Westwood to the editor in Burbank.”

“High-priced taxi. I'll take the gig.”

“Oh, yeah. So did Book's last picture make money? Probably, because he's got clout, they might be afraid to pull bullshit like that.”

“But maybe diminishing clout.”

“He hasn't worked in what… a year and a half, two, three? Are you snooping around because something nasty's gonna pop, Aaron? Like he's over the edge and the studio's gonna be suing him for breach?”

“Nothing like that, Ken. Now tell me about Ax Dement.”

“Who?”

“Lem's oldest son. I hear he hangs out with Book.”

“News to me,” said Ken. “I've got no time for hangers-on.”

“Would you work with Lem?”

“You mean because he's a fascist and a racist and a fundamentalist hypocrite? Not my idea of integrity, Aaron.”

Aaron said, “What if the accounting was good?”

Ken laughed. “In that case, sure. But don't tell my mother.”

Aaron's second call was to Liana Parlat.

“How about another trip to Riptide, same fee structure.”

She said, “Sure. Maybe I'll run into Dr. Rau again. But could it be in a couple of nights?” “Busy?”

“Cartoon audition. I need to sound like an obnoxious twelve-year-old.”

“Not much of a stretch,” said Aaron.

Liana laughed and whined nasally: “Thanks. Dad.”

“You never called Rau, huh?”

“Not because I'm scared, Aaron. Because I've been working.”

“Another brat voice?”

“One of those classy animations under consideration at one of the so-called edgy networks. Disgusting family, even more disgusting flatulent dog.”

“Gas noise is part of your repertoire?”

“Actually, I'm under consideration for Sinead, the twelve-year-old daughter.” Putting on a high, reedy voice: “‘Oh man, Daddy-person, when you said this was a field trip, I didn't know we'd actually be out in the field listening to the growls and howls of Gyro's bowels.

“Here I come, Mr. Oscar.”

“Beats honest labor, Mr. Fox. As does lancing for you. What's the drill for my second visit?”

“Just sit around, soak up more atmosphere. If the topic ever comes up naturally, work Ax Dement into the conversation.”

“The son but not Lem?” she said. “You've got something concrete?”

“Not even close, Lee. The case is arctic but I'm sifting dirt wherever I can.” Smiling at his choice of words; the clearing at Carrillo was still on his mind.

She said, “It would sure be nice to dig up some downright filth related to that abusive asshole.” Resuming the kiddie voice: “‘Gee, sure, Mr. Fox-person. That would be a real field trip!’”

By ten a.m., Aaron had completed his fourth sally up and down the poorly paved, tree-lined highway that snaked past Len Dement's Solar Canyon spread, ten miles above PCH.

Each cycle raised the risk of being spotted. He tried to buffer the threat by stretching the time between passes, driving a good fifteen miles past the watch-zone before coming back down.

If nothing happened soon, it was back to the city with plastic bags and question marks.

Barely half a mile past the property, the real estate switched to public domain: undeveloped state conservancy land along an increasingly rutted road. Sloping granite on one side, shallow canyons on the other. Aaron eased the Porsche around curves, enjoying the way the four-wheel drive embraced the asphalt.

Small birds flittered above the brush, unaware or uncaring about hawks-man, there were a lot of winged creatures out here-gliding, scoping out the buffet. Swooping.

Google Earth had defined Dement's sixty-plus acres with an aerial shot. Only one access, a single-lane entry road from the roadside gate connecting to a few acres of flat pad. The big rectangle right of center had to be the main house. Farther back, to the left, several smaller outbuildings sprouted like buds. No sign of any church under construction, but maybe the picture was old.

Twenty Solar Canyon, a cinch to find. The gate was mesh, manually operated, nearly flush with the road. Barbed-wire fencing stretched from the posts a good five hundred feet in either direction.

No mailbox, no address numerals, no fake-o cowboy brand over the gate, like some of the other places he'd spotted driving up.

On the other hand, no snarling dogs or No Trespassing warnings, any other go-away.

On his third pass, he hazarded a stop, looked for a well-concealed security camera, failed to find one. So either high-tech developments had gotten past him, or Dement didn't bother to keep watch.

Figuring a camera would be too conspicuous?

The guy had tons of dough but chose to live away from the Industry hubbub of Beverly Hills, Brentwood, the Colony, Broad Beach.

A place meant to be ignored.

Beginning his fifth pass, Aaron was ready to call it quits when a black X5 crested the road above the gate and rolled down erratically.

He zoomed past, parked precariously on the narrow highway, just out of view of the SUV, ran down to where he could see and not be seen.

The X5 was idling, its driver's door open. A slim, fair-haired woman was unlocking the gate with a key. Once she'd pushed the heavy metal frame wide, she returned to the SUV, drove out a few yards, got out again, relocked the gate.

Aaron's long-range lens captured the whole tedious routine. Maybe Lem Dement didn't want people coming and going that easily. By the time the X5 was gone, Aaron was inspecting digital images, include a nice close-up of the woman's face.

But no need to guess; he'd memorized every face in the Malibu paper's family portrait of the Dement clan.

Gemma Dement hadn't changed a bit.