True Detectives

CHAPTER 2

By now, Aaron Fox understood Mr. Dmitri.

Once a level of trust had developed, he'd stay out of your face.

Aaron's favorite type of client.

Real deep pockets made Mr. Dmitri the perfect client.

Before his first meeting with the guy, Aaron had done his usual research. Googling Leonid Davidovitch Dmitri and coming up with two dozen hits, the most informative a rags-to-riches tale in a business journal: Moscow born, trained as an electrical engineer, Dmitri had been stuck for fifteen years in a dead-end Communist job measuring noise levels at restaurants and filing reports that never got read. At the age of thirty-seven, he'd emigrated to Israel, then the U.S., taught night school math and physics to other Russians, tinkered in his kitchen, inventing numerous objects of dubious value.

Ten years ago, he'd patented a tiny, wafer-thin stereo speaker that produced outsized sound and was perfect for cars-especially high-end sports models with their limited cabin space.

Aaron's Porsche had been outfitted with Dmitri's gizmo when he'd had it customized and the fidelity was kick-ass.

The article estimated Mr. Dmitri's net worth at a couple hundred million, and Aaron was expecting to meet some tycoon sitting behind an acre of desk in an over-the-top inner sanctum crammed with imitation Fabergé and God knew what else.

What he encountered was a short, bald, stubby-limbed, bullnecked man in his late fifties with a pie-tin face blued by stubble, sitting behind a plywood desk in a no-window hole at a factory in a Sylmar industrial park.

Dmitri was maybe five five, at least two hundred, lots of that muscle, but also some fat. Dark brown laser-sharp eyes never stopped moving.

Two hundred biggies, but the guy wasn't spending it on wardrobe. Short-sleeved pale blue shirt, baggy gray pleated pants, gray New Balances. Aaron came to learn that it was Dmitri's uniform.

Cheap digital watch.

Fake-o tongue-and-groove covered all four walls of the office. Same for the door, giving the place a claustrophobic feel.

That first meeting, he'd played it safe clothes-wise, not knowing what kind of rapport he'd have to develop with the client.

That kind of individual attention was one of the many keys to Aaron's success.

Variety was what he liked about the job. One day you might be meeting at Koi with a pathetically tucked, youth-chasing record producer still thinking he could pull off hip-hop. Chopsticking miso black cod and waiting as the client struggled for nonchalance, inside he's rotting from insecurity as he fumbles to explain his reason for hiring a detective.

Finally the confession: He needs to know, is his twenty-seven-year-old fourth wife blowing the good-looking guy someone saw her with at Fred Segal, or is Darrett really a gay hairdresser she took along as a shopping buddy?

Situation like that, you don't dress down to the client's level but you don't wear a suit. Aaron met the poor fool wearing indigo Diesel jeans, a slate-colored, retro Egyptian cotton T-shirt from VagueLine, unstructured black linen jacket, perforated black Santoni driving shoes.

The following day, he was at a downtown law firm, corporate client talking through a six-hundred-dollar-an-hour mouthpiece, needing someone to check out the goings-on at a Temple Street construction site where tools and building materials were disappearing at an alarming rate. For that one, Aaron chose a navy pin-striped Paul Smith made-to-measure, pearl-gray Ferré shirt, maroon Sego tie, blue pocket square, brown kidskin Magli loafers.

Enjoying the feeling of good threads because tomorrow, he'd be made up like a skuzzy, psycho homeless bum, wheeling a shopping cart past the excavation.

For Aaron's first meeting with Mr. Dmitri, he selected an olive Zegna Soft three-button he'd found at the outlet in Cabazon, maize button-collar shirt and brown linen tie from Barneys, bittersweet chocolate Allen-Edmonds wingtips.

For all Mr. Dmitri noticed, Aaron could've pranced in wearing leotards and a codpiece.

Guy was ready to offer him the job, knew Aaron's rates, including the premium expense allowance, had a big fat retainer check faceup on the desk.

Big fat retainer.

“May I ask who referred you, sir?”

Dmitri picked up something that resembled a Rubik's Cube but had about twenty surfaces to it and squares embossed with Greek letters. Without glancing at the numbers, he whirled rapidly, checked out the result, put it back down.

“Certainly, you may ask.” Foghorn voice. Dmitri's accent turned it into Syertenly you mayyesk.

Smiling.

“Who referred you, sir?”

Dmitri said, “Serinus Canaria.”

Another foreign guy? Didn't ring a bell. “I'm sorry, sir, but that doesn't-”

Dmitri said, “Common canary.”

Aaron stared.

“Little bird,” said Dmitri. No more smile. “You want the job or no?”

Aaron glanced around the office for signs of some special interest in ornithology. Nothing on the hideous paneling except curling posters of Mr. Dmitri's patented SoundMyte speaker in “new-age designer colors.”

Aaron said, “Tell me about the job.”

“Good answer, Mr. Fox.”

The first assignment had been shockingly simple-pilfering from Dmitri's shipping bay. The culprit had to be one of six clerks, and within thirty-six hours Aaron had the idiot on hidden cam slipping speakers into four backpacks, stashing one after the other into the trunk of his Camry.

Slam-dunk, three-thousand-dollar tab. Aaron wondered why a man of Mr. Dmitri's technical abilities had bothered to hire out.

Testing Aaron?

If so, he'd passed, because the second gig arrived two months later and it was anything but simple.

One of Dmitri's secretaries was concerned that her seventeen-year-old honor-student daughter was “fooling around” with a gangbanger named Hector George Morales.

“Find out, Mr. Fox. I'll take it from there.”

“Nice of you to do that for an employee, sir.”

“Here's the check.”

Morales turned out to be a serious badass, third-generation Mexican Mafia, with a five-page juvey sheet Aaron cadged out of an LAPD records clerk using a hundred-dollar bribe. Ten additional pages recounted a pattern of adult felonies. Morales was suspected of several murders but had only been convicted of a single ADW, serving half of a ten-year sentence at Chino. Thirty-three years old, the fool hung out with extremely bad guys in clear violation of his parole.

Aaron caught him and honor-student-but-not-so-smart Valerie Santenegro on video emerging from an East L.A. motel near the county coroner's office, reported to Mr. Dmitri, and offered to use his LAPD contacts to get Hector busted.

“Good idea, Mr. Fox.”

Hector got sent back up for another ten and Valerie was shipped to Dallas to live with her married sister's family.

Mr. Dmitri said, “Good,” and peeled off a wad of bills. Ten extra hundreds. “What's this, sir?” “Appreciation, Mr. Fox. Go buy more fancy shirts.”

Over the past six months, Aaron had handled two additional assignments for the Russian: industrial espionage involving a competitor that took him to Eugene, Oregon, for three weeks of serious high-tech observation, and another in-house theft at the Sylmar factory, this one involving truck drivers.

Every suspect turned up guilty, which was no big surprise. Guy like Dmitri didn't hire you unless he had a pretty good idea what was going on. Aaron's business, in general, posed few whodunits, lots of prove-its.

The fifth case was different.

Dmitri played with his mega-Rubik's. “You are well, Mr. Fox?”

“Great.”

“I'm thinking, perhaps I should call you Aaron.”

“That would be fine, sir.”

“You may call me Mr. Dmitri.”

Aaron laughed.

“Yes, it was a joke.” An edge to the Russian's voice said, Don't even think about getting familiar.

“Aaron,” said Dmitri, as if testing out the sound. “From the Bible. Your parents are religious?”

“Not really, sir.”

“Moses's brother.”

“Yes, sir.” If you only knew.

“This new one,” said Dmitri, “maybe we won't learn the truth. One of my bookkeepers is Maitland Frostig. Master's degree in mathematics but he prefers to work with addition and subtraction. Mr. Frostig always looks sad. More recently, he is apparently sadder. I say apparently because I don't get involved with emotions. This year, the Christmas party, my wife said, ‘That man is extremely depressed. Like we used to be in Moscow.’ I looked at Maitland Frostig with… new eyes and agreed. But I forgot about him.”

Dmitri ran a hand over his shiny dome. “My wife did not forget. She is a psychiatrist. In Soviet Union they tried to make her inject dissidents with drugs. She refused and was sent to gulag. We never had children.”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

“ Regina talks, I listen. I called in Maitland Frostig for a meeting, he says everything is okay. I tell him no it isn't.” Small smile. “I say it with confidence because my wife is never wrong.”

“In general, sir, that's a good philosophy of life.”

“You are not married.” Statement, not a question. Aaron was certain Dmitri had hired someone to check him out before writing that first check. Maybe one day he'd find out who.

“Haven't found the right woman.”

“Maybe,” said Dmitri said. “Anyway, I tell Maitland Frostig something is wrong and he tells me the story. He lives alone, a widower since his daughter is four. Now the daughter is twenty and she is missing. Caitlin Frostig. For fifteen months she is missing, the police do nothing.”

“Someone that age,” said Aaron, “no sign of foul play, they'll file it as a missing person and put it aside.”

“I made some calls, got the file sent to Homicide detectives. Nothing.”

“Which division?”

“I don't know.”

“Where was the girl last seen?”

“Maitland's house is in Venice.”

“Twenty and still living at home.”

“Yes.”

“ Venice is Pacific Division.”

Shrug. Don't bother me with details. “Police do nothing. My call was before I know you. Now I know you.”