True Detectives

CHAPTER 33

The rookie's name was Jennifer Kennedy.

Petra had never mentioned gender. Why should she?

Kennedy was ruddy and round-faced, not bad looking in a farm-girl way, with cornflower eyes and pasta-colored hair cut short and peaked on top-almost a faux-hawk. Three holes in one ear, two in the other. Moe wouldn't be surprised if her uniform hid some tats.

Sitting in a plastic chair in a Hollywood interview room, she worked hard at not showing anxiety.

Failing. The blue eyes gave it away. Despite the fact that Petra and Moe were proceeding gently.

Like Petra had said before they entered the room: no sense adding to the kid's stress.

The kid; Kennedy's stats put her at four years older than Moe. She'd worked as a secretary for a medical insurance company for eight years before entering the academy sixteen months ago.

Those same organizational skills led to precision: a carefully logged surveillance of Raymond Wohr, down to the minute.

No chance Wohr had been in his apartment from six p.m., when Kennedy had started watching him, until three a.m. when she'd busted him.

The only window of opportunity for him to stab Alicia Eiger, the two-hour lapse between the end of Moe's watch and the start of hers.

Ramone would've had time to backtrack to his crib, confront Eiger about the bitch-slap, wreak vengeance, clean up, and reemerge on the street to drink and lurk and troll for an underage hooker. Ditch bloody clothes.

But lack of violence in Ramone's past and the passive way he'd tolerated Eiger's abuse, combined with Maidie Johansen's educated time-of-death guess, made Moe wonder.

He said, “Tell us about the bust.”

Kennedy said, “Did I screw that up?”

“Wohr's a bad guy, he was having sex with a minor, you did the right thing.”

As if Moe had failed to comfort her, Kennedy looked at Petra.

“You had no choice, Jennifer. Wohr being in lockup is fine, we'll have access to him.”

Once we find him.

“Okay,” said Kennedy. “So what happened was obviously I was watching him and mostly it was a lot of nothing. Drinking, walking around, finding another bar, walking some more.”

Moe said, “Did he call anyone?”

“He could've, inside one of the bars, but not out on the street. Finally, he walked to Western, there were a bunch of girls working the chicken place, at first I wasn't sure if they actually were girls.”

Petra said, “Sometimes they're not.”

“The girl he went to,” said Kennedy, “it was obvious they had a prior relationship. Or whatever you want to call it. From how fast it was, there was no discussion, they just ducked into the alley. By the time I get a look, he's with his back against a wall and she's on her knees. She looked eleven, who knew?”

“She was a minor, Jennifer.”

Kennedy frowned. “Seventeen years, eight months. When I busted him, he went down easy, no resistance. Didn't react when I found that weed I logged. She ran but I made the decision to concentrate on him. She was so young looking. I wanted it to end.”

They let Kennedy go and stayed in the room.

Moe said, “Solo officer in plainclothes tells him to assume the position, he doesn't fight.”

Petra said, “Female officer, no less.” She grinned. “I'm allowed to say that. Yeah, he's pretty darn passive, but even passive guys blow fuses.”

“I'm not feeling it,” said Moe. “That murder was brutal and someone took the time to pose her sexually, maybe to throw us off.”

“My instinct, too, Moe. Your question about calling someone-you think he set Eiger up with someone nasty enough to do it?”

“I'm sure going to find out if he's got a phone account. If not, we'll see if there's pay phones in any of those bars.”

Petra nodded. “One good thing about passive: We get him in a room, he could be workable.”

“I'm looking forward to it.” He thanked her, left Hollywood Station and drove to West L.A.

Thinking: I'm developing instincts.

Two hours later, he was still at his desk, going over Caitlin Frostig's file for the thousandth time. Raymond Wohr had no account at any phone company. Tracking pay phones in bars would take hours, but he had no choice.

Petra had just called, still wrestling with County Jail bureaucracy; no one in the custodial megalith had a clue as to Ramone Ws whereabouts. For all Moe knew, the mope had paid for his perv tag already- sliced, diced, stashed behind some jail boiler.

Eiger getting murdered so brutally after her tirade made Moe wonder if the motive wasn't revenge but someone shutting her up about something important.

As in two dead girls.

And a baby.

During her rant, Eiger had seemed to be exhorting Ramone. Trying to goad him to do something. Giving up and calling him stupid before whomping him upside the head. Had she known that he was in possession of explosive information, got frustrated because he wouldn't exploit the knowledge?

Explosive as in the paternity of Baby Gabriel? Something Caitlin might've learned getting close enough to Adella to sit for the infant?

Rich-guy paternity as in Mason Book?

If Ramone W knew or even suspected that, he sure hadn't profited. Living in that dump, pimping Eiger to Ax Dement and the motel clerk.

Too passive to exploit? But Eiger isn't, she nags him, he puts her off because he's too dumb, or too scared to figure out an angle?

Eiger, tired of being a commodity, loses patience, braces Ramone on the street, slaps him down.

Now she's dead.

If there was a link there, Moe figured it could've gone two ways.

Option A: Ramone finally gives in, makes a blackmail call, flubs, and turns Eiger into a victim. Narrowly misses getting killed himself. Remains in jeopardy.

Option B: Furious at Eiger for humiliating him, but a sneak, not an action guy, Ramone makes a call that tags her as dangerous. Turns Eiger into a victim. Is still in jeopardy.

Oh, yeah, the third option, C: None of the above.

Moe's hands clenched. His jaw hurt. He'd been grinding his teeth without realizing it.

Damn jail… scumbag had to show up, eventually. Moe was pretty sure he could crack the idiot open like a peanut.

When, not if. He had to believe in something.

Sitting in the dark, above Swallowsong Lane, Aaron checked his expense log.

He knew it by heart but nothing else to do, now that his sandwich was gone and he'd taken a couple of whizz-breaks in the bushes.

The glamorous side of private detecting. People like Mr. Dmitri didn't have a clue.

Aaron cheered himself with mental calculations of the final bill he'd present the Russian. Maybe his last bill to the Russian if he had nothing to show.

Liana still hadn't called. Where the hell was she?

The chance that she might be in danger plagued him personally and professionally. He'd never had a better op than Liana and a part of him-some part he couldn't really label-felt deeply about her.

Nothing he could do now, so he shoved his worries into a filing cabinet at the back of his head.

The key was to keep everything compartmentalized.

Where are you, Lee? He assured himself yet again that she was smart. He'd briefed her fully on this one. Urged her to be careful.

It was just after one a.m. During the past five hours, six cars had driven up Swallowsong: Three vehicles ferried neighbors home and one of them, an old Mercedes diesel sedan, reemerged thirty minutes later with an elderly man behind the wheel and a woman of matching vintage prattling in the passenger seat.

Tux, gown, some kind of party, everyone in a good mood.

Probably one of those perfect couples, together for forty years.

Must be nice…

At ten thirteen p.m. Rory Stoltz chauffeured Mason Book home in his Hyundai, stayed with the actor for a mere twelve minutes before speeding down the hill.

Probably not an errand, the kid hadn't reappeared.

Shortly after eleven p.m., Ax Dement, solo in his pickup, did his customary run of the stop sign and zoomed up the hill. His stay was also brief-twenty-four minutes. Just long enough to smoke up or sniff or drink and savor the high.

Aaron caught a glimpse of Dement Junior's squat, bearded face as the truck sped away. Ax didn't look high, quite the contrary.

Preoccupied.

One fifteen.

Convinced Mason Book wouldn't be receiving any more visitors, Aaron left the Opel and began the silent hike up Swallowsong.

From his easy lope, no outward sign of the tension-the frustration- that seized every cell of his body. He realized his heart was pounding and he took some time to deep-breathe it slower.

Later, looking back, he'd marvel at his own daring. Or stupidity, depending on how you looked at it.

Right now, standing outside the Baroque gates of the house Mason Book rented from Lemuel Dement, noticing how many foothold opportunities the complex ironwork provided, tired of being stymied by the layout of the property-the curving drive and Italian cypresses that blocked any view of what lay beyond-he said, “What the hell.”

Whispering out loud. Feeling his lips move but inaudible above the distant buzz of traffic from the Strip. Leaves rustling in a warm, sweet Hollywood Hills breeze.

Making sure his Glock was buttoned down firmly in its nylon holster, running a lint-remover over his black nylon jacket to remove errant hairs, he gloved up, looked around. Breathed in deeply and placed two hands on the upper-left quadrant of the gate, nudged a toe into a convenient circle of space afforded by an iron curlicue.

Exhaled and hoisted himself up.