True Detectives

CHAPTER 8

Aaron watched the little pink house.

It was just after ten p.m. For three hours, he'd done nothing but watch.

Nice night in the Valley, more than a few stars peeking through a charcoal felt sky, the street lined with neat domiciles, quiet and peaceful.

He sat low in the seat of the Opel, drank green tea, ate the second half of a pastrami sandwich, listened to Anita Baker on his iPod.

Moe had walked out of the restaurant committing to nothing. Aaron tipped the Indian woman generously, then drove to Heinz the Mechanic's place on Pico, where he garaged the C4S and picked up the Opel.

Deceptive little thing, with its dinged-up body and flat brown paint. The engine was a rebuilt BMW 325i enhanced by Heinz's magical hands. The best of several loaners the German kept around while he worked on Carreras and Ferraris and such. Fifty bucks bought Aaron twenty-four hours. Smoked windows were perfect for the job at hand.

He logged the expenditure into his BlackBerry.

Driving home, he cell-phoned a source at the county assessor's office, learned that Rory Stoltz owned no real estate but Martha Greta Stoltz paid property taxes on a single-family residence on Emelita Street in North Hollywood.

“Thanks, Henry. I owe you.”

Laughter. “You sure do.”

“Check's in the mail.”

“It sure is.”

The call was a luxury. Property rolls were public records but saving time was a bargain, in the long run, for Mr. Dmitri.

Henry's fifty got logged.

Aaron could've stretched that but, deep pockets like Mr. Dmitri's, you had to be careful not to get piggy.

Address in hand, he GPS'd the precise location as he drove home to his place on San Vicente off Wilshire. Speed-dialing continuously, using red lights to work the BlackBerry.

His building was a deco-flavored duplex built in the twenties, one of the final reminders that the area had once been residential. Aaron's neighbors were low-rise office structures. Skyscrapers on Wilshire cast long shadows across his roof.

He'd picked up the property at a foreclosure auction for a ridiculous price, spent the next five years remodeling, doing a lot of the work himself. Last year, he'd billed two hundred ninety-six thousand dollars in fees, collected nearly all of that, and this year was looking at least as good. But without the bargain purchase, he'd still be living in a condo.

He unlocked the gate around the small front yard, disabled the security lock, released both bolts in the door, removed his snail mail from the internal slot. The first floor was Work Land, all-black wood floor where it wasn't Berber carpeting, gray suede walls, chrome and leather and glass furniture. Sheets of Lexan were bolted to the inner surfaces of conspicuous windows. Invisible, unless you knew to look.

The décor expressed all the high-tech efficiency clients craved.

This afternoon, Work Land was silent, every message and e-mail cleared during the drive. He loved operating as a solo act.

Checking one of three fax machines, he was pleased to find a fresh clear copy of Rory Stoltz's driver's license, courtesy an illegal search by a source at DMV.

Hundred bucks. Ka-ching.

Folding the page neatly, to keep from creasing the subject's face, he headed upstairs to Play Land, worked out in his gym, showered, whirlpool-bathed, shaved.

Feeling loose and confident, he sauntered, stark-naked and swinging a key ring, down a subtly lit, plum-carpeted hallway toward what had once been a rear bedroom.

The space was guarded by a security-hinged door of fiery teak. An ebony silhouette of a top-hatted boulevardier graced the center of the wood. Aaron unlocked and stepped in.

The same teak covered the walls and the coffered ceilings. Recessed lighting set off billiard-table-green carpeting. The twenty-by-eighteen room was sectioned by double-height, industrial-quality, stainless-steel racks he'd snagged at a bargain price from Carlyle and Tout when the Brentwood haberdasher went under.

The left side was devoted to suits, sport coats paired with harmonizing slacks, and topcoats he rarely used. Though his favorite, a charcoal-brown, cashmere/mink-blend Arnold Brant by Columbo, sometimes got put to work when he lowered the Porsche's top on windy winter nights.

On the right hung sport shirts and casual jackets arranged by hue, forty-two pairs of neatly pressed jeans with an emphasis on Zegna, a dozen Fila velour workout suits-no, thirteen.

The rear wall was mostly dress shirts. Lots of Borelli, but some Brioni, Ricci, Charvet, Turnbull, Armani Black Label. Flanking hooks held belts and ties, each cravat paired with a harmonious pocket silk. Ringing the entire room above the racks was teak shelving bearing clear plastic boxes containing sweaters and shoes, the latter identified precisely.

Magli Olive Suede Wingtips. Paciotti Black Buckle Loafers. Edmonds Cordovans.

About half of the clothing still bore tags.

Aaron walked among his treasures, fingertips grazing silk, Sea Island cotton, merino, cashmere, alpaca.

He stopped at the Columbo. Cashmere and mink, nothing like it. He loved that coat.

Ten minutes later, he'd made his pick for tonight.

What the well-dressed man dons when sitting on his ass for protracted periods of tedium came down to a loose brown linen shirt-jacket with four flap pockets, tailored to conceal his 9mm, beige cargo pants of the same carefully rumpled fabric that provided another quartet of compartments, cream silk socks, butter-soft pigskin Santoni driving shoes.

By four p.m., he was back in West L.A., sitting in the girlie-cute front room of Liana Parlat's girlie-cute condo off Overland. Liana, always friendly, seemed especially happy to see him, and he wondered if some of her gigs had dried up due to the writers’ strike.

She served him coffee and home-baked white-chocolate chip cookies and offered him a share of the Lean Cuisine lasagna she was just about to nuke. Aaron declined the food but finished three cups of Liana's always excellent Kenyan. She put dinner on hold and sat opposite him, perched like the lingerie model she'd once been, on the edge of a Louis XIV repro chair done up in puce brocade.

Still gorgeous at forty-one, the mop of black hair glossy and carefully layered, the flawless ivory skin allowing her to pass for late twenties, Liana had the charisma and talent to be a movie star. After fifteen years of failure, she'd settled for the anonymity and respectable income of commercial voice-overs.

Freelancing for Aaron supplemented her retirement fund.

They'd begun as lovers, continued as friends and occasional business associates. Once-in-a-while booty-bumps did no damage; Aaron was proud of his ability to maintain complex relationships.

The exception being Moe…

Liana said, “For this one, I was thinking perky, slightly nasal, wholesome.”

“Go for it.”

He gave her the unlisted number he'd obtained from a source at the phone company, sat by as she punched numbers. Ever the Method actress, she cocked her head, altered her posture, squinted somewhat stupidly.

Transforming into a Valley Girl.

“Hi, is Rory there?” Putting a little more headcold into it. “Oh… oh, okay, I'm in one of his classes and was wondering… no, it's not that important, I'll try later. Thank you so much.”

Click. “Mommy expects him home by six thirty.”

“Thank you, baby. Now for the fun part.”

He gave her Riptide's address on Ocean Avenue, two blocks south of Colorado. Partially gentrified stretch, with that giant Loews Hotel pulling in respectable folks. But dingy motels and cheap apartments persisted, as did low-rent bars, and last year there'd been a hostage situation, a captain from West Valley named Decker whom Aaron knew casually ending up a big-time hero.

Aaron said, “Caitlin's father said she considered the location convenient since she went to Pepperdine.”

“That's twenty miles from Pepperdine,” said Liana.

“But on the way home to Venice.”

“Ah… drive most of the way home so you don't have much to go when you're really tired. I guess it makes sense.”

“I drove by the place at one thirty a.m. last night-around the time Caitlin was last seen. It's pretty spooky, Lee. Park as close as you can- use the hotel, go valet if you want.”

Liana smiled. “And be sure to bring back the receipt.”

“That would be nice.”

“Mr. All Business.”

“Aw, you know that's not true, sweetheart. You're hearing the message, right? Personal safety is all.”

“We're not exactly talking mean streets, darling. Ivy at the Shore is what, three blocks up?”

“A block can make a difference, Lee. Last night there were bums pushing shopping carts and lowlifes hanging near a couple of motels. If something feels even a little off, don't get brave.”

“Fine,” she said. “But I've been to Industry parties at Loews.”

“Terrific. Charm the valet and maybe he'll let you park free.”

Liana laughed and nibbled an eighth of a cookie. “This girl- Caitlin. How long did she work there?”

“Four months.”

“You're wondering if she ran into some psycho, either there, or nearby.”

“I don't know enough to wonder anything, Lee. Go in there, order a drink-soft, if you think hard will impede you. Don't feel pressured to come up with anything huge. Just check the place out, get a feel for the ambience.”

“What's my motivation, Mr. De Mille?”

“Two hundred for the first four hours, forty for each additional hour.”

“Ooh,” she said. “Generous client, huh?” Rhetorical, because she knew better than to press for details. “They serve food at this gin joint?”

“Probably bar food, at least.”

“I'll stick with my Lean Quee. Just ambience, huh?”

“If anything specific to Caitlin comes up, that's a bonus, but I don't expect it. After fifteen months, there's no reason for anyone to talk about her.”

“But if someone does, that would be significant.”

“Don't bring her up in conversation.”

Liana's liquid blue eyes flashed. “Now I'm insulted.”

“Sorry,” said Aaron. “I just want you safe. Paddle out slowly and watch for sharks.”

“Didn't know you surfed.”

Aaron had, years ago, working his way up to the active waters of County Line Beach.

He said, “I don't. I'm just good at metaphors.” He handed her Rory Stoltz's DMV photo, then a copy of the snapshot of Caitlin he'd gotten from Maitland Frostig.

“Cute couple.”

“Virgins,” said Aaron. “According to Rory's mother.”

Liana crossed sleek legs. “You find that unbelievable.”

“Don't you?”

“Well,” she said. “I was once a virgin.” Blinking. “Until I wasn't.”

At 10:05 p.m., the little pink house's front windows went dark.

Early to bed for the All-American kid? Aaron could live with a dead end first night. He'd give it another hour.

Nine minutes later, the front door swung open and Rory Stoltz, wearing a dark shirt untucked over black jeans, his pale hair mussed with great intention, ambled to his Hyundai and backed out of the driveway.

Forgetting to switch his headlights on until he was halfway up the block.

Aaron waited until Stoltz reached the corner, kept his own beams off and trailed from a distance. When Stoltz turned south on Lanker-shim, Aaron illuminated and joined the traffic flow. Keeping three car lengths back in a neighboring lane, he managed a clear view of the Hyundai.

Rory Stoltz turned right on Ventura, then left on Laurel Canyon, continued south toward the city. Aaron let a Mercedes and a Range Rover get in front of him before joining the convoy.

Stoltz drove slowly and cautiously. Braked too early around curves and held up progress until the Mercedes grew impatient and started tailgating.

The Hyundai pulled aside and let the Benz and the Rover pass.

Aaron got in front, too, hoping Rory wouldn't turn off on some side lane.

He didn't, staying on the canyon all the way to Sunset.

Switching on his left turn signal well before the intersection.

Both cars headed east on the boulevard. Three blocks later, Rory slowed just west of ColdSnake's black stucco and red lava-rock façade. The usual fools were lined up behind a black velvet rope. A Samoan doorman in a white leather jumpsuit and a too-small bowler scowled just to keep in practice. His bulk obscured the entrance.

Stoltz's Hyundai had the nerve to pull behind a ruby stretch Hummer and a lime-green Lamborghini Gallardo. The little car looked like a wart on the Hummer's ass. Aaron waited for Mr. Derby to wave the kid out of there.

Instead, the Samoan allowed the Hyundai to stay. Seconds later, Rory got waved in, fools craning to see who'd earned the privilege.

Mr. All-American Kid had VIP status at one of the hottest clubs in town.

Virgin, indeed.