True Detectives (10 page)

W
hen Liana showed up at Work Land at ten a.m., Aaron had her check ready.

She made a show of tucking the paper slowly between her cleavage.

“I’m jealous,” he said.

Laughing, she removed it, dropped it daintily into her Kate Spade. Resumed sipping from the demitasse of espresso Aaron had brewed in that cute, copper Italian machine he kept in the kitchenette next to his office.

“Yum, Mr. Fox. You are one class act.”

Aaron fooled with a piece of lemon rind.

“Nice shirt,” said Liana. “New?”

“Nope.”

“Never seen it before.”

“Never got around to wearing it before.”
Been hanging in the home haberdashery for eleven months
. “Tell me about this RAND guy.”

“Don’t worry, he’s for real, Aaron. First thing I did when I got home last night was look him up on their website. He’s there, picture and all. Does exactly what he said he did.”

“Chasing terrorists.”

“Playing with numbers,” she said. “Government contracts.”

Aaron said, “Doesn’t mean he’s not whack.”

“He’s not, don’t be paranoid.”

“Talking to strangers, Lee.” Aaron tsk-tsked.

“I thought that was the point of last night.”

“The point was soaking up ambience, getting a feel for the place.”

“It’s not the décor you care about, it’s the clientele. Kind of hard to tease that out without talking to strangers,” said Liana.

“And no doubt, Dr. Rau doesn’t look like a leprous summer squash.”

Liana stared at him. “You’re not serious.”

“I care about you, Lee. Just because you meet a cute guy—”

“Stop right there, Mr. Fox.” Graceful, slim fingers tightened around the demitasse handle. “Though, if I had to rely on you for nurturance, where would I be, Aaron?”

Aaron slapped his chest. “I am mortally wounded.” Doing it with levity. Unlike Steve, whose chest-pound last night had been an outward jest but laced with serious regret.

Liana leaned across the glass slab that formed the top of Aaron’s desk. “What
we
have,
mon amour
, is a form of aerobics. Healthy, strenuous, satisfying for what it is, and altogether transitory.”

“As opposed to Mr. RAND, who’s a deeply spiritual guy, just brimming with empathy and sensitivity. All of which you know from a one-hour bar schmooze.”

“This is ridiculous,” she said. “You gave me an assignment, I did it A-plus.”

“Exactly, Lee. You’re valuable, I want you around for a long time.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, it’s not like I’m dating him.”

“But you’ve considered it.”

Liana smiled. “You’re jealous.”

“No, I’m protective.”

“Thank you, but I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.” Liana put her cup down. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I just don’t like the notion of mixing business with pleasure.”

Liana’s eyes slitted. “I’ll remember that the next time someone booty-calls me at three a.m.”

She sprang up, tossed her hair, turned heel.

“Wait,” said Aaron. “Sorry, yeah, I’m being stupid. You mean a lot to me—as a friend, as a freelance.” Grin. “As the sexiest, firmest—”

“Stop.”

“Okay, okay. Sit down. Please.”

Liana exhaled a couple of times.

“Please, Lee.”

She returned to her chair, crossed her legs, let the jersey skirt ride up all the way to sleek white thigh. Commandment One: Make ’em suffer.

Aaron said, “I was out of line. My excuse is this case, I can’t put my finger on it but there’s a certain … I don’t know, a dark aura circulating around it. I know that sounds hokey and I can’t give you a rational reason, but there’s something beneath the surface—something
psychy
going on.”

“As in paranormal?”

“No, no, none of that crap. As in creepy and sleazy and warped. If you tell me there’s nothing weird about Mr. RAND, I’ll go with that. But don’t you think it’s strange that he mentioned Caitlin right off the bat.”

“Dr. RAND,” said Liana. “He’s got a Ph.D. And it wasn’t off the bat, there was context—talking about the bar’s celeb days, the irony of something happening when there were bodyguards all over the place. And he didn’t mention Caitlin by name, just by incident. Plus, he told me about the Rensselaers and they turned out to be a dead end. So it’s not like he’s fixated.”

“The Rensselaers,” said Aaron. Glancing at the Internet printout Liana had brought. She’d used
couple vanishes riptide santa monica
as the search heading, reproduced an article from the Rensselaers’ hometown of Buckeye Bridge, Pennsylvania.

Ivan and Bettina, formerly owners of an antiques store, had cut town to escape a big-time eBay bad-check mess, used their ill-gotten
gain to finance a West Coast vacation. The FBI had traced the couple to L.A., then lost the scent and gotten sneaky: filing a false missing persons report with several SoCal police agencies and convincing local stations to give the disappearance airplay.

Two days after the broadcast, an alert West Hollywood sheriff had spotted Ivan and Bettina leaving Dan Tana after a huge Italian dinner. The
Buckeye Bridge Beacon
reported “tomato sauce stains on Ivan Rensselaer’s brand-new white silk shirt purchased on Rodeo Drive.”

Aaron said, “So
Doctor
Rau knew about their disappearance but not their being found.”

“As I said, he’s not fixated.”

“Gets paid to think, huh?”

“Aaron, what is it about him that’s wedging itself in your butt-crack?”

“Bringing Caitlin up the first time he meets you. To me that’s just off, Lee. Dude’s out to pick up a beautiful girl, why set the mood with creepy crime—especially a crime against a female. It just doesn’t fit.”

“It doesn’t fit because he’s not a player, Aaron.” Unlike someone else we know. “He’s kind of a nerd, actually. Not physically—oh, what’s the diff, I’ll never see him again. Never intended to. Happy?”

“If you mean it… one thing that does come out of it are those bodyguards and limos. Be harder for a whack to abduct Caitlin right outside the bar … though she left after her shift, so maybe that means nothing … still, her car was never found, so it’s likely she drove somewhere and got snagged, could be anywhere from Santa Monica to Venice.”

“Or beyond,” said Liana, “if she got jacked. Meaning, focusing on Riptide could be a waste.”

“Rau mention any celebs by name?”

Liana shook her head. “Only names were the ones I showed you from the
Times
.”

“A name not on that list just came up, Lee. Lem Dement.”

“That asshole,” Liana hissed. “Be nice if he
did
have something to do with it.”

Her intensity surprised Aaron. “You don’t approve of his religious views?”

“I don’t approve of him. Because I once caught an up-close look at him and his psyche.”

“Where and when?”

“Shortly after that biblical splatter flick of his opened. San Marino, someone’s gigantic house near Caltech, not the usual Industry types. Church folk, captains of industry, grace before the canapés, crucifixes on every table. Back then, I didn’t know you, used to pass trays for a caterer to pay bills. It was summer, the party was outdoors, everyone was dressed for the heat, except Mrs. Dement—Gemma. She’s wearing a long-sleeved black sweater over a Chanel frock and way too much makeup. What caught my eye was the look in
her
eyes—something I recognized right away because my older sister hooked up with a guy who beat the crap out of her. It was years before
that
bastard had the courtesy to die, I could never convince Sybil to leave him.”

“Gemma looked like an abused woman,” said Aaron.

“Not just looked, Aaron.
Was,”
said Liana. Fury had deepened the blue of her eyes. “Hollow, haunted, there’s no mistaking it when you see it. Because of my experience with Sybil, I’m primed. So while I served shrimp on toast, I kept sneaking glances at the two of them. Didn’t take long for me to catch it: squeezing her arm just a little too tight as he propelled her around the room. Treating her like a prop, never talking to her. Once, when he thought no one was looking, he flicked the back of her neck with his fingernail, had to sting.”

“How’d she react?”

“She didn’t, that’s the point. Numb and compliant, a good little robot. No one except me seemed to notice, because everyone was focused on Dement, all the money he was raking in, the fat pig. That stupid hat, he had
fishhooks
in his hat. With a tux, no less. No one said a word.”

“A few hundred million’ll do that,” said Aaron. “Were there any other—”

“But wait, folks, there’s more!” Liana held up a finger. “A while
later, I go to the ladies’ room—this mansion has a giant powder room-makeup area for guests—and Gemma’s there and she’s got her sweater off but when she sees me, she snaps it back on. But not quickly enough to hide the bruises all up and down her arm. I’m talking livid, Aaron, like she’d been put through a compressor. I pretend not to stare while she pretends to be apathetic, fixes her hair, lays on even more pancake. But I’m getting a close-up look and it’s obvious why she’s plastering the stuff on. She’s got
more
bruises on her neck and shoulders. Plus a definite swelling behind her ear. This is a woman who gets used regularly as a punching bag.”

She clenched a fist. “Hypocritical asshole.
Please
tell me he’s involved.”

Aaron said, “It might shake out that way, but all I’ve got right now is a real estate link.”

“To who?”

He told her about Rory Stoltz’s early-morning adventure on the Strip, the gated estate on Swallowsong.

Liana said, “Sneaking a couple of celebs out the back way? No idea who?”

“Too dark, too quick, too far away,” said Aaron. “One guy was skinny, the other more of a football type. Neither of them was Dement. Younger, thinner.”

“Aaron, Dement beats his wife, who knows what he does to other women? Please please tell me you’re going to follow up on him.”

“Of course.”

“How old were the two guys Stoltz drove home?”

“I can’t be sure, Lee. Could be twenties, thirties.”

“Dement has a whole bunch of kids—six, seven. He’s in his fifties, so he could easily have spawn in that range.”

“Junior living in a house Daddy owns? Maybe, but that still says nothing about Caitlin. The link I’m following is Rory.”

Liana grew silent.

Aaron said, “I’ll follow up on Dement, Lee.”

“I know I’m being emotional. You can’t imagine the hell my sister
went through. And my parents. And the rest of us. We’re a close-knit family, Gordon made all of us bleed.”

Aaron had never seen her like this. Family made things complicated. “I’ll bloodhound Dement.”

“Maybe the police have something—domestic violence calls covered up.”

Aaron stood, walked from behind his desk, paced.

Liana said, “What’s wrong?”

“Working with the police on this one. It’s complicated.”

M
adeleine Fox Reed Guistone was a woman of serene temperament.

The shifting hues of her Tuscan-inspired house on half an acre of Beverly Hills POB hillside suggested otherwise.

Which just went to prove the classic detective caution, thought Moe:
Assume means make an ass out of u and me
.

As he pushed his unmarked up the juniper-shrouded lane that led to Mom’s manse, his memory dredged up mocha to salmon to sage green to coral to the eye-searing sienna-orange mottle he’d seen eight weeks ago. But he might’ve missed a few stages.

He reached the top expecting something even more outrageous.

Nope, still “flame-rust villa de Borghese,” the pigment-infused plaster slapped on so thickly the house appeared lumpy. Random patches of phony exposed brick completed the picture: typical pathetic, totally
L.A
. grab for a reality that had never existed in the first place. First time he’d seen it, he’d muttered, “Disneyland,” but told Mom it was gorgeous. This evening, parking in the circular motor court next to his mother’s red Mercedes convertible, the theme park crept back into his consciousness.

And
that
brought back memories.

Moe, plagued with ear infections and motion sickness as a young boy, had always despised the Anaheim ode to corny.

Heaving his cookies after a single spin on the teacups.

Meanwhile, Aaron’s leaping into a Matterhorn car. Conquering the “Alps” over and over again. Maddy and Moe waiting until he finally got his fill. Moe clutching his stomach just
thinking
about the Matterhorn.

Contempt on Aaron’s ten-year-old face as he points out a crumb of vomit on Moe’s T-shirt…

A guy who called his office space Work Land; some people never got real.

Moe walked past the Florentine fountain, murky and leaf-strewn as usual, dribbling happily under a gently setting sun. That, Mom hadn’t painted, maybe in deference to Dr. Stan Guistone’s memory.

Stan had lived in the house on North Corsair for four decades before marrying Mom and until he’d died, she’d changed nothing, including the photos of his deceased first wife set up like icons on an altar table in the cavernous entry hall.

During her years with Stan, Mom had Windexed Miriam Guistone’s portraits religiously, pooh-poohed his offer to redecorate, held on to every stick of Miriam’s clumsy Victorian Revival furniture.

She’d put up with the original gray-beige exterior that even Stan thought was dreary.

Dr. Stan was a good man. He deserved that level of consideration.

One week after he was laid into emerald-green Forest Lawn turf, the painters showed up at the house, as did the trucks from Goodwill. Bye-bye Agatha Christie, hello Georgia O’Keeffe: delivery vans bearing rooms full of the blocky, serape-draped “Southwest Revival motif” Mom had come to love during her yearly “centering” trips to Santa Fe.

Moe crossed the courtyard to the house. The front door opened and Mom trotted out in ballet slippers.

Her painting smock was a rainbow riot. Paint-pollocked turquoise leggings.

Still channeling Georgia with carefully tinted and highlighted
chrome-white hair worn waist-length and French-braided, makeup calculated to look invisible, chunky silver and turquoise glinting from fingers, wrists, neck, ears.

Wind-seamed and thirty soft pounds heavier than her prime, Maddy looked ten years younger than her sixty-three. Or so she said everyone said.

Her own mother had been hale at ninety-one when she’d died in a car crash.

Genetics and lifestyle. One out of two isn’t bad, boys
.

She ran up to Moe, threw her arms around his waist, and hugged him hard. Stood back and touched his face, as if appraising a sculpture.

“You look great, Mosey. Vital and fit and purposeful. Despite the stress.”

Moe kissed her cheek. “You can tell all that in two seconds.”

“A mother knows.” Taking his hand, she guided him through the manse’s big, vaulted rooms, into the kitchen that looked out over sycamore-studded canyons and the roofs of those less fortunate in the real estate game. Moe noticed another redo since his last visit: some of the cabinetry had been painted turquoise and drawers bore cutouts of eagle heads.

“Like it, Mosey?”

“Very appropriate.”

“Use it or lose it,” said Maddy. “I’m referring to creativity and change—shaking up the vitals. Coffee, tea, Postum, vodka, or Red Bull?”

“You’ve got Red Bull?”

“No, but I can have Pink Dot deliver.” She laughed. “You still take me seriously, God bless you. So what’ll it be?”

“How about some water?”

“Ice or room, bubbly or flat?”

“Ice flat is fine.”

“My health-conscious baby … here you go, a nice chilled bottle of Evian. Which is
naïve
spelled backward, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Moe sat and drank. Maddy lingered near the eight-burner Wolf
range where a single pot simmered. “What are you working on art-wise, Mom?”

“Coloring within the lines.” She lifted the lid, peered inside. “Rabbinic cuisine is nearly ready.”

“Still on the kosher kick, huh?” said Moe. “Ready to convert?”

“If the sausages are an indicator, maybe I should look into it.” She straightened her braid, peered out the kitchen window at her palm garden, offering a profile to Moe. He saw new wrinkles, loosening around the jaw.

Time did its thing, no matter what.

She said, “No, darling, as you well know, nothing organized is for me, including religion. I’ve decided the most tactful approach is to embrace everyone’s deity but not too seriously—think of it as constructive idolatry.”

“Last time you called it theologic diversity.”

“That, too, Mosey.” She sniffed the pot. “Ah, the sausages. Talk about something to pray for.”

Maddy, ever at war with conventional wisdom, lost no time telling anyone who listened how deeply she adored L.A. (“Time to stick it to all those pasty-faced New Yorkers who bash us for a hobby”) As if proving her point, she’d set out, last year, to visit every ethnic enclave in the county, sampling food, dry goods, religious gewgaws, DVDs and CDs. Over a twenty-month period, she worked her way through Little Tokyo, Little Saigon, Little India, the Cuban enclave on Venice Boulevard in Culver City, Armenian outposts in East Hollywood and Glen-dale, the heart of the Orthodox Jewish community in Pico-Robertson. It was on Pico that queues of people trailing to the sidewalk led her to the kosher sausage place. Spontaneous discussion with a yeshiva student waiting for a veal brat comprised her Semitic education.

“Boys, did you know that kosher basically means legit? Not only does the animal need to be killed quickly—we’re long past the vegan thing, right?—but a qualified rabbi needs to inspect the lungs. Which in these days of global warming and smutty air seems pretty darn appropriate to me.”

The religiously sanctioned wursts quickly became “those sausages you and your brother like so much, Mosey.” Even though Maddy generally devoured three at a sitting and neither brother had ever expressed an opinion, one way or the other. The sausages were tasty enough, but at this point in Moe’s life, food wasn’t important.

He got up, peered into the pot. A dozen links simmered.

“Planning a banquet?”

Maddy blinked. “Just in case you’re hungry. You do look a bit thin. Are you eating right, darling?”

“I’ve actually gained a couple of pounds and I’m fine.”

“All muscle, I’m sure. What’s your approach? Three squares, or fast all day and feast at night—like the Muslims do on Ramadan.”

“There’s no pattern, Mom. I try to be moderate.”

Maddy beamed up at him. “My gorgeous husky little one. So. Tell me about your life.”

“Not much to tell. I’m working.”

“Like a demon, I’m sure.”

“Just doing the job, Mom.”

“Mosey,” she said. “You’d never be satisfied with
just
doing anything. From first grade on, you were a little waterwheel, churning away. I’ve never told you about the time your preschool teacher called me in … that church school, the one I sent you to because they gave scholarships, what was the teacher’s name … Mrs… . whatever. Anyway, the class had just learned about the Israelites slaving away in Egypt and Mrs… . whatever, thought you looked confused so she talked to you afterward and asked you if you were okay and you gave her the gravest look and said, ‘
I
could be a good slave. I
like
to work hard.’”

Maddy touched his cheek again. “So adorably earnest. Mrs… . Southwick, that’s it… Helen Southwick was concerned that you were ‘overly mature.’ Whatever the heck that means.”

Moe had heard the story a hundred times, minimum. He smiled.

Maddy said, “Tell me about your life.”

♦

They sat at the table where Moe finished his Evian and Maddy sipped from an oversized mug of Postum gooped with honey.

“Everything’s really routine, Mom.”

“What cases are you working on?”

“Nothing special.”

“Hush-hush confidential?” said Maddy. “Even for close blood relatives?”

“Naw, just nothing special.”

“Oh, well, I suppose it all boils down to one person killing another. Do you think you’ll stick with Homicide?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“People change, darling. People
yearn
for change.”

“I’m fine.”

Several moments passed. Maddy looked at her watch. Generally, time meant nothing to her.

Moe said, “Got something scheduled?”

“I just want to make sure those sausages don’t get too puckery.”

Springing up, she returned to the stove. “A few more minutes. Another Evian, darling?”

Before Moe could answer, the thud of a door closing echoed from the front of the manse.

Footsteps grew louder. No surprise on Mom’s face. She forked a sausage. Hummed.

Before Moe could speak, Aaron was in the kitchen.

Maddy’s older son received the same kisses, hugs, and praise she’d bestowed on Moe.

Unlike Moe, Aaron turned the love-fest into a duet.

“You look absolutely gorgeous, Mom. Hair’s great that way, you should keep it long, you’ve got the mien for that—cool necklace, look at that stone. Arizona turquoise, right? Great specimen, looks like a … cat in the natural grain.”

“Exactly. What an eye.”

“Hopi?”

“Tewa.”

“Outstanding.” Aaron peered into the pot. “Mosaic wursts, let’s hear it for cultural diversity. Any Cajun in there?”

“Two,” said Maddy. “Just like you asked for.”

Moe left the kitchen.

Aaron caught up with him at the fountain. “C’mon, you can’t be
that
touchy.”

Moe race-walked to his car.

Aaron kept pace. “You’re that much of a diva that you’re willing to hurt her because you’re feeling all pissy? After all she’s been through?”

“What’s she been through?”

“Life.” Aaron touched Moe’s sleeve. Moe grabbed his brother’s hand and flung it off, hard enough to throw Aaron off balance. Aaron stumbled back, caught himself. Brushed nonexistent dirt off his gray silk trousers. “Fine, be an asshole.”

“I learned from the best.”

“You learned nothing from me, that’s your problem.”

Moe felt his face turn to oak. “Didn’t. Know. I. Had. A. Problem.”

Aaron mimed a bell-press. “Mr. Reed? FedEx delivery. Carton full of insight being delivered to your door.”

Moe groped for his car key.

“You are an utter and complete
baby,”
said Aaron. “Talk about arrested development and dogmatic dysfunctional syndrome.”

“Now you’re a shrink?”

“Don’t have to be to know your rigidity is getting in the way of the job. I called you four times today, what else could I—”

“So you collude with Mom?”

“I didn’t collude, I—”

“Boys!”

Both men swiveled to see Maddy, standing in the doorway, holding two plates heaped with sausage.

“Dinner’s
served!
Come and
get
it!”

“Moe’s not hungry,” said Aaron. “I’ll stay.”

Moe muttered, “Oh, sure, and make me the bad guy—fuck off. One second, Mom, I just had to get something from the car.”

“Look, let’s forget the personal shit. I’m here because of the job. As in, I might have a lead for you.”

Maddy called out, “Hurry, boys! I bought ice cream for dessert.”

“What kind of lead?” said Moe.

“Later,” said Aaron. “And for the record, I
didn’t
collude. Mom called me and suggested we all get together soon. It made her happy to think about. She said it’s been two months since she’s seen you, so I figured—”

“When’s the last time you were here?”

Aaron didn’t answer.

“Need a calendar?” said Moe.

“Boys?” Maddy walked toward them, balancing the plates with aplomb. All those hard-times waitress shifts at Du-par’s not wasted.

“The food’s getting cold, boys. The rabbis wouldn’t approve.”

Dinner was brief, but seemed long. Maddy faked ebullience—or maybe she really was that self-centered—doling out affection to each son with obsessive equality.

As if love, like any other medicine, could be calibrated in doses.

It was the same blithe, painfully fair approach she’d taken when they were young. Seemingly oblivious to her losses, the money problems that forced her to double-shift. The acid stares and mutterings of neighbors each time she moved her curious multiracial family into a newly rented dump.

When they lived in Crenshaw, it was the black folks who derided. In the Valley, the Puritans changed skin tone but not intent.

Maddy had been raised by racist hypocrites, knew all about mindless resentment. She went about her business, wrapped in an imaginary blanket of righteousness and self-determination. That worked, but it took its toll. So did constant laying on the love to her two little hooligans.

If Aaron and Moses had been able to crawl into her head, they’d
have found a surprising,
alarming
place crammed with dark corners, shadows, dead ends. The decaying memorabilia of a lifetime of adventure and misadventure that had tapered to boredom.