True Detectives (19 page)

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.

S
even-hundred-dollar Fendi shades hid Mrs. Lem Dement’s eyes. The rest of her face was blank.

Coming straight at him—had he gotten that rusty?

Bracing himself for a confrontation, Aaron chopsticked a phony shrimp, pretended to savor. As she got closer, he opened the book he’d brought for cover. Paperback biography of George Washington Carver. Looking intellectual never hurt, especially intellectually black.

Gemma Dement kept coming. Even with sunglasses on, he sensed she was staring at him.

Big mess, where had he screwed up? The designer jeans boutique? The organic market? The bikini shop?

Two hours of stalking while the woman looked but never bought. She’d seemed preoccupied but obviously, she’d figured it out.

Okay, Plan B: If she hassled him, he’d fake surprise, work the charm, hoping she’d feel foolish and walk away.

If she persisted—got nasty or downright paranoid—he’d find a way to let her know he’d found her attractive but was no weirdo.

What was the worst she could do, call for one of those brain-dead
security types in charge of policing the shopping center? By the time they arrived, he’d be gone.

What did he look like, ma’am?

They all look the same
.

Now she was ten feet away.

She stopped, did that absent-eyed thing. Stood right in the middle of the narrow street. No cars gliding past, but still, a woman could get pulverized that way.

Good-looking woman; finding her attractive wasn’t a lie. Back at the bikini shop, he’d pretended to be interested in the surf-wear place next door, had gotten close enough to her to eye some details.

She’d tried on several swimsuits, frowned a lot, always dissatisfied. But not because she couldn’t pull off skimpy. Under her clothes was a tight body. Lines on her face, but so what?

Fifties, but secure? Despite what Liana claimed about her being pounded regularly by Lem?

Aaron hadn’t spotted any bruises or other telltale marks, but cotton and velvet were hiding most of her flesh.

She resumed walking, beelined for his table. Shit.

He put his nose in the book, faking concentration. Gemma Dement got close enough for him to smell her perfume.

Something light, grassy.

Aaron braced himself.

She glided by, entered the vegan joint.

He wiped sweat from his hairline, returned to his food. Hazarded an over-the-shoulder peek inside the restaurant.

No other customers at the order-counter. Skinny woman, but nice ass, that bit of extra cheek that gilded the lily. Looked natural, maybe no lipo.

Five minutes later, she was outside, carrying a plate of something green and beige.

Two other tables were positioned to the north of Aaron’s, both empty.

She chose the nearer one. Chose the seat closest to his.

Fluffing her hair and straightening her back, she sat like a charm
school grad, shoulders square, platinum butt barely touching the cushion. Inspecting her mushroom/sprout/tofu whatever, she unwrapped her own chopsticks.

Stared in Aaron’s direction until he was forced to look up.

Smiled.

Said, “Yum.”

He finished a couple of pages on peanut technology, went inside and ordered iced tea. All the place served was hot and green but he cajoled the counter kid for a cup of ice, tossed in some sugar because the brew tasted like liquefied lawn trimmings.

When he got back to his table, Gemma Dement was still there, maybe even a little closer. Eating daintily and reading her own book. Something by Anna Quindlen.

Didn’t Quindlen write about abused women and the like?

This time it was Aaron who tried to get eye contact going.

She didn’t bite. Began humming. Closed her book, dropped it into her bag, picked up her plate, and placed it on Aaron’s table.

Toed the purse over to a chair directly across from Aaron and sat down.

“Good afternoon.” Throaty voice, maybe a smoker. But no smell of smoke, just that fresh, clean fragrance.

Aaron didn’t have to fake surprise. “Afternoon.”

She nodded, as if he’d said something predictable. Her eyes were aqua-blue, same color as the sea this morning.

Gemma Dement said, “Of course, it could’ve been
Good morning
.”

“Pardon?”

“Proper fit is such a hassle. But you know that by now.”

Aaron stared.

Her smile was crooked, oddly girlish. “We didn’t exchange greetings an hour ago. When I was agonizing over bikinis and you were watching me struggle.”

Aaron didn’t answer.

Gemma Dement clasped her hands prayerfully and leaned closer. “Please don’t tell me I imagined you watching. You brightened my day.”

“I did?” said Aaron, amazed at how he’d morphed into an aw-shucks geek.
Gee, Mrs. Robinson
.

“You certainly did. Mr… . Reader.” Reaching across the table, she touched his book. Short nails, no polish. Clean hands. Had Aaron imagined the tremor that passed through them quickly?

He said, “Light reading.” Felt a welcome rise of internal warmth as her fingers quivered again. Her weakness fed his strength. Time to
work
the woman.

She said, “Doesn’t look light to me.”

“It is compared with what I usually have to deal with.”

Another skewed smile, this one hard to characterize. Aaron thought he spotted a dark splotch of skin peeking above the hem of her T-shirt, frosted by a granular patch of cover-up. Texture was the giveaway, the color was perfect, blended expertly with her golden skin.

Long years of practice hiding bruises?

She said, “Now I’m supposed to ask what you usually have to deal with.”

“Not unless you care.”

She laughed. “Has to be something boring—are you a professor?”

Aaron said, “Attorney. Legal briefs.”

“Ah,” she said, sitting back. “One of those.”

Aaron spread his arms. “Here come the lawyer jokes.”

“Don’t know any lawyer jokes. I’m not much for jokes period.” She turned serious, as if illustrating. “So tell me, Mr. Lawyer Who’s Also a Recreational Reader, why have you been watching me for the last hour?”

At least he’d gotten away with half the surveillance.

“Because you’re gorgeous,” he said.

Her face went blank. That same glazed expression as when she stopped midstride and spaced out.

Aaron said, “You stood out.”

Did her eyes just get wet? She’d swiped them too quickly for Aaron to be sure.

“Please forgive me if I freaked you out. I thought of approaching you, then I saw your ring.” Eyeing her four-carat diamond.

She said, “Oh, that,” twisted the gem out of sight. Her other hand rose. She smoothed down hair.

Pulling out his little alligator card case, Aaron slid out the topmost rectangle, pre-positioned like a magician’s trick deck.

High-quality paper, pale blue, embossed navy lettering proclaiming the credentials of
Arthur A. Volpe, Attorney at Law
. The Kansas City address terminated at a mail-drop, the phone fed to the sad bachelor pad of Arthur A. Wimmer, a distant cousin of Mom’s. Arthur was a problem drinker who claimed to be a chemist but couldn’t hold down a steady job. Aaron’s yearly retainer went toward answering the line in a business-like voice and saying the right things. Decent dough for maybe an hour all year.

Gemma Dement scanned the card quickly, gave it back. “Lawyer on vacation.”

“Long-overdue vacation.”

She pouted. “All by your lonesome?”

“Aptly put,” he said. “L.A.’s a tough place when you don’t know anyone.”

“Volpe,” she said. “You’re Italian?”

Aaron searched her face for irony. Saw dead-serious curiosity.

“Mom’s side is from Milan.” Picking the city, the way he usually did when questioned, because it was the hub of fashion.

“Like that character on that show
—Homicide”

“Lieutenant Giardello,” said Aaron. “He was half Sicilian, that’s the south. Milan is up north.”

“Well,” she said, “sorry for not knowing Italian geography. I like that show. Lots of guilt and atonement. Don’t you think that makes for a good story?”

“Absolutely,” said Aaron. “Nothing like guilt as a motivator.”

Spinning the line off lightly. Gemma Dement’s blue eyes clouded. She forked her food, didn’t eat. “Volpe. What does that mean?”

“It’s Italian for ‘fox.’”

“Do you go there regularly? The Old Country, I mean.”

“Never been there. My Italian cousins keep telling me I need to go. Eventually, I’ll get around to it.”

“Too much lawyer work.”

“Way too much. I do real estate litigation and there’s never a shortage.”

“Meanwhile, you come to Malibu and watch much older women agonize over bikinis.”

“Slightly older women.”

“Liar,” she said, cheerfully.

“May I ask your name?”

Eyeblink. “Gloria. Like in the song … well, Mr. Volpe the lonely, busy attorney. You did make my day. By noticing.”

“Gloria,” said Aaron, “you are extremely easy to notice.”

Pulling the line off with utter sincerity because he meant it. Up close, the tight and lean was even more impressive, the total package enhanced by generous breasts too soft and bouncy not to be real. Those lovely little bumps of unfettered nipple. He imagined her dressing quickly but expertly in a mansion ranch house, green acres vivid through a crystalline window. Nothing to do today but try on bikinis.

Eyes the color of the ocean as the sun kissed it.

The dark patch right beneath the hem of her shirt, oddly appealing. Aaron wanted to help her. Knew he couldn’t, she was nothing more than … a potential data bank.

Rich, good-looking woman who paid for her humongous diamond and the rest of her lifestyle with pain.

Guilt and atonement
.

She’d given him something to work with.

He said, “Going back to the whole guilt thing, I guess the difference between good people and bad is the level of atonement.”

She said, “Speaking of which.”

“Pardon?”

“You could atone for your sin.”

“What sin is that?”

“Standing there watching while I went through those bikinis. What if I
was
the type to get freaked out?”

“I really am sorry. It was just…”

“Just what?”

“What I said before. You’re an extremely—”

She silenced him with a finger over his lips. Her skin was warm, slightly dank, maybe even a little greasy. As if she’d used lotion recently. Or was secreting something.

Aaron could feel little bubbles of his own sweat popping in his hair.

Gemma Dement shifted closer. Her hand lowered to his. She rubbed the space between his thumb and forefinger. Pretty blatant, out in public like this.

People walked by, no one seemed to notice.

No one recognizing her. A woman ignored.

Aaron’s lips were dry. He restrained himself from licking.

Gemma Dement’s eyelids lowered. Big, curling lashes. Another flash of Pacific. Twelve cylinders of perfume.

“Your sin,” she said, “was watching me but not following through.”

He followed in the Porsche as her X5 drove out of the Cross Creek lot, turned right at the light, continued north on PCH.

She drove faster and better than she had on the ride from home. No absentminded sways, no cell phone distraction.

Aaron kept to the speed limit, he couldn’t afford to do otherwise.

As if sensing it, Gemma Dement slowed down so he could stay with her.

Like a dance.

Like a woman fixing herself to your rhythm. Putting you back inside when you popped out.

Where was she taking him? Back to the ranch? Lem out of town on some shoot, the kids in school, whatever staff was around that discreet?

A woman that blatant, he could see why she got beat up.

No, scratch that, there was never an excuse.

Still…

What was he getting himself into?

Just south of Point Dume—well before Solar Canyon—she stuck an arm out of the driver’s window, jabbed three times to the left.

Aaron pulled into the center island behind her, hoping no Chippie
would happen by. The X5 waited for traffic to pass then swooped up a steep blacktop driveway.

At the top was a series of white, clapboard bungalows. A sign on a post read
Surf ’n Sea Beach Hotel
.

Daily and Weekly Rates, Premium Cable, the AAA seal of approval.

Hotel, my ass, this was your basic fifties-era motel.

Not the first time the job had taken him to a drive-in tryst. Only this time, he’d be more than a guy with a camera.

Rigors of the job; little Moe had no idea.

When the coast was clear, he turned.

She’d waited fifteen feet in, half hidden by a cloud of bougainvillea. Her arm shot out again. Aaron was supposed to hook a right. He complied, found several parking spaces shaded by a gigantic coral tree. Messy thing, the Porsche was sure to get dirty, but he could see why she’d picked the spot.

Out of visual range of the northernmost bungalow that served as the motel’s front office.

As he pulled in, Gemma Dement cruised past. Five minutes later, she was walking toward him, looking grave, Fendi lenses flashing coppery light. On the surface, all business, but her body language disputed that: swinging a key on a dolphin-shaped holder in wide, playful arcs. Like a kid ready for an adventure.

Once they were inside the small, dim, mildewed room, she drew the drapes, tugged several times to make sure no sliver of daylight intruded.

One step short of total darkness. Aaron’s pupils dilated as he strained to follow her movements. She moved easily, familiar with the layout.

What the hell have I gotten into?

As he stood there, she got into that humming thing again. Powered up the twelve-inch flat-screen sitting atop a tilting bureau. Punched a code without consulting the guide.

Home away from home.

The station she selected was all music. So-called smooth jazz, heavy on repetition and low on imagination.

Lots of brush-percussion. Lots of lazy saxophone.