True Detectives (27 page)

I
f Mason Book had chosen to press his face against a cold glass pane of the house, he might’ve caught a glimpse of Aaron Fox watching him.

The actor sat in a square black leather chair, robe flapped open on an emaciated body. Sobbing.

Guy looked way older than on screen, not just because of no makeup and heartless lighting. His cheekbones jutted in a way that couldn’t be healthy. Vertical creases scored his face, hair well overdue for a color-rinse was showing some gray among the blond.

Thirty-three and starting to look like a withered old man.

Career transition, friend. Time to move on to character roles
.

As a matter of fact, I’ve got a screenplay for you, but you’re not going to dig the ending
.

Aaron tried to figure a way to gain entry without setting off something he couldn’t control.

He’d come with a host of little helpers, each in a designated pocket of his black, waterproof Swiss cargo pants: flashless pen camera, his cell phone for photo backup, mini infrared binoculars, similarly undersized tape recorder outfitted with one of Mr. Dmitri’s speakers.

Plastic wrist ties, in the event it came to that.

Ditto the Filipino fighting knife.

One of the pockets twitched. His cell phone vibing.

Could he chance taking it out and allowing the screen to create illumination?

As spaced out as Book appeared, too risky.

Plus, whoever was calling, it couldn’t be more important than what was happening right now. He no longer needed to hear
about
things; time to make things
happen
.

Reminding himself to maintain a strict dual focus—observe Book while looking out for the return of Ax Dement or any unwelcome visitor—he sidled along the glass.

There were seams, but so tight that even this close they were tough to make out.

The entire house was constructed of huge glass panels, some of them had to be doors. But which ones?

He hazarded another few feet closer to the hovering nose of the house. Hearing one of his rubber soles let off a tiny rubbery squeak and stopping short.

Mason Book sat there.

Now Aaron was close enough to see blotches and zits marring the actor’s once boyish face. Book’s nose was a sharp, bony protuberance. Matched the angle of the house’s snout.

As if the actor was a toy—an action figure—manufactured to fit the structure.

Book sat there, continued to suffer.

Stardom, indeed.

Suddenly he was up, standing, shaking, robe wide open.

Turning and facing the exact spot where Aaron crouched.

Hair shooting all over the place, eyes glazed, all skin and ribs, like a turkey carcass.

Looking straight
at
Aaron but not
seeing
him.

The actor belted his robe, headed for the rear of the house, passed through room after room.

The structure was a voyeur’s dream. Ramone W would love it.

Maybe Ramone had been here.

Who
knew
what kind of ugly went on here?

Book stopped in a cold, bright kitchen. Black cabinets, limestone floors, two Wolf ranges, two fridges, both Traulsens, one steel-fronted, one a glass see-through.

When remodeling, Aaron had priced the brand. Opted to supercharge his Porsche and buy five Antonelli suits instead.

Book stood in front of the steel fridge. Did nothing for a long time, finally opened the door. On his second try, straining both no-muscle arms.

Breathing hard; Aaron could see the rapid rise and fall of his robe.

Something wrong with his heart due to all the starvation?

Book took something out of the fridge. Soda can—no, same size but the cover was white, lots of small print. Larger red letters.

Book held the can straight out in front, as if it were dangerous. Carrying it that way, he trudged back to the front of the house.

Sank into the same square chair, almost tripping over his own feet in the process, nearly losing hold of the can.

Panting, openmouthed, he held the can to his cheek. Stretched his arms out again and studied the white cylinder.

Offering Aaron a closer view of the red lettering. Aaron whipped out the mini-binocs.

Book’s prescription snack, probably brought by that house-calling anorexia doctor.

The actor put the can on the floor, cried some more.

All weepy because he couldn’t bring himself to take in calories?

Aaron was in no mood to be understanding. Rich man’s pathology; no eating disorders in the Sudan.

Book retrieved the can, labored to pop the top, finally succeeded. Bent his elbow and brought the can closer to his lips.

Stopped. Stood. Upended the can and poured thick white liquid onto the floor.

Standing there until the can was empty, he placed it gingerly in the middle of the mess he’d created.

Slipping out of his robe, he strode, naked, with sudden purpose, toward the glass wall where Aaron was stationed.

Straight
at
Aaron.

Aaron hustled backward, was ten feet away when Book used both hands to push at the glass.

The wall swung open.

Mason Book stepped out into the night, skeletal, goose-bumped, bleached-out hair feathery in the breeze.

Off in some other galaxy, the actor made his way toward the structure’s proboscis. His progress was painfully slow, his body recalcitrant.

Finally, he got to the snout, slipped under it.

Aaron moved in closer. Book continued toward the cliff-edge. The actor’s eyes widened as they filled with the heat and light and color of the city.

Book pressed his hands together. Rocked on his heels. Shrunken genitals dangled. The guy’s limbs were sticks, his back flecked by scatters of rosy rash.

Book kept his hands pressed together. Rocked some more.

Some sort of prayer ritual?

Book bent his knees, moved forward so his feet curled over the cliff-edge.

Spread his arms wide.

Oh, shit!

Aaron became a bullet.

Screaming bullet. Hoping his voice would freeze the idiot.

Just the opposite.

Book turned, saw Aaron. Smiled.

Bent his legs again and took off in flight.

S
kin and bones helped.

But even a flimsy hundred-twenty-pound sack of dehydrated sinew could wrench your arms out of their sockets when you were flat on your belly in the dirt, all scuffed up and scraped from the slide, fighting to hold on.

Gripping the damned thing by its ankles as it dangled toward oblivion, and gravity kept kicking your ass.

Book wasn’t resisting.

But he wasn’t helping, either.

Idiot just hung there, silent, limp. Deadweight. A weird kind of patience—like he was just waiting for Aaron to let go of his ankles so he could do his thing.

Not so easy, you sick, pathetic, murderous bastard
.

Having another set of hands on board would’ve fixed the situation in seconds. Moe’s power-lifter guns …

Aaron said, “Hang … in there, buddy.”

Book giggled.

“’s funny?”

“Hang in there,” said Book, in that easily recognizable, reedy but charming voice. “I’m hanging.”

Every syllable caused the idiot’s body to jerk. Each twitch ratcheted up the agony in Aaron’s shoulders, the searing strain in his abdomen, back, and hips.

Thank God the fool was a self-starver … Aaron felt his grip loosen, braced his toes in the dirt. Pulled up again on Book.

Again, Book slid up toward him, only to slip back as Aaron’s muscles failed to stand up to the increased pressure. This time, the downward jolt nearly caused him to lose his hold. The pain in his shoulders was unbearable.

Sucking in breath, concentrating, focusing, thinking of dead people, a dead baby, how this asshole wasn’t going to weasel out so easily, he said, “Press your hands against the side of the mountain, buddy. So that you’re not just hanging there loose.”

“It’s not a mountain,” said Book. “It’s a hill.”

“Whatever.”

Book giggled again. Like this was just another role. Asshole.

“Do
it—brace yourself.”

“Why?”

“I …” gritting his teeth, “said so.”

Book didn’t respond.

“Do it.” Aaron’s jaws clenched tighter. His hands felt ready to detach from his wrists. A few more seconds of this and …
“Do it!”

“Okay, okay.” Whining, like the spoiled brat he was.

“Both hands. Press … hard.”

Book obeyed. Aaron’s relief was immediate. Sucking in oxygen, he bore down, inhaled again and prayed and released his left hand and shimmied it up Book’s scrawny calf. Getting a grip on bone and not much more.

He dug his fingernails into Book’s flesh. It had to hurt. Book didn’t even murmur.

Aaron let go of his right hand, dug that into Book’s other calf.

“I’m going to count to three. On three, push back. Hard.”

“Huh?”

“Like you’re trying to flip yourself up.”

“Wh—”

Aaron concentrated on reserving breath. Delivered his rapid speech: “Do it or I’ll tell everyone about the baby and the world will find out you were no noble suicide.”

Silence.

“Do
it.”

No answer.

“Baby Gabriel.
People
magazine,
Us
, the
Enquirer
—”

“Okay, okay,” said Book, with a catch in his throat.

“On three. You push back.” Shutting out the pain, as he marshaled his strength, Aaron felt his own legs flutter. Muscle strain? No, the damned cell was
vibing
again.

You’ve reached Fox Investigations. Mr. Fox is currently out of the office and quite possibly about to screw up royally …

“Ready, Mason?”

“You know my name.”

Imbecile.

“Of course I do. Ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“On three. Push hard.”

“Yes, sir.”

Here goes: Action. Camera
. “One. Two.
Three”

Book’s push was wimpy and Aaron’s grip on the legs slipped, but he managed to pull Book up high enough to claw under the idiot’s rib cage, continued yanking, mindlessly groping—tugging the guy upward.

Book’s body flopped like that of a fought-out fish, Aaron got hold of Book’s long, wild hair, yanked violently.

He dragged the bastard well clear of the cliff, dropped him harder than necessary, flat on his back. Fought for breath.

Mason Book, wearing a beard of grit and blood, looked up at Aaron with what seemed like wonderment.

Aaron stood over him, gasping, feeling his heart in his throat about
to rip loose and fly out of his mouth like some bloody bird. His clothes were torn, his body felt as if it had done a full-day shift in a cement mixer. Blood all over his palms, knees, cheeks, elbows. Maybe mixed with Book’s. He hoped the bastard wasn’t infected with anything.

Book smiled. “I know you.”

“That so.”

“Black Angel.”

W
hen Liana’s third text to Aaron went unanswered, she was comfortable switching her cell off and retiring to bed with Steve.

If Mr. Fox is free to party, I’m off shift
.

The chest-hair washcloth was back in place, she was wearing one of Steve’s T-shirts, he was in p.j. bottoms, and both of them were trying to sleep.

The towel bounced as Steve made a
Huh-huh
sound that rumbled through torso and terry cloth.

“Are you laughing, young man?”

“Uh-uh.”

“What’s funny?”

“Imagining.”

“What?”

“Not important.”

“Hey, big guy, it’s all about communication.”

“It’s kind of juvenile.”

“Always happy to get in touch with my inner child.” She nudged his ribs.

“Okay, okay.” Now he sounded fully awake. “I was thinking about detective work. One thing I’m not bad at is research. Give me a topic, I burrow like a mole. I was imagining you and me—like Nick and Nora Charles. Some fantasy, huh?”

My aspirations, sir, are more along the line of this thing we have going, whatever it is, lasting long enough for me to find out if you’re really as sweet and kind and understanding as you seem to be. If you are, I can do some expert patchwork on your self-esteem, which is really the only thing missing from the picture—and who knows, maybe you wouldn’t be as nice if you got too puffed up. So I’d need to be careful about not overdoing it, turning you into the typical arrogant man. But I’ll bet I could do it just right. Then I could remodel this place—meet your parents and convince them it’s in everyone’s best interests, believe me, honey, I could get them to like me, show them I’m the perfect girl for their boy, look how much you smile nowadays. As opposed to when that grasping bitch was on the scene. My fantasy, Steve-o, involves you and me living up here on the Wilshire Corridor, both our cars in the garage, the doormen greeting me by name, carrying my packages. Getting you to chill more, take some fun vacations, I’ll show you how to live. Including
that.
Lots of
that.
Between RAND and my voice-overs, we’d do just fine in the money department. I’d sell my condo, add to the kitty, I’m talking a full loving partnership, not some kept-woman situation. And your parents would like me so much, they’d kick in some dough for the …

Steve whispered, “You asleep, Liana?”

She said, “You’re right. That’s some fantasy.”

R
aymond Wohr’s signed statement was less than Moe had hoped for but still enough to justify waking up Deputy D.A. John Nguyen.

Nguyen had worked on the marsh murders, had raised all sorts of cautious lawyer objections during that investigation. This time, he said, “I like it.”

Moe said, “We need Wohr out of County and back to Hollywood lockup. Sooner the better.”

“I’ll get that started.”

Moe reentered the interview room, gave Petra the thumbs-up. She smiled.

Ramone W was drinking coffee and eating his third donut, powdered sugar bearding his grizzled face. He said, “What?”

The detectives ignored the question and took him through the statement a second time. No change in demeanor or narrative, as he continued to deny any direct role in the murder of Adella Villareal or her baby. But he did admit setting up what he continued to insist was just another sexual transaction.

Phoning Adella on short notice and telling her he’d lined up a monster gig, whole different class of john, the guy wanted her now.

She’d been wary:
“How come?”

“I showed him your picture.”
A lie, but so what? This could work in her favor, how was he to know it wouldn’t?

Another “relationship” begun at Riptide. Adella had lucked into Riptide after he, Ramone, had taken her and Alicia there for drinks to celebrate Adella’s birthday. No one noticing Alicia, but Adella, all dolled up, that tiny black dress, a whole different story.

The night of the transaction, he said, “Client likes your picture.”

“You showed him my picture?” she said. “Like some ad on Craigslist?”

“What’s the diff, monster client, Addie.”

“Right. The last ‘monster’ you set me up with was that four-hundred-pound slob who cried when I asked him for an extra hundred.”

“Forget hundred, Addie. This is three thousand big ones.”

No answer.

“You still there, Addie?”

“Three thousand,” she said.

“At
least
. Asshole’s good for a whole lot more, trust me.”

“Three thousand,” she repeated. “What do I need to do for three thousand?”

“Nothing special,” said Ramone.

“Spell it out.”

“Round the world, no anal.”

“Three thousand … shit, I don’t have a babysitter.”

“Not to worry, me and Alicia’ll take care of the kid. In fact, bring the kid, that way minute it’s over, he’s back with you.”

“Leave Gabriel with you? You couldn’t change a diaper if someone wrote you instructions.”

“Me
and Alicia
. Alicia has two kids.”

“I never seen them.”

“Two,” said Ramone.

“Where are they?”

Who the hell knows?
Ramone said, “All grown up.”

“I don’t know, Ramone, Gabriel’s been cranky. I think he’s teething or something.”

“Alicia can handle it. Three big ones, Addie, who knows how big the tip’ll go.”

“I’m not splitting the tip.”

“Aw, man …”

“Nope,” she said. “No way. It’s like a restaurant, the server gets the tip.”

“That sucks donkey,” said Ramone, “but fine. Be at the Hyatt, the one on the Strip. Here’s the room number. He’ll let you in.”

“Three thousand,” she said. “For sure no anal? Since giving birth I’ve got some tearing.”

“Front door only, Addie.”

“Three biggies for normal.”

“Soft john, he usually don’t pay for it but I showed him your picture and he’s hot for you.”

“Hot? He’s whack?”

“No, no, he’s ripe, that’s all I mean. Even with that, you take too long, he’s gonna change his mind. Bring the baby, Alicia’ll meet you in the hall near the room—bring bottles, diapers, whatever.”

“How about four?” she said.

“Hold on.” Standing in Alicia’s apartment by himself, he covered the phone with one hand and faked out consulting the client. “He says three and a half but you got to get there soon. You in?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Now I can tell you who the john is.” Whispering a name.

She said, “No way!”

“Yes way. Is Ramone the man or is he the man?”

“Jesus—okay, yeah, yeah, I’ll wear my good undies.”

Wohr finished his donut. “That’s it. Same as I told you the first time.”

Moe Reed said, “You had no idea what was going to happen?”

“Nope.”

“What’d you do with the baby?”

“Addie had the baby when she went in. I wasn’t there.”

“And neither was Alicia.”

“Nope.”

“So bringing the baby was the client’s idea.”

“The plan was for Alicia to be in the hall but she had to go to the bathroom, so she missed meeting Addie.”

“Sure,” said Moe.
“That
happened.”

Long silence.

Petra said, “There were two plans. The one you told her and the one you carried out.”

“I wasn’t even there.”

“And neither was Alicia. Alicia never even came along.”

Silence.

Moe said, “That whole bullshit about Alicia was to get the baby there.”

No answer.

“Maybe Adella even said she’d call a babysitter and you said don’t bother, we’ll handle it.”

“Uh-uh,” said Wohr. “That never came up.”

“Maybe Adella said she’d call Caitlin Frostig.”

“Nope, don’t know her.”

“You met her twice.”

“That’s not knowing.”

“Caitlin had nothing to do with this.”

“I don’t know her, I made a call, that’s it.”

“And drove to the Hyatt.”

“No!” Ramone blurted. “I never went.”

“That’s a new twist.”

“It’s true.”

Moe resisted the urge to throttle the guy. “Don’t insult us, Ramone. We see lips flapping but we don’t hear the truth and the truth’s the only thing going to set you free.”

“I told you the truth.”

“You told us a
story
. The truth is the
baby
. The whole
point
was the baby. Otherwise you wouldn’t have told Adella to
bring
the baby.”

Wohr looked at the floor.

Petra said, “Sending a baby to a gig. That’s one sick deal.”

“Aw, man …”

Moe raised his voice. “Tell us about the baby.”

“I don’t know nothing about no baby.”

“Not any baby, Ramone. Baby Gabriel, Adella’s baby Gabriel, the cute little baby you had Adella take to the Hyatt.” Waving the signed statement. “By your own admission, Ramone.”

Wohr hugged himself, slouched lower. “I made a call, that’s
it
.”

Moe placed a thumb on Wohr’s collarbone. Found a pressure point. Pushed. Wohr whimpered.

Moe said, “The point was Adella bringing the baby.”

“I guess.”

“You guess.”

“I did what I was told.”

“For a thousand bucks.”

Silence.

Moe said, “You didn’t wonder why someone would slip you a grand just to make a call?”

“Addie worked for me.”

“We know you bragged about that—representing her, you were Mr. Hollywood. But it’s not like she was in your stable. Because you don’t
have
a stable, Ramone.”

“I got her other gigs. Rock guys, like at the Whiskey.”

“Great,” said Petra. “You’re a heavy pimp. Doesn’t that come with responsibility? You make a call, never see her again, you’re not trying to find out what happened?”

“I figured she went back,” said Wohr.

“Back where?”

“Arizona,” said Wohr. “To see her family. She did that before, didn’t tell me or nothing.”

“You set her up on a high-priced date, make sure she brings the baby,” said Petra. “Then she drops out of sight, you’re not the least bit curious.”

“All I did was make a
call
.”

“Thousand-dollar call,” said Moe. “Go to the Hyatt on the Strip, here’s the room number, you’re free and clear. She gets her pretty self murdered and dumped in Griffith Park and you don’t know about it?”

Silence.

“You expect us to believe you thought she made a family visit, meanwhile everyone knows she got killed and no one’s seen the baby?”

Moe pushed down a bit more. Wohr whimpered. “You’re good at making calls, Ramone. You’re a frickin’ phone-call
specialist.”

“Huh?”

“We got the trace an hour ago, Ramone.” No longer needing to lie. “Ratting out Alicia, because she was making noise, getting on your case for not cashing in on
the first
call.”

Wohr hung his head.

“After how she disrespected you, can’t say I blame you,” said Moe.

Petra said, “Me neither. I did that to my man, I can’t even imagine.”

Wohr’s face tilted up.

Petra said, “My man and me, no one raises a hand to anyone.”

Moe said, “Doing it right on the street. And it’s not like you hit her back. You stayed cool, I respect that—Detective Connor respects that.”

Petra said, “That’s a whole lot of patience.”

“You walked away,” said Moe. “That was manly. Then you made one of your famous calls. What’s the harm in that—there’s facts, you state them to someone, how they handle it isn’t your business. Problem is, they handled it by carving her up, Ramone, I’m talking taco meat. You want to see those pictures again?”

“No!” Wohr’s hands wrapped around the back of his head. He bent low. “Aw, man.”

“Horrible scene,” said Moe. “Even for detectives like us who see murder all the time. But that’s not your business, you just made a call, how they chose to handle it was their decision. And that’ll help you, Ramone.
That’s bound to help you, people understanding the difference between making a call and doing a fifteen-wound knife-murder.”

“I didn’t
know
.”

“Didn’t know what?”

“Nothing.”

“What would happen after you made the call?”

“Yeah.”

“You make calls, that’s what you do,” said Petra. “You’re the phone man, king of the phone lines.”

Wohr kept his face hidden. She reached into her pocket, drew out her own phone, and Moe waited for some dramatic flourish. Instead, she read a text message. Mouthed,
John’s here
.

Moe sat back down, positioned his knees an inch from Wohr’s. Tolerated the stench of the guy’s breath, the sour despair emanating from Wohr’s pores. “Notice, Ramone, that we’re telling you about Alicia, not asking. ’Cause we don’t need you.”

Wohr looked up again. “Yeah,” he said.

“Yeah, what?”

“She
hit
me, I called.” Touching his cheek. “She hadda know that
wasn’t
gonna work out.”

“Good man,” said Moe. “Being straight is what’s going to help you. Now pick up that pencil and give us all the details you left out the first time.”

Wohr complied. When he was through, Moe pulled him to his feet and cuffed him, recited the charges, read him his rights.

Wohr said, “Murder? For using the phone?”

Moe and Petra walked him to the door. Deputy D.A. John Nguyen was outside, talking to a jailer, holding papers. He looked at Wohr. “This is him?” As if disappointed.

Petra said, “This here’s the Emperor of the Phone.” Laughing. Moe thought she looked really pretty, fresh and confident and calm, not a wrinkle in her pantsuit.

His own head was filled with bad music: a little bit of melody but too many missing notes.