True Detectives (9 page)

Red Rooms
was nominated for an Oscar and might’ve won if a heartrending portrayal of a nine-year-old, blind poet prodigy hadn’t surfaced just before the submission deadline.

Upon hearing the verdict, Lem was reputed to have fidgeted in his seat at the Kodak Theatre and murmured, “How can you beat a fucking walleyed Helen Keller incarnation?”

He denied the quote.

The next two years saw Dement’s fortunes dip as he tried his hand at “serious cinema.” A tale of Shakespearean lust garnered more plagiarism suits than profit. A historical action film depicting both sides in the Civil War as slavering, self-serving barbarians went straight to video, as did a “postmodern shake-up” of
Othello
that recast the tragedy as a metaphor for the Arab-Israeli impasse, with a villain named Iago Bernstein.

Lem Dement’s name faded from the buzzosphere, as did tabloid shots of the now three-hundred-pound artiste at The Right Parties, bursting out of a custom tuxedo, his trademark limp-brimmed fishing hat studded with lures perched jauntily on a massive, grizzled head.

Dement went “into seclusion to center myself.” Emerged three years later with a four-hour, unspeakably violent depiction of the earliest days of Christianity, shot during a thirty-two-month stay in Turkey.

Given its creator’s sensibilities, everyone expected
Saul to Paul: The Moment
to be an indictment of organized religion. What they got, instead, was a paean to the severest aspects of fundamentalist dogma that trumpeted the virtues of forced conversion and portrayed Arabs, Phoenicians, Mesopotamians, and Jews as hook-nosed heretics.

In a full-page
Variety
ad, Lem Dement announced, “I’ve been born again in the truest sense. My art and my heart are now focused upon sacraments of truth, purity and redemption.”

Quickly condemned as racist agitprop by the Hollywood establishment and the mainstream press, and protested serially by Muslim and
Jewish civil rights groups, the film enjoyed a limited release in leased art houses and church auditoriums. Word of mouth grew. Theater chains signed on. Within three months,
Saul to Paul
had taken in four hundred million dollars. Foreign revenues added another hundred fifty.

Lem Dement announced his “retirement to a life of contemplation” and moved to a “multiacre estate” in Malibu.

Same city where Rory Stoltz went to school. Honing his Industry ambitions.

Where Caitlin Frostig had gotten straight A’s.

Aaron pushed back from the screen. Paced his office.

Malibu was more a concept than a locale, stretching thirty miles up the coast. But the Pepperdine-Caitlin-Rory link couldn’t be ignored.

Aaron considered waking Henry again, to find out if Lem Dement’s spread was anywhere near the sprawling campus. Decided against it. If Henry had managed to revisit his dream, busting his fantasy a second time would breed too much ill will.

Plus, at the early stages of the investigation, he needed to be careful about tunnel vision.

Caitlin goes to school in 90265, ditto Rory.

Rory has the gate clicker to a Hollywood Hills house owned by Dement, whose main crib is in 90265.

He flashed back to the house on Swallowsong. The winding driveway implied a big-view lot. High-priced real estate … maybe the place housed one of the stoners Rory had chauffeured.

In a Hyundai?

Had to be camouflage. So did leaving the club through the back— that was celeb behavior.

Was one—or both—of the stoners a VIP? That synced with Rory waltzing into ColdSnake.

Aaron returned to the keyboard, paired
Rory Stoltz
with
Lem Dement
, and Googled.

Did you mean demented roar?

No, I didn’t, Meddling Cyber-Wienie.

He sat there for a long time, feeling his brain turn to sludge.

Three ten a.m. What he
craved was
sinking his teeth into the case, ripping and shredding like a rabid dog until the facts bled.

What he
did
was slog upstairs to Play Land, undress, fold his clothes neatly over the brass-and-teak valet, slip naked between Frette sheets.

Guessing Caitlin’s face would appear in his dreams. He hoped she would.

Back when he’d been on the job, he’d embraced the classic Homicide D’s self-congratulation.

We talk for the dead
.

And sometimes, the dead talk to us.

M
oe arrived at his desk at eight a.m., thinking about the Rory Stoltz-Mason Book connection.

Two messages from Aaron sat next to his computer. Crumpling and lobbing easy two-pointers into a nearby wastebasket, he Googled the actor.

Nearly four million hits. Midway down the second page were accounts of Book’s early-morning suicide attempt by wrist-slash.

Paramedics responding to a 911 call at the Hollywood Hills house of heartthrob …

Facts were in short supply, but no shortage of lurid rehash: anonymous sources claimed Mason Book was addicted to every drug known to humankind, the hush-hush VIP admission to Cedars-Sinai had cost a heavy six figures for a one-week stay …

Moe found a couple of grainy, dark infrared shots of a guy who might’ve been Book being ushered into a black SUV at a hospital service door. Another hit quoted a plea by Book’s unnamed mouthpiece to “respect Mason’s privacy during this difficult period. Mason needs to concentrate all his energies on getting well. He thanks everyone for their support.”

Moe was about to log off when he noticed the date of Book’s wrist-slash.

Printing the citation, he left the D room, turned around a sharp corner, hustled over to the familiar unmarked door, and knocked.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Moe, Loo.”

“’s not locked.”

The room was so small that opening the door brought Sturgis’s rhino frame into immediate close-up. Almost like being charged by a bull, and after all these months still kind of jarring to Moe.

The lieutenant had squeezed his bulk into a wheely-chair, long legs propped on his flimsy desk. Additional cold cases were stacked to the left of a cold computer screen. Sturgis’s heavy jaw flexed.

“Got a second, Loo?”

Sturgis removed the cigar and rolled it from finger to finger, like a carny doing a trick. He pointed to a chair in the corner.

Moe didn’t consider himself claustrophobic but he didn’t like to be hemmed in. He remained standing in the doorway and told the Loo about Rory Stoltz working for Mason Book, Riptide’s past life as a Hollywood hangout, saving the best for last: Book had slit his wrists exactly one week after Caitlin’s disappearance.

Sturgis said, “You’re wondering if he did something to her and felt guilty?”

“I know it’s remote, Loo, but right now it’s all I’ve got.”

“Remorse as a motive is predicated on Book having a conscience. Does he?”

“Don’t know.”

Sturgis laughed—that vaguely threatening, phlegmy chuckle of his. “He’s an
actor
, Moses. A dope-fiend actor, which is maybe repetitive. But sure, check it out, why not. Pick up any new cases?”

“Nope,” said Reed.

“Me neither. Damn slow.”

For a second, Moe thought Sturgis might offer to work Caitlin. But the Loo just cursed and rubbed his face. “If the citizens know what’s
good for them, they’ll start killing other citizens so we can earn our pay. For all the service we’re offering, we might as well be goldbrick politicians—not that I’m demeaning all your good work on poor Caitlin.”

“I’m
demeaning it, Loo. Haven’t learned squat.”

“Some cases are like that.” Sturgis jammed the cigar back in his mouth, picked up a file, flipped through it, shook his head. “Like this one. So cold I could use it to ice my knee. Sayonara, lad.”

Moe said, “One more thing. Book was admitted to Cedars. Your … partner is in charge of the E.R. there, right?”

Sturgis shut the file. “Moses, there’s something called doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“I know, sir. I was just wondering if perhaps he could direct me to … some kind of source.”

“Go ask him. Richard Silverman, M.D. He’s listed in the Cedars registry.”

“That’s okay with you?”

“I’m not his parent, Moses. I’m his”—unfathomable smile— “partner.”

During Moe’s brief absence, Aaron had called a third time. Moe’s fist closed around the slip with sudden, crushing force that surprised him. Rather than go for the easy layup, he aimed at a can fifteen feet across the room.

Swish
. Three points.

Perversely self-satisfied, he got Dr. Richard Silverman’s number and called. Silverman sounded busy—harried, even—and Moe dropped the Loo’s name before introducing himself.

“What can I do for you, Detective?” Kind of frosty; no
Oh, yeah, he’s mentioned you
.

No
reason
for Sturgis to mention him.

He asked if the doc could direct him to someone with information about Mason Book’s hospitalization.

Silverman said, “I assume you don’t mean our official spokespeople.”

“That’s correct, Doctor.”

“Book wasn’t my patient, but I still can’t talk to you. Not that I would, if I could. Apart from legal issues, there are general ethical principles.”

“I understand that, Doctor, but—”

“You were hoping that because of Milo, I might relax my standards.”

Moe didn’t answer.

Silverman said, “I’m not trying to give you a hard time. It’s simply something I can’t do.”

“I understand, Doctor. It’s just that this is a murder investigation and a really tough one.” He summarized Caitlin’s disappearance, making her out to be a saint, pumping more pathos by describing her father as a withering, tragic figure.

Silverman said, “Poor girl.”

“Her mom died when she was young, she was all her father had,” said Moe.

“And Mason Book’s relevant to this because …”

“Honestly, Doc, he might not be, but I need to follow up on any lead I get. Turns out Caitlin’s ex-boyfriend works for Book, which in and of itself doesn’t mean much. But then I learned that Book’s suicide attempt happened one week after Caitlin disappeared and I felt I had no choice but to—”

“A week?” said Silverman. “I’m not getting the point.”

“It’ll probably turn out to be nothing, Doc, but what if the boyfriend did collude with Book on some terrible deed and Book felt guilty and that’s why he cut his wrists?”

“Do you suspect the boyfriend?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Then I still don’t understand.”

“Sorry for bothering you, Doc.”

Silverman said, “Book never went through the E.R., got sent straight to Special Imp. You could try someone there but I doubt you’ll be successful.”

“What’s Special Imp?”

“As in ‘important.’ VIP inpatient ward. If you like living dangerously, ask Milo. I got him placed there last year. When he got shot.”

“What’s dangerous about asking him?” said Moe.

“He’s not into all that
share-the-feelings
stuff.”

“So you got the Loo VIP’d—”

“But that doesn’t mean I have a pipeline to anyone at Special Imp. Good luck, Detective Reed.”

The unspoken line:
You’ll need it
.

One hour into a more detailed computer search for articles about Mason Book’s suicide attempt, Moe’s phone rang. “Homicide, Detective Reed.”

“Three hundred North Corsair Lane, Detective Reed’s proud mother.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“How are you, darling?”

“Fine.”

“You don’t sound fine, darling.”

“I don’t?”

“You’ve got that pressure thing in your voice—constriction of the larynx due to stress. You’ve been affected that way since you were teeny.”

“Affected,” said Moe.

“Your voice, darling,” said Maddy. “It’s like a peek into your emotional state.”

“Gee, I learn something new every day.”

“I miss you, Mosey. When’s the last time we had brunch?”

“Hmm,” said Moe. “I guess it was …”

“I don’t guess, I
know
. Eight weeks ago, as of last Sunday. You and enchanting Elizabeth—you
are
still together.”

“We are, Mom.”

“Phew,” said Maddy. “No faux pas. She’s so good for you, Mosey.”

“Too good for me,” Moe blurted. His face went hot.

“Now, why in the world would you say that, sweetheart?”

Moe didn’t answer.

Maddy said, “I’ll wait for the blush to fade. Then I’ll tell you no one’s too good for you, my precious baby boy.”

“What makes you think I’m blushing?”

“Am I wrong?”

Silence.

“Just say, ‘Thanks for the emotional support, Mom.’”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, Mosey, I didn’t mean to upset you, I’m just teasing. Though the truth is, if you don’t want to be teased, you need to learn not to be so reactive, darling. So anyway, I’d really love to see you. Eight weeks is way too long not to see my baby boy’s Adonis face. I’ve been painting up a storm and I crave your judgment.”

“I’m sure it’s great, Mom.”

“I’m sure it’s not, Mosey.”

“All of a sudden someone’s got a self-esteem problem?” said Moe.

Maddy laughed—that deep, almost mannish burst of glee so at odds with her appearance. Moe had seen people thrown by it. Sometimes,
he
was still thrown by it.

“Self-esteem issues?” she said. “Not me, darling. I’m just a factual appraiser and I’m well aware of the fact that I have absolutely no talent. Zero. A great, yawning void of no talent. Heck, Mosey, my easel
shudders
as I approach. But that’s the strength of my character: I don’t give a fig. I paint because I love it and anyone who disapproves can go straight to Pasadena. In that sense, we’re diametrical opposites, Mosey. You
have
tremendous talent for what you do, but are so displeased with yourself.”

“Mom, I’m not displeased—”

“So I’m wrong again,” said Maddy. “No problem, I’m totally comfortable being in error because I’m aware of my infinitesimal place in the cosmos. So when are you coming? How about tonight? I’ll cook my famous lentil soup—don’t worry, I’ve stocked up on Beano.”

“Mom!”

From across the room, a D-2 named Gil Southfork looked up from his desk and Moe knew his voice had risen. Cupping his hand over the phone, he whispered, “Let me call you later, Mom.”

“Don’t bother,” said Maddy. “Just come see me. Tonight.”

“What’s the urgen—”

“I miss you, darling. Eight weeks.”

“Let me see how my day goes and—”

“Six p.m., I’ll make those sausages you like—chicken-cilantro, turkey-apple. You’ll be off by six, darling?”

“That’s the point, Mom, it’s hard to pin down a time,” said Moe. “I’m on a case and there’s no way—”

“Bring Elizabeth if she’s free—why aren’t you seeing her tonight? You need a social life to balance out your work life.”

“She’s busy, too, Mom.” A semi-lie; Liz would be free by eight, the two of them had left the evening open.

“Too bad, I really like that girl,” said Maddy. “See you at six.”