True Detectives Page 11

  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.

  Now she was set up financially, with the house, the travel, the hobbies du jour.

  Empty space in the king-size bed.

  Could she take twenty, thirty more years of this torpor? No challenges, nothing to rebel against?

  Two kids who looked like men but had never grown up?

  Was the psychic abyss dividing them somehow her fault? She didn’t think so, she’d always been so—

  Stop. No way would she introspect and get all dopey-mopey about their issues. She deserved better than that.

  Her therapist agreed with her.

  She said, “Ready for dessert, boys? Vanilla cherry for Aaron, chocolate ripple for Mosey. You two are nothing if not ironic.”

  When the table was clear, she took them to her second-story studio and showed them the huge, bicolor canvases she’d been working on. Variations of light/dark. If either of them got the joke, they didn’t let on.

  Mosey said, “Nice, Mom.”

  Aaron said, “Really nice, Mom.”

  Maddy noticed a thin spot on the edge of one of the paintings. Squeezing pigment onto her palette, she sat at her easel, began filling in.

  The boys stood around as she daubed, stood back to gauge, painted some more. The paint was not sitting right, bad-quality acrylics, she’d noticed a definite change in the last few batches ...

  Squeeze, moisten, lift brush, lay it down ...

  When she looked up, half an hour had passed and the house was blessedly silent.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Moe said, “So what’s this big-time lead?”

  The sun was down and the courtyard cobbles were a strange, deep purple. A sad color. Moe wanted out of there.

  Aaron kept his reflexive reply to himself. What’s this big-time attitude? He recounted Rory Stoltz’s Hyundai adventures.

  Moe said, “So?”

  Aaron tamped down frustration by touching the fabric of his sport coat. Super 200s from Milan, silky-smooth, nothing better. He’d bought the jacket in three shades.

  “You looked at Stoltz early on, but he came across clean—”

  “He didn’t come across, he had an alibi.”

  “Stayed behind at Riptide even after Caitlin left. But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have met up with her later. But he’s not top of my list. I hear Riptide catered to celebs back then. I don’t know who got Rory into ColdSnake but it had to be a VIP, I’m still working on that. That means Rory has an attraction to that world. What if some famous type did Caitlin and Rory protected him?”

  Moe thought: Mason Book was skinny, made perfect sense. “Rory allegedly loves this girl but he allows her killer to go free so he can run dope errands?”

  “Dope errands and maybe more, Moses. He was still in that house until well after three. Maybe sleeping in. That says he’s wormed his way into a higher income bracket.”

  “As a gofer.” Who wants to be an entertainment lawyer or an agent. Makes perfect sense.

  Aaron said, “He thinks it’s a start.”

  Moe said nothing.

  “You’re not impressed by any of this.”

  “You saw Stoltz chauffeur two club-rats. We don’t know if they’re in the Industry.”

  “How about this, then? The house he drove them to belongs to Lem Dement.”

  Moe’s arms folded across his chest. “You’re letting info out in dribs and drabs?”

  “I need you to be interested before I waste my ti
me, Moses.”

  “I’m busy. Spit it all out.”

  Aaron forced himself calm. “One: Dement owns the place. Two: I have a source says Dement beats his wife. Neither of the two guys was Dement, but he does have a slew of kids. Seven to be exact, and five are sons. Boys learn how to treat women from their daddies.” Or from having no daddy. “I worked the Web, found photos of three junior Dements. The two oldest fit the build of the heavier guy I saw.”

  Moe pulled out his pad. “Names?”

  “Japhet and Ahab.” Aaron grinned. “Japhet is twenty-five and Ahab’s twenty-eight. Ahab used to be a heavy-metal dude, goes by Ax. If you find a criminal history on either of them, I’d appreciate hearing about it.”

  “Meaning you didn’t turn up anything.”

  “If they’re bad boys, they’ve avoided the press. All I found were a couple of party photos with Ax trying to get his face in the shots.”

  “Where were the parties?”

  “Not at Riptide, if that’s what you mean. I’m talking Oscars week, the Grammys, the usual post-ceremony crap—the Standard, the Design Center, Skybar, everyone stoned, pretending they want privacy but they’re really out to make the tabs.”

  “Any genuine celebs in the shots?” said Moe.

  “You better believe it. Tom, Julia, Sean, George, the old see-and-be-seen. In one picture, Ax was trying to make it look like he was a pal of Mason Book.”

  “Trying how?”

  “Book’s all snuggly with a hollow-cheeked supermodel and Ax is leaning in between them, a fifth wheel—what?”

  Moe said, “What do you mean, what?”

  “Your eyes just dropped like lead sinkers.”

  “I was just thinking. Book’s tall and skinny. Maybe he’s the other guy you saw.”

  “Sure, but there are tons of skinny guys in L.A.” Aaron stood back. “Why am I getting that Book interests you?”

  “Because Rory works for Book. As a P.A.”

  Aaron’s jaw grew rigid. “Now who’s dribbing and drabbing?”

  “I just found out.”

  “When? How?”

  “I don’t need to explain my methods.”

  “Your methods ...” Aaron’s smile was unsettling. “You change your mind about the Peninsula then the moment I’m gone you probably went over and reinterviewed Rory’s mommy. Fine, you’re the man and I’m hired help grateful to be clutching your coattails. But keep with that attitude and good luck closing Caitlin.”