True Detectives Page 6

  “Fine,” she said. “But I’ve been to Industry parties at Loews.”

  “Terrific. Charm the valet and maybe he’ll let you park free.”

  Liana laughed and nibbled an eighth of a cookie. “This girl— Caitlin. How long did she work there?”

  “Four months.”

  “You’re wondering if she ran into some psycho, either there, or nearby.”

  “I don’t know enough to wonder anything, Lee. Go in there, order a drink—soft, if you think hard will impede you. Don’t feel pressured to come up with anything huge. Just check the place out, get a feel for the ambience.”

  “What’s my motivation, Mr. De Mille?”

  “Two hundred for the first four hours, forty for each additional hour.”

  “Ooh,” she said. “Generous client, huh?” Rhetorical, because she knew better than to press for details. “They serve food at this gin joint?”

  “Probably bar food, at least.”

  “I’ll stick with my Lean Quee. Just ambience, huh?”

  “If anything specific to Caitlin comes up, that’s a bonus, but I don’t expect it. After fifteen months, there’s no reason for anyone to talk about her.”

  “But if someone does, that would be significant.”

  “Don’t bring her up in conversation.”

  Liana’s liquid blue eyes flashed. “Now I’m insulted.”

  “Sorry,” said Aaron. “I just want you safe. Paddle out slowly and watch for sharks.”

  “Didn’t know you surfed.”

  Aaron had, years ago, working his way up to the active waters of County Line Beach.

  He said, “I don’t. I’m just good at metaphors.” He handed her Rory Stoltz’s DMV photo, then a copy of the snapshot of Caitlin he’d gotten from Maitland Frostig.

  “Cute couple.”

  “Virgins,” said Aaron. “According to Rory’s mother.”

  Liana crossed sleek legs. “You find that unbelievable.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Well,” she said. “I was once a virgin.” Blinking. “Until I wasn’t.”

  At 10:05 p.m., the little pink house’s front windows went dark.

  Early to bed for the All-American kid? Aaron could live with a dead end first night. He’d give it another hour.

  Nine minutes later, the front door swung open and Rory Stoltz, wearing a dark shirt untucked over black jeans, his pale hair mussed with great intention, ambled to his Hyundai and backed out of the driveway.

  Forgetting to switch his headlights on until he was halfway up the block.

  Aaron waited until Stoltz reached the corner, kept his own beams off and trailed from a distance. When Stoltz turned south on Lanker-shim, Aaron illuminated and joined the traffic flow. Keeping three car lengths back in a neighboring lane, he managed a clear view of the Hyundai.

  Rory Stoltz turned right on Ventura, then left on Laurel Canyon, continued south toward the city. Aaron let a Mercedes and a Range Rover get in front of him before joining the convoy.

  Stoltz drove slowly and cautiously. Braked too early around curves and held up progress until the Mercedes grew impatient and started tailgating.

  The Hyundai pulled aside and let the Benz and the Rover pass.

  Aaron got in front, too, hoping Rory wouldn’t turn off on some side lane.

  He didn’t, staying on the canyon all the way to Sunset.

  Switching on his left turn signal well before the intersection.

  Both cars headed east on the boulevard. Three blocks later, Rory slowed just west of ColdSnake’s black stucco and red lava-rock façade. The usual fools were lined up behind a black velvet rope. A Samoan doorman in a white leather jumpsuit and a too-small bowler scowled just to keep in practice. His bulk obscured the entrance.

  Stoltz’s Hyundai had the nerve to pull behind a ruby stretch Hummer and a lime-green Lamborghini Gallardo. The little car looked like a wart on the Hummer’s ass. Aaron waited for Mr. Derby to wave the kid out of there.

  Instead, the Samoan allowed the Hyundai to stay. Seconds later, Rory got waved in, fools craning to see who’d earned the privilege.

  Mr. All-American Kid had VIP status at one of the hottest clubs in town.

  Virgin, indeed.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Moe Reed drove to the Peninsula Hotel.

  Noon was approaching, and he figured he had a decent chance at catching Martha Stoltz on her lunch break.

  The hotel parking valet regarded his unmarked as if it carried disease.

  Moe handed him the keys. “Keep it safe, it’s scheduled for the lead position at Daytona.”

  The valet pretended deafness.

  Inside, the lobby was full of high-end tourists and Industry types. It took Moe twenty minutes of wangling his way up the managerial command to locate Martha in an empty banquet room conferring with half a dozen room-service waiters. She spotted Moe and her lips folded inward, as if she’d just downed a laundry-soap martini.

  She was a tall leathery woman with efficient copper hair, a strong chin, and downslanted eyes. She resumed talking. Some of the waiters watched Moe.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. Liz saying hi. He texted back. tied up, 1 hr ok big m

  As he clicked off, Martha Stoltz adjourned the meeting and the waiters dispersed.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Stoltz.”

  “Has something come up since we talked this morning?”

  “If only,” said Moe.

  Tension around the downslanted eyes pulled them level. Deep green with amber flecks. “Then I don’t understand.”

  “Like I told you, ma’am, I’m updating, ma’am. How’s Rory, what he’s doing, where can I reach him.”

  “We already covered that.”

  “We really didn’t, ma’am. You told me I shouldn’t be talking to him.”

  “You’re making it sound like I’m being ... like I’m hindering you. I’m not, Detective Reed. I just don’t want Rory subjected to any more stress.”

  “Being questioned was that stressful for him?”

  “Honest people aren’t used to dealing with the police, Detective. Being asked the same questions, over and over? Wouldn’t that bother you? And now you show up, unannounced, in the middle of a workday, simply because I’m his mother? That stresses me.”

  “I’m truly sorry, ma’am. I figured I might catch you on break.”

  Martha Stoltz’s laughter was brittle. “Break? What’s that?”

  “Busy day, huh?”

  “Busy life, Detective Reed. This place is a small city, I can’t afford to be distracted. Please don’t take this the wrong way but I find it extremely off-putting having my son harassed.”

  “I’m not aware of any harassment, ma’am.”

  The clipboard shifted from one hand to the other. “I’ve watched enough of those police shows to know the attention always falls on someone the victim knew. But you’ve already covered everything with Rory.”

  Moe rocked on his heels. “If it was my kid, I’d feel the same way, ma’am. Unfortunately, the case is being reopened comprehensively.” Waiting for her reaction.

  None.

  “If Rory doesn’t want to talk to me, that’s his prerogative.”

  “But that would make you more suspicious,” she said. “It’s a Catch-22.”

  “Is he still at Pepperdine?”

  “Junior year—oh, no, don’t humiliate him by coming onto campus.”

  “Humiliate him?”

  “The police showing up in front of his peers? How would you like that?”

  Moe thought she was overreacting, and heck if that didn’t make him wonder.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Where else can I reach him?”

  “He still lives at home, but I can’t give you an exact schedule. He’s an adult, Detective. Comes and goes as he pleases.”

  Moe said, “Does he still work at the Riptide?”

  “Riptide,” said Martha Stoltz. “There’s no the.” Her knowing look said
he’d just failed a vital exam. “And no, he doesn’t work there. Shortly after Caitlin went missing, he had to leave.”

  “Had to?”

  “Anything that reminded Rory of Caitlin was difficult. He grieved, Detective.”

  “Where does he work now?”

  The clipboard pressed against her chest. “He registered with a temp agency. Wanted to concentrate on his studies and not be tied down to a rigid schedule.”

  “Is he temping for anyone currently?”

  Hesitation.

  “Mrs. Stoltz?”

  “I don’t want to put Rory’s job in jeopardy.”

  “By telling me who he works for?”

  “If you come looking for him while he’s on the job, he’ll be finished. He loves this job, Detective. The pay’s excellent and we have two more years of tuition, then law school if he chooses to go that way.”

  “Ma’am, I can call every agency in town until I find out what I need. Why don’t we just keep it simple and—”

  “Mason Book. Okay? He works for Mason Book as a personal assistant.” Delivering the news with resentment, but also some pride.

  “The actor,” said Moe, instantly aware of how stupid that sounded. No, the podiatrist.

  Martha Stoltz said, “Now you see why discretion is so important. Part of Rory’s job is shielding Mason from unwanted publicity.”

  Calling the star by his first name. Meaning Rory probably did. Good old L.A. informality. Or Martha Stoltz had been reading too many stupid tabloids, thought celebs were her buddies.

  They’re just like us.

  No, they’re not.

  He said, “Is Mason doing okay?”

  “With what?”

  “From what I understand, he’s had personal problems.” Kind of an understatement, given the actor’s drug issues and well-publicized suicide attempt last year.

  “They all have personal problems.” Martha’s eyes circled the banquet hall. “From the A list on down to the D’s, they’re—working here for fifteen years, I could tell you stories.” She stiffened. “But I won’t. And neither will Rory.”

  “Ma’am,” said Moe, “I couldn’t care less if Mason Book grows two additional heads or turns purple when he drinks. Same for any lister from A through Z. I’m here to find out what happened to a nice young woman named Caitlin Frostig.”

  Tough-guy bravado in his voice. Now who’s acting?

  “I know that man is suffering. Caitlin’s father. I phoned him shortly after Caitlin vanished. To offer support, one parent to the other. He thanked me and hung up and I realized I’d been stupid. Presuming I had something to offer him. Empathy’s damn weak tea, Detective.”

  Her eyes drooped. “I lost a child myself. Seventeen months before Rory was born. Her name was Sarah, she had the most gorgeous brown eyes you’ve ever seen and she was three months old when I found her in her crib not breathing.”

  “I’m sor—”

  “When Rory was nine, his father passed. So I figured I could offer Mr. Frostig something by way of understanding. But no one can ever really know how anyone feels, that’s just pop-psych nonsense. We’re put on this planet for a few years, just us and our shadows, Detective Reed. Maybe there’s someone up there, pulling the strings, I don’t know. Anyone who tells you he does know wants your money or is trying to get elected to something.”

  “Ma’am—”

  “Rory’s a good boy, please don’t put his job at risk. It’s perfect for him, gives him a toehold in the Industry.”

  “Rory wants to act?”

  “Rory wants to be an entertainment lawyer, or maybe an agent. It’s all about connections, he was so lucky to connect right at the top. Mason may have had personal issues but he treats Rory well and Rory loves working for him.” Softening her voice. “He’s really a nice young man. Mason, I mean. Rory brought him here for breakfast and I served him personally and he couldn’t have been more gracious.”

  “Great,” said Moe.

  “What is?”

  “Success hasn’t made him obnoxious.”

  “Yes,” she said. “That is nice, isn’t it?”

  CHAPTER

  10

  Riptide was ripe with the odors of tequila, aftershave, and slightly rancid cooking oil.

  Liana Parlat took a stool at the far end of the spar-varnished bar, aware of male eyes shifting as she crossed the length of the room.

  Long, dark room, kind of tunnel-like. Off to one side, a double-width doorway led to a small dining area. No one in there she could see.

  The action was at Cocktail Central. A few couples in their thirties, the rest men batching it. Beach Boys on soundtrack.

  “Don’t Worry Baby.” Her favorite. Made it easy to smile.

  The smile snagged the ponytailed bartender’s attention and she ordered a Grey Goose Greyhound, rocks, twist. “Pink grapefruit juice, if you have it.”

  Ponytail grinned. “Sorry, just regular.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “I can splash in a little cranberry, if you’d like. For color.”

  “You know,” said Liana, “maybe I would rather have a Seabreeze.”

  “Good choice.” The guy got to work and seconds later, the extra-large cocktail was set down in front of her. Orange slice, which she liked. Maraschino, which was all wrong.

  “Yum,” she said.

  “Enjoy.”

  Sipping slowly, she took in the flavor of the place. “Good Vibrations” came on. Nice, but earlier stuff—the surf songs—would’ve fit better with the décor.

  She figured it was mostly original: rough plank cedar walls, lacquered coils of hemp rope, ship’s lamps, circular glass balls, a couple of buoys. At least two captain’s wheels she could spot and she bet there were more in the dining room.

  All of it probably a throwback to the bar’s previous life as a working-class drinkery.

  Before arriving, she’d revved up the old Mac and read up on the place, found a three-year-old gushing travel piece from the Times that emphasized a “festive Jimmy Buffett ambience” and the occasional “spontaneous” appearance of celebs.

  Britney, Paris, Brangelina, Mel, Mason, even the Governator. Supposedly, they favored the Meyer Rum Tsunami. As if anything those people did was spontaneous. Inane, but what else could you expect from a paper where half the entertainment “articles” were press releases fed by studio publicists?

  Obsolete, too, because Liana found no recent name-drops, so any star appeal was history.

  Celebs, like sharks, needed to keep moving to breathe.

  Not that she needed the Internet to know that; when she’d walked over from Loews there wasn’t a pappo or limo in sight.

  A few homeless guys, though, Aaron had been right about that. One of them gave her the willies as his watery eyes followed her twenty-yard traipse and she imagined him snagging Caitlin and dragging her into an alley.

  Rather than ignore him, she stopped and stared him down.

  Chancy move, but she had to follow her instincts.

  The bum shrank back, resumed pushing his cart up Ocean, clattering and bumping on sidewalks long in need of repair.

  Too bad those guys didn’t have to hang special license plates from their carts. I M CRAY ZEE.

  She sipped and used her eyes discreetly. Someone at the other end of the bar laughed. The track switched to Jan and Dean. “Dead Man’s Curve,” eerily prophetic of Jan’s auto crash.

  Happy song about tragedy ... at least the floors were clean oak, no sawdust cliché.

  Liana knew all about clichés. She trucked in them for a living— using her voice to sell feminine hygiene products, grocery specials, whatever.

  Using her looks and her brains to gig for Aaron.

  Not exactly what she’d dreamed about back in South Dakota, but at her stage in life, any role came up, you took it.

  Tonight she’d gone for sultry but subdued: black V-neck sweater with a triangle of white cammie hiding some but not all of her cleaves, snug gray wool/
Lycra slacks that hugged her like a lover.

  The absence of panty line suggested bare skin underneath, but her entire lower body was sheathed in support hose.

  Everyone said she looked young for her age, but Liana prided herself on self-awareness, so no sense pretending butt and belly were the way they’d been when she auditioned for Playboy.

  Twenty years ago.

  A starlet’s entire lifetime; sometimes it seemed like yesterday.

  She’d walked out of the Playboy session beaming at the photo editor’s praise. Two days later, he called to let her down gently. Twenty-four hours after that, he phoned to ask her out.

  The perfect retort had jumped into her head.

  Sorry, but I limit my social life to men with normal penises.

  She’d said, “Sorry, Luigi, but I’m involved with someone.”

  Twenty—twenty-one years ago.

  Gawd!

  A baritone voice said, “Come here often?”

  Just loud enough to rise above the music. Liana glanced to her right.

  The nervously smiling face she encountered belonged to a slightly overweight but decent-looking guy around her own age working a beer mug. Sandy hair, five o’clock shadow, nice masculine features; he’d probably been hot ten years ago.

  Dark suit, pale blue dress shirt open at the collar, sensible shoes.

  “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” he said. “Glad I worked out this morning ’cause I can tell you’re no easy pickup. Your mother must have been a sculptor ’cause you’re in great shape. I thought perfection was an ideal until about a second ago.”

  Liana stared.

  He shrugged, smiled.

  Despite herself, Liana’s lips curved in imitation.

  The guy said, “Now that I’ve used up all the fresh material, I’d better lug out the hackneyed stuff.”

  “You write for Leno?”

  “If I did, he wouldn’t be beating out Letterman.” He extended a hand. “Steve Rau.”

  In lieu of pressing flesh, Liana gave a small salute and returned to facing forward. Her top had ridden up, exposing an inch of back. She tugged it down, moved her head in time with the music.