True Detectives Page 8

  Lots of travel to conferences, because Eleanor wanted the lab to get exposure. All of which Liz had expected and generally relished.

  What hadn’t been in the game plan was hooking up with a guy, let alone one whose formal education had ended with a criminal justice B.A. from Cal State Northridge.

  Liz’s parents were full professors with Yale degrees. Poli sci at Howard for Mother, sociology at GW for Father. She still hadn’t told them about Moe.

  The first time she and Moe met, she was waist-deep in marsh muck, pulling up frags of human skeleton. Moe, the first D at the scene, had stood on the banks, conferred with Hargrove, not noticing Liz at all.

  Then he’d spotted her, and darn if he didn’t take a second look.

  Long second look.

  She’d been intrigued by him from the beginning. So young and intense—that earnest boyishness you didn’t see much anymore.

  Cute, too.

  In a Celtic way.

  When he asked her out, she accepted without hesitation, despite the fact that Moe wasn’t her type.

  Light-years from her type. Her upbringing in the rarefied world of black academia had funneled her dating contacts to articulate men with advanced degrees and accomplishments to match.

  Men whose skin tone matched hers.

  Half a cookie ...

  Moe reached over and touched her hand in that gentle way she adored. The athletics of the previous hour had rubbed him pink in spots and the blotches hadn’t faded.

  Delicate boy, he never tanned. Strawberry yogurt was the last thing Liz had figured she’d ever find attractive.

  Go know. She kissed his knuckles.

  He said, “You are unbelievable.”

  “Keep thinking that, Moses.”

  “I always will,” he assured her. Like a six-year-old promising to be good. Not a trace of postmodern irony. That was a novelty.

  She’d rehearsed her little speech a hundred times. He’s highly intelligent, Mother. Intuitive. Anything but simple.

  All of it true, but it rang hollow. Trying too hard.

  She was twenty-nine and Moe was barely that. Both of them paying their own bills, they didn’t have to answer to anyone.

  Right.

  He finished his sandwich. She pushed half hers toward him. “I’m full, finish it.”

  “Thanks.” Five bites did the trick. Hungry boy—sometimes, Liz couldn’t help but think in kid terms when she was with him.

  She adored the way he held on to the guileless part of himself, despite the job. Wondered how the job would play at the Georgetown salons Mother favored.

  No, she didn’t. She knew how he’d be treated.

  He got up and cleared the table. Rolled his neck.

  Liz said, “Got a crick?”

  “Not really.”

  She stepped behind him and massaged that incredibly dense hunk of neck.

  “Oh, wow, that’s great.”

  “Any reason for all these knots, Detective Reed?”

  “Not really.” Two beats later: “I’m back full-time on Caitlin. Pressure from above.”

  “That’ll screw up the trapezius, all right.”

  “Hey,” he said, “no big deal. I’ll work it.”

  “I know you will. But sorry for the hassle, baby.”

  “Anything interesting at the lab?”

  “No new cases,” she said. “Catching up on grant applications.”

  He turned to face her, slipped his arm around her waist. “Want your own massage?”

  “No, thanks, you’ve loosened me up quite well, sir.”

  He smiled. A flicker of anxiety sprinted across his eyes. Split-second storm, then it was gone.

  “What?” she said.

  “It’s a loser, Liz.”

  “You can’t create facts on the ground, baby.”

  “I know ... it sticks me with a crappy close rate, right at the outset.”

  “You closed the marsh murders, Moses.”

  “Sturgis really did that.”

  “Now, that I won’t listen to, Moses. You and Sturgis. It’s not like he didn’t give you credit.”

  “He’s a gentleman.”

  “Maybe so,” said Liz, “but he was only doing what was right.”

  “Yeah ... Aaron’s on Caitlin, too.”

  That caught her off balance. “How’d that happen?”

  “Caitlin’s father’s boss is footing his bill. Aaron thinks all he needs to do is chew through enough billable hours and he’ll close it.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Maybe he’s right, Liz.”

  “At this stage, how would he know if it’s closable or not?” she said.

  Moe didn’t answer.

  She massaged him some more. “C’mon, let’s get mindless and watch some tube.”

  “Sure,” said Moe. But the evening had changed.

  ♦

  During the months Liz and Moe had dated, she’d met Aaron Fox exactly once.

  Six, seven weeks ago, while walking up the leafy pathway to Moe’s mom’s house, meeting Maddy for the first time—an experience in itself.

  Halfway up, a black man appeared around a bend.

  Moe tensed up and for a second Liz wondered if the guy posed some sort of threat.

  A brief handshake and Moe’s curt introductions dispelled all that, but the entire time, Moe never relaxed.

  Aaron, on the other hand, had been nothing but mellow. One of those people who make you feel you’ve been friends for years.

  Growing up in D.C. she’d seen that brand of charisma in politicians and financial types, distrusted it instinctively.

  As Moe and Aaron made small talk on the pathway, Liz tried to figure out how Moe knew him.

  Maybe another cop? Then what was he doing visiting Moe’s mom?

  Sensing a long story, she bided her time.

  A personal trainer?

  No, something more, he definitely had made her baby tense.

  Maybe Mom’s young black boyfriend?

  Aware that she categorized people too quickly, she still couldn’t stop herself.

  Good looking, but spends way too much time at the mirror.

  Great clothes, same issue.

  He’d been nothing but polite, with polished diction and intelligent eyes, but way too smooth. What Liz termed Upper Division Player.

  Not all that different from the guys she’d dated prior to Moe, minus the Ivy League Polish.

  What did he do for a living?

  A lawyer making a house call? Possibly.

  Or something in show business—an agent? Moe said Maddy had once aspired to stage and screen, never got very far.

  Or an acting coach. Guy was handsome enough and the clothes and that snappy little Porsche out by the curb said he was doing just fine. Or pretending, this was L.A.

  Maybe that’s why he came across as Instant Friend—expecting to be recognized.

  Liz couldn’t recall ever seeing him on anything.

  By the time he’d walked off, she’d compiled a dossier. Moe watched the Porsche speed away, a brow-wrinkling frown implying disapproval.

  Conspicuous consumption wasn’t Moe’s game. Something else he and Liz had in common.

  Elizabeth Mae, you really need to make more of the looks God gave you.

  The sports car was long gone but Moe continued to stare down the street.

  Liz took hold of his tree-trunk arm. “C’mon, I want to meet the woman who gifted you to the world.”

  They resumed their walk.

  Liz couldn’t control herself. “Does Aaron work with your mother?”

  “He’s my brother.”

  “As in, he ain’t heavy?”

  “As in sibling.”

  “No really, baby, seriously.”

  “I wish I was kidding.”

  Over the next few weeks, Liz teased out details of the brothers’ upbringing.

  Both of their fathers had been cops, both were deceased.

  Maybe that was the issue: o
ne dad stepping in for another, all that blended-family tension. If so, Mama had made her sons’ lives even more complicated.

  An apparent serial marrier, Madeleine Fox Reed Guistone Entley (“but we don’t talk about Entley, dear”) had buried her third husband fifteen years ago. A wealthy orthodontist and “visionary entrepreneur,” Stan Guistone had invested in enough real estate to ensure his widow a lovely lifestyle. Two years after his death, she’d tried yet again, divorced “Shiftless Bum Entley” within months.

  The woman kept framed photo portraits of hubbies one, two, and three propped on her bedroom dresser, a fact that Liz had gleaned during that same Sunday visit, after ducking into Maddy’s private bathroom because the main one was occupied by Moe.

  Two cops in uniform and a squat, beetle-browed, white-haired man in a wide-lapeled suit.

  Aaron was a clone of his father.

  Moe was built heavier and thicker than his father, and his fine, symmetrical features were Maddy’s. But the coloring was there ... maybe something around the eyes. The ears, too.

  Officer Darius Fox, RIP.

  Officer John Jasper Reed, RIP.

  Dr. Stanley Edgar Guistone, D.D.S., M.P.H., M.B.A., ditto.

  The woman was bad news for the morbidity/mortality stats.

  Three husbands, two kids. If she’d had a child with Dr. G, the poor thing might’ve ended up looking like a depressed raccoon.

  Now curiosity about Moe’s family history was nibbling her brain even harder, but she resolved to take it slow. Pushing issues didn’t work with most men and it sure wouldn’t work with Moe.

  Between her travel and the open-ended schedule of a homicide detective, the two of them needed to use their time together wisely. No sense dashing good times with the emotional ice resulting from mention of Aaron’s name.

  Still, that level of sibling hostility did intrigue her. She had two brothers and adored them both. Sean and Jay had suffered through some friction but they got along great now. Played golf together, for God’s sake.

  Moses and Aaron, on the other hand ... a stupid person might assume race was the problem, because stupid people always jumped on “the obvious solution” to explain complex problems.

  The Little-Person Fallacy, she called it, in honor of a case during her internship. The corpse of a three-foot-eight woman had been found moldering in a Menlo Park apartment, too decayed for an obvious COD. Post-autopsy, Dr. Lieber, the medical examiner, had asked everyone to guess. Those brave enough to venture opted for spondyloepiphyseal dwarfism and the health issues that went along with that.

  Truth was, the woman had smoked three packs a day and died of throat cancer.

  Liz had spent enough time with Moe to know that he really was that rare color-blind American. And now maybe, she understood why.

  Whatever her effect upon male longevity, Maddy must have been an independent thinker, marrying a black man back when that was still a big deal.

  Then a white man from the Deep South ...

  Maybe growing up with Aaron had made Moe comfortable enough to resent Aaron with no fear of the R word coming up.

  But still not comfortable enough with Liz to talk about why he couldn’t stand his brother.

  Maddy’s house up in the hills teemed with ghosts, but as far as Liz could see, the woman didn’t feel haunted.

  Unlike her younger son.

  One day, Liz would figure it out.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Twenty minutes after Aaron found a watch spot across the street from ColdSnake, Rory Stoltz was still in the club.

  The line in front hadn’t moved much though desperate types clung to false hope behind the black rope. The white-suited ape in the bowler did his best to pretend they didn’t exist.

  Not a paparazzo in sight, but that didn’t account for Stoltz being allowed to park up front and saunter past the bouncer.

  Kid was obviously meeting someone inside, but a Hyundai?

  Aaron checked his cell for messages. A couple of trash calls and a text from Liana.

  back home safe call tmrw

  Motion in front of the club. Rory Stoltz emerged.

  All by himself.

  Keeping his eyes on the Hyundai, Aaron pulled away from the curb.

  Stoltz drove east to Highland Avenue, traveled south to Santa Monica Boulevard, where he headed west.

  Making a big loop that seemed pointless ... unless he was interested in cruising the heart of the gay hooker stroll.

  So maybe this had something to do with alternative lifestyle. But what did that have to do with nearly half an hour in a hetero dive like ColdSnake?

  Aaron followed Stoltz as the Hyundai sailed by languid young men and he-she’s in various states of camouflage. Stoltz never even slowed to look at the goods, just kept driving all the way to La Cienega, where he hooked north and got back on Sunset. The Hyundai continued until it was one block east of ColdSnake, then turned left.

  One big useless circuit.

  This time Stoltz bypassed the scene out front and parked just shy of the alley that ran behind the club. Switching off his lights, but keeping his engine running.

  Kid’s playing some kind of game.

  The logical guess was dope: Rory’s initial stop had been meeting with customers, taking orders. Problem was, the kid had just driven around, not stopping to pick anything up. So maybe the goods had been in the car all the time and Stoltz had spun a yarn about taking a special trip to pick up premium product. Which, of course, would cost a wee bit more ...

  Was All-American boy that clever of a marketing consultant?

  Whatever the details, he wasn’t what he seemed.

  Moe had missed the boat completely by dismissing the kid so quickly.

  Aaron drove two blocks past the Hyundai, circled back with his own lights off. Positioning the Opel in a cozy spot three houses north, he waited for Stoltz to get out of the car.

  Kid just sat there.

  Five minutes, ten, fifteen.

  At seventeen, two figures emerged from the alley and made their way toward the Hyundai.

  Two men, tallish. From the shaggy outline of their breeze-blown hair, and the way they walked, white guys.

  As they got closer, Aaron saw that one was real skinny, the other beefy. The heavier one seemed to be propping up Slim Jim. Midway to the Hyundai, he paused to look around.

  Checking for the cops? Stoltz’s clients came to him?

  Easier to rabbit if things got complicated.

  Virgin, indeed.

  Aaron bounced his eyes between the Hyundai and the two men. Ten feet from the car, Skinny went loose and Beefy’s knees bent as he worked at keeping his pal upright.

  Looks like someone doesn’t need any more controlled substance ... as the men approached, the Hyundai’s lights switched on and the brights flashed. Twice.

  The signal for Come and get it, pathetic addicts.

  Beefy walked Skinny straight to the Hyundai, keeping one hand on Skinny’s arm, the other on the passenger door.

  It took a while to tuck Skinny’s long frame in the back of the car.

  Put your hand on his head and press down, dude. That’s how we do it on the job.

  Used to do it...

  Once Beefy had Skinny inside, he straightened, looked to be conversing with Stoltz. Then he slid into the front passenger seat and shut the door.

  On-site smoke-up?

  Nope, Stoltz drove away.

  This time the Hyundai sped north into the heart of Hollywood, turned left on Selma.

  Another gay pickup zone. So maybe this was a sex thing. Rory with two guys still pretending they were straight?

  Aaron’s head spun with possibilities as, once again, Stoltz bypassed corner loiterers, drove to Laurel Canyon, hooked right at the first opportunity, up a narrow, winding side road.

  Once the Opel turned onto the quiet street, Aaron squelched his lights. Hoping some random Hollywood Division cruiser wasn’t out trolling for traffic money.

 
The road turned steep and the Hyundai stressed its four cylinders climbing, zipping around curves, making frequent turns, chugging up brief, obscure lanes lined with darkened hillside houses. No street-lamps; all Aaron needed was a head-on with some idiot on a cell phone descending obliviously.

  Rory Stoltz knew exactly where he was going, putting on maximum speed as he spurted along a series of skinny black ribbons of asphalt.

  Swinging abruptly onto what at first appeared to be a driveway but turned out to be Swallowsong Lane.

  A yellow sign warned No Outlet.

  Aaron parked just short of Swallowsong’s mouth, cut his engine, jumped out quickly, continued on foot.

  Even steeper; it paid to stay in shape.

  Big houses here, lots of foliage, high hedges, sports cars under tarps. Night-blooming jasmine sweetened the air. Nocturnal smog wafting up from Hollywood fought that.

  Aaron made it to the top just in time to see the Hyundai pass through electric gates.

  Iron gates supported by stone posts, lots of Baroque scrolls, medallions, whatever. Aaron peeked through, saw a curving driveway lined with Italian cypress, winding out of view.

  Address numerals on the left column. 1001. He copied down the numerals, returned to the Opel and sat.

  Endured two hours of nothing before concluding All-American Boy was unlikely to show himself.

  Not a dope deal? Some kind of party?

  He drove back home, flipped the lights on at Work Land, looked up the address on his reverse directory, got a phone number.

  He’d wait until morning to call Assistant Technical Manager Henry Q. Stokes at the assessor’s office.

  Then he remembered that Henry sometimes took work home.

  Was the guy an early-to-bed type? If he was, too damned bad. He tried Henry’s apartment in West Covina.

  Seven rings before Henry’s voice came through on the other end, thick with fatigue and irritation.

  “It’s me.”

  “What the—”

  “This’ll be more than a Ulysses,” said Aaron. “Two Benjamins, so don’t go bitching.”