True Detectives (18 page)

All the warmth of an airport terminal. Like Aaron’s place.

Ida Newfield announced, “Sleek, isn’t it? I’m an interior decorator, did houses you can’t even imagine.” Drawing a remote-control module from a kimono pocket, she clicked. A grinding noise accompanied the ascent of a forty-inch flat-screen TV from a slot in the top of the black chest.

“Nice,” said Moe.

“It’s all about negative space,” said Newfield, pushing another button and causing the TV to descend. “Know what that means?”

“Stuff you don’t see?”

“All the stuff that
surrounds
the stuff you
do
see,” she corrected. “Meaning sanity, because space feeds the soul.
She
didn’t get that.” Hooking a thumb at the wall shared with the unit next door. “Not she, the
doctor
. She, the
other
one. The one you’re here about. She was clean enough, but
stuff
was everywhere—baby clothes, cribs, her pullout bed, bottles, food. Ugh.” Head shake. “Have you heard George Carlin on stuff? First you acquire stuff, then you need stuff to take care of your stuff and places to
store
your stuff. Man was a genius. I almost did his house, years ago.”

Moe said, “So you knew Adella Villareal.”

“Not in the sense of friendship. But I sure know what she did.”

“What did she do?”

“As if you don’t know.”

Moe waited.

“You don’t?” said Ida Newfield. “Oh, come on. She had sex for money. I’m a feminist and that offends me deeply.”

“How do you know she—”

“Because she went out late dressed like a tart. Because she offered to pay me to take care of her baby when she had to ‘work’ suddenly. Always
at night. I’ve raised my own two, the last thing I want to do is burp and change pooey diapers. No, sirree.”

“How often did she go out dressed like a tart?”

“I wasn’t out in the hall keeping count. I saw her that way by accident—let’s say six times, does that work for you? What a getup, you’d think men would tire of the old clichés and show some imagination.”

“What kind of getup?”

“Tart-couture. She tried to hide it under her coat but I knew what was going on. Fishnets, skintight micro-dress that she’s falling out of, five-inch spikes, tiny little purse for her condoms. A lot different than what she pretended.”

“Pretended what?”

“That she was just a nice young mommy.” Ida Newfield clucked her tongue. “A nice mommy should live with a daddy. Or at least, another mommy, I don’t judge. But raising a kid all alone? Oh, sure,
that
works. Even Leonard was somewhat helpful, back in the back-then. Maybe if she’d had help, that baby wouldn’t have squalled so much.”

Another hoarse laugh, this one bereft of glee.
“He
offered to babysit for her. Leonard, I mean.”

“Doing a good deed,” said Moe.

“Oh, sure, I married a saint. Not that he’d ever follow through. No memory. He was just in one of his moods. ‘Why didn’t you offer
my
services, honeybunch? In exchange for
her
services.’ I punched his arm. He loves that.”

“Where is your husband?”

“Hillside Memorial,” she said, without blinking. “He passed two months ago.”

“Sorry—”

“He was ninety-three. I was his young chick. So who killed her?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out, Mrs. Newfield. Do you have any idea who did babysit for her?”

“Different people.”

“You saw them.”

“Coming in and out.”

“How many different people?”

“At least two—no, three. There could’ve been more, I saw three. Like I said, it’s not as if I was spying. If I just happened to notice something, I noticed.”

“Such as?”

“Such as people going in and staying there while she went out all tarted up.”

“Can you describe these people?”

“I didn’t get a close look. A couple of times it was a man and two women, one looked like she’d been around the block—probably helping out a fellow tart. For all I know, the younger one was, too. The man was just a bum—I’ve seen him around the neighborhood, near the bars.”

Moe showed her Raymond Wohr’s photo.

She said, “You bet. Is he the one killed her?” Even voice, but her hands were quivering.

“There’s no evidence of that, ma’am.”

“You’re just carrying his picture around for fun.”

“I’m carrying pictures of various people Ms. Villareal knew. Such as this woman.”

Alicia Eiger’s mug shot elicited another “Yup, that’s the older one. That’s a police photo, right?”

Moe nodded.

Ida Newfield said, “Maybe I can be a detective, too. I read that on the back of a matchbook. Show me the younger one and we’ll go three for three.”

“That’s all I’ve got. Can you describe the younger woman?”

“Typical.”

“How so?”

“California,” said Newfield. “The whole blondey-blond thing. Not overtly tartish, but who knows? Maybe she fulfills stupid men’s fantasies—deflowering the innocent.”

“How young was she?”

“Young. Like a college student. Not that she went to college.”

“Why not?”

“If she did, why would she be associating with lowlifes?”

“Could I show you a picture at the station, ma’am?”

“You’re kidding,” said Ida Newfield. “Like I’m going to leave the comfort of my home and go traipsing all the way to Wilcox Street?”

Hollywood Station was a few blocks away. What he needed to show her was at West L.A. He thought of something. “Do you have a computer, ma’am?”

“Why?”

“I could have the picture sent right now.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“I’m impressed,” said Ida Newfield. Then she cracked up. “You mean the police department has finally replaced horse and buggies with
motor
cars? Of
course
I have a computer.”

Clicking her remote, she brought the flat-screen back up, pressed more buttons. A Windows log-in filled the screen.

“The hardware’s down below, the TV’s the monitor. I’ve got a cordless Wi-Fi keyboard and mouse if I need it, but this little thing usually does the trick. And you’ll notice I don’t need to open the cabinet. Which I designed thirty-five years ago, Knoll was going to manufacture it but the timing wasn’t right. All the
stuff
stays out of sight because the system responds to an infrared signal.”

Have you met my brother?
“I’m impressed,” said Moe.

“Negative space, young man. The less we have, the richer we are.”

She mixed herself a Gibson, dropped in two extra pearl onions while Moe cell-phoned the West L.A. D-room. He talked to Delano Hardy and explained what he needed.

Hardy said, “Love to help you, but I’m too old for that techno-babble. How about Burns?”

Gary Burns, a thirty-five-year-old D-2 and devoted gamer, listened and said, “Sure, if the scanner’s working. Where’s the file?”

Several moments passed, during which Ida Newfield sipped her drink and talked about houses she’d decorated “back in the back-then.”
Suddenly the TV went from blue to polychrome as Caitlin Frostig’s clean, wholesome, now grotesquely enlarged visage filled the screen.

Wrought monstrously happy. The horror of her death hit Moe, maybe for the first
real
time since he’d caught the case.

Ida Newfield said, “That’s her. Leonard thought she was cute. I thought she was bland. So she’s a hooker, too?”

“No, ma’am,” said Moe, “just a girl who got involved with too much stuff.”

T
he woman was typical.

Another leggy, tan, bleach-blond soldier in the army of those who lunched but didn’t eat much.

By Aaron’s estimate, well-to-do X-ray types made up a third of the crowd at the Cross Creek shopping center in the heart of Malibu.

This one wore her texturized ash-and-gold just over the shoulders, with feather bangs. A youthful look she could still pull off, at least from a distance. If she’d been tucked, her surgeon deserved a medal for subtle.

Aaron approved of her style—long-sleeved, sage-green polo shirt, probably from Ron Herman or Fred Segal, low-slung velvet pants the color of good bourbon, chocolate-brown designer sneakers—Gucci, he was pretty sure. Diamond studs sparked her ears. Not showy but big enough to get the message across:
Someone cares about me
.

The black BMW X5 SUV that she drove poorly while yakking on her cell phone filled out the picture. Only her walk differentiated her from the loose-limbed, confident Battalion of the Privileged: She held her head kind of low, moved on the slowish side, stopped several times midstride, looking blank, before resuming the inevitable trudge to the Starbucks.

Typical to the casual observer, but Aaron was watching on a whole different level.

He’d been following Gemma Dement for over two hours by the time she entered the coffee chapel. Found a spot for himself at an outdoor table of an oh-so-cute vegan café just across the narrow lane that ran through the oh-so-cute boutiques.

Lunch would be noodles with fake shrimp. Good chopstick skills helped him blend in.

The Starbucks was jammed. Fifteen minutes later, she was still in there.

No sweat, he was fully awake, into the hunt. Finally.

He’d been in Malibu all morning, after alarming himself up at five thirty feeling like someone had dumped a bucket of turd in his mouth. Forcing himself to work out extra-hard, then assaulting his body with a cool shower.

Shocking himself alert so he could be back at Leo Carrillo early. Trying not to think about last night’s traffic ticket, the damned Chippie.

Idiot wanted to stick him with three separate violations. Added to the speeder he’d gotten a few months ago, that could put his license in jeopardy. Unmoved by Aaron’s P.I. credentials or the Xerox of the nice letter his captain had written him when he left the department, the stubborn bastard’s only concession was knocking it down to two.

Sign here, sir. Have a good evening, sir. Drive carefully, sir
.

Driving like a brain-dead geezer, he still reached the state park by seven a.m. On the beach side, the tide was moderate and gentle. No surfers, the only vehicle in sight a Winnebago pulled to the side so its tourist inhabitants could snap cell phone pix of water and sky.

The yellow gates were open. Over in the land-side parking lot, the ranger’s booth was empty. Aaron began scouring the area from where the truck had parked to the beginning of the entry trail for a roach, a plastic bag, anything interesting. He’d covered the asphalt and was moving toward the neighboring brush when an open-sided parks department jeep cruised in and parked next to his Porsche.

The driver was a young woman with short brown hair, wearing the
ranger uniform. Small girl, athletic body, pixie face. She appraised Aaron with sharp little cop eyes and got out.

He’d made sure to dress beachy without sinking into tacky: white silk aloha shirt printed with discreet, teal-blue palm trees from a boutique Bologna designer, cream linen pants, Italian glove-leather sandals, no socks. Today’s watch was a chrome TAG Heuer that said
I don’t need to flaunt
. He’d splashed on Givenchy men’s cologne and that was still working.

The lady-ranger said, “Morning, sir. Looking for something?”
L. Martin
.

“I am, but I doubt I’ll find it.” Rolling his wrist. “Lost my other watch on Sunday, I was here with my kids, took a walk. Wasn’t until I was all the way back to Beverly Hills before I noticed it was gone.” He grimaced. “Band must’ve broke.”

Mention of the high-priced city arched the ranger’s eyebrows.

Is this guy for real? Some sort of celebrity? Too small for a basketball player… an actor?

She eyed the TAG. “At least you’ve got another one.”

“The one that fell off was just a cheapie digital. But my kids gave it to me for Father’s Day, the whole sentimental-value thing.”

“Bummer,” she said. “You think it fell off here?”

“I’m starting here. We only made maybe half a mile before the kids ran out of steam—do you have a lost and found?”

“We do, but there are no watches in there. T-shirts, towels, hats— you tell me you attended the Better Than Ezra concert tour, I can help you.”

Aaron grinned. “You wouldn’t happen to have a Smokey Robinson tee?”

The ranger grinned back. “No such luck—you know him?”

“Smokey? No, I just love his music.”

“Oh.” Clear disappointment. She pointed toward the path leading into the park. “Best thing is retrace your steps. Good luck. Maybe the Force will be with you today.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears.”

♦

Perhaps the Deity liked cute females in snug uniforms, because it only took a few minutes for Aaron to find the spot.

Two clear sets of shoe prints veered off the road into a thicket of eucalyptus and lower shrubs, well before the campgrounds. A section of broken branches had cued him in. Once he got past the trees, the ground grew smooth and the roaches were obvious. Two little nubby brown paper things, easy to miss if you weren’t looking.

Aaron stooped, didn’t touch a thing, as he took in the area. Small clearing, backed by stubbier, denser trees, tangles of spiky plants.

Smooth-soled footwear had left deep impressions. A heavyweight. From the shape of the heel, maybe some kind of boot.

Longer, shallower impressions bore a tire-tread pattern.

Your basic Tijuana huarache sandal; maybe Mason Book wasn’t into fashion footwear. Or the guy was rich enough not to care.

No sign of disturbance of the soil indicating a burial. But fifteen months had passed since Caitlin’s disappearance, so that meant nothing.

Close to the path for a burial site. Though he supposed a couple of arrogant, entitled killers might be that reckless.

He gloved up, collected the doobie-butts, dropped them in a plastic ziplock. Something near a rock caught his eye. Five burned paper matches. A foot from those, a one-inch square plastic bag.

Empty, but he was able to make out a couple of tiny granules trapped in a corner. Brownish. Maybe Mexican tar.

He sniffed. Sometimes H gave off weird smells—a vinegar-and-cat-piss cocktail. This stuff was odorless. Maybe good H.

Bagging the Baggie, he looked around for anything else interesting.

Off to his left, maybe ten yards away, the trees ruffled and a dark shape protested his presence with a high-pitched squawk.

Shooting upward, a missile-shaped creature cleared the tree canopy. Aaron made out the wide, fringed wings of the hawk as it soared out of view.

He thought of Mr. Dmitri. Little birdie, indeed.

♦

Stopping at the Hows Market at PCH and Trancas, he bought a bagel and a quart of milk, ate and drank in the parking lot while watching construction workers drive in and out in trucks. A couple of maids in uniforms entered on foot, probably from the big houses that lined Broad Beach.

A few of the hard-hats checked out the C4S. Aaron, concealed by tinted windows, chewed on his breakfast and wondered why Ax Dement and Mason Book had driven all the way to western Malibu in order to smoke up.

Had to be something about that particular spot.

Lacking authority, he couldn’t very well return with a shovel.

Even for Moe to return, there’d have to be probable cause.

State park, Coastal Commission, he could just picture the scene. Probably end up like that TV show a few years back, some talk-show dude opening Al Capone’s vault, building the suspense up for weeks, then the damned thing turns out empty.

A paunchy guy with a tool belt came close to the Porsche and attempted to look through the passenger window.

Aaron slid the window down, guy nearly fell over.

“Morning.”

“Yeah, hey—cool wheels. Do the X-17 upgrade on it?”

“Nah,” said Aaron. “Paid fifteen grand less and got it up to 415.”

“Awesome … have a nice day, man.”

“You, too.”

Aaron had chosen his own wheels for today because a black man at the beach needed to look as rich as possible. Plus he missed the car’s fantastic handling. Not to mention the general aura of cool that engulfed him when he got behind the wheel.

Keeping the top up, though, because this day at the beach was a job, like any other.

As he nourished himself, he made calls to people who owed him favors.

Remembering the diminishing pattern of phone calls between Mason Book and CAA, he started with a talent agent at a competing
outfit whose divorce had gone smoother because of what Aaron had learned about the guy’s much younger not-so-loving wife.

The guy said, “I’ve got a meeting in five. Why’re you asking about Mason?” Dropping the star’s name in that casual way that said
I play in that league
. Even though the guy’s client list topped out at soap opera fill-ins.

Aaron said, “Nothing juicy and this needs to be confidential because we all know what happens when things aren’t confidential.”

Confident the guy would remember his ex’s proclivity for being shat on by Japanese businessmen. Reduced alimony and full custody of the Lhasa apso was one thing, being suckered so everyone knew it was another.

“Of course.” Pompous, as if there’d never been any question about being discreet. “So what do you want to know?”

“Is Mason still hot?”

“Hot?”

“In demand.”

“Maybe not as much as he used to be, but a helluva lot of people would still be happy to work with him. Once they know he’s okay.”

“Okay, as in …”

“You’re the private eye. You’re telling me you don’t know?”

“I need specifics, Ken.”

“Word has it there isn’t a drug Mason’s met that he didn’t date.”

“That serious, huh?”

“His last shoot took way longer than usual. Because of looong naps. Coke and weed don’t do that. Catch my drift?”

“Heroin.”

“They say it has that effect.”

“Does he shoot or smoke?”

“How would I know—smoke, I’d bet. Can’t afford any needle marks.”

Aaron said, “But the picture did get finished.”

“Loose Change for Danny?
Hell, yeah, made a nice profit. Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

The agent laughed. “Depends on who the accountants are. I did a
project with Pam DeMoyne—from
Shadows of Our Days?
She was amazing, I’m talking on a level with Streep and Mirren. But the suits sent it straight to video anyway—I’ll send you a DVD. It’s really great, historical story about Shakespeare’s secret gay life, Pam was Anne Hathaway, she was—”

“The accountants,” Aaron prompted.

“Right,” said Ken. “The accountants. I got Pam a twenty-five percentage of net, which is amazing, even if it is net, at that level you should see some payout. Never saw a dime of royalties. We do an audit, there’s a three-hundred-thousand ‘distribution fee.’ I say what’s that, they hem and haw, finally they tell me it’s the price of driving the film from the production office in Westwood to the editor in Burbank.”

“High-priced taxi. I’ll take the gig.”

“Oh, yeah. So did Book’s last picture make money? Probably, because he’s got clout, they might be afraid to pull bullshit like that.”

“But maybe diminishing clout.”

“He hasn’t worked in what… a year and a half, two, three? Are you snooping around because something nasty’s gonna pop, Aaron? Like he’s over the edge and the studio’s gonna be suing him for breach?”

“Nothing like that, Ken. Now tell me about Ax Dement.”

“Who?”

“Lem’s oldest son. I hear he hangs out with Book.”

“News to me,” said Ken. “I’ve got no time for hangers-on.”

“Would you work with Lem?”

“You mean because he’s a fascist and a racist and a fundamentalist hypocrite? Not my idea of integrity, Aaron.”

Aaron said, “What if the accounting was good?”

Ken laughed. “In that case, sure. But don’t tell my mother.”

Aaron’s second call was to Liana Parlat.

“How about another trip to Riptide, same fee structure.”

She said, “Sure. Maybe I’ll run into Dr. Rau again. But could it be in a couple of nights?”

“Busy?”

“Cartoon audition. I need to sound like an obnoxious twelve-year-old.”

“Not much of a stretch,” said Aaron.

Liana laughed and whined nasally: “Thanks. Dad.”

“You never called Rau, huh?”

“Not because I’m scared, Aaron. Because I’ve been working.”

“Another brat voice?”

“One of those classy animations under consideration at one of the so-called edgy networks. Disgusting family, even more disgusting flatulent dog.”

“Gas noise is part of your repertoire?”

“Actually, I’m under consideration for Sinead, the twelve-year-old daughter.” Putting on a high, reedy voice: “‘Oh man, Daddy-person, when you said this was
a field trip
, I didn’t know we’d actually be out in the field listening to the growls and howls of Gyro’s
bowels.’”

“Here I come, Mr. Oscar.”

“Beats honest labor, Mr. Fox. As does lancing for you. What’s the drill for my second visit?”

“Just sit around, soak up more atmosphere. If the topic ever comes up naturally, work Ax Dement into the conversation.”

“The son but not Lem?” she said. “You’ve got something concrete?”

“Not even close, Lee. The case is arctic but I’m sifting dirt wherever I can.” Smiling at his choice of words; the clearing at Carrillo was still on his mind.

She said, “It would sure be nice to dig up some downright filth related to that abusive asshole.” Resuming the kiddie voice: “‘Gee, sure, Mr. Fox-person. That would be a
real
field trip!’”