True Detectives (29 page)

“Don’t know, we don’t talk about it.”

“To set things straight, Mason, guilt’s not enough. You need atonement.”

“Guilt and atonement,” said Book. “Sounds like a movie.”

“A good one, Mason. You could star.”

Book’s laugh was nasal, eerie. Wriggling free from Aaron’s touch, he pincer-grasped the front of his own neck, pulling a pale flap of skin forward. “Not a star. Not there yet.”

“Not where?”

Book’s eyes clamped shut. Still holding on to the neck flesh, he twisted.

Aaron pried the fingers loose. Book’s neck remained pallid. Guy’s body was so starved, he couldn’t even bring blood to the surface.

“Mason, there’s another girl. Caitlin.”

“Who?” said Book.

“Blond, twenty, worked at Riptide.”

Book’s brow creased. Twenty seconds of what looked like sincere contemplation.

Head shake.

“Caitlin Frostig,” said Aaron. “Rory’s girlfriend.”

“Rory. He’s my P.A.”

“Gofers for you.”

“Yeah.”

“He have your PIN number, too?”

“No, he uses the petty cash.”

“For what?”

“Buying what I need.”

“That include blow and ice and stuff?”

Book frowned. “He shouldn’t be in trouble.”

“Why not?”

“He’s a good P.A.”

“There when you need him.”

“Yup.”

“Caitlin Frostig was his girlfriend.”

No answer.

Aaron said, “Long blond hair, twenty, went to school with Rory—”

Book said, “The hostess.”

“You know her.”

“Cute,” said Book. “I like girls to be blond and tall.”

“Ever party with her?”

“She wouldn’t want it.”

“How do you know?”

“She liked Rory. Rory said they’re in love.”

“I’m sure you’ve partied with lots of girls who have boyfriends.”

“Yeah,” said Book, “but you can tell which ones are going to step out.”

“Rory ever talk about Caitlin?”

“Just that.”

“Good P.A., huh?”

“His dream is to agent. I said I’d help him when he’s ready.”

“When will that be?”

“When he finishes school. He wants to finish school.”

Aaron sat back down. “Mason, is there anything you want to tell me about Caitlin Frostig?”

“Like what?” The guy was an actor, but Aaron was sure he wasn’t performing. Visions of Mr. Dmitri’s scowling face filled his head.

“Like anything, Mason.”

“We-ell,” said Book. “She was like that David Lee Roth song— ‘California Girls.’ But not ripe to party.”

“Why not?”

“You can just tell.”

“Bet you can, Mason—okay, I need to get you out of here. In case Ax comes back.”

“He’s at his dad’s. I sent him there. Sent everyone away.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“Rory. Kimora.”

“Who’s Kimora?”

“She cleans.”

Wanting to be alone for his final swan dive.

Aaron said, “I still want you out of here. Let’s get some clothes on.”

In the huge, slovenly dressing room of a huge, slovenly bedroom topped by a vaulted skylight, Aaron found silk jockey shorts from a Savile Row shop, size 29 Rock & Republic jeans, a black Gucci sweatshirt, thousand-dollar alligator loafers. Book dropped his robe without embarrassment, stood there again, rubber-limbed, as Aaron dressed him. The jeans were too big; Aaron cinched a python-skin belt around the actor’s waist.

“Looking sharp, Mason.”

Book laughed.

“What’s the code to open the gate?”

“Don’t know … Kimora does it.”

“Where can I find it?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Show me.”

A card next to the kitchen phone listed a series of gate controls and various service numbers. Aaron chose an option that would hold the gate open indefinitely. If anyone asked, he’d claim he found it that way, no trespassing had taken place.

That failed to explain why he’d made his way up the drive, just happened to be there when Book nearly plunged to his death. But this was about murder and he’d saved a life and he figured he was pretty safe.

“Okay, pal, let’s boogie.”

Book didn’t budge. Fool was staring at the chrome Traulsen from which he’d taken the can of supplement.

Then it came to Aaron: attempted last meal. Book had seen himself as a prisoner. Still couldn’t bring himself to go out with a full stomach.

“Want anything before we go, Mason? A snack? Maybe something to drink?”

Book stepped back from the fridge while shaking his head slowly.

“Your angel thinks you should eat something, Mason.”

“Uh-uh,” said Book. “Not there yet.”

“Not
where
, Mason?”

The actor repeated the pincer-grasp of neck-skin. “Too fat.”

T
alk about the money shot.

Aaron framed it mentally like the prize photo it was, even as he experienced it.

Mason Book shuffling down Swallowsong Lane, arm in arm with an “unnamed companion.” Not a paparazzo in sight.

How much could I sell this to the tabs for?

Book stumbled.

“Easy, Mason.”

Unnamed
black
companion. No doubt they’d assume he was a bodyguard, maybe with an ominous past.

Aaron could live with that.

Book didn’t fuss as Aaron put him in the Opel’s passenger seat.

Muttering, “Nice wheels. They driving this in Heaven?” and promptly falling asleep.

Aaron poked him to make sure he wasn’t faking, then belted him in. Fishing out the plastic wrist ties, he used three: linking both of Book’s hands together, then tying the right loop to the lap belt. No big
deal freeing the belt, but in the actor’s current mental and physical state, the setup was as good as a steel cage.

Now, where to take him?

Slipping the key into the ignition, Aaron remembered the three missed calls, checked his cell.

A trio of texts from Liana—one text, actually, repeated three times.
relbl source: riptide adlla w dmnts never bk

Now he knew where he had to take his new pal.

Moe got the call as he and Petra were finishing coffee and eggs at a Denny’s near Hollywood Station. Raymond Wohr was stashed in a solitary cell having downed a repast of donuts and Hershey bars and Mountain Dew.

Aaron said, “Working late, Moses. I figured I’d get your machine.”

“Busy night.”

“It’s going to get busier. I’ve got someone you’ll want to meet.”

“Who’s that?”

Aaron told him.

Moe said, “Did you do something illegal that’s going to screw us over?”

“Me? I’ve been an angel.”

Moe and Petra showed up at Aaron’s office thirty-five minutes later. Mason Book was still totally out of it, napping peacefully under a down-filled Frette duvet, in the guest room that rarely saw action. The plastic ties remained in place, the right one now circling a stout, brass bedpost.

The actor had snoozed through everything, not even stirring when Aaron slung him over his shoulder and hauled him up the stairs. Book had stayed so inert that Aaron checked his breathing a couple of times. Nice and steady, good strong pulse. The second time Aaron poked him, Book’s eyes opened and he smiled like a happy kid and went under again.

Some of that was probably post-adrenaline letdown, but Aaron figured
a blood test would reveal all sorts of interesting biochemistry. No doubt some defense attorney would pounce on that and try to invalidate the tape. Now transferred to one of Aaron’s computers and copied to a disk locked in Aaron’s business safe.

Book had to be kept under wraps until his body fluids turned pristine. Aaron had a medical contact he could rely on—an internist he’d helped through a cancerous divorce. Guy kept offering him free checkups but Aaron didn’t believe in doctors unless you were sick. Or needed them for extracurricular work.

Meanwhile, Book had to stay
here
.

Which is exactly what he told Moe and Petra when they started jawing about taking the actor into custody.

Surprisingly, Moe said, “I see your point. But unless we file on him and lock him up, it looks a whole lot like kidnapping.”

“Why? He’s my guest,” said Aaron. “You had no idea I even had him.”

“A guest gets cuffed to the bed?”

“You never saw that.”

Neither detective spoke.

Aaron said, “I saved his life, guys. It’s only logical he’d be depending on me and that will turn out useful for you.”

Petra said, “Hey, bring a girl over and call it a party.”

“There you go.”

Moe scowled. “A party is what Adella was promised. You believe Book about not knowing she was being set up?”

“I do.”

“What about Book’s claim of not knowing what happened to the baby?”

“On some level, he knows Ax killed the baby—that’s part of the self-loathing. But right now he can’t—won’t admit it. Which is exactly why he needs to be kept under wraps. Give him time to stew, I work on him, he opens up more.”

“Or just the opposite,” said Moe. “What if his head clears and he shuts up? Or worse, he goes into some sort of medical crisis.”

“I’ll have a doctor check him.”

Moe pondered. “I don’t know …”

Aaron said, “You heard that tape. Without me, Book would be strawberry jam at the bottom of a canyon. I just handed you a bonanza.”

The detectives exchanged looks.

“What am I missing, guys?”

Moe said, “We’ve got our own bonanza.”

Aaron took in the details of Raymond Wohr’s admission to setting up Adella with Zen-serenity. Same for the news of Alicia Eiger’s murder, the cell phone trace verifying Wohr’s call to Ax Dement three hours prior to the stabbing.

When it was over, he said, “That fits perfectly with my info, guys: Adella knew Ax from Riptide, but not Book. She was Ax’s problem because Ax was the baby’s daddy. Meaning Book’s being straight about just being bait. This is all coming together—eyewitness testimony on Ax for Adella, and logic telling us he’s the prime suspect for Alicia.”

Petra said, “The way this bastard dispatches women, I’m wondering what else he’s done. Book’s pretty sure he’s at Daddy’s ranch right now?”

“You’re wondering what else could be dug up there,” said Aaron. “Like baby bones.”

“The thought occurred to me.”

Moe rubbed a massive bicep.

Aaron’s arms still throbbed.
Where were you when I needed you, bro?

He said, “Same old story: Girl gets pregnant from the wrong guy, tries to capitalize, oversteps. In terms of burial site for the baby, that could be. Leo Carrillo, where Ax and Book drove out to get high. Like it was some shrine.”

Moe said, “Why a shrine for Book, if he’s clean?”

“Don’t know—so maybe Book does know more about the baby. Either way, I’d get a K-9 out there.”

“Another day at the beach,” said Petra. To Moe: “Whether or not Ax is at Daddy’s, there’s probable cause to go in.”

Moe nodded.

Aaron said, “One more thing: What does Wohr say about Caitlin?”

“Seen her once or twice.”

“On the level?”

“We think so.”

“So Caitlin’s a whole other story.”
So what the hell have I gotten myself into. Good morning, Mr. Dmitri…

Petra said, “Not necessarily. Ax could’ve killed Caitlin just because that’s what he does. He didn’t need Book so he didn’t tell Book about it.”

Aaron said, “Not wanting Book to know too much because he’s mentally unstable. Yeah, I like that.”

Moe said, “For all we know, Ax is biding his time before getting rid of Book. A suicidal, self-starving dope-head? Who’s going to be suspicious if he
does
turn into strawberry jam?”

Aaron said, “Guy’s feather-light, I could’ve tossed him myself.”

Moe said, “The motive for Caitlin could be a lust thing, or the same as Adella. She knew too much. Because of her relationship with Adella. Or Rory Stoltz flapped his gums and confided in her, she got horrified, threatened to go to the cops. Instead of shielding her, Rory told Book. Or went straight to Ax and warned him.”

“Selling out his girlfriend?” said Petra. “Cold.”

Aaron said, “I’m certain Rory scores dope for Book so he’s clearly not the All-American kid his mama thinks he is. Little prick wants to parlay his PA. job into a big-time Industry gig, it pays to prioritize.”

Petra said, “Utter corruption, perfect tutorial for the Industry.”

Aaron said, “Meaning, Caitlin’s bones could be buried on that ranch. All the more reason to go in.”

Moe said, “Book’s medical condition still bugs me.”

“You want him, he’s yours. But that means publicity, lawyers, stuff you won’t be able to control. Keep him here and I’ll get a doctor and someone rock-solid reliable to watch him.”

Imagining Liana’s face when she learned her new assignment. Female and gorgeous should make the actor feel right at home. Hell, Liana could wear a blond wig. “By the time we get back here, Book’ll be gelling his hair and eating steak.”

“Get back from where?” said Moe.

“Our little party.”

“Our?”

“What can I say, Moses? I’m into plural pronouns.” Aaron thought he saw Petra smile. But now she was looking detached and he couldn’t read her at all. “Moses, I’m not asking you for an explicit expression of appreciation. But I did get you pure gold, why would you want to cut me off?”

Now Petra definitely
was
smiling. Moving to hide it behind a slim, white hand.

Moe’s eyebrows rose. He said, “What do you think, partner?”

She said, “Doesn’t bother me, but you’re the primary.”

Moe ran a finger inside his shirt collar. Massaged his arm again, as if soothing an ache, and faced Aaron. “Thank you.
Bro.”

T
he party started at four a.m.

Bring your own Kevlar vest; no RSVP required
.

The open layout of the Dement spread dictated a cover-of-darkness soiree. Gray night, rather than black, courtesy of a skimpy frosting of stars and a filmy half-moon.

LAPD Detectives Moses Reed, Petra Connor, and Raul Biro rode in unmarked sedans. Deputy D.A. John Nguyen sat in the back of Petra’s car, LAPD Detective (ret.) Aaron Fox accompanied his brother.

Ahead of them, six officers borrowed from the twelve-person Fugitive Warrant Squad rumbled along in a reconditioned military Humvee, experts in the art of surprise.

Bringing up the rear, fifteen sheriff’s deputies, including two lieutenants and a captain. All those khaki uniforms because Malibu was sheriff’s turf.

All that khaki brass because now that the deal was set, everyone wanted to rub up against celebrity.

Celebrity had almost screwed the deal, sheriff’s honchos arguing for a “comprehensive interdepartmental planning session,” “strategic delays,” the need to be careful with this “high-profile family.”

That translated to a butt-covering snail-trail pushing the raid well past daybreak, initiating entry to the property with a phone call from the gate, offering the Dements or one of their employees a chance to drive down from the ranch and spring the padlock.

John Nguyen said, “Oh, sure, and let’s have OJ. supervise the search.”

Nguyen’s boss made a call and restored logic.

As a face-saving gesture, the sheriff’s captain, a man named Carl Neihrold, got to cut the lock.

That took a while because the bolt was heavy-duty and Neihrold had been desk-jobbing for years, hadn’t used cutters since his rookie year doing dope raids.

Several grunts later, the steel gave way and the gate swung open.

“Forward,” said the chief fugitive cop, a man named Juan Silva. “Headlights off, five miles per.”

Sounding confident, but no one knew what lay ahead.

The entry road was over half a mile of dirt meandering through high grass, the occasional oversized clump of rosemary, thatches of poppies, wind-dwarfed sycamores, drought-loving California oaks.

No sign of guard dogs, no alarm bells.

Fifty yards from the road’s upsweep to a broad plateau, Aaron noticed tiny blinking lights in the boughs of a large oak. Short-lived, then gone. As if stars had plunged to earth and died on contact.

Seconds later: more pinpoint strobes, this time from a nondescript clump of sage.

“See that, Moses?”

“What?”

“Infrared cameras—they’re all over the place.”

Moe radioed Juan Silva. Silva said, “We saw it, were just gonna call you. We’re putting on helmets. Tell everyone we could encounter some preparedness. And let’s lower it to a crawl—two m.p.h. No action whatsoever until I say okay.”

♦

The Hummer came to a stop at the mouth of a broad plateau, leaving just enough room for Moe to inch his Crown Vic in.

Beyond an open wooden arch was empty dirt turned silver-gray.

According to the county assessor, Lem Dement’s spread was sixty-three acres but from what Moe could see only three or four of that was flat, the rest a repeating pattern of overlapping hilltops that bled into darkness.

Just left of the entry to the plateau, maybe twenty yards back, was a corral. What used to be a corral—two sides of collapsed fencing shouted
nonfunctional
. So did the absence of horseshit perfume.

Moe lowered his window another couple of inches. The place smelled of
nothing
.

As the Humvee sat there, Moe’s attention shifted to right of the arch—deeper in than the corral.

The nearest structure was a substantial house—the large rectangle that had showed up on Aaron’s Google Earth aerial. Farther back sat several smaller outbuildings—shacks or cabins peppering the base of the foothills. Moe counted four but darkness could be concealing others. A field the size of a baseball diamond separated the house from its satellites. Three oaks sprouted haphazardly in the dirt, twisted branches and sere foliage cookie-cutting chunks out of the sky.

No sign of any church, no construction vehicles. But the dirt patch on the aerial map was obvious: off to the far right, thirty or so paces from the main house.

Big stretch of dirt ringed by taut string on wooden stakes.

Preliminary layout for some sort of project, but no groundbreaking.

That said nothing about hand-digs.

As the Hummer continued to idle, Moe wondered about engine noise. But no lights had gone on in the house or the outbuildings.

That
could mean anything.

Weird place to raise your family—talk about isolation. And nothing Hollywood about it. Lem Dement had squirreled away a fortune from his alleged faith flick but you’d never know it from his homestead.

The main house was generous enough, but not fancy. Low-slung,
log-sided, with a swooping roof hosting a satellite dish that listed sharply and a full-length covered porch furnished with a few folding chairs.

The property had once been a summer camp. This had probably been the administration building/dining hall.

Hundred bottles of beer …
no short-sheeting tonight.

Several cars were parked in front, but the Hummer blocked them from Moe’s view.

Aaron whispered, “Not exactly Hearst Castle. More like your basic shitkicker hunting lodge.”

That filled Moe’s head with pictures. Heads over mantels. Trophies no decent person would want to look at. He kept silent.

Half a minute passed before Juan Silva radioed, “We’re going to park up by that horse corral, but you guys stay in place.” As he spoke, the Humvee rolled to one of the battered fences, came to a halt, switched off its engine.

Now Moe could see the entire front of the house and there, parked dead-center, was a prize: Ahab “Ax” Dement’s black Ram truck, a likely source of forensic treasure.

Eight other vehicles were lined up, perfectly parallel to one another. As if precision mattered to someone.

Aaron identified the black X5 as Gemma Dement’s ride. The others conformed to the reg info Moe had obtained: Lem Dement’s Mercedes coupe with
LEMDEM
plates, the director’s Escalade truck tagged
LDTOO
, three baby Benzes that were the designated wheels for son number two /Ax look-alike Japhet, and teens Mary Giles and Paul Miki. Last and quite least, an old Jensen Interceptor on four flat tires, some serious dents highlighted by heavenly glow.

Time chugged along as the fugitive guys sat and planned in their armored vehicle.

Dark windows everywhere, still not a peep. Did the infrareds feed somewhere useless? Was Dement security—whatever that meant— falling down on the job?

Was the entire family peacefully beddy-bye and about to have the worst nightmare of their collective lives?

Juan Silva radioed, “I’m getting out to check.”

Moe watched the tall helmeted figure glide silently around to the back of the log house. Silva emerged moments later and got back in the Humvee.

“There’s another porch out back and we’ve got two back doors, nothing serious, crappy locks. I saw kids sleeping in the back, so that’s a complication. Any idea who or what’s in those cabins out back?”

Moe said, “No.”

“Well, I saw three kids in one room with bunks, two more in singles. That leaves two more kids plus the parents, and the house is several rooms deep, so they could be anywhere. We’re going to want max manpower to ensure quick control. That means us six leading and the rest of you uniforms as backup. Okay, Captain Neihrold?”

Neihrold said, “Sure.”

Silva said, “I know we never found any records of live-in staff, but it’s logical there’d be some with a place this big. Maybe they’re unregistered, that could be who’s in those cabins. At this distance, we’ll consider them medium-risk, so you detectives can keep a watch. Should be boring unless someone’s got long-range military hardware.”

Moe said, “Don’t see any missile launchers.”

“It’s what you don’t see that can bite you, Detective.”

Aaron mouthed,
Funny guy
.

Silva said, “Use those trees for cover, keep your eyes and your radios open. We’re hoping for a smooth one, but once we start popping the tab on this can it could get interesting.”

One by one the raid vehicles rolled up to the plateau, parked near the corral, disgorged their occupants.

Another brief, whispered meeting among Silva and Neihrold and Moe.

At four seventeen a.m., Silva gave the thumbs-up and led his squad to the big house. Helmeted figures fanned out, surrounding the structure. Sheriff’s deputies stood just behind. Moe and Petra and Raul hustled for the trio of oaks.

John Nguyen remained in Petra’s car, happy to be there, because he hadn’t gone to law school to play G.I. Joe.

Aaron got out of the Crown Vic and joined his brother behind a tree.

Moe looked at him. Shook his head. Resignation, not debate.

The go signal.

Simultaneous battering of the front door and the pair at the rear of the big house.

Splintering wood, shattered glass, the usual bellowed warnings.

Light on in front.

No reaction from the cabins out back. Moe’s attention—everyone’s attention—shifted to the action.

The first fruits of the raid appeared within seconds: Ax Dement, ponytailed, bare-chested, pajama bottoms fastened under a pendulous gut, was hustled outside by the two biggest fugitive cops. Cuffed at the back, head down, eyes barely open, shuffling as the helmets dragged him forward.

Next: brother Japhet, in shorts and a T-shirt marked
Occidental College
. Cuffed and bewildered and tripping several times as sheriff’s deputies led him to one of their cruisers.

No longer a look-alike: he’d lost about thirty pounds, shaved his beard, trimmed his hair to a neat, blond brush cut.

Not a bad-looking kid—more Gemma than Lem, thought Aaron. He watched for her to appear. Felt bad for her. Beaten for years, a murderous psychopath for a kid.

What would she say if she saw Aaron tonight?

Flattering himself that she’d care.

Sheriff’s deputies brought out three more people—the youngest Dement kids. One broke down and cried and a khaki lifted the child into his arms and kept going.

Next, two teens—Mary Giles in a pink bathrobe. Tall, slim, with long dark hair and her mother’s angular good looks. Unrestrained but for hands on both arms. Suddenly she fought to break free.

“Why the fuck are you doing this! Why the fuck are you doing this!”

Screaming loud enough for anyone in the cabins to hear.

No reaction from the cabins. The outbuildings were vacant or they housed illegal alien workers, too terrified to show their faces. Either way, good. This would go down easy.

As his sister was led away, two other deputies appeared with the last Dement offspring, seventeen-year-old Paul Miki. Baggy T-shirt, saggy shorts. Surfer-do, zit-face, gawky as a heron.

Stunned and passive.

But for Ax Dement, stashed in the rear cage of the Hummer to await interrogation, all the Dement children were hustled off the property.

Juan Silva came out of the house, spotted Moe, jogged over. “We got some weed, some weapons—three revolvers, two rifles. Also a knife collection, all from Ax’s room. That’s what was in plain sight, feel free to search to your heart’s content. Where do you want your suspect going?”

“Keep him here for the time being,” said Moe. “What about the parents?”

“Master bedroom was empty, bed made. I asked the daughter where they were, but she got obscene. Do they have another residence?”

“Not that we’ve found,” said Moe. “They used to live in the Hollywood Hills, but someone’s renting the place.”

Silva’s eyes wandered. Bored, now that his job was done. “Maybe they went on vacation.” Eyeing the Humvee. “Okay to transfer Porky to your vehicle?”

Raul Biro said, “Want to use mine? It’s got a cage.”

Moe said, “Sounds good … guess we’d better clear those.” Pointing to the cabins. “After that I’m calling in the coroner’s guys and a couple of K-9s.”

Silva said, “Sounds like a plan.”

Removing his helmet, he ran a hand over short black hair. All confidence and poise, another mission accomplished.

That changed seconds later, when gunshots cracked the night.