True Detectives (24 page)

“Let it ride,” said Aaron. “When the time’s right, I’ll clue you in big-time. Enough dirt for an entire show.”

“So you say.”

“Have I ever failed you, Mer?”

“Of course you have, darling.”

“When?”

“You’re a man,” she said. “You don’t need to
do
anything to fail me, you just need to
exist
. But fine, I’ll keep Book’s problems under the radar. But not forever.”

“Thanks, Mer. Maybe after this is over we can have dinner. No business, just fun.”

Silence.

She said, “You, my love, are a total bastard.”

Aaron lacked the energy—and the facts—to argue.

P
etra said, “We’ve got a problem. Instead of just watching Wohr, the rookie I put on him busted him last night, didn’t hold up the paper long enough to keep him in our lockup. Early-morning bus took him to County.”

Moe said, “I’ll call over there.”

“I already did. They can’t find him.”

“Released by accident?”

“Doubtful,” she said. “I’m sure you’ve dealt with the system over there. Or lack of. All that overcrowding, guys sitting around, takes days to find ’em. I’m really sorry, Moe.”

Moe had never dealt with County. Petra wasn’t much older than he was, but she was a vet. He said, “We’ll work it out. What did Wohr get busted for?”

“Soliciting a prostitute.
Underage
prostitute, so it couldn’t be just a citation. Ramone comes into lockup tagged as a pedo, doesn’t get segregated, you know what could happen.”

“Oh, man.”

“I know, I know. If this screws up your case, I couldn’t feel worse. Unfortunately, sorry don’t pay the bills.”

“Hey, it happens.” Keeping his true feelings inside.
It wouldn’t have happened with West L.A. working the case. Me and Sturgis
.

No logic to that chauvinism. No comfort in it, either.

Petra said, “In the rookie’s defense, I’m not sure a more experienced cop would’ve done different. The prostie turned out to be seventeen, but I’ve seen her mug and she looks twelve.”

“Playing kiddie,” said Moe. “Where’d it happen?”

“Not far from Ramone’s crib—alley off Western, near a chicken joint that’s a known perv hangout. Rookie says Ramone never went home at all yesterday. Eiger being such a battle-ax probably scared him away.”

“Not so scared he didn’t prowl for youngblood.”

“Or being humiliated made him want to dominate someone,” she said. “They ducked into the alley, by the time the rookie got there, hooker’s head was you-know-where. Meaning an overt act, kind of hard to ignore.”

“The girl’s in custody?”

“Nope, she ran off. But Ramone gave up her I.D. right away—he’s a regular, but claimed she was legal. Delena Guzman, street name Delishus. Salvadoran, but so far no link to M-13 or any of the other monster gangs. Still, right now I wouldn’t want to be Ramone.”

Moe said, “First his niece, now this. Delaware was right about him being chronically twisted.”

“Delaware’s in on this one?”

“We just consulted him. All the psych overtones, I figured why not.”

“He’s a smart guy,” said Petra. “Anything profound?”

“He thinks Mason Book could be anorexic.”

“Really,” said Petra. “Yeah, Book is kind of skeletal… so what does that mean?”

“It could explain Book going into the hospital and claiming suicide.”

“Tragic figure as opposed to pathetic X-ray.”

She’d decoded the psych angle right away. “I’ll keep bugging
County to locate Ramone. I’ve already called one of the sheriff jail captains, asked for our boy to get put on High Power or the psych ward. Guy said he’d try but their computer system’s acting up, it’s all they can do to keep tabs on gangbangers.”

“What’s the captain’s name?”

“Rojas. Sure, go ahead, add your name to the petition.”

Moe said, “Citizens to Keep Ramone W Safe.”

Petra said, “Only for as long as we can use him. After that, he’s chum for the sharks.”

Captain Rojas was smooth-sounding, outwardly cooperative, more like a politician than a cop. Moe wondered if he was being shined on.

He hung up, blocked out noise from the D-room, considered his options.

At this point, not too many.

No way to get to any of the principals and now even Ray Wohr was out of reach.

Delaware’s advice reverbed: Find a weak point and start wedging.

Ramone W was locked up and unavailable, but the woman who’d bitch-slapped him in public view was free and clear.

This time he parked close to the apartment building on Taft. Back to his blazer and khakis, white shirt and tie. Not pretending to be anything other than what he was as he marched up to the front door.

Unlocked, no security provisions of any sort.

That fit the urine-bitter corridor carpeted in wrinkled gray felt, the dirt-colored hallways livened by graffiti, the poorly fitted black plywood doors, some of them a good inch above the floor, souvenirs of once-thicker flooring. Missing bulbs overhead creating artificial evening. The tilting stairway banister looked as if it wouldn’t stand up to a nudge.

One thing you could say for the place: quiet. Maybe all the night-prowlers were catching up on their Z’s.

White metal mailboxes just inside the entrance hung askew, as if
they’d been wrenched in rage. Dented, too. Definite anger-management issues.

Eight units on each of two floors. Half the boxes were unlabeled, the others were identified by any number of methods: pencil, ballpoint, plastic tape, stick-on letters.

A. Eiger
had been scrawled in what looked like brown eye shadow over the slot labeled
7
. Meaning, she was the one who paid the rent, not Ramone W.

Her bod gets peddled in cheap motels, she’s got to freebie the clerk for a discounted rate, she’s stuck with the bills. Meanwhile, Ramone chases youngblood. Maybe that’s what had set her off.

Unit Seven was ground-floor rear, to the right of an unlocked back door that opened to a fetid alley lined with trash cans and sporting a luxuriant crop of weeds.

Moe stepped out, scanned; no one lurking around. He returned to the hallway, rapped Alicia Eiger’s door.

Prepared to answer her dope-addled
Yeah
with
Police
. God knew what that would unleash from the denizens of this dump.

No response, mumbled or otherwise. He tried again. Put his ear to the door. Heard nothing. Then a low hum—some kind of electrical device?

A sudden tickling sensation in his ear made him jerk away with the same instinctive repugnance that had led him to toss the secondhand hoodie teeming with imaginary vermin.

This time the bugs were real.

Little black flies, circling and swooping, letting out whiny, buzzing noises.

Lots
of flies. Streaming through the gap between door and carpet.

Moe had seen the same kind of insect, hovering at the sparkling glass doors leading to the administrative offices of the county coroner.

All of Mission Road’s wet-work took place on the other side of a clean, pretty mini-plaza, but that didn’t stop blowflies from expressing their enthusiasm anywhere they saw fit.

One of the little shitheads zoomed up suddenly and buzzed Moe’s
chin. He slapped it away, edged back some more. Removed his gun from his holster.

Stared at the doorknob.

Milo Sturgis always carried a pair of surgical gloves in his jacket. Moe had resolved to do the same, but had failed to follow through.

No gloves in his car, either. No reason, this was just going to be an interview. Assuming Alicia Eiger was home.

Moe bet she was.

Using a corner of his blazer, he took hold of the doorknob. Turned.

The door swung open easily. As if he’d been expected.

Some welcome.

No attempt to conceal.

Just the opposite: an ad for dead.

Alicia Eiger was splayed on the floor of a rancid kitchenette, facedown, an oversized T-shirt, once yellow, now tie-dyed crimson, yanked above her waist.

Chunky legs were parted in unmistakable display. No panties. No obvious splotches of semen. But plenty of body fluids: a torrent had issued from the woman’s deactivated bladder and bowels.

Varicose veins on the backs of her calves. Add some blue to the red.

A once feisty woman, reduced to this.

Moe worked with death, but he really hadn’t seen that many intact corpses. This corpse made his gut lurch. He slow-breathed himself steady, took in the scene. Realized he’d left the door to the corridor wide open, backed up, covered his hand with his sleeve and shut it.

Just me and her.

Keeping safe distance, he used his eyes like wide-angle cameras.

No sign of forced entry. No disruption at all to the shabby, barely furnished apartment.

Tiny place; a lav off to the side and the dinky kitchenette-front room combo was the totality of Eiger’s—and Ray Wohr’s—home-sweet-home.

No big puzzle about COD. A wood-handled knife was buried in
the left side of her back. Moe counted at least ten more stab wounds ripping the T-shirt, but all that blood could be concealing others.

A front view would have to wait until the coroner’s team arrived.

Oh, yeah, they couldn’t arrive unless someone informed them.

After he finished with that, he reached Petra at her desk.

She said, “You found him?”

He said, “My turn to deliver bad news.”

A coroner’s investigator named Maidie Johansen said, “Fools rush in, kids. Unfortunately, I’m one of those angels who fears to tread.”

Petra said, “Aw c’mon, Maidie, make a guess.”

Johansen was around sixty, a sturdy woman with indoor skin, curly gray hair, and wide brown eyes behind wire-rimmed specs. She reminded Moe of a fifth-grade teacher whose name he couldn’t remember. A woman who hadn’t liked him. Despite that, he’d ground away, pulled an A-minus both semesters.

Alicia Eiger’s horn-rimmed specs had been revealed by the body-turn. Frames bent and twisted under her weight, but both lenses intact. No entry wounds in her chest or abdomen. Her entire front was unmarked, freakishly so when contrasted with the chopping block that had once been her back. The knife long enough to pierce vital organs but too short to come out the other end.

Fifteen wounds, by Maidie Johansen’s count. She said, “One thing I will go out on a limb about: This was done with mucho force.”

Pointing to the warped blade, tagged and bagged. What looked to be a kitchen utensil, the wood now glazed an unpleasant copper. Surprisingly, Eiger’s knives were a set, cheap and white-handled. Either the murder weapon was the lone mismatch or someone had come prepared for butchery.

A killer Alicia Eiger had been comfortable turning her back on.

Maidie Johansen said, “Someone sure didn’t like this poor girl.” Sighing. “At least there are no pockets to go through.”

Petra said, “TOD?”

“Not a clue.”

“Jeez, Maidie, you’ve been doing this long enough to educate your guesses.”

Johansen drew herself up. “Child, you saying I’m a crone?”

“I’m saying give us a guess, off the record. The way the bodies are stacked over at your place, who knows how long it’ll be before she gets a prelim, let alone autopsied.”

“You’re one of my favorites, Detective Connor, but no dice.”

Moe said, “I saw her yesterday afternoon, so that narrows down the time frame.”

“Then that’s my guess: no earlier than yesterday afternoon.”

Petra said, “Those flies—”

“Can sniff out a DB within seconds,” said Johansen. “This being interior space might theoretically slow them down but you’ve got a nearby door to an alley full of crap, a gap under the door. Word goes out in the fly community, it’s ‘Let’s hurry over and make maggots.’”

“Don’t see any maggots on her.”

“They take time to hatch, Petra. Could be eggs in her nostrils or her ears, her anus or vagina. Or they’re already crawling around inside. That’s the point: It can’t be pinned down easily. And don’t go asking me about algor, rigor, livor, any of that good stuff. Dr. Srinivasan just gave us a lecture and guess what? All those calcs based on ninety-eight point six being normal body temp are off because the true normal is probably closer to ninety-seven, all the old thermometers are basically screwed up. And don’t go telling me a degree and a half cooling per hour’s gonna be definitive. Dr. Srinivasan gave us a lecture
last
week saying there’s all kinds of new data that can screw up
that
calc.” She ticked her fingers. “Body fat, ambient room temp, humidity, seasonal variation of temp-humidity, how deep in the liver you probe.”

Moe said, “She’s not fat, the weather’s temperate, there’s no Santa Ana winds, and it hasn’t rained in weeks. And I’ll bet you’re pretty consistent when you jab the liver.”

“Flattery is for chumps,” said Johansen. She grimaced and stretched. That reminded Moe of Sturgis. This thick, surly woman could be Ann to the Loo’s Andy.

Petra said, “So much for talking for the victim.”

Johansen said, “Now it’s guilt.”

“Guilt’s a great motivator, Maidie.”

Moe wondered if Petra was thinking about Mason Book. He sure was.

Johansen said, “So is covering one’s butt, Petra.” She stared down at the body. “If you absotively need something for a kick-start, I’d bet on within eight hours, give or take. Try to pin that on me, I’ll plead Alzheimer’s.”

Squarely within the time frame Raymond Wohr had been under surveillance. Damn.

Petra said, “How much give, how much take?”

Johansen shook her head. “Kids today.” She adjusted her glasses. “You want quotable quotes, my pretties, talk to someone who went to med school. Speaking of which, can we take her now?”

T
he rookie’s name was Jennifer Kennedy.

Petra had never mentioned gender. Why should she?

Kennedy was ruddy and round-faced, not bad looking in a farm-girl way, with cornflower eyes and pasta-colored hair cut short and peaked on top—almost a faux-hawk. Three holes in one ear, two in the other. Moe wouldn’t be surprised if her uniform hid some tats.

Sitting in a plastic chair in a Hollywood interview room, she worked hard at not showing anxiety.

Failing. The blue eyes gave it away. Despite the fact that Petra and Moe were proceeding gently.

Like Petra had said before they entered the room: no sense adding to the kid’s stress.

The kid;
Kennedy’s stats put her at four years older than Moe. She’d worked as a secretary for a medical insurance company for eight years before entering the academy sixteen months ago.

Those same organizational skills led to precision: a carefully logged surveillance of Raymond Wohr, down to the minute.

No chance Wohr had been in his apartment from six p.m., when
Kennedy had started watching him, until three a.m. when she’d busted him.

The only window of opportunity for him to stab Alicia Eiger, the two-hour lapse between the end of Moe’s watch and the start of hers.

Ramone would’ve had time to backtrack to his crib, confront Eiger about the bitch-slap, wreak vengeance, clean up, and reemerge on the street to drink and lurk and troll for an underage hooker. Ditch bloody clothes.

But lack of violence in Ramone’s past and the passive way he’d tolerated Eiger’s abuse, combined with Maidie Johansen’s educated time-of-death guess, made Moe wonder.

He said, “Tell us about the bust.”

Kennedy said, “Did I screw that up?”

“Wohr’s a bad guy, he was having sex with a minor, you did the right thing.”

As if Moe had failed to comfort her, Kennedy looked at Petra.

“You had no choice, Jennifer. Wohr being in lockup is fine, we’ll have access to him.”

Once we find him
.

“Okay,” said Kennedy. “So what happened was obviously I was watching him and mostly it was a lot of nothing. Drinking, walking around, finding another bar, walking some more.”

Moe said, “Did he call anyone?”

“He could’ve, inside one of the bars, but not out on the street. Finally, he walked to Western, there were a bunch of girls working the chicken place, at first I wasn’t sure if they actually were girls.”

Petra said, “Sometimes they’re not.”

“The girl he went to,” said Kennedy, “it was obvious they had a prior relationship. Or whatever you want to call it. From how fast it was, there was no discussion, they just ducked into the alley. By the time I get a look, he’s with his back against a wall and she’s on her knees. She looked eleven, who knew?”

“She was a minor, Jennifer.”

Kennedy frowned. “Seventeen years, eight months. When I busted
him, he went down easy, no resistance. Didn’t react when I found that weed I logged. She ran but I made the decision to concentrate on him. She was so young looking. I wanted it to
end
.”

They let Kennedy go and stayed in the room.

Moe said, “Solo officer in plainclothes tells him to assume the position, he doesn’t fight.”

Petra said, “Female officer, no less.” She grinned. “I’m allowed to say that. Yeah, he’s pretty darn passive, but even passive guys blow fuses.”

“I’m not feeling it,” said Moe. “That murder was brutal and someone took the time to pose her sexually, maybe to throw us off.”

“My instinct, too, Moe. Your question about calling someone—you think he set Eiger up with someone nasty enough to do it?”

“I’m sure going to find out if he’s got a phone account. If not, we’ll see if there’s pay phones in any of those bars.”

Petra nodded. “One good thing about passive: We get him in a room, he could be workable.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” He thanked her, left Hollywood Station and drove to West L.A.

Thinking: I’m developing instincts.

Two hours later, he was still at his desk, going over Caitlin Frostig’s file for the thousandth time. Raymond Wohr had no account at any phone company. Tracking pay phones in bars would take hours, but he had no choice.

Petra had just called, still wrestling with County Jail bureaucracy; no one in the custodial megalith had a clue as to Ramone Ws whereabouts. For all Moe knew, the mope had paid for his perv tag already— sliced, diced, stashed behind some jail boiler.

Eiger getting murdered so brutally after her tirade made Moe wonder if the motive wasn’t revenge but someone shutting her up about something important.

As in two dead girls.

And a baby.

During her rant, Eiger had seemed to be exhorting Ramone. Trying to goad him to do something. Giving up and calling him
stupid
before whomping him upside the head. Had she known that he was in possession of explosive information, got frustrated because he wouldn’t exploit the knowledge?

Explosive as in the paternity of Baby Gabriel? Something
Caitlin
might’ve learned getting close enough to Adella to sit for the infant?

Rich-guy paternity as in Mason Book?

If Ramone W knew or even suspected that, he sure hadn’t profited. Living in that dump, pimping Eiger to Ax Dement and the motel clerk.

Too passive to exploit? But Eiger isn’t, she nags him, he puts her off because he’s too dumb, or too scared to figure out an angle?

Eiger, tired of being a commodity, loses patience, braces Ramone on the street, slaps him down.

Now she’s dead.

If there was a link there, Moe figured it could’ve gone two ways.

Option A: Ramone finally gives in, makes a blackmail call, flubs, and turns Eiger into a victim. Narrowly misses getting killed himself. Remains in jeopardy.

Option B: Furious at Eiger for humiliating him, but a sneak, not an action guy, Ramone makes a call that tags her as dangerous. Turns Eiger into a victim. Is
still in
jeopardy.

Oh, yeah, the third option, C: None of the above.

Moe’s hands clenched. His jaw hurt. He’d been grinding his teeth without realizing it.

Damn jail… scumbag
had
to show up, eventually. Moe was pretty sure he could crack the idiot open like a peanut.

When, not if. He had to believe in something.

Sitting in the dark, above Swallowsong Lane, Aaron checked his expense log.

He knew it by heart but nothing else to do, now that his sandwich was gone and he’d taken a couple of whizz-breaks in the bushes.

The glamorous side of private detecting. People like Mr. Dmitri didn’t have a clue.

Aaron cheered himself with mental calculations of the final bill he’d present the Russian. Maybe his last bill to the Russian if he had nothing to show.

Liana still hadn’t called. Where the hell
was
she?

The chance that she might be in danger plagued him personally and professionally. He’d never had a better op than Liana and a part of him—some part he couldn’t really label—felt deeply about her.

Nothing he could do now, so he shoved his worries into a filing cabinet at the back of his head.

The key was to keep everything compartmentalized.

Where are you, Lee?
He assured himself yet again that she was smart. He’d briefed her fully on this one.
Urged
her to be careful.

It was just after one a.m. During the past five hours, six cars had driven up Swallowsong: Three vehicles ferried neighbors home and one of them, an old Mercedes diesel sedan, reemerged thirty minutes later with an elderly man behind the wheel and a woman of matching vintage prattling in the passenger seat.

Tux, gown, some kind of party, everyone in a good mood.

Probably one of those perfect couples, together for forty years.

Must be nice …

At ten thirteen p.m. Rory Stoltz chauffeured Mason Book home in his Hyundai, stayed with the actor for a mere twelve minutes before speeding down the hill.

Probably not an errand, the kid hadn’t reappeared.

Shortly after eleven p.m., Ax Dement, solo in his pickup, did his customary run of the stop sign and zoomed up the hill. His stay was also brief—twenty-four minutes. Just long enough to smoke up or sniff or drink and savor the high.

Aaron caught a glimpse of Dement Junior’s squat, bearded face as the truck sped away. Ax didn’t look high, quite the contrary.

Preoccupied.

One fifteen.

Convinced Mason Book wouldn’t be receiving any more visitors, Aaron left the Opel and began the silent hike up Swallowsong.

From his easy lope, no outward sign of the tension—the frustration— that seized every cell of his body. He realized his heart was pounding and he took some time to deep-breathe it slower.

Later, looking back, he’d marvel at his own daring. Or stupidity, depending on how you looked at it.

Right now, standing outside the Baroque gates of the house Mason Book rented from Lemuel Dement, noticing how many foothold opportunities the complex ironwork provided, tired of being stymied by the layout of the property—the curving drive and Italian cypresses that blocked any view of what lay beyond—he said, “What the hell.”

Whispering out loud. Feeling his lips move but inaudible above the distant buzz of traffic from the Strip. Leaves rustling in a warm, sweet Hollywood Hills breeze.

Making sure his Glock was buttoned down firmly in its nylon holster, running a lint-remover over his black nylon jacket to remove errant hairs, he gloved up, looked around. Breathed in deeply and placed two hands on the upper-left quadrant of the gate, nudged a toe into a convenient circle of space afforded by an iron curlicue.

Exhaled and hoisted himself up.