“Hey,” said Moe, “I'm open to anything. You find out Rory's chapter president of the Ted Bundy Fan Club, I'll get interested. But I talked to him four times and he came across exactly what he claimed to be.”
“Which is?”
“Clean-cut Pepperdine student.”
“That's a Baptist school. We talking Holy Roller?”
“ Normal, clean-cut kid,” said Moe. “Seemed genuinely torn up about Caitlin. But not over-the-top emotional, like he was trying to prove something.”
“Virgins,” said Aaron. “Wonder if he's still that way fifteen months later. You planning a fifth chat?”
“The case is still open.”
Aaron drank water.
Moe said, “I don't want you stepping on my toes.”
“Last thing on my mind, bro.”
“But if I tell you to hold off, you're not going to listen.” Gas or acid or whatever was rising up his food tube. His belt cut like dental floss. From what, three pieces of lamb and some eggplant? What did they put in this stuff?
“Moses, can't we just put it aside?”
“Put what aside?”
“SOS. Same old shit.” Aaron laughed. “Remember when I told that idiot counselor he was just digging up SOS and he near about fell off his shrink chair?”
Moe stayed silent.
“You don't remember, bro?”
“Dr. Gibson,” said Moe. As if called upon to recite.
“Mr. Gibson,” said Aaron. “Had a master's.” He shook his head. “Working for the school system filing paper, at night he moonlights, pretends he's an analyst.”
“Didn't stop Mom from liking him.”
“Mom,” said Aaron. “She also liked that massage therapist with the bad breath and the huge mole on her chin and that Polish N.D. we all thought was an M.D.-Kussorsky, Master Naturopath. Guy's doling out little vials of water with invisible ingredients and Mom's telling us we have to take it for our allergies. Meanwhile, she takes in two cats.”
He laughed again. “SOS.”
Moe thought about fake-shrink Gibson and couldn't muster up any glee.
He'd been fourteen, Aaron eighteen. The two of them going at each other constantly, sometimes it got physical. Mom having no idea.
My father was a hero.
So was my father. What? You're saying he wasn't? You're saying that?
All I'm saying, little bro, is-
Fuck you.
Fuck you.
A whirlwind of scuffle, fists flying, Mom hurrying in, trying to break it up.
The next day, she announced everyone was going to “family therapy.”
She'd met Quentin Gibson, M.A., at yoga class.
Guy makes house calls, wimpy, skinny, ponytailed, British tool. Let's-everyone-express-their-feelings. Useful as a tissue-paper condom.
Moe felt himself smile, put a brake on his lips.
Aaron leaned in closer. “I promise not to step on your feet.”
“That assumes we're dancing.”
“So nothing I'm going to say is going to work.”
“Nothing has to work. Do what you want.”
“Even if that was my style, I wouldn't handle it that way, bro.”
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Bro.”
Aaron's caramel eyes widened. “I've been doing that your whole life.”
“Exactly.”
Aaron ran a long, graceful finger along his hairline. “Ok-ay. Detective Reed.”
Moe's colon churned. He fought to conceal another belch.
Aaron exhaled slowly. “This is what I am going to do.” Lapsing into that schoolteacher tone Moe hated. “I will check with you before I interview Stoltz, his mommy, or anyone else you deem important. If I learn anything relevant, you'll be the first to know.”
Moe forked food around his plate.
“Detective Brother Reed, is there anyone else you deem important?”
“Just Caitlin,” said Moe. “If you run across her, tell her to give me a ring.”
The bespectacled woman came over, looked at Aaron's untouched plate.
Not a trace of irritation as she said, “May I wrap that for you to go, sir?”
CHAPTER 8
Aaron watched the little pink house.
It was just after ten p.m. For three hours, he'd done nothing but watch.
Nice night in the Valley, more than a few stars peeking through a charcoal felt sky, the street lined with neat domiciles, quiet and peaceful.
He sat low in the seat of the Opel, drank green tea, ate the second half of a pastrami sandwich, listened to Anita Baker on his iPod.
Moe had walked out of the restaurant committing to nothing. Aaron tipped the Indian woman generously, then drove to Heinz the Mechanic's place on Pico, where he garaged the C4S and picked up the Opel.
Deceptive little thing, with its dinged-up body and flat brown paint. The engine was a rebuilt BMW 325i enhanced by Heinz's magical hands. The best of several loaners the German kept around while he worked on Carreras and Ferraris and such. Fifty bucks bought Aaron twenty-four hours. Smoked windows were perfect for the job at hand.
He logged the expenditure into his BlackBerry.
Driving home, he cell-phoned a source at the county assessor's office, learned that Rory Stoltz owned no real estate but Martha Greta Stoltz paid property taxes on a single-family residence on Emelita Street in North Hollywood.
“Thanks, Henry. I owe you.”
Laughter. “You sure do.”
“Check's in the mail.”
“It sure is.”
The call was a luxury. Property rolls were public records but saving time was a bargain, in the long run, for Mr. Dmitri.
Henry's fifty got logged.
Aaron could've stretched that but, deep pockets like Mr. Dmitri's, you had to be careful not to get piggy.
Address in hand, he GPS'd the precise location as he drove home to his place on San Vicente off Wilshire. Speed-dialing continuously, using red lights to work the BlackBerry.
His building was a deco-flavored duplex built in the twenties, one of the final reminders that the area had once been residential. Aaron's neighbors were low-rise office structures. Skyscrapers on Wilshire cast long shadows across his roof.
He'd picked up the property at a foreclosure auction for a ridiculous price, spent the next five years remodeling, doing a lot of the work himself. Last year, he'd billed two hundred ninety-six thousand dollars in fees, collected nearly all of that, and this year was looking at least as good. But without the bargain purchase, he'd still be living in a condo.
He unlocked the gate around the small front yard, disabled the security lock, released both bolts in the door, removed his snail mail from the internal slot. The first floor was Work Land, all-black wood floor where it wasn't Berber carpeting, gray suede walls, chrome and leather and glass furniture. Sheets of Lexan were bolted to the inner surfaces of conspicuous windows. Invisible, unless you knew to look.
The décor expressed all the high-tech efficiency clients craved.
This afternoon, Work Land was silent, every message and e-mail cleared during the drive. He loved operating as a solo act.
Checking one of three fax machines, he was pleased to find a fresh clear copy of Rory Stoltz's driver's license, courtesy an illegal search by a source at DMV.
Hundred bucks. Ka-ching.
Folding the page neatly, to keep from creasing the subject's face, he headed upstairs to Play Land, worked out in his gym, showered, whirlpool-bathed, shaved.
Feeling loose and confident, he sauntered, stark-naked and swinging a key ring, down a subtly lit, plum-carpeted hallway toward what had once been a rear bedroom.
The space was guarded by a security-hinged door of fiery teak. An ebony silhouette of a top-hatted boulevardier graced the center of the wood. Aaron unlocked and stepped in.
The same teak covered the walls and the coffered ceilings. Recessed lighting set off billiard-table-green carpeting. The twenty-by-eighteen room was sectioned by double-height, industrial-quality, stainless-steel racks he'd snagged at a bargain price from Carlyle and Tout when the Brentwood haberdasher went under.