Running the stop sign as usual. Aaron was ready, spotted Mason Book slumped in the passenger seat. That same zombie stare he'd spied during the drive to the Colony with Rory Stoltz.
Moments later Aaron was easing back and forth in light west-moving Sunset traffic, playing the Opel like a trombone slide. Sneaking in split-second stares that coalesced into a single image, like pictures in a flip book.
Ax Dement, wearing a black leather jacket despite the heat, greasy hair tied back in a tail, broke the speed limit by ten mph as he puffed a doobie in plain sight.
Lynyrd Skynyrd thumping out the driver's window, all bass-enhanced.
Rch kid really piling on the outlaw thing. Where was the Confederate flag and the gun rack?
They were in Beverly Hills, now, a city teeming with cops, but illegal smoke was still blowing out the truck's window. So Ax was a serious risk-taker. Maybe because Daddy's dough had buffered life's sharp edges. Or he was just too stupid to be afraid.
Aaron shifted to the right, hazarded another look at Mason Book.
The actor sat low, stared straight ahead, mouth small and tight.
Indulging in nothing but misery.
The Ram continued west.
All the way to the beach, and down the ramp to PCH, big surprise.
Here we go again. Mason Book craving ocean breeze, had found himself another chauffeur.
For all his outward depression, Book was the star, Ax just a pseudo-macho hanger-on who came panting like a puppy when Book commanded.
Ax had his foot to the pedal and keeping up with him worried Aaron; all he needed was some Highway Patrol hotshot pulling him over.
Black man at the beach.
As they neared the Colony, Aaron braced himself for a turnaround. But this time, the truck kept on going, picking up even more speed past the Pepperdine campus, where Caitlin had once studied and Rory still did. Where Malibu began turning rural.
Heading to Daddy's spread in Solar Canyon? Late-night mass at the family church?
But the Ram zipped right past Solar, Kanan Dume, Zuma, Broad Beach. Hooked a quick right that caused Aaron to kill the Opel's lights as he downshifted.
He watched from twenty yards back as the truck pulled off at the land-side entrance to Leo Carrillo State Beach.
About a mile before L.A. County gave way to Ventura, and some of California's prettiest sand and water.
On the land side, where the truck was, were trails leading to campground and wilderness hikes. A couple of years ago, a cougar had mauled a mountain biker to death not far from here.
Aaron rolled a little closer, trying to spot the truck's taillights. The angle of the dip into the lot and the surrounding brush hid the Ram. To Aaron's left, the poorly limned ocean was more sound than sight.
Steady whoosh of tide. In and out, like lazy sex.
Aaron had driven by this spot tons of times, on trips to Oxnard, Ventura, Ojai, Santa Barbara. But the last time he'd actually stopped at Carrillo was… his sophomore year in college, he'd taken a girl there to explore the tide pools, stretch out on clean white sand. Pretending to care about starfish and sea anemones in order to get some romance going. Hoping to catch a glimpse of dolphins, because chicks loved dolphins.
Toward sunset, he and… what was her name… had spotted a pod of Flippers and that had done the trick. Great session in the back of his car, what was her name… brunette, half black, half white like him, said she wanted to be a psychologist… Ronette … Ronelle DeFreeze, long, lithe body, green eyes, pretty head turned to one side as she…
Concentrate, Detective Fox.
He edged the Opel closer, got twenty feet from the entrance to the park where a sliver of the lot was visible. The truck was parked fairly close to the highway, blocked by yellow gates that closed off the park after dark.
Impossible to see if it was occupied or not. Gee thanks, starless night.
That day with Ronelle, Aaron had parked just past the yellow gates. Concentrating, he dredged up memories. Ranger booth, list of regulations. Entry road shaded by trees.
Ax and Book were either sitting in the truck or had exited to proceed on foot. Either scenario was risky: a darkened vehicle illegally parked could easily attract attention from a patrolling park ranger. So would the marijuana reek sure to cling to the truck's interior.
But this was a guy who sped through B.H. toking up.
Maybe the boys had been here before, knew it was safe because ranger patrols were infrequent.
If budget cuts stuck a handful of Smokeys with covering miles of wilderness, that made sense.
What did that say about the safety of camping-something Aaron had always considered a pathetic grab at phony machismo.
And this was Carrillo, he'd heard rumors about the place, the good old days of the Manson Family, other assorted whacks running cannibal parties under full moons. Human sacrifices, blood rites, not to mention your garden-variety sexual psychopath lurking behind every pine.
C'mon, Jimmy and Judy! Mom and Dad have found a super-neat place to set up our little Sterno stove and cook our wienies and our marsh-mallows…
Even if the rumors were tall tales, what was the pleasure in waking up at sunrise with achy muscles and a mouthful of dirt, some rabid raccoon or weasel or whatever farting on your head…
What were Mason Book and Ax Dement doing here at close to two a.m.?
One way to find out.
Nope, too risky.
Encountering the two of them would blow his cover and render him useless.
Moe would love that…
First Commandment of the job: Thou Shalt Not Fuck Up.
He settled down for another bout of inactivity.
Twenty-four minutes later, he saw two figures return to the truck- so they had taken a walk.
The Ram backed away from the yellow gates, swung onto PCH, hooked an illegally acute left turn that took it across the double-double. Starting up the Opel, Aaron checked for ongoing traffic, completed his own iffy turn, pushed the car up to seventy.
Moments later, with the Ram just starting to come into view, red lights flashed in his rearview.
Wonderful.
Before Aaron could respond, the CHP cruiser flashed its brights.
Patience, man, what's it been, a nanosecond?
Next the idiot would be bellowing over his loudspeaker. Aaron pulled over at the first hint of turnoff.
The cruiser glided to a stop twenty feet behind.
It took a long time-way longer than usual-for the Chippie to approach. Careful to keep his hands on the wheel, Aaron watched the patrolman head his way through the side mirror.
Young, just a kid. Big and pouty-mouthed and heavy.
Slow, deliberate John Wayne waddle, one hand resting near his gun.
Black man at the beach.
The CHP officer stopped five feet behind the Opel, just stood there.
No reason to be worried, Kiddie-cop. You've already taken your sweet time running the tags.
Following proper procedure.
Hefting his flashlight high, the way they teach you in every police academy, the Chippie advanced some more. Stopped again. Hand on his gun.
Aaron sat there.
Finally: “Step out of the car, sir.”
Pasting his best guileless/harmless/aw-shucks look on his face, Aaron complied at exactly the pace he would've appreciated back in his uniform days.
Smiling, as the officer blinded him with his flashlight.
Keeping his mouth shut because anything he said would be wrong.
CHAPTER 24
The Reverend Arnold Wohr had business in the city, insisted meeting at the station would be no trouble at all.
Moe would've preferred to get a look at the La Puente house, maybe catch some sign Ramone W still bunked out there occasionally. But given the rev's easy cooperation, he was in no position to argue.
Ramone's respectable sib showed up ten minutes early. The senior brother by two years, Arnold looked a decade younger, a trim, balding man in an unstylish, spotless gray suit, white shirt, blue tie, brown shoes.