“The usual delays and they ran out of beverages, except for booze, talk about dehydration.” She laughed. “The guy next to me was about a thousand pounds. He popped two Ambiens and snored like a choo-choo the entire flight. Try climbing Mount Fleshy to get to the john.”
Moe laughed along with her. “Well, now you're back and I'll take care of you.”
“Good, I could use some care, Moses. When do you want to hang?”
“Unless something breaks, I'll be free at four, five.”
“Caitlin?”
“Yup.”
“You transfer and they send it along,” said Liz. “Totally unjust.”
“It'll work itself out. You shutting in all day?”
“I was planning to go to the lab to clear my desk. But I'm feeling so punk I think I'll pass. So anytime. Want me to order something in?”
“Whatever you want. See you at five, with bells.”
“Bells, huh? Plan on sliding down the chimney?”
“Oh, man,” he said. “Symbolism this early in the day.”
Liz cracked up. “You bring it out in me, Moses. That's why we're going steady.”
Feeling better, he turned back, detoured for a maple bear claw from a coffee shop on Santa Monica, ate it on the way, and reapproached the Frostig file with elevated blood sugar.
Concentrating on the interviews with Rory Stoltz, trying to tease out anything he might've missed.
Across the room, Del Hardy said, “Well, look who the smog blew in.”
Chortles and palm-smacking high-fives made Moe glance over.
Del was on his feet, grinning.
At Aaron.
Aaron pretended to ignore Moe, kept shooting the breeze with the older detective. Not deferential to Hardy. Relaxed, a peer.
Moe pretended to ignore Aaron back. Aaron said something to Hardy in a low voice and Hardy laughed again.
Something to do with Del 's case? Had Aaron been hired by the fifteen-year-old hit-vixen's lawyers to stir up trouble?
But if Del saw Aaron as the enemy, you couldn't tell from his posture. Just the opposite, two guys, shooting the breeze.
Two black guys. They could've been a rumpled dad and his much cooler son.
Moe the invisible man. He buried his face in the file.
“Moses!”
Aaron was standing over him, grinning. As if he hadn't just shined Moe on. Moe couldn't care less about clothes, thought his blazers and khakis were just fine for the job. But sometimes, when he saw how Aaron put himself together, he felt underdressed.
Today's haute-whatever was a slim-fit black suit, white shirt, orange tie as bright as a Caltrans cone, worn with one of those oversized knots that took up a whole bunch of space and screamed Serious GQ.
Moe's knot was always slipping. It felt loose, right now, but he resisted the urge to yank.
Now Del Hardy was staring at him, perplexed by Moe's unresponsiveness.
Moe said, “Hey.”
“Morning, bro. Busy?”
“Yup.”
“Busy on Caitlin Frostig?”
Moe's chest tightened. “Why?”
“She's mine now,” said Aaron. “In addition to being yours.”
Moe shut the file. “What are you talking about?”
“I'm talking about free enterprise, Moses.”
“Who hired you?”
“Mr. Frostig's boss.”
“Why not Frostig himself?”
“Bookkeeper's salary affording my daily? I think not. We need to chat, bro.”
“Nothing to chat about.”
Aaron placed a hand on Moe's shoulder. Moe removed it.
“It's going to be that way, Moses?”
“There's nothing to talk about. The case is nowhere.”
“Maybe I can find a somewhere.”
“Miracle worker.”
Aaron grinned. “It's been known to happen.”
Moe turned away.
“Moses, on those marsh murders. I don't think I'd be exaggerating if I said I played somewhat of a role.”
“This is different.”
“How about a look at the file?”
“Nothing worth looking at.”
“C'mon, Moe.”
“Forget it.”
Aaron shrugged. “From what Mr. Frostig said, I guess I shouldn't be surprised.”
“About what?”
“His feeling is you never considered Caitlin worth your time.”
Moe's face got hot. He knew he'd turned beet red. Something Aaron could always avoid.
“He can feel what he wants. Not going to change the facts.”
“I agree,” said Aaron.
“With what?”
“Frostig's opinion not being worth much. He's a weirdo, strange affect-that's shrink-talk for off-kilter emotional responses. Who knows, he could be one of those Asperbergers-that's an autism-spectrum disorder-”
“I know what it is.”
“Been reading up on psychology?”
Actually, Moe had. Going through a pile of books Dr. Delaware had suggested. Interesting stuff, but none of it relevant to Caitlin Frostig.
Moe smiled. His face continued to flame.
Aaron said, “Maitland doesn't bother you?”
“Do I see him as a suspect? Nothing points that way.”
“Not a suspect, Moses. A factor-a contributing factor. As in Caitlin's got one parent and unfortunately that one parent is a weirdo and she finally has enough of living with him and decides to book.”
“A rabbit,” said Moe. “You've got evidence of that?”
“I've got nothing except a big fat retainer that I'd like to deserve. That's why I'm here instead of taking the C4S around the track at Laguna Seca. Which is what I'd planned to do before Mr. Dmitri- Frostig's boss-called me in.”
“Vacation time.”
“Well earned, Moses.”
“No one forced you to take the case.”
“Mr. Dmitri's an important client. He beckons, I come.”
“That makes you sound like a dog.”
Aaron laughed. “We're all dogs, bro. Only question is, are we going to eat quality chow or scrounge in the trash? Come on, give me a look at the file. I'll take you out to lunch and we can brainstorm-I pay.”
“Dmitri pays.”
“Either way, you don't. How about the Peninsula?”
Martha Stoltz's workplace.
Moe said, “Why there?”
“I like the menu.”
“That's the only reason?”
Aaron laughed. “What other reason would there be? C'mon, let's do it.”
Over the black silk of Aaron's broad shoulders, Moe spotted Del ano Hardy's eyes.
Watching, taking it all in.
Moe thought of the jovial exchange between Hardy and Aaron.
Aaron said, “Be flexible, bro.”
Moe stood. Placed the file in a drawer and locked it.
“Okay, I get it, bro,” said Aaron.
“Get what?”
“You're the man, I'm hired help.”
“ Peninsula 's fine,” said Moe.
“Great menu,” said Aaron. “I hear the room service is pretty good, too.”
CHAPTER 6
November 11, 1980
Maddy watched the baby sleep.
The chair by the crib was a City of Hope thrift-shop find: salmon silk tulip seat with a grimy Sloan label underneath and only a few stains.
Maddy'd paid thirty bucks, considered it the find of the century.
She'd placed it in the living room, dragging it from the van by herself. Arranged it next to the fireplace with a cute little table that held a vase of silk flowers. Just like they did in House & Garden.
The day she set it up, she poured herself an unfiltered apple juice, waited for Darius to come home.
He arrived two hours late, reeking of beer and other women. Gaped at what Maddy had done and burst into laughter and pronounced the new addition “beaucoup faggy.” Hoisting the chair easily, he carried it to the garage.
Later, when Darius was sleeping, Maddy went out there, draped the silk with a clean white sheet, and sat. Filling her nose with garage dust, motor oil, old cardboard, the metallic perfume of Darius's half-restored Harley.
Sometimes she still went out there and sniffed the air. Very little had changed, but the tulip chair's honor had been restored.