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 Delano 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.
No one to complain when she moved it into the baby’s room. From time to time Darius’s voice rang in her head. Pink for a boy? Jesus, girl, you are going to turn him into a first-class swish and if you think that means he’ll grow up polite and artistic, think again. I’ve seen what those guys do to each other when they get all pissed off and namby-jealous ...
Maddy’s eyes puffed.
The baby stirred.
She hoisted herself up, tiptoed to the crib, stared down at the pink, smooth face, round as a dinner plate. Blue-eyed little angel, like one of those Renaissance paintings.
Angelic disposition, too. As if he knew enough not to upset the applecart.
Five months old and already, the freckles. He’d need protection from the sun. And God knew what else ...
She touched his soft l
ittle tummy, feeling the swell of ample nourishment through terry cloth.
Blue jammy. Darius would approve.
The baby smiled in his sleep.
Maddy said, “Angel. You have no idea.”
A slamming door whisked her out of her reverie and she hurried out of the room, shut the door softly, continued into the kitchen.
Ready to shush the obvious culprit. How many times had she told him?
Aaron was a smart boy, maybe he did it on purpose.
One thing for sure, he knew what was coming because he shouted, “Mommy!” as if they’d been apart for months and flashed a thousand-watt smile.
That smile. She couldn’t help but spread her arms as he ran toward her.
Aaron’s little head made contact with her belly. He nuzzled her. She got down on one knee and held him tight. Taking in that little-boy smell.
School clothes grimy with dust, he still managed to look more put-together than any other four-year-old on the face of the planet.
“Good to see you, Mommy! How was your day?”
“Oh, you charmer.”
Maddy hugged him harder. Aaron squirmed away. “I must have Froot Loops! Please!”
“Baby, it’s too—”
“Pleeeeeze. It’s important! Oh, my belly needs Froot Loops, needs it so bad!”
Dancing around the kitchen, not even pretending to take himself seriously. Sometimes she thought he was forty, not four.
He swayed, eyes as big as the universe. “I’m so hungry, Mommy!”
Little con man; Maddy fought not to laugh.
The preschool teacher had been more diplomatic.
“Aaron is a charming boy, but sometimes he relies on social skills a little too much.”
Blood ran thicker than ...
“Froot Loops! I will fall over tired, Mommy, on my face, without Froot Loops!”
“Shh. Baby Moe’s sleeping.”
“Baby Moe,” said Aaron, turning pensive. “He is my brother and I love him,” he stage-whispered. “He wants me to have Froot Loops, without Froot Loops everyone will be sad and Baby Moe will cry—”
“Shh, Aaron. Please.”
Aaron turned instantly silent. Stood at attention. Saluted.
Maddy said, “Wash your hands, mister, then go sit at the table like a civilized person and I’ll fix you a nice snack.”
“Froot Loops is a nice snack,” said Aaron. “With chocolate milk. Real dark.”
“That’s way too much sugar, honey.”
“Just a little dark.”
“Even a little is too much sugar—”
“Puhleeeeeeze?”
“Shh.”
“Mommy, I can’t be quiet unless my head is happy. What makes me happy on today is—”
“Froot Loops,” said Maddy. “With regular milk.”
“A leeetle chocolate?”
“Fine.”
“A leetle more than a leeetle?”
“Don’t push your luck, Handsome Boy.”
Aaron grinned. “Or it could be Smirnoff.”
Maddy froze. “What do you know about Smirnoff.”
“Jack likes it. There’s a bottle in your room.”
Maddy placed her hands on his shoulders. The boy’s eyes didn’t waver. “Aaron Fox, have you been rummaging in other people’s personal belongings?”
“I saw it when I came in to kiss you, Mommy. You weren’t there. You were with the washing machine, but I saw it.”
“Where was this bottle?”
Aaron didn’t answer.
“I need to know, sweetheart.”
“Jack did a bad?”
Maddy sighed. “No, Jack didn’t do a bad. Tell me where—”
“On the table next to the bed. On Jack’s side.”
She said, “Sweetheart, Smirnoff’s for grown-ups.”
Aaron smiled wider. Knowing he’d boxed her into a corner, the little devil.
“Exactly, Mommy, and chocolate milk’s for kids. A leeetle more dark. Please?”
“Two teaspoons of Nestlé’s and that’s it.”
“Three.”
“Two and that’s final.”
Then it hit her. Aaron had come in by himself.
Her heart began to pound. “Where is Jack?”
“Sitting in the car,” said Aaron.
“Why?”
Shrug.
“Is he okay?”
Shrug.
“He did pick you up from school?”
“Uh-huh. Can I have my Froot—”
Rushing to the front of the little house, Maddy flung the door open.
The van was parked in the driveway. Jack sat behind the wheel.
Staring at nothing.
She went over to him and he let out one of his crooked smiles.
This was her life. Staring at male teeth. “What are you doing, Jack?”
His hair, beginning to gray, was windblown. His eyelids drooped. “Hey, gorgeous.”
Reeking of booze.
“You drank before you picked him up?”
“Hours ago, gorgeous—”
“I can smell it on you, don’t gorgeous me!”
Jack didn’t answer.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Maddy,” said Jack, “you’re blowing this way up.”
“I’m talking about my child—”
“I love him like he’s—”
“So you say—”
“I love him to pieces, Maddy.” Tears filled Jack’s eyes. “Love him maybe not like you do, but he’s ... I love him, honey, he’s a great kid, you know I’d never hurt him, honey, you know that, you know that, right? All I want to do is take care of my family ...”
“Then how could you—”
“It was hours ago,” Jack insisted.
“At the Drop Inn.”
“Couple of beer-and-shots is all.” Jack reached out to touch her arm. She avoided him. “Aw, c’mon, hon. I’da used vodka, you’da never known.”
Maddy turned to leave.
Jack got out of the van and hurried to her side.
He did seem to be walking okay.
“I’ll call the station, get ’em to bring a Breathalyzer, okay?”
Maddy said, “It’s not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny,” Jack lied.
Bad liars were the worst. At least with the good ones you could fantasize they were sincere. Jack’s inability to dissemble had caused her to lose respect within weeks of their marriage.
She said, “Don’t do it again. Aaron should never smell that on you.”
“I’m sorry, honey.”
“Forget it.”
“Love you, honey.”
Maddy didn’t answer.
“Either way,” said Jack.
By the time they returned to the kitchen, Aaron was at the table snarfing from a huge bowl of Froot Loops. His free hand grazed a glass of milk so saturated with chocolate that undissolved clumps floated on the surface like water lilies.
Cereal speckled the floor. Not too big of a mess, considering. The boy had always been coordinated.
He’d climbed up to the cereal cupboard, taken the time to close the door, move the chair back into place.
When he saw her, he opened a mouth full of Technicolor mush and said, “Yum!”
Jack winked and said, “Hey, that looks good.”
From down the hall came the chuffing of Baby Moe’s initial wake-up cries.
Time for his snack.
Maddy left the kitchen, freeing her left breast.
CHAPTER
7
Instead of heading for the parking lot, Moe began walking toward Santa Monica Boulevard.
Aaron said, “We’re hiking to the Peninsula?”
“Forget the Peninsula.”
“Too rich for your blood?”
Moe picked up his pace.
“Okay, I bite. Where we going?”
“Suzy Q’s.”
“That dump?”
“Too co
p for your blood?” said Moe.
“Bacon on sausage on lard on trans fat with a side of LDL cholesterol? Suit yourself, bro.”
A flush spread from Moe’s pecs up to his face. His father—the man whose name Aaron had never taken—had dropped dead of a heart attack at thirty-nine. Last year, Moe had finally dug up the death report.
The deceased had fallen off a bar stool, probably cold before he hit the floor.
Moe ate a lot of skinless chicken breasts.
“Suzy’s too much for you to handle? Let’s do Indian.”
Aaron said, “That place where they worship Sturgis?”
“That a problem for you?”
“Life is beautiful, I’ve got no problems.” Four steps later: “You like working with Sturgis?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“No reason. So tell me what you’ve done on Frostig.”
Moe sped up to a near jog.
Aaron said, “Aerobics and chutney in the a.m. I’m always open to new experiences.”
The bespectacled woman who ran Café Moghul recognized Aaron the moment he pushed the door open. She flashed him a neon smile, brighter than her aqua-blue sari.
Moe thought: A whole different greeting from the first time. Aaron had walked in on a marsh-murder sitdown and the woman had reacted to a black face with instinctive anxiety. Despite Aaron’s custom suit, the easygoing grin, the deliberately unthreatening posture.
All those strategies his brother used to put people at ease.
Moe had his feelings about Aaron and they made empathy a huge nuisance. But once in a while he let himself imagine what it would be like to be Aaron, always having to present yourself ...
“Sir.” The woman gave a little flourish and bow. “Please, anywhere you like.”
That day, Aaron had eaten nothing, drunk half a glass of clove tea. But picking up everyone’s tab and tipping big had bought him some social status.
As they settled at a corner table, the woman said, “Is the lieutenant coming as well?”
“No, ma’am,” said Moe.
She appeared to notice him for the first time. Turned back to Aaron: “He is okay?”
Moe said, “He’s fine, ma’am.”
“I haven’t seen him in a few days.”
The storefront café was Sturgis’s secondary office. The woman viewed the Loo as a human guard dog, a role he’d earned by ejecting a few homeless whacks and just being big and mean looking.
Moe said, “I’ll send him your best.”
True Detectives Page 4
