True Detectives

If Jimmy had snorted heroin.

Cleaned up and renamed by his patron, tutored by acting coaches, Book demonstrated a surprising ability to don the identities of others, was a star within eighteen months. His affair with the studio head lasted another half a year, at which time she found someone younger.

No sign that being dumped had affected Book; he'd gone on to headline a series of madcap box-office smashes, always emitting low-key, self-effacing aplomb.

Then came the wrist-slash.

Moe probed for details beyond tabloid basics, got nothing. The Internet was nothing more than a grindstone, sucking up kernels of data and reprocessing until any substance was gone.

He switched his search to lem dement, hoping for a direct link to the house on Swallowsong, came up empty. mason book lem dement was just as useless. He paired the house's address and the suicide try. Zip. Book had been EMT'd, variously, from his “Hollywood Hills lair,” “view crib above Sunset,” or “bachelor pad overlooking the Strip.”

An image search produced page after page of red-carpet photo-op thumbnails starring Book and a slew of actresses. Moe found surprisingly few candid paparazzi shots and every portrait was complimentary, playing on the actor's lean body, aquiline, slightly oversized features, amiable slouch, heavy mop of too-yellow hair.

Book's smile was custom-made for the camera. Even a couple of photos taken after the wrist-slash were kind. The guy actually looked pretty happy.

Near-miraculous recovery?

Soft treatment from the photo corps meant the candid shots were anything but and Moe was pretty sure he knew why. Book, like the smartest celebs, had worked out an arrangement with the digital leeches: When you catch me, I oblige with a couple of money poses. In return, you don't make me look like a strung-out hype.

On the other hand, Book's ability to sneak out of ColdSnake-if he was the ski

Maybe the guy was old news and no one cared. Guy hadn't made a movie in how long… Moe clicked keys.

Three years. In Industry terms, that could be Jurassic.

He returned to the image gallery, checked out the kind of woman Book favored in public.

A whole lot of women, with some variation in hair color and skin tone, but the dominant arm-candy flavor was leggy and blond. No rarity in L.A., but both criteria fit Caitlin Frostig.

Picking up the hostess? Why not? Book was thirty-three, had never been married, and one tab termed him “still on the prowl.” Had the actor taken that literally?

Nice story line, but no facts to back it up, and Moe started to wonder if a few suggestions by Aaron had launched him on a massive wrong turn.

Aaron had leeway, but his options were limited to butt-numbing scut and reinterviews of witnesses.

He needed to get out on the street and do something.

He peeked into the living room. Liz had stretched herself out on the sofa, her face mostly covered by the throw.

Moe sat back down, faced the flat black window that gazed into cyberspace.

lem dement children produced references to the director's “huge brood,” “slew of kids,” “clear slap in the face of overpopulation,” “religious fanatical tribe.” Moe was about to try something else when he turned to the thirtieth page of citations and came across a one-year-old Malibu Sunrise article about Dement's plan to build a replica of a wooden church in Krakow, Poland, that had been destroyed during World War II.

The reporter had some trouble grasping why anyone would want to construct a personal house of worship, but the tone was gushing: Hollywood biggie creates One Big Happy Family.

Lem Dement's new fundamentalist leanings might be at odds with Westside sensibilities, but rich and famous trumped everything.

The puff piece was illustrated by a photo of the entire clan posed in front of a log-sided building. Dement looked relaxed, wearing his fishhook hat and a plaid shirt. Wife Gemma, a fair-haired stick-figure whose pretty-but-pinched features contrasted with Dement's ruddy, porcine mug, looked stiff and uncomfortable.

The two of them flanked the kids, standing as far from each other as possible.

The three youngest kids were towheaded, bronzed, and prepubescent, with that easy smile that came from being brought up soft.

Ambrose, Faustina, and Marguerite glowed with optimism.

Not so Mary Giles and Paul Miki, the ski

At the back, scowling, were a pair of long-haired, bearded hulks in black T-shirts. Pug-pusses and barrel torsos shouted No paternity test required.

Japhet and Ahab Dement could've been twins. Moe would've cast them as evil twins-hillbilly pig-farming mutants lurching down from the hills in one of those family-gets-lost-in-the-hinterland splatter flicks.

Japhet waving a chain saw, Ahab swinging grappling hooks. You wouldn't even need to change their names.

Moe clicked for a long time before finding the picture of Ax that Aaron had described. Yup, Ahab “Ax” Dement, son of director Lem did appear to be horning in on Mason Book's body contact with a tall, starved blond beauty.

Another half an hour produced something that had eluded Aaron: Mason Book had been spotted by one of the free weeklies in a club named Ant during a gig by Ax's band, Demented. The actor's presence was deemed the most memorable aspect of a “drearily predictable, Prozac-inducing, thrilling-as-lettuce attempt to meld the least redeemable aspects of Metal and Emo.”

The date was three weeks prior to Caitlin's disappearance. Moe searched for info on the band. Nothing. Same for the club.

Logging onto the LAPD search engine, he entered his password, got okayed, asked DOJ, NCIC, and every other satellite of the Big Cop in the Sky what they knew about Ahab Dement.

DMV reported the guy's middle name-Petrarch-as well as a couple of speeding tickets and six parkers issued to a Dodge Ram pickup registered at a Solar Canyon address in Malibu.

If Ax was a felonious bad boy, he'd gotten away with it.

The letdown brought on a wave of fatigue. Moe checked on Liz again, saw scurrying motion beneath her eyelids, a faint smile on her lips. Dreaming away at warp speed. Maybe even about him.

Settling on the floor, he watched her for a while. Then, thinking about chain saws and grappling hooks, he covered her feet, dimmed the lights, let himself out.

CHAPTER 18

Mr. Dmitri folded his reading glasses, slipped them into his shirt pocket along with Aaron's expense accounting. Taking a bite out of his kebab pita, he studied Aaron.

“Wish there was more to report, sir, but these things take time.”

“Russian trains take time, Mr. Fox. Sometimes they don't arrive.”

“This train will arrive.”

Dmitri sipped orange soda through a straw.

Aaron eyed his own lunch. Billed as a burger, looked like a burger, how could you go wrong? But the seasoning was weird, cumin or something, smelled like an old person's closet.

Dmitri's secretary had woken him at seven a.m., calling for a lunch appointment with the boss. Some place called Ivan's, Burbank Boulevard, North Hollywood.

Aaron put on a good suit for what he expected to be some Russian hangout, thick-necked guys in black leather jackets listening to balalaika music, feasting on blinis, caviar, whatever those types liked.

Ivan's turned out to be a take-out falafel joint with two outdoor benches for seating and now Aaron was looking out to a pigeonspecked parking lot as clunkers drove in and out. The air was hot and noxious, reeked like a snot-clogged nose.

The good old Valley. He wondered if Moe ever ate here. Nah, not healthy enough.