True Detectives

Enjoying the feeling of good threads because tomorrow, he'd be made up like a skuzzy, psycho homeless bum, wheeling a shopping cart past the excavation.

For Aaron's first meeting with Mr. Dmitri, he selected an olive Zegna Soft three-button he'd found at the outlet in Cabazon, maize button-collar shirt and brown linen tie from Barneys, bittersweet chocolate Allen-Edmonds wingtips.

For all Mr. Dmitri noticed, Aaron could've pranced in wearing leotards and a codpiece.

Guy was ready to offer him the job, knew Aaron's rates, including the premium expense allowance, had a big fat retainer check faceup on the desk.

Big fat retainer.

“May I ask who referred you, sir?”

Dmitri picked up something that resembled a Rubik's Cube but had about twenty surfaces to it and squares embossed with Greek letters. Without glancing at the numbers, he whirled rapidly, checked out the result, put it back down.

“Certainly, you may ask.” Foghorn voice. Dmitri's accent turned it into Syertenly you mayyesk.

Smiling.

“Who referred you, sir?”

Dmitri said, “Serinus Canaria.”

Another foreign guy? Didn't ring a bell. “I'm sorry, sir, but that doesn't-”

Dmitri said, “Common canary.”

Aaron stared.

“Little bird,” said Dmitri. No more smile. “You want the job or no?”

Aaron glanced around the office for signs of some special interest in ornithology. Nothing on the hideous paneling except curling posters of Mr. Dmitri's patented SoundMyte speaker in “new-age designer colors.”

Aaron said, “Tell me about the job.”

“Good answer, Mr. Fox.”

The first assignment had been shockingly simple-pilfering from Dmitri's shipping bay. The culprit had to be one of six clerks, and within thirty-six hours Aaron had the idiot on hidden cam slipping speakers into four backpacks, stashing one after the other into the trunk of his Camry.

Slam-dunk, three-thousand-dollar tab. Aaron wondered why a man of Mr. Dmitri's technical abilities had bothered to hire out.

Testing Aaron?

If so, he'd passed, because the second gig arrived two months later and it was anything but simple.

One of Dmitri's secretaries was concerned that her seventeen-year-old honor-student daughter was “fooling around” with a gangbanger named Hector George Morales.

“Find out, Mr. Fox. I'll take it from there.”

“Nice of you to do that for an employee, sir.”

“Here's the check.”

Morales turned out to be a serious badass, third-generation Mexican Mafia, with a five-page juvey sheet Aaron cadged out of an LAPD records clerk using a hundred-dollar bribe. Ten additional pages recounted a pattern of adult felonies. Morales was suspected of several murders but had only been convicted of a single ADW, serving half of a ten-year sentence at Chino. Thirty-three years old, the fool hung out with extremely bad guys in clear violation of his parole.

Aaron caught him and honor-student-but-not-so-smart Valerie Santenegro on video emerging from an East L.A. motel near the county coroner's office, reported to Mr. Dmitri, and offered to use his LAPD contacts to get Hector busted.

“Good idea, Mr. Fox.”

Hector got sent back up for another ten and Valerie was shipped to Dallas to live with her married sister's family.

Mr. Dmitri said, “Good,” and peeled off a wad of bills. Ten extra hundreds. “What's this, sir?” “Appreciation, Mr. Fox. Go buy more fancy shirts.”

Over the past six months, Aaron had handled two additional assignments for the Russian: industrial espionage involving a competitor that took him to Eugene, Oregon, for three weeks of serious high-tech observation, and another in-house theft at the Sylmar factory, this one involving truck drivers.

Every suspect turned up guilty, which was no big surprise. Guy like Dmitri didn't hire you unless he had a pretty good idea what was going on. Aaron's business, in general, posed few whodunits, lots of prove-its.

The fifth case was different.

Dmitri played with his mega-Rubik's. “You are well, Mr. Fox?”

“Great.”

“I'm thinking, perhaps I should call you Aaron.”

“That would be fine, sir.”

“You may call me Mr. Dmitri.”

Aaron laughed.

“Yes, it was a joke.” An edge to the Russian's voice said, Don't even think about getting familiar.

“Aaron,” said Dmitri, as if testing out the sound. “From the Bible. Your parents are religious?”

“Not really, sir.”

“Moses's brother.”

“Yes, sir.” If you only knew.

“This new one,” said Dmitri, “maybe we won't learn the truth. One of my bookkeepers is Maitland Frostig. Master's degree in mathematics but he prefers to work with addition and subtraction. Mr. Frostig always looks sad. More recently, he is apparently sadder. I say apparently because I don't get involved with emotions. This year, the Christmas party, my wife said, ‘That man is extremely depressed. Like we used to be in Moscow.’ I looked at Maitland Frostig with… new eyes and agreed. But I forgot about him.”

Dmitri ran a hand over his shiny dome. “My wife did not forget. She is a psychiatrist. In Soviet Union they tried to make her inject dissidents with drugs. She refused and was sent to gulag. We never had children.”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

“ Regina talks, I listen. I called in Maitland Frostig for a meeting, he says everything is okay. I tell him no it isn't.” Small smile. “I say it with confidence because my wife is never wrong.”

“In general, sir, that's a good philosophy of life.”

“You are not married.” Statement, not a question. Aaron was certain Dmitri had hired someone to check him out before writing that first check. Maybe one day he'd find out who.

“Haven't found the right woman.”

“Maybe,” said Dmitri said. “Anyway, I tell Maitland Frostig something is wrong and he tells me the story. He lives alone, a widower since his daughter is four. Now the daughter is twenty and she is missing. Caitlin Frostig. For fifteen months she is missing, the police do nothing.”

“Someone that age,” said Aaron, “no sign of foul play, they'll file it as a missing person and put it aside.”

“I made some calls, got the file sent to Homicide detectives. Nothing.”

“Which division?”

“I don't know.”

“Where was the girl last seen?”

“Maitland's house is in Venice.”

“Twenty and still living at home.”

“Yes.”

“ Venice is Pacific Division.”

Shrug. Don't bother me with details. “Police do nothing. My call was before I know you. Now I know you.”

CHAPTER 3

Forget yesterday. What have you done for me today?

Moe Reed-scarlet-faced, panting, biceps swelling to their full nineteen inches, put down the curl-bar and tried to catch his breath.

His arms pounded. All of him pounded.

Hundred forty pounds on the bar, four sets of fifteen reps each.

No doubt some felonious scumbag in a prison yard was outlifting him at this very moment, but for one of the good guys, Moe figured he was doing okay.

Job-wise was another story.

Leaving the spare bedroom he'd set up as a home gym, he walked to the bathroom dripping sweat on the carpet, toweled off, stripped down, stepped into a cold shower.

After as much of that as he felt like enduring, he cranked up the hot water and shampooed his wheat-colored crew cut. Soaped up the rest of his thick, iron-hard body and dried off.

The soap part used to take longer. His own hands no longer aroused him. Not since Liz.

He thought about calling her, just to hear her voice, remembered she'd just gotten back from that bone conference in Brussels, would be suffering through her usual jet lag, better to give her some time.

By seven a.m. he was dressed in the usual blue blazer, khakis, white shirt and striped tie and black oxfords. Breakfast was hot tea, three bowls of Special K, and nonfat milk chased with a boneless chicken breast. By half past seven he was climbing into his latest heap, a rust-scarred Dodge. The drive from North Hollywood to West L.A. could be brutal and he wanted to be at his desk early, even if the detectives figured him for a hot dog who needed to prove himself.