True Detectives

Wohr continued south on Taft, parked just above Hollywood Boulevard, slouched, head down, hands in pockets, straight to a bar not dissimilar from The T ll Tale.

Bob's Evening Lounge.

Cheap plywood door painted red, porthole window.

A bit of nautical? Shades of Riptide?

Moe watched as Wohr paused to light up a cigarette. Tossing the match on the sidewalk, Ramone W flung the door open.

Two minutes later, Moe was inside, too, at the far end of a sticky, urethaned bar, nursing a Bud, staring down at souvenir drink coasters from long-dead Vegas casinos, trapped in the varnish like insects in amber.

His fellow drinkers were half a dozen rummies well into their cups. Seven, including Raymond Wohr, rubbing his hairless crown and tossing back double bourbons. A cop show played on a fuzzy TV. A grubby pay-to-play pool table topped with wrinkled felt had attracted no comers. Wohr chain-smoked and drank and tried to follow the show when he could keep his eyes open. On the screen, big-bosomed blondes intimidated bad guys who looked like waiters at the Ivy, everyone double-handing their guns in absurd poses, tossing around “perp” and “forensics.”

Moe's beer tasted diluted and sour and he avoided it while sneaking quick looks at Ramone W Up close, Wohr looked way older than thirty-seven, with silver streaking the long side hair, pitted, gravelly skin, a lumpy, rummy nose, kangaroo pouches beneath exhausted eyes.

It took fifteen minutes for the mope to finish drinking. In all that time, he'd talked to no one, no one had talked to him. Six doubles and to Moe's eye, Wohr had entered the bar intoxicated.

Still, he managed to stay on his feet, was able to open the door on his second try.

Moe tossed cash on the bar, was back on Taft in time to see Wohr enter the same ratty building as the woman in the white tank top.

Pimping his girlfriend. A man of sterling character.

He drove back to West L.A. Division, found the big D-room empty except for a night-shift detective named Edmund Stickley filling out paperwork. Lots of empty desks, but Stickley had chosen Moe's.

Moe had talked to him a few times; one of those older burnouts who liked catching cases at shift's end, passing everything along.

He said, “Reed? You're up past your bedtime.”

“Nightlife ain't no good life,” said Moe, “but it's high life.”

“The lyric is ‘my life,’” said Stickley. “Got something to do? I'll move.”

“Don't bother, I just need a screen.”

Stickley shifted to a neighboring desk anyway. Moe logged onto the reverse directory, plugged in the address of the apartment building on Taft, obtained eighteen landlines ru

He began working his way through the list, found a match on his fourth try.

Alicia Constance Eiger, thirty-two, two-page biography emphasizing dope and prostitution.

Blond and brown in her most recent mug shot, nearly a year ago. Deep lines scored her face. The nightlife, indeed.

Moe Googled her name combined with murder victim Adella Bertha Villareal, pulled up zilch. Same for Villareal by herself. The media hadn't covered the crime and no one close to the victim had created a website.

The criminal data banks also came up empty, as did missing persons sites. No easy link to Caitlin, too bad.

Maybe because the cases weren't co

Nothing else to do before daybreak. Moe felt like jumping out of his skin but left the station and drove toward the 405 on-ramp. Changed his mind and stayed on Pico, going east, took Beverly Glen to Sunset and sped east.

Climbing toward Swallowsong Lane for the second time, he found his eyelids lowering. He tuned to a hard-rock radio station, cranked it loud.

None of that worked and he was considering pulling over for a catnap when high-intensity headlights snapped him alert.

Some idiot speeding toward him. Racing down the narrow street, passing within inches of the Crown Vic.

Moe strained to catch a glimpse of the fool.

Silver Porsche Cabriolet. Top up, driver's window open.

Aaron's face expressionless as he downshifted for the next curve.

CHAPTER 21

When Moe was six years old, a girl in his class whispered in his ear: “Your brother's a monkey.”

Moe had just started first grade, didn't know if this was part of getting out of kindergarten. He ignored the girl and returned to his addition workbook.

The girl giggled. Later, out on the yard, she brought an older boy, probably a third-grader, to where Moses was bouncing a ball by himself, the way he liked to do.

“This is my brother,” she said.

The big boy smirked.

Moe looked around for Aaron. None of the fifth-graders were on the yard.

Bounce bounce bounce.

The big boy punched air and moved closer. He and the girl laughed.

He said, “Your brother's a monkey nigger,” and placed his hand on Moe's chest.

Moe lowered his head and charged, churning his arms like they were a machine. His hands turned into rocks and his legs were real fast-kicking robot legs that couldn't stop.

Suddenly the big boy was on the ground and Moe was sitting on top of him, and he still couldn't stop moving. Tasting blood but not feeling any hurt anywhere and red was shooting out of the big boy's nose along with snot and the big boy was screaming and crying.

Each time Moe's fist pounded into the boy's head and his body he made a hopeless noise, kind of like Oh no.

It took two teachers to pull Moe off. The big boy did nothing but cry.

In the principal's office, Moe got a bad feeling from Mr. Washington and refused to talk until Mommy showed up. He whispered everything into her ear. She listened and nodded and translated for the principal. “That's certainly not good, Mrs. Reed. If it indeed happened that way.”

“It happened that way, Mr. Washington. Moses never lies.”

Washington, black as coal, broad as a garage door, said, “Indeed.”

“Trust me, Mr. Washington. You'll never meet a more honest child.”

The principal studied her, then Moe.

“Has he ever caused problems before, Mr. Washington?”

“This is first grade, Mrs. Reed. We've only been in session for two weeks.”

“Call his preschool. Moses had an impeccable behavior record. For him to do something like this, there had to be a good reason.” “There's never a good reason for violence, Mrs. Reed.” “Ah,” said Mom. “I wonder if the protesters in Selma, Alabama, feel differently. Not to mention residents of the Warsaw ghetto, the Navajo-”

“I don't believe I need a history lesson, Mrs. Reed.” “I'm sure you don't and I'm sorry for being presumptuous. However, if that kind of racist sentiment is common among your student body, it's no surprise there'd be some sort of-”

“Our student body is excellent, Mrs. Reed. Let's not get off target. Moses beat a boy bloody. Now, I'm sure you believe he's a good boy. But this isn't what you'd call a good start. Under no circumstances can any sort of physical acting-out be tolerated. No circumstances, whatsoever.”

“Of course not, sir. And he will be duly punished, I can assure you.”

Mommy never punishes me. Oh, no!

Moe tried to catch her eye but she kept looking at Mr. Washington like Moe wasn't in the room.

Mr. Washington said, “I suppose we can call this to a close with a warning. For Moses, and for your other son.”

“What's Aaron done?”

“Nothing. Yet. I'm trying to ensure it stays that way. There'll be no personal vendettas, absolutely no attempt on anyone's part to get even.”

“What about the other side?” said Mom. “Will they be warned as well?”

“Side?” said Mr. Washington. “That's confrontational terminology, Mrs. Reed.”