True Detectives

CHAPTER 22

Petra Co

Thin as a model, but none of that brain-dead dullness in her wide, dark eyes. Flawless ivory skin, the graceful moves of a dancer or a ru

The few times Moe had seen her, she wore black pantsuits, and this morning was no exception-something with a little stretch to it, tailored to hug her fatless frame while concealing the bulk of her weapon.

Her partner, Raul Biro, Moe had never met. Before leaving the station, he'd stopped in at Sturgis's office, inquired about the guy.

The Loo said, “Really bright, works like a dog, probably go

Moe didn't want to be paranoid, but he was still wondering what that meant as he drove to Hollywood Station.

When he met Biro, he was surprised. The guy looked like a kid. Though his hair was from another era-combed back and slicked at the sides, sprayed in place on top. Aztec features, the build of a lightweight wrestler. Aaron would've approved of Biro's smooth tan suit, white shirt, powder-blue tie.

All put-together, like he never expected to get his hands dirty.

Sturgis said he was a worker, go know.

The three of them sat around a table in a Hollywood interview room. After some small talk about Sturgis, Delaware, the marsh murders, Petra patted the blue folder to her left. Thin; not a good sign. “Adella Villareal, not one of our triumphs.”

Biro clicked his tongue.

Moe said, “Maybe my dead end can intersect with yours.”

Petra said, “That would be nice, let's do some show-and-tell.”

Moe did the polite thing and talked first, summarizing his history with Caitlin, the links among Rory Stoltz, Mason Book, and Ax Dement, Dement's motel party with Raymond Wohr and Alicia Eiger.

No reason to mention Aaron's involvement.

In the retell, it sounded like an air sandwich.

“Eiger's a new name for us so we asked Vice,” said Petra. “They know her, your basic aging street girl. They didn't know her as shacking with Wohr and back when we questioned Wohr he claimed there was no woman in his life.”

Biro said, “At least not a live one.”

Moe said, “Villareal was his girlfriend?”

“If only it was that simple,” said Petra. “No, that's doubtful-let's start at the begi

She flipped the murder book open, turned pages, slid the file over to Moe.

Five-by-seven shot of a really pretty Hispanic girl holding an infant wrapped in a blue blanket and flashing a megawatt smile.

Moe had checked out Adella Villareal's stats last night. Twenty-four years old at the time of her death, a DMV photo that showed her as dark-haired, decent looking but nothing like this.

Same girl, no question about it, but this portrait-maybe happiness-made her beauty-queen gorgeous, with long, lustrous hair curled at the ends, lightened to chestnut, streaked with honey. A fitted white blouse and brown slacks showed off nice curves.

Moe said, “When was this taken?”

Petra said, “Twenty-two months ago, Phoenix, her family's house. The baby was a month old, she flew home to show him off. Boy named Gabriel. Four months later, she was dead.”

Biro frowned. “Night she was murdered, she had the baby with her. He hasn't been seen since.”

Moe said, “Oh, man.”

Petra said, “If I was the praying type, I'd ask God to make it a kidnapping.”

Biro said, “We looked into that, never got any sort of lead. No whacks with fake pregnancies, no other snatches or attempts.”

Moe said, “Who's the dad?”

“Good question.”

Petra said, “Adella grew up in a conservative family, Dad's an auto mechanic, Mom provides home health care for old people. I was also raised in Arizona, know her neighborhood. Solid working class, lots of religion. Adella was a decent student, high school cheerleader, until tenth grade when she started hanging with a different crowd, got into some dope trouble, ended up posing for the wrong kind of pictures. Her parents found out, there was a huge scene, Adella ran away to L.A.”

“High school porn?” said Moe.

Biro said, “She got wangled into some nudies by a guy claiming to work for Hustler. What he called art shots-getting explicit with herself.”

Petra said, “By today's standards no huge freak, but by her parents’ standards she was speeding in the fast lane to hell. After she left, there was a total breakdown in communication-zero contact. Until one day the bell rings and Adella's standing there, with a one-month-old. Paternity never came up because Adella never volunteered and the family didn't want to pressure her, afraid she'd leave again, they'd never hear from her. Despite their treading on eggshells, she only stayed three days, Mom woke up, found her bed and the crib empty. She and Adella had just bought the crib-fun shopping trip. Poor woman was upset. Now she's shattered. Family gave us names of some tough kids Adella hung with in Phoenix, as well as the photographer. We worked them all, no dice. The Villareals are salt of the earth but the sad truth is they're clueless about Adella's life for the last eight years.”

Biro said, “She lived in a single on Gower, not a dump, but nothing fancy. Slept on a foldout couch with the kid next to her in a porta-crib, most of what was in there was baby-stuff. We found some pay stubs, traced back to a poker club in Gardena where she cocktail-waitressed for three years until a few months before the pregnancy. Wohr tended bar at the same place but only for a month before he got fired for not reporting his felony record. We got interested in him because surveillance cameras showed her walking with him to her car several times and another dealer remembers the two of them hanging out during smoke breaks. Wohr's sheet is thick, but there's no violence against women. But you know how it is. Guys get away with stuff, decide to kick it up a notch. We looked at him right away.”

Petra said, “Once we found him. He'd been off parole for a while, last address was way out of date. One of our cruisers finally spotted him on the boulevard. He claimed to be living in La Puente but that turned out to be his brother's house, where he crashes from time to time. We never did put him at a local address.”

Moe said, “Now he's got one.”

“Pimping and living with a hooker,” said Biro. “Interesting.”

“Brother Arnold,” said Moe. “The car Wohr's driving illegally is registered to him. Maybe somewhere down the line, we can leverage that.”

Biro said, “You're figuring to lean on the reverend.”

“He's a minister?”

“Runs a small neighborhood church, feeds the homeless, has a wife, two kids, all of them about as wholesome and straight as it gets.”

Moe groaned.

Petra said, “But feel free to talk to him. To anyone. We've put this one in the fridge, welcome anything new.”

“Does your gut say don't bother with the rev? With Wohr, period?”

“There's no evidence implicating Wohr, but our gut's not strong on this one.”

“He have an alibi for the time frame of the murder?”

“That's part of the problem, we're not sure of the time frame. Adella's cell phone record breaks off thirty days before she was found, but she wasn't dead nearly that long, coroner estimates two, three days tops. She d.c.'d the account, switched to pay-as-you-gos.”

“Hiding something?” said Moe.

Biro said, “If she was hooking, throwaways would come in handy.” Looking at his partner.

Petra said, “We did have one person-old woman living in the same building who thought she was hooking but she had nothing to back that up, just ‘intuition.’ No one else felt that way. In fact, every other neighbor we talked to said that one was loony. They liked Adella, said she was quiet, minded her own business, concentrated on the baby. Now that you've told us Wohr's pimping, it opens up possibilities. Adella did have money-nearly four thou in a WaMu account and she was long gone from the casino.”