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Aaron stooped, didn't touch a thing, as he took in the area. Small clearing, backed by stubbier, denser trees, tangles of spiky plants.
Smooth-soled footwear had left deep impressions. A heavyweight. From the shape of the heel, maybe some kind of boot.
Longer, shallower impressions bore a tire-tread pattern.
Your basic Tijuana huarache sandal; maybe Mason Book wasn't into fashion footwear. Or the guy was rich enough not to care.
No sign of disturbance of the soil indicating a burial. But fifteen months had passed since Caitlin's disappearance, so that meant nothing.
Close to the path for a burial site. Though he supposed a couple of arrogant, entitled killers might be that reckless.
He gloved up, collected the doobie-butts, dropped them in a plastic ziplock. Something near a rock caught his eye. Five burned paper matches. A foot from those, a one-inch square plastic bag.
Empty, but he was able to make out a couple of tiny granules trapped in a corner. Brownish. Maybe Mexican tar.
He sniffed. Sometimes H gave off weird smells-a vinegar-and-cat-piss cocktail. This stuff was odorless. Maybe good H.
Bagging the Baggie, he looked around for anything else interesting.
Off to his left, maybe ten yards away, the trees ruffled and a dark shape protested his presence with a high-pitched squawk.
Shooting upward, a missile-shaped creature cleared the tree canopy. Aaron made out the wide, fringed wings of the hawk as it soared out of view.
He thought of Mr. Dmitri. Little birdie, indeed.
♦
Stopping at the Hows Market at PCH and Trancas, he bought a bagel and a quart of milk, ate and drank in the parking lot while watching construction workers drive in and out in trucks. A couple of maids in uniforms entered on foot, probably from the big houses that lined Broad Beach.
A few of the hard-hats checked out the C4S. Aaron, concealed by tinted windows, chewed on his breakfast and wondered why Ax Dement and Mason Book had driven all the way to western Malibu in order to smoke up.
Had to be something about that particular spot.
Lacking authority, he couldn't very well return with a shovel.
Even for Moe to return, there'd have to be probable cause.
State park, Coastal Commission, he could just picture the scene. Probably end up like that TV show a few years back, some talk-show dude opening Al Capone's vault, building the suspense up for weeks, then the damned thing turns out empty.
A paunchy guy with a tool belt came close to the Porsche and attempted to look through the passenger window.
Aaron slid the window down, guy nearly fell over.
“Morning.”
“Yeah, hey-cool wheels. Do the X-17 upgrade on it?”
“Nah,” said Aaron. “Paid fifteen grand less and got it up to 415.”
“Awesome… have a nice day, man.”
“You, too.”
Aaron had chosen his own wheels for today because a black man at the beach needed to look as rich as possible. Plus he missed the car's fantastic handling. Not to mention the general aura of cool that engulfed him when he got behind the wheel.
Keeping the top up, though, because this day at the beach was a job, like any other.
As he nourished himself, he made calls to people who owed him favors.
Remembering the diminishing pattern of phone calls between Mason Book and CAA, he started with a talent agent at a competing outfit whose divorce had gone smoother because of what Aaron had learned about the guy's much younger not-so-loving wife.
The guy said, “I've got a meeting in five. Why're you asking about Mason?” Dropping the star's name in that casual way that said I play in that league. Even though the guy's client list topped out at soap opera fill-ins.
Aaron said, “Nothing juicy and this needs to be confidential because we all know what happens when things aren't confidential.”
Confident the guy would remember his ex's proclivity for being shat on by Japanese businessmen. Reduced alimony and full custody of the Lhasa apso was one thing, being suckered so everyone knew it was another.
“Of course.” Pompous, as if there'd never been any question about being discreet. “So what do you want to know?”
“Is Mason still hot?”
“Hot?”
“In demand.”
“Maybe not as much as he used to be, but a helluva lot of people would still be happy to work with him. Once they know he's okay.”
“Okay, as in…”
“You're the private eye. You're telling me you don't know?”
“I need specifics, Ken.”
“Word has it there isn't a drug Mason's met that he didn't date.”
“That serious, huh?”
“His last shoot took way longer than usual. Because of looong naps. Coke and weed don't do that. Catch my drift?”
“Heroin.”
“They say it has that effect.”
“Does he shoot or smoke?”
“How would I know-smoke, I'd bet. Can't afford any needle marks.”
Aaron said, “But the picture did get finished.”
“Loose Change for Da
“Maybe?”
The agent laughed. “Depends on who the accountants are. I did a project with Pam DeMoyne-from Shadows of Our Days? She was amazing, I'm talking on a level with Streep and Mirren. But the suits sent it straight to video anyway-I'll send you a DVD. It's really great, historical story about Shakespeare's secret gay life, Pam was A
“The accountants,” Aaron prompted.
“Right,” said Ken. “The accountants. I got Pam a twenty-five percentage of net, which is amazing, even if it is net, at that level you should see some payout. Never saw a dime of royalties. We do an audit, there's a three-hundred-thousand ‘distribution fee.’ I say what's that, they hem and haw, finally they tell me it's the price of driving the film from the production office in Westwood to the editor in Burbank.”
“High-priced taxi. I'll take the gig.”
“Oh, yeah. So did Book's last picture make money? Probably, because he's got clout, they might be afraid to pull bullshit like that.”
“But maybe diminishing clout.”
“He hasn't worked in what… a year and a half, two, three? Are you snooping around because something nasty's go
“Nothing like that, Ken. Now tell me about Ax Dement.”
“Who?”
“Lem's oldest son. I hear he hangs out with Book.”
“News to me,” said Ken. “I've got no time for hangers-on.”
“Would you work with Lem?”
“You mean because he's a fascist and a racist and a fundamentalist hypocrite? Not my idea of integrity, Aaron.”
Aaron said, “What if the accounting was good?”
Ken laughed. “In that case, sure. But don't tell my mother.”
Aaron's second call was to Liana Parlat.
“How about another trip to Riptide, same fee structure.”
She said, “Sure. Maybe I'll run into Dr. Rau again. But could it be in a couple of nights?” “Busy?”
“Cartoon audition. I need to sound like an obnoxious twelve-year-old.”
“Not much of a stretch,” said Aaron.
Liana laughed and whined nasally: “Thanks. Dad.”
“You never called Rau, huh?”
“Not because I'm scared, Aaron. Because I've been working.”
“Another brat voice?”
“One of those classy animations under consideration at one of the so-called edgy networks. Disgusting family, even more disgusting flatulent dog.”
“Gas noise is part of your repertoire?”
“Actually, I'm under consideration for Sinead, the twelve-year-old daughter.” Putting on a high, reedy voice: “‘Oh man, Daddy-person, when you said this was a field trip, I didn't know we'd actually be out in the field listening to the growls and howls of Gyro's bowels.
“Here I come, Mr. Oscar.”
“Beats honest labor, Mr. Fox. As does lancing for you. What's the drill for my second visit?”
“Just sit around, soak up more atmosphere. If the topic ever comes up naturally, work Ax Dement into the conversation.”