True Detectives

“Exactly. In my mind, he's shaping up as all kinds of bad.”

“Makes sense,” she said. “You're on him today?”

“Soon as I get to his crib. I'm at La Brea and Santa Monica.”

“Welcome to Hollyweird.”

He parked six blocks from the apartment on Taft, psyched himself up to shuffle slow, look glassy-eyed.

Dressing for the job meant forgoing shaving, a gray watchcap pulled low on his head, a T-shirt rescued from the bottom of his laundry hamper, his grungiest jeans and crappiest sneakers, under a stale-smelling, previously worn green hoodie he'd just bought from a street vendor at Hollywood and Highland for nine bucks.

He'd checked the garment carefully, couldn't shake the feeling some sort of microscopic vermin had set up house in polyester.

Street cred came with a price.

If he was even pulling it off.

No one paid him attention as he rounded Hollywood Boulevard, so maybe he was.

Slouching, sucking in his cheeks and jamming one hand deep into a jeans pocket as if he had a stash buried down there, he half stumbled up Raymond Wohr and Alicia Eiger's block.

One apartment building after another, a few half decent. Theirs wasn't, with cracked stucco, sagging gutters, a brown lawn. Up above Franklin, the housing got a little nicer. Better to avoid that and not chance alarming some nervous citizen. He turned west on Franklin, covered a couple of blocks, reversed himself, lit up a cigarette that never touched his lips. Repeated the whole damn drill several times.

The aimless routine of a lonely, addled loser.

Lots of cars, few people; L.A.'s motto.

On his fourth circuit, he encountered a tough-looking, crew-cut, multipierced girl walking an off-leash white pit bull that looked to be ninety pounds of muscle.

Huge, big-toothed critter. The dog spotted him, padded forward. Moe's gun was tucked in the small of his back, he hoped to God it wouldn't come to that.

The dog reached him. Sniffed his shoes. Licked his hand.

Inhaling, Moe petted an iron-ingot neck.

The girl said, “Iggy likes you, man. You're cool.”

Street cred, indeed.

On his seventh trip down Taft, he spotted Ramone W and Alicia Eiger arguing on the sidewalk. Too far to hear what they were saying, but the body language was clear.

Both of them in sweatshirts and jeans, no makeup for her, her hair was as ragged as Ramone's side fringe. She wore unfashionable hornrimmed eyeglasses. The two of them could've been any pair of shopworn street people.

She was doing most of the talking, Ramone just stood there looking miserable.

Letting Eiger yap, staring over her head, not even faking paying attention. She finally figured out she was being shined on, poked his chest until she got eye contact. More monologue. Again, Ramone zoned out.

Eiger poked him again, started waving her hands, trying to stir up a response.

He nodded stupidly.

Eiger wasn't satisfied, stepped up closer, embarked on another tirade.

A Mohawked kid walking by turned to stare and she switched her ire to him. The kid held out his hands peacefully, hurried off. Eiger resumed her rant. This time Ramone tried to shush her with a finger over his lips.

She hauled off and hit him hard, across the face.

Ramone staggered back, rubbed the offended spot. Moe's hand snaked around to his gun, expecting the return blow, a full-out brawl.

Stepping into the middle of it would be a disaster for the case, but letting a psychopath maul a woman in public was out of the question.

Alicia Eiger didn't seem worried. She clapped her hands on her hips, dared Ramone to retort.

Stupid woman. Cemeteries were full of them.

Moe inched forward so he'd have enough time to be effective. As far as he could tell, neither of them noticed him.

Raymond's shoulders tightened up. Eiger taunted him. Flipped him off. Ramone shrugged, sagged, turned his back on her and walked south, toward Hollywood Boulevard.

She mouthed a word. Moe read her lips.

Stupid.

Maybe he should talk to this charmer. But while he was considering his options, Eiger stomped back inside her building.

'Scuse me, ma'am, LAPD Homicide. Why is Ramone stupid?

Moe shuffled past the shabby building. Ramone was out of sight, probably drowning his sorrow at Bob's or some similar dive.

Moe considered checking out the bar. Was he good enough to nurse a beer on a neighboring stool, get the guy talking?

What chance was there Ramone would admit to being a total pussy?

Speaking of which.

Witnessing the encounter had shaken up Moe's preconceptions. He'd been thinking of Ramone as a murderous thug but the mope had just come across scary as milk.

He walked back to his car. Encountered a few other dog-walkers, including an old, bent woman with a tiny, fluffy white mutt who snarled viciously as Moe passed.

She said, “Good boy, Champ. He's a bum.”

When he returned to his desk at West L.A., Aaron was sitting in his chair, playing a BlackBerry. At the sight of Moe, his brother sprang up. “I may have something for you.”

“May,” said Moe.

“Where can we talk?”

That assumed a lot; Moe's instinct was to say so. But something in Aaron's demeanor stopped him: no wise-ass glint in his eyes, that intense purpose on his face-the same look Aaron had worn back when he was throwing long passes or adjusting his batting stance. Completing the pass, more often than not. Great RBI.

Moe said, “Let's go.”

Once they were in a windowless room and Aaron had checked for hidden mikes, he said, “I may have found Caitlin's burial spot.”

Still totally unaware of Adella Villareal, Raymond Wohr, Alicia Eiger. Moe indulged himself in brief self-satisfaction, saying “Tell me about it” as he sat back.

Aaron described Mason Book and Ax Dement's drive to Leo Carrillo, the clearing where they'd smoked up and sniffed heroin.

“You know for sure it was heroin.” Getting picky about a probably irrelevant detail because between this and Eiger chewing Ramone a second asshole, his head was swimming with uncertainty.

“Did a presumptive test.” Now Aaron's know-it-all grin was back.

“Home chemistry set, Moses. I can't promise you the place is the tomb-the ground wasn't disturbed. But it's been a long time, stuff grows. And before you ask, sure, it's possible the two of them just love getting high at the beach. But it's a helluva ride from the Hollywood Hills just for that. Why not enjoy their dope behind gates up on Swal-lowsong? I think the spot has psychological significance and they were engaging in some sort of ritual.”

“Returning to the scene of the crime.”

Aaron crossed his legs, smoothed a lapel, stared at Moe, trying to figure out if he was being put on.

For some reason, Moe felt like a pain in the ass. “It happens with psych crimes, right? Reliving the thrill.”

Aaron relaxed. “It does… look, I know this isn't hard evidence, Moses, but it was all I could do not to go back with a shovel myself. I meant what I said about not getting in your way. A cadaver dog could answer the question pretty easily.”

“I'm not hearing enough justification to call in the K-9s. Especially in a public park-in Malibu. Coastal Commission would probably get involved.”

Listen to me: like every other regulation-spouting suit.

“Okay,” said Aaron. “I just want you to know whatever I learn.”

His brother's glum expression threw Moe. Self-doubt had never seemed part of Aaron's repertoire.

“I'm not saying it's not interesting, Aaron, it is. Especially with Malibu coming up over and over. Everything about Caitlin seems to hover around the coastline.”

Except her babysitting gig in Hollywood.

Aaron brightened. “My thought exactly. Caitlin and Rory go to school at Pepperdine, work in Santa Monica, Lem Dement's ranch is in Solar Canyon. And now I've seen Mason Book take two nighttime trips to PCH.”