True Detectives

Moe smiled at Wohr. Wohr sat there. Not a trace of emotion and so far the mope hadn't even come close to asking for a lawyer. That could be a problem with these idiots: not enough anxiety.

Moe put forth a lie: “Delishus informs us the two of you have a long-standing relationship. Real long-standing, and that you know darn well how old she is.”

Liking the sound of his treachery. Instinct.

Wohr said, “Aw, man-sir. I didn't mean nothing crazy. Just tryin’ to get off.”

“Basic human need.”

“Exactly, sir.”

“We understand human need, Ramone. Unfortunately, the system doesn't. Courts are coming down real hard on child molesters. I mean, we're talking some serious time.”

“I din't molest no one. She got paid.”

“Your basic business transaction.”

“Exactly.”

“How many other look-like-twentys you generally do business with?”

Silence.

“Maybe you don't go that far with all of them,” said Moe. “Maybe sometimes you're happy just looking at 'em.”

One of Wohr's droopy eyelids twitched. He stopped scratching, placed his palms on his lap.

“I guess that could be thought of as good ma

Silence.

“Plus, it's free. So how come this time you paid?”

Wohr closed his eyes and hunched.

“Had a bad day, Ramone?”

“Nah.”

“Want something to drink, Ramone?”

“Nah.”

“Sure? Your lips are looking dry.”

“A Coke?” As if snagging the drink was a pipe dream. Petra was up before Moe could ask her.

During her absence, Moe scrawled useless notes in his pad. Ramone reacted by closing his eyes and pretending to doze. Beneath the guy's eyelids, though, was a buzz of frantic activity.

Like the blowflies celebrating what had once been Alicia Eiger.

Petra returned with a tall paper cup of something brown. Wohr gulped all of it, pressed the flat of one hand under his rib cage. Belched and smiled at Petra. “'Scuse me, ma'am.”

She said, “Hey, enjoy. While you can.”

Putting emphasis on the last word, Moe figured it was a prompt. He said, “Enjoy any little thing, you're going away for a real long time.”

“Aw, man… I din't do nothing bad.”

Moe shrugged, wrote some more. “What can I say, Ramone?”

Petra took the cue and starting checking her cell phone.

Being with two bored detectives made Raymond Wohr fidget. “So what you're saying is, if I give you something, it could help me, right?”

“I didn't hear us say anything like that, Ramone.”

“You're here.”

“Just clearing paper, pal.” Moe continued to write.

“Sir,” said Wohr.

“Uh-huh.”

“What if I do give you something?”

Moe's heart thumped. He looked up from his notes. “Like what?”

“Names, places, sir. Big deals all around Hollywood, sir. I got a good memory.”

“Drug deals?”

“Man, I've seen stuff. I know who. I know what. I could clear half your cases.”

Moe turned to Petra. “That's pretty generous.”

She said, “Sure is.”

“Gimme pen and paper,” said Wohr. “Hope you got time because I'll write you a book.”

“Sounds like a bestseller,” said Moe.

“More than we could ever hope for,” said Petra.

Both of them using a mocking tone. Wohr had instincts. “Something wrong with that?”

Moe said, “What's wrong with that is we're not dope cops.”

“Uh-uh, no way, I can't give you sex stuff,” said Wohr, lying effortlessly. “Don't know about that, not my thing.”

“Don't want to rat out other pedos?”

“I'm not a-I don't know that stuff, sir. Like you said before, it's human need, I mind my own business.”

“Sticking mostly to peeping, huh?”

Head shake. “I'm not saying that, either. I just don't know that stuff.”

“So the way you look at it,” said Moe, “it's all victimless-a business transaction, who cares how a guy gets off.” He slapped his forehead. “Oh, yeah, judges and juries care. But guess what? I don't. And neither does Detective Co

Moe leaned in close, fighting to keep his nostrils open after a cloud of Wohr's reek blew his way. The stink of jail and fear and poor personal habits.

“We're not sex cops, either, Ramone.”

Wohr's eyes swung wide to the left. “What are you?”

“We're murder cops.”

Wohr's head snapped up and back as he tried to retreat as far as possible from Moe. The way they'd tucked his chair into the corner meant he wasn't going anywhere.

“Aw, man.”

“You keep saying that, Ramone. Like it's some prayer, going to get you redeemed.”

Wohr lowered his head to his lap, clasped both hands behind his own neck. “No, no, that I really don't do.”

Moe waited.

Wohr looked up.

“Hear that, Detective Co

Petra slipped her cell into her purse. “Uh-uh, sorry, what?”

“Mr. Wohr says he really doesn't do murder.”

Ramone said, “Nope, man-sir-ma'am. Someone told you that, they're lying.”

“Who would tell us that?”

Eye-dance. “No one.”

“Why would anyone tell us that, Ramone?”

“No reason-they wouldn't.”

“They, meaning…”

“No one.” Wohr folded scrawny arms across his chest.

Moe turned to Petra. “Remember what they taught us about guys who like little girls? It's all about power and control. And we know the same thing goes for murder. Especially sicko murder.” Back to Wohr: “No bigger power-trip than being in charge when the lights go out.”

Ramone's hands shot out palms-forward. “No way, no, no, no.”

Moe sighed.

Petra's knowing smile was perfect: You believe this guy?

Ramone W scratched his head, then his arms, rocked a bit. “Aw, man. Gimme paper and a pen, I'll write you a book on dope-you can trade it to the dope cops, you give 'em something, they give you something, everyone walks away happy.”

Petra said, “You've got an interesting view of police work.”

“Hey-ma'am, everything gets traded.”

“Guess that's true,” said Moe. “Including human life.”

When Wohr didn't answer, he went on: “Everything's got a price. Everyone. Some lives are expensive, some lives are cheap. Cheap lives get traded away easy so expensive lives can continue. Experienced individual such as yourself knows which is which.”

“Aw, man, I don't know nothing about that, you want that there's all sorts of guys right here who can tell you good stuff, just walk over to general pop and say tell me about that. Not me, sir, no way, no.”

Long speech. It took Wohr's breath away and he sat back, trying to regain wind.

Moe said, “Expensive lives, cheap lives.” A beat. “Guess Adella Villareal's life was pretty cheap.”

Wohr sat there. Not moving, not blinking. None of the eye-calisthenics Moe had expected.

Could I be that wrong?

“That name's not familiar to you, Ramone?”

Wohr let out a long, raspy sigh. Now his eyes were bobbling, like floats on a trout line. Scratching hard enough to raise welts on his arms. He forced the eyes still, but the resulting stare-scared, frozen-was the biggest giveaway of all.

Yes!

Moe said, “Adella and Gabriel. Tiny little baby. A tiny life means super-cheap in your world?”

Wohr buried his face in his hands. Rocked some more.

“Cheap lives,” said Moe. “We know a lot.”

Wohr's fingers spread, revealing ru

“That?”

“What happened.”

“What happened? Like we're talking about a something, not a someone? A what, not a who? This is a mommy and a baby we're discussing, Ramone. Human beings. They got murdered and we know who did it and we know you're involved.”

Wohr's eyes rounded and for a bizarre instant, terror made the old dope fiend look young, almost child-like-still vulnerable to surprise. A second later, the old weariness/wariness returned and the guy was squinting-first at Moe, then Petra. Figuring the odds.