True Detectives by Jonathan Kellerman Read Free Book Online Page B

tool.
Let’s-everyone-express-their-feelings
. Useful as a tissue-paper condom.
    Moe felt himself smile, put a brake on his lips.
    Aaron leaned in closer. “I promise not to step on your feet.”
    “That assumes we’re dancing.”
    “So nothing I’m going to say is going to work.”
    “Nothing has to work. Do what you want.”
    “Even if that was my style, I wouldn’t handle it that way, bro.”
    “Stop doing that.”
    “Doing what?”
    “Bro.”
    Aaron’s caramel eyes widened. “I’ve been doing that your whole life.”
    “Exactly.”
    Aaron ran a long, graceful finger along his hairline. “Ok-ay. Detective Reed.”
    Moe’s colon churned. He fought to conceal another belch.
    Aaron exhaled slowly. “This is what I am going to do.” Lapsing into that schoolteacher tone Moe hated. “I will check with you before I interview Stoltz, his mommy, or anyone else you deem important. If I learn anything relevant, you’ll be the first to know.”
    Moe forked food around his plate.
    “Detective Brother Reed,
is
there anyone else you deem important?”
    “Just Caitlin,” said Moe. “If you run across her, tell her to give me a ring.”
    The bespectacled woman came over, looked at Aaron’s untouched plate.
    Not a trace of irritation as she said, “May I wrap that for you to go, sir?”

CHAPTER
8
    A aron watched the little pink house.
    It was just after ten p.m. For three hours, he’d done nothing
but
watch.
    Nice night in the Valley, more than a few stars peeking through a charcoal felt sky, the street lined with neat domiciles, quiet and peaceful.
    He sat low in the seat of the Opel, drank green tea, ate the second half of a pastrami sandwich, listened to Anita Baker on his iPod.
    Moe had walked out of the restaurant committing to nothing. Aaron tipped the Indian woman generously, then drove to Heinz the Mechanic’s place on Pico, where he garaged the C4S and picked up the Opel.
    Deceptive little thing, with its dinged-up body and flat brown paint. The engine was a rebuilt BMW 325i enhanced by Heinz’s magical hands. The best of several loaners the German kept around while he worked on Carreras and Ferraris and such. Fifty bucks bought Aaron twenty-four hours. Smoked windows were perfect for the job at hand.
    He logged the expenditure into his BlackBerry.
    Driving home, he cell-phoned a source at the county assessor’s office,learned that Rory Stoltz owned no real estate but Martha Greta Stoltz paid property taxes on a single-family residence on Emelita Street in North Hollywood.
    “Thanks, Henry. I owe you.”
    Laughter. “You sure do.”
    “Check’s in the mail.”
    “It sure is.”
    The call was a luxury. Property rolls were public records but saving time was a bargain, in the long run, for Mr. Dmitri.
    Henry’s fifty got logged.
    Aaron could’ve stretched that but, deep pockets like Mr. Dmitri’s, you had to be careful not to get piggy.
    Address in hand, he GPS’d the precise location as he drove home to his place on San Vicente off Wilshire. Speed-dialing continuously, using red lights to work the BlackBerry.
    His building was a deco-flavored duplex built in the twenties, one of the final reminders that the area had once been residential. Aaron’s neighbors were low-rise office structures. Skyscrapers on Wilshire cast long shadows across his roof.
    He’d picked up the property at a foreclosure auction for a ridiculous price, spent the next five years remodeling, doing a lot of the work himself. Last year, he’d billed two hundred ninety-six thousand dollars in fees, collected nearly all of that, and this year was looking at least as good. But without the bargain purchase, he’d still be living in a condo.
    He unlocked the gate around the small front yard, disabled the security lock, released both bolts in the door, removed his snail mail from the internal slot. The first floor was Work Land, all-black wood floor where it wasn’t Berber carpeting, gray suede walls, chrome and leather and