He laughed again. “SOS.”
Moe thought about fake-shrink Gibson and couldn't muster up any glee.
He'd been fourteen, Aaron eighteen. The two of them going at each other constantly, sometimes it got physical. Mom having no idea.
My father was a hero.
So was my father. What? You're saying he wasn't? You're saying that?
All I'm saying, little bro, is-
Fuck you.
Fuck you.
A whirlwind of scuffle, fists flying, Mom hurrying in, trying to break it up.
The next day, she announced everyone was going to “family therapy.”
She'd met Quentin Gibson, M.A., at yoga class.
Guy makes house calls, wimpy, skinny, ponytailed, British 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
Aaron 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 glass furniture. Sheets of Lexan were bolted to the inner surfaces of conspicuous windows. Invisible, unless you knew to look.
The décor expressed all the high-tech efficiency clients craved.
This afternoon, Work Land was silent, every message and e-mail cleared during the drive. He loved operating as a solo act.
Checking one of three fax machines, he was pleased to find a fresh clear copy of Rory Stoltz's driver's license, courtesy an illegal search by a source at DMV.
Hundred bucks. Ka-ching.
Folding the page neatly, to keep from creasing the subject's face, he headed upstairs to Play Land, worked out in his gym, showered, whirlpool-bathed, shaved.
Feeling loose and confident, he sauntered, stark-naked and swinging a key ring, down a subtly lit, plum-carpeted hallway toward what had once been a rear bedroom.
The space was guarded by a security-hinged door of fiery teak. An ebony silhouette of a top-hatted boulevardier graced the center of the wood. Aaron unlocked and stepped in.
The same teak covered the walls and the coffered ceilings. Recessed lighting set off billiard-table-green carpeting. The twenty-by-eighteen room was sectioned by double-height, industrial-quality, stainless-steel racks he'd snagged at a bargain price from Carlyle and Tout when the Brentwood haberdasher went under.
The left side was devoted to suits, sport coats paired with harmonizing slacks, and topcoats he rarely used. Though his favorite, a charcoal-brown, cashmere/mink-blend Arnold Brant by Columbo, sometimes got put to work when he lowered the Porsche's top on windy winter nights.
On the right hung sport shirts and casual jackets arranged by hue, forty-two pairs of neatly pressed jeans with an emphasis on Zegna, a dozen Fila velour workout suits-no, thirteen.
The rear wall was mostly dress shirts. Lots of Borelli, but some Brioni, Ricci, Charvet, Turnbull, Armani Black Label. Flanking hooks held belts and ties, each cravat paired with a harmonious pocket silk. Ringing the entire room above the racks was teak shelving bearing clear plastic boxes containing sweaters and shoes, the latter identified precisely.
Magli Olive Suede Wingtips. Paciotti Black Buckle Loafers. Edmonds Cordovans.
About half of the clothing still bore tags.
Aaron walked among his treasures, fingertips grazing silk, Sea Island cotton, merino, cashmere, alpaca.
He stopped at the Columbo. Cashmere and mink, nothing like it. He loved that coat.
Ten minutes later, he'd made his pick for tonight.
What the well-dressed man dons when sitting on his ass for protracted periods of tedium came down to a loose brown linen shirt-jacket with four flap pockets, tailored to conceal his 9mm, beige cargo pants of the same carefully rumpled fabric that provided another quartet of compartments, cream silk socks, butter-soft pigskin Santoni driving shoes.
By four p.m., he was back in West L.A., sitting in the girlie-cute front room of Liana Parlat's girlie-cute condo off Overland. Liana, always friendly, seemed especially happy to see him, and he wondered if some of her gigs had dried up due to the writers’ strike.