They stayed in a lock until she eased away yet again. Did something with her legs that looked unlikely, managed to guide him in.
“Comfortable?”
“Oh… yeah.”
Obliging, considerate, business-like. Going along with anything he wanted, then rewriting the script without warning as she assumed a new pose.
This was choreography and she was in charge.
That should've bothered Aaron. He enjoyed himself, anyway, had to work at holding out, wanting to keep this level of pleasure for as long as he could.
She knew he was ready before he did, said, “Come in my pussy, it's safe. Or anywhere else, it's your choice.”
The detachment in her voice caused him momentary self-doubt, an instant of diminished blood supply.
She did something with her hand and her mouth and he was back in the saddle.
“Anytime, Artie,” she said. “You've already rocked my world.”
♦
Afterward, she said, “Please stay in bed,” and went to dress in the bathroom. When she emerged, her hair was loose and she looked as if she'd just taken a pleasant nature walk.
As she moved to the door, Aaron said, “You're leaving?”
“You're the one on vacation. Regards to Kansas City.”
They got some crazier little women in Malibu.
Aaron sprang out of bed, hurried to her side. “Stay. You're beautiful.”
Looking down, she laughed. Took hold of him, gave a playful tug. “You're a healthy boy, my lawyer. Sorry, bye.”
“You're leaving me here to atone all by myself.”
Anger tightened her face. She stepped away from him.
Disgusted.
Aaron said, “What did I say?”
Her face churned, turned ugly. Got pretty again. Spit flew with each word: “Atonement is for assholes who actually sin. Let me out of here.”
CHAPTER 28
Moe sat at Liz's computer searching for Web images of Adella Villareal with either Ax Dement or Mason Book.
Book was everywhere, lanky and blond and handsome and heavy-lidded.
Dement Junior showed up a handful of times, always as a second-row leech, almost always unidentified.
Adella was nowhere.
Being strangled, with who-knows-what done to your baby, didn't merit attention unless someone wrote a movie about it.
He thought about Caitlin babysitting for Adella. Set up by Rory? Or had Adella come into Riptide, chatted with the friendly college girl? Why would Caitlin, going to school, already with a job, have taken on an additional gig all the way in Hollywood?
Maybe Adella had charmed her. Or Caitlin had been introduced to Adella by someone more high-status than Rory, like Mason Book.
He had two points of entry: Rory or Raymond Wohr. The kid could refuse to talk to him-with that mother of his, a likely response. The last thing Moe needed was Rory going the lawyer route. Maybe a highpowered lawyer hired by Mason Book… Wohr was definitely a better bet. He'd find some way to brace the lowlife.
Liz awoke and called him into the bedroom. Later, they showered together, she left for the lab, and Moe dressed for the job. Glad she wasn't there to see today's work clothes.
Driving to Hollywood, he phoned Petra Connor to inform her he'd be working her turf.
She said, “Have fun. We've been to Vice, seeing if we missed anything. No one has information about Adella selling her body. Wohr and Eiger are low-level hustlers with no showbiz connections anyone's aware of.”
Moe said, “Wohr's twisted,” and recounted his talk with the Reverend Arnold.
Petra said, “His own niece. What a dirtbag.”
“What I keep thinking about is he showed no feelings for the baby, basically ignored it.”
“And who doesn't like babies.”
“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?