“Book not eating relates to murder?”
“I can't say more, Merry-please don't jump to any conclusions.”
“Without info, my dear, Merry's naturally creative mind jumps to all kinds of places.”
“I understand, but at this point, poking around further could jeopardize the investigation.”
Merry let loose with a throaty guffaw that rang in Aaron's ear and caused him to move the phone away. The same almost masculine laughter he'd heard when they slept together. Post-orgasmic glee, as if he'd just fucked a longshoreman. She was good enough, technically, but that laugh was wrong.
He said, “What's funny, Mer?”
“The way you just got all stuffy, darling. ‘Jeopardize the investigation.’ Right out of a two-bit teleplay.”
“But it's true nonetheless. I need you to be discreet.”
“Are we planning on solving this little mystery by the sixth commercial break, Denz? 'Cause if not, I can't see giving up a succulent morsel of dirt that could be peddled to any number of tabloids for considerably more dough than I'd earn in months at a shitty little local station-”
“Let it ride,” said Aaron. “When the time's right, I'll clue you in big-time. Enough dirt for an entire show.”
“So you say.”
“Have I ever failed you, Mer?”
“Of course you have, darling.”
“When?”
“You're a man,” she said. “You don't need to do anything to fail me, you just need to exist. But fine, I'll keep Book's problems under the radar. But not forever.”
“Thanks, Mer. Maybe after this is over we can have dinner. No business, just fun.”
Silence.
She said, “You, my love, are a total bastard.”
Aaron lacked the energy-and the facts-to argue.
CHAPTER 32
Petra said, “We've got a problem. Instead of just watching Wohr, the rookie I put on him busted him last night, didn't hold up the paper long enough to keep him in our lockup. Early-morning bus took him to County.”
Moe said, “I'll call over there.”
“I already did. They can't find him.”
“Released by accident?”
“Doubtful,” she said. “I'm sure you've dealt with the system over there. Or lack of. All that overcrowding, guys sitting around, takes days to find 'em. I'm really sorry, Moe.”
Moe had never dealt with County. Petra wasn't much older than he was, but she was a vet. He said, “We'll work it out. What did Wohr get busted for?”
“Soliciting a prostitute. Underage prostitute, so it couldn't be just a citation. Ramone comes into lockup tagged as a pedo, doesn't get segregated, you know what could happen.”
“Oh, man.”
“I know, I know. If this screws up your case, I couldn't feel worse. Unfortunately, sorry don't pay the bills.”
“Hey, it happens.” Keeping his true feelings inside. It wouldn't have happened with West L.A. working the case. Me and Sturgis.
No logic to that chauvinism. No comfort in it, either.
Petra said, “In the rookie's defense, I'm not sure a more experienced cop would've done different. The prostie turned out to be seventeen, but I've seen her mug and she looks twelve.”
“Playing kiddie,” said Moe. “Where'd it happen?”
“Not far from Ramone's crib-alley off Western, near a chicken joint that's a known perv hangout. Rookie says Ramone never went home at all yesterday. Eiger being such a battle-ax probably scared him away.”
“Not so scared he didn't prowl for youngblood.”
“Or being humiliated made him want to dominate someone,” she said. “They ducked into the alley, by the time the rookie got there, hooker's head was you-know-where. Meaning an overt act, kind of hard to ignore.”
“The girl's in custody?”
“Nope, she ran off. But Ramone gave up her I.D. right away-he's a regular, but claimed she was legal. Delena Guzman, street name Delishus. Salvadoran, but so far no link to M-13 or any of the other monster gangs. Still, right now I wouldn't want to be Ramone.”
Moe said, “First his niece, now this. Delaware was right about him being chronically twisted.”
“Delaware's in on this one?”
“We just consulted him. All the psych overtones, I figured why not.”
“He's a smart guy,” said Petra. “Anything profound?”
“He thinks Mason Book could be anorexic.”
“Really,” said Petra. “Yeah, Book is kind of skeletal… so what does that mean?”
“It could explain Book going into the hospital and claiming suicide.”
“Tragic figure as opposed to pathetic X-ray.”
She'd decoded the psych angle right away. “I'll keep bugging County to locate Ramone. I've already called one of the sheriff jail captains, asked for our boy to get put on High Power or the psych ward. Guy said he'd try but their computer system's acting up, it's all they can do to keep tabs on gangbangers.”
“What's the captain's name?”
“Rojas. Sure, go ahead, add your name to the petition.”
Moe said, “Citizens to Keep Ramone W Safe.”
Petra said, “Only for as long as we can use him. After that, he's chum for the sharks.”
Captain Rojas was smooth-sounding, outwardly cooperative, more like a politician than a cop. Moe wondered if he was being shined on.
He hung up, blocked out noise from the D-room, considered his options.
At this point, not too many.
No way to get to any of the principals and now even Ray Wohr was out of reach.
Delaware's advice reverbed: Find a weak point and start wedging.
Ramone W was locked up and unavailable, but the woman who'd bitch-slapped him in public view was free and clear.
This time he parked close to the apartment building on Taft. Back to his blazer and khakis, white shirt and tie. Not pretending to be anything other than what he was as he marched up to the front door.
Unlocked, no security provisions of any sort.
That fit the urine-bitter corridor carpeted in wrinkled gray felt, the dirt-colored hallways livened by graffiti, the poorly fitted black plywood doors, some of them a good inch above the floor, souvenirs of once-thicker flooring. Missing bulbs overhead creating artificial evening. The tilting stairway banister looked as if it wouldn't stand up to a nudge.
One thing you could say for the place: quiet. Maybe all the night-prowlers were catching up on their Z's.
White metal mailboxes just inside the entrance hung askew, as if they'd been wrenched in rage. Dented, too. Definite anger-management issues.
Eight units on each of two floors. Half the boxes were unlabeled, the others were identified by any number of methods: pencil, ballpoint, plastic tape, stick-on letters.
A. Eiger had been scrawled in what looked like brown eye shadow over the slot labeled 7. Meaning, she was the one who paid the rent, not Ramone W.
Her bod gets peddled in cheap motels, she's got to freebie the clerk for a discounted rate, she's stuck with the bills. Meanwhile, Ramone chases youngblood. Maybe that's what had set her off.
Unit Seven was ground-floor rear, to the right of an unlocked back door that opened to a fetid alley lined with trash cans and sporting a luxuriant crop of weeds.
Moe stepped out, scanned; no one lurking around. He returned to the hallway, rapped Alicia Eiger's door.
Prepared to answer her dope-addled Yeah with Police. God knew what that would unleash from the denizens of this dump.
No response, mumbled or otherwise. He tried again. Put his ear to the door. Heard nothing. Then a low hum-some kind of electrical device?
A sudden tickling sensation in his ear made him jerk away with the same instinctive repugnance that had led him to toss the secondhand hoodie teeming with imaginary vermin.