“Okay, okay.” Whining, like the spoiled brat he was.
“Both hands. Press… hard.”
Book obeyed. Aaron's relief was immediate. Sucking in oxygen, he bore down, inhaled again and prayed and released his left hand and shimmied it up Book's scrawny calf. Getting a grip on bone and not much more.
He dug his fingernails into Book's flesh. It had to hurt. Book didn't even murmur.
Aaron let go of his right hand, dug that into Book's other calf.
“I'm going to count to three. On three, push back. Hard.”
“Huh?”
“Like you're trying to flip yourself up.”
“Wh-”
Aaron concentrated on reserving breath. Delivered his rapid speech: “Do it or I'll tell everyone about the baby and the world will find out you were no noble suicide.”
Silence.
“Do it.”
No answer.
“Baby Gabriel. People magazine, Us, the Enquirer-”
“Okay, okay,” said Book, with a catch in his throat.
“On three. You push back.” Shutting out the pain, as he marshaled his strength, Aaron felt his own legs flutter. Muscle strain? No, the damned cell was vibing again.
You've reached Fox Investigations. Mr. Fox is currently out of the office and quite possibly about to screw up royally…
“Ready, Mason?”
“You know my name.”
Imbecile.
“Of course I do. Ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“On three. Push hard.”
“Yes, sir.”
Here goes: Action. Camera. “One. Two. Three”
Book's push was wimpy and Aaron's grip on the legs slipped, but he managed to pull Book up high enough to claw under the idiot's rib cage, continued yanking, mindlessly groping-tugging the guy upward.
Book's body flopped like that of a fought-out fish, Aaron got hold of Book's long, wild hair, yanked violently.
He dragged the bastard well clear of the cliff, dropped him harder than necessary, flat on his back. Fought for breath.
Mason Book, wearing a beard of grit and blood, looked up at Aaron with what seemed like wonderment.
Aaron stood over him, gasping, feeling his heart in his throat about to rip loose and fly out of his mouth like some bloody bird. His clothes were torn, his body felt as if it had done a full-day shift in a cement mixer. Blood all over his palms, knees, cheeks, elbows. Maybe mixed with Book's. He hoped the bastard wasn't infected with anything.
Book smiled. “I know you.”
“That so.”
“Black Angel.”
CHAPTER 39
When Liana's third text to Aaron went unanswered, she was comfortable switching her cell off and retiring to bed with Steve.
If Mr. Fox is free to party, I'm off shift.
The chest-hair washcloth was back in place, she was wearing one of Steve's T-shirts, he was in p.j. bottoms, and both of them were trying to sleep.
The towel bounced as Steve made a Huh-huh sound that rumbled through torso and terry cloth.
“Are you laughing, young man?”
“Uh-uh.”
“What's funny?”
“Imagining.”
“What?”
“Not important.”
“Hey, big guy, it's all about communication.”
“It's kind of juvenile.”
“Always happy to get in touch with my inner child.” She nudged his ribs.
“Okay, okay.” Now he sounded fully awake. “I was thinking about detective work. One thing I'm not bad at is research. Give me a topic, I burrow like a mole. I was imagining you and me-like Nick and Nora Charles. Some fantasy, huh?”
My aspirations, sir, are more along the line of this thing we have going, whatever it is, lasting long enough for me to find out if you're really as sweet and kind and understanding as you seem to be. If you are, I can do some expert patchwork on your self-esteem, which is really the only thing missing from the picture-and who knows, maybe you wouldn't be as nice if you got too puffed up. So I'd need to be careful about not overdoing it, turning you into the typical arrogant man. But I'll bet I could do it just right. Then I could remodel this place-meet your parents and convince them it's in everyone's best interests, believe me, honey, I could get them to like me, show them I'm the perfect girl for their boy, look how much you smile nowadays. As opposed to when that grasping bitch was on the scene. My fantasy, Steve-o, involves you and me living up here on the Wilshire Corridor, both our cars in the garage, the doormen greeting me by name, carrying my packages. Getting you to chill more, take some fun vacations, I'll show you how to live. Including that. Lots ofthat. Between RAND and my voice-overs, we'd do just fine in the money department. I'd sell my condo, add to the kitty, I'm talking a full loving partnership, not some kept-woman situation. And your parents would like me so much, they'd kick in some dough for the…
Steve whispered, “You asleep, Liana?”
She said, “You're right. That's some fantasy.”
CHAPTER 40
Raymond Wohr's signed statement was less than Moe had hoped for but still enough to justify waking up Deputy D.A. John Nguyen.
Nguyen had worked on the marsh murders, had raised all sorts of cautious lawyer objections during that investigation. This time, he said, “I like it.”
Moe said, “We need Wohr out of County and back to Hollywood lockup. Sooner the better.” “I'll get that started.”
Moe reentered the interview room, gave Petra the thumbs-up. She smiled.
Ramone W was drinking coffee and eating his third donut, powdered sugar bearding his grizzled face. He said, “What?”
The detectives ignored the question and took him through the statement a second time. No change in demeanor or narrative, as he continued to deny any direct role in the murder of Adella Villareal or her baby. But he did admit setting up what he continued to insist was just another sexual transaction.
Phoning Adella on short notice and telling her he'd lined up a monster gig, whole different class of john, the guy wanted her now.
She'd been wary: “How come?”
“I showed him your picture.” A lie, but so what? This could work in her favor, how was he to know it wouldn't?
Another “relationship” begun at Riptide. Adella had lucked into Riptide after he, Ramone, had taken her and Alicia there for drinks to celebrate Adella's birthday. No one noticing Alicia, but Adella, all dolled up, that tiny black dress, a whole different story.
The night of the transaction, he said, “Client likes your picture.”
“You showed him my picture?” she said. “Like some ad on Craigslist?”
“What's the diff, monster client, Addie.”
“Right. The last ‘monster’ you set me up with was that four-hundred-pound slob who cried when I asked him for an extra hundred.”
“Forget hundred, Addie. This is three thousand big ones.”
No answer.
“You still there, Addie?”
“Three thousand,” she said.
“At least. Asshole's good for a whole lot more, trust me.”
“Three thousand,” she repeated. “What do I need to do for three thousand?”
“Nothing special,” said Ramone.
“Spell it out.”
“Round the world, no anal.”
“Three thousand… shit, I don't have a babysitter.”
“Not to worry, me and Alicia'll take care of the kid. In fact, bring the kid, that way minute it's over, he's back with you.”
“Leave Gabriel with you? You couldn't change a diaper if someone wrote you instructions.”
“Me and Alicia. Alicia has two kids.”
“I never seen them.”
“Two,” said Ramone.
“Where are they?”
Who the hell knows? Ramone said, “All grown up.”