True Detectives Read Free Page A

religious?”
    “Not really, sir.”
    “Moses’s brother.”
    “Yes, sir.”
If you only knew
.
    “This new one,” said Dmitri, “maybe we won’t learn the truth. One of my bookkeepers is Maitland Frostig. Master’s degree in mathematics but he prefers to work with addition and subtraction. Mr. Frostig always looks sad. More recently, he is apparently sadder. I say apparently because I don’t get involved with emotions. This year, the Christmasparty, my wife said, ‘That man is extremely depressed. Like we used to be in Moscow.’ I looked at Maitland Frostig with … new eyes and agreed. But I forgot about him.”
    Dmitri ran a hand over his shiny dome. “My wife did not forget. She is a psychiatrist. In Soviet Union they tried to make her inject dissidents with drugs. She refused and was sent to gulag. We never had children.”
    “I’m sorry, sir.”
    “Regina talks, I listen. I called in Maitland Frostig for a meeting, he says everything is okay. I tell him no it isn’t.” Small smile. “I say it with confidence because my wife is never wrong.”
    “In general, sir, that’s a good philosophy of life.”
    “You are not married.” Statement, not a question. Aaron was certain Dmitri had hired someone to check him out before writing that first check. Maybe one day he’d find out who.
    “Haven’t found the right woman.”
    “Maybe,” said Dmitri said. “Anyway, I tell Maitland Frostig something is wrong and he tells me the story. He lives alone, a widower since his daughter is four. Now the daughter is twenty and she is missing. Caitlin Frostig. For fifteen months she is missing, the police do nothing.”
    “Someone that age,” said Aaron, “no sign of foul play, they’ll file it as a missing person and put it aside.”
    “I made some calls, got the file sent to Homicide detectives. Nothing.”
    “Which division?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Where was the girl last seen?”
    “Maitland’s house is in Venice.”
    “Twenty and still living at home.”
    “Yes.”
    “Venice is Pacific Division.”
    Shrug.
Don’t bother me with details
. “Police do nothing. My call was before I know you. Now I know you.”

CHAPTER
3
    F
orget yesterday. What have you done for me today?
    Moe Reed—scarlet-faced, panting, biceps swelling to their full nineteen inches, put down the curl-bar and tried to catch his breath.
    His arms pounded.
All
of him pounded.
    Hundred forty pounds on the bar, four sets of fifteen reps each.
    No doubt some felonious scumbag in a prison yard was outlifting him at this very moment, but for one of the good guys, Moe figured he was doing okay.
    Job-wise was another story.
    Leaving the spare bedroom he’d set up as a home gym, he walked to the bathroom dripping sweat on the carpet, toweled off, stripped down, stepped into a cold shower.
    After as much of that as he felt like enduring, he cranked up the hot water and shampooed his wheat-colored crew cut. Soaped up the rest of his thick, iron-hard body and dried off.
    The soap part used to take longer. His own hands no longer aroused him. Not since Liz.
    He thought about calling her, just to hear her voice, remembered she’d just gotten back from that bone conference in Brussels, would be suffering through her usual jet lag, better to give her some time.
    By seven a.m. he was dressed in the usual blue blazer, khakis, white shirt and striped tie and black oxfords. Breakfast was hot tea, three bowls of Special K, and nonfat milk chased with a boneless chicken breast. By half past seven he was climbing into his latest heap, a rust-scarred Dodge. The drive from North Hollywood to West L.A. could be brutal and he wanted to be at his desk early, even if the detectives figured him for a hot dog who needed to prove himself.
    Forget yesterday. What have you done …
    He’d been part of the team that closed the marsh murders, high-profile, great P.R. for the department. Success had earned him a nod from Deputy Chief Weinberg and quick