“The timing is what bugs me,” said Moe. “Book's suicide attempt was exactly one week after Caitlin disappeared.”

“Really… what, a guilt reaction?”

“It's a possibility. Book's an actor and probably a long-term dope fiend, so he'd have plenty of reasons to be messed up mentally.”

“Oh, man,” said Aaron. “I've had a bad feeling about Caitlin almost from the beginning-something psycho. Now I'm visualizing big-time ugly.”

“As in?”

“As in one of those vicious gangbangs-something that went too far for them to let her leave alive. As in Book and some buddies, maybe one or more of the Dement boys, because they'd know firsthand about abusing women. Maybe Rory himself, for that matter.”

“They killed her to keep her quiet,” said Moe, “or even uglier, she died in the process.”

“Let's say Book's high when it happens, a few days later his head clears, he realizes what he's done and cuts his wrists… of course that means the guy's capable of feeling remorse.”

Same thing Sturgis had said.

Moe said, “His name pulls up four million Google hits. I spent hours, couldn't find a single useful factoid on the suicide attempt other than he was at Cedars for a week on the VIP ward.”

“Special Imp,” said Aaron.

“You've been there?”

Big smile. “Not as a patient, but I've visited. Top floor, city view, nice carpets, private security out in the hall. Not that it means better medical care. In fact, I hear sometimes you don't want to be a celeb in a hospital.”

“Why not?”

“People like that, never hear the word no, everyone's afraid of them. Normal patient squawks about getting woken up middle of the night to check vitals, staff says, ‘Roll over anyway’ VIP patient squawks, staff backs off. The case I was involved in was two years ago, grandson of a gazillionaire goes in for minor knee surgery, ends up with no legs. I'm not going to tell you it was Cedars or any other place in specific. But trust me, special treatment runs both ways.”

“Who's your contact at Special Imp?”

Aaron shook his head. “Don't have one, they're tighter than the Pentagon. But this is good, something's shaping up.” Risking a hand on his brother's shoulder. “Co-op-er-a-tion, Big Bird would be proud.”

Moe twitched but didn't yank the hand off. “What we've got is mutual interest. Now tell me everything you know.”

“What makes you think I haven't?”

Moe's turn to smile.

“Fine,” said Aaron, “but I really did give you the crux. Don't waste your time searching for other disapperances of Riptide clients because there aren't any. There was a couple named Rensselaer, shortly after Caitlin dropped off the earth. Turns out they were on a fugitive run from a check-kite thing, got found. The only other tidbit that could possibly interest you is Lem Dement's got a big spread in Malibu, sixty-plus acres, used to be a summer camp. Rumor has it he's building his own church there.”

“How close to Pepperdine?”

“Ten miles north, which would put it farther from Riptide, so I don't see anything profound there.”

“With a big spread, be easy to hide a body.”

Aaron nodded. How did I miss that? Must be sleep deprivation.

“What else?” said Moe.

“That's it, cross my heart. How about we continue to do our separate things, either of us gets something interesting, we confer.”

“I'll do the calling,” said Moses. “From my personal cell.”

Aaron smiled. “Got a phobia of cooties?”

“Got a phobia of being associated with something that could go extralegal.”

“I already told you-”

“You going back inside to be with Mom?”

“Just to say good-bye.”

“Say it for me.” Moe strode to his unmarked, got in, drove out of the courtyard.

When he was gone, Aaron felt like the only man in the universe.

Instead of driving to Liz's place, Moe sped east on Sunset through the Strip, aiming his GPS at the Hollywood Hills.

His quest took him up into a pretty neighborhood, dark and secluded, lots of gated properties, not much visible from the street. Exactly what a celeb would want. Especially one with a guilty conscience.

After months of nothing, he was getting hyped up about Caitlin. Rory Stoltz gofering for Mason Book didn't mean much by itself, and, when you got down to it, neither did the timing of Book's wrist-slash. But toss it together…

Aaron thought it worth pursuing…

The GPS lady offered a soothing welcome as he reached the mouth of Swallowsong Lane. Moe's unmarked Crown Vic was conspicuous up here. The No Outlet sign clinched it: Park below and continue on foot.

As he climbed Swallowsong, the air felt crackly-coppery, electric, like something was ready to ignite. From somewhere higher in the hills, a coyote screamed.

Something was getting killed. Welcome to real life.

He found the property soon enough. Big gates, fancy metalwork. Darkness beyond, no indication anyone lived there.

Maybe no one did and it was just one of those party houses, used for dope-raves, porn shoots, that whole lifestyle.

He lingered, imagining Caitlin stepping into a humongous-view house, maybe a bit scared, but awestruck. Drinking more than she was used to. Or worse. Before she knows it, her soft, tan body is stretched out on a strange bed and… Moe cut his inner movie and began the downward climb.

It was nine eleven, over an hour past the time he'd told Liz he'd drop by. He phoned her from the car.

She said, “So sorry, honey.”

“For what?”

“Being late. I just got home. Meetings out in La Puente, construction dig for a shopping center unearthed some remains, they needed to make sure it's not an Indian burial site. I figured I'd get back on time but a big rig rolled over on the freeway. I tried to reach you but my battery went dead. Were you waiting long?”

“Not a sec, I'm just on my way now,” he said. “My own excavation.”

“Oh… that makes me feel better.”

She sounded tired. Moe said, “Still up for hanging out?”

“As in chips and dip?” She laughed. “Yeah, I think I can muster energy for hanging out.”

She greeted him wearing a baggy red tee and sweats, hair pinned up carelessly, no makeup, a can of Coke Zero in one hand. Kissing him quick and hard, she fetched him a beer. “This is a test. Seeing me at my worst.”

“Not much of a challenge.”

They sat on the couch. “Um, one more thing, Moses. It's that time of the month. Came on a little early.”

“Hey,” he said, “we can drink white wine, watch Oprah reruns, talk about our feelings.”

“Or shoes.”

“Don't push it.”

♦

They drank beer, talked about nothing, watched a Project Runway rerun because Liz liked the show and Moe found it hilarious.

After five minutes, some guy bitching about not enough time to stitch an A-line, whatever that was, Moe felt himself nodding off. Before he could shake himself awake, Liz's head grew heavy on his chest. Seconds later she was sleeping.

He switched off the tube, managed to dislodge her without disrupting her dreams, covered her with a throw, and walked silently into her bedroom, where he activated her laptop.

An hour of Web-surfing produced consensus: Mason Book had been plagued by drug problems since his adolescence in Nebraska.

The former Michael Lee Buchalter was a self-admitted “crappy student” and high school dropout who'd done pills, weed, paint, whatever, to get through night shifts at a fetid meatpacking plant outside Omaha.

Driving to L.A. on a whim, Buchalter worked a series of dead-end jobs until a female studio head, watching him hose her Benz at a WeHo car wash, was struck by the lanky, tousle-haired midwesterner's “aw-shucks star quality. I thought finally, someone both men and women could relate to, a Jimmy Stewart for our time.”