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True Detectives by Jonathan Kellerman
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(Mass Market Paperback - Reprint)
- Pub. Date: September 2009
- 480pp
- Sales Rank: 5,609
Reader Rating: (48 ratings)
Detailed Rating: "Writing Style" See All
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Product Details
- Pub. Date: September 2009
- Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
- Format: Mass Market Paperback, 480pp
- Sales Rank: 5,609
- Series: Alex Delaware Series
- ISBN-13: 9780345495181
- ISBN: 0345495187
- Edition Description: Reprint
Synopsis
In Jonathan Kellerman’s gripping novels, the city of Los Angeles is as much a living, breathing character as the heroes and villains who roam its labyrinthine streets. Sunny on the surface but shadowy beneath, this world of privilege and pleasure has a dark core and a dangerous edge. In True Detectives, Kellerman skillfully brings his renowned gifts for breathless suspense and sharp psychological insight to a tale that resonates on every level and satisfies at every turn.
Bound by blood but divided by troubles as old as Cain and Abel, Moses Reed and Aaron Fox were first introduced in Kellerman’s bestselling Bones. They are sons of the same strong-willed mother, and their respective fathers were cops, partners, and friends. Their turbulent family history has set them at odds, despite their shared calling. Moses—part Boy Scout, part bulldog, man of few words—is a no-frills LAPD detective. Aaron, sharp dresser and smooth operator, is an ex-cop turned high-end private eye. Usually they go their separate ways. But the disappearance of Caitlin Frostig isn’t usual. For Moses, it’s an ice-cold mystery he just can’t outrun, even with the help of psychologist Alex Delaware and detective Milo Sturgis. For Aaron, it’s a billable-hours bonanza from his most lucrative client. Like it or not, Moses and Aaron are in this one together–and the rivalry that rules them won’t let either man quit till the case is cracked.
A straight-arrow, straight-A student from Malibu, Caitlin has only two men in her life: her sullen single father and her wholesome college sweetheart, who even the battling brothers agree seems toodownright upright to be true. Reluctantly tag-teaming in a desperate search for fresh leads, Moses and Aaron zero in on Caitlin’s white knight as their primary “person of interest,” hoping that, like most people in L.A., he has a secret side.
But they uncover more than just a secret as they descend into the sinister, seamy side of the City of Angels after dark, populated by a Hollywood Babylon cast of the glamorous and the damned: a millionaire movie director turned hatemongering eccentric; a desperate Beverly Hills housewife looking for an exit from the fast lane; a heartthrob actor being eaten alive by personal demons; a hooker who’s probably seen it all . . . and might just know too much. And at the center, a dead young woman whose downward spiral and brutal end loom over Moses and Aaron like an omen of what may come to be if the dark end of the street claims another lost soul.
From the Hardcover edition.
Publishers Weekly
PI Aaron Fox and L.A. cop Moe Reed, interracial half-brothers who played minor roles in 2008's Bones, take center stage in bestseller Kellerman's routine 24th Alex Delaware novel. When Fox, who used to work for the LAPD, looks into the missing-persons case of 20-year-old Caitlin Frostig, he runs into conflict with Reed. The brothers end up pursuing some predictable lines of inquiry, checking out Rory Stoltz, Frostig's college boyfriend, as well as links to a filmmaker, Lem Dement, who's suspected of domestic abuse. More A-list connections surface after the investigators learn Stoltz was the personal assistant for actor Mason Book, whose rumored suicide attempt came shortly after Frostig's disappearance. The strains between Fox and Reed don't generate much heat, while the pacing and writing aren't up to Kellerman's best. Hopefully, Delaware and detective Milo Sturgis, relegated to cameos, will be back in their usual starring positions next time. (Mar. 24)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. More Reviews and RecommendationsBiography
Child psychologist-turned-novelist Jonathan Kellerman uses his knowledge of the psyche's weaknesses to create chilling crime novels, many starring detective (and former child psychologist, natch) Alex Delaware and cop friend Milo Sturgis.
More About the AuthorCustomer Reviews
- Reader Rating:
- Ratings: 48Reviews: 25
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Serious change of writing styleby Tidbitsofscott
Reader Rating:
See Detailed Ratings
September 18, 2009: This is so unlike the previous Jonathan Kellerman books I have read. Is this ghost writing or what? I didn't even finish the book. It was just too boring and had too many characters that were hard to sort out. Finally, I just skipped over the last 1/3 of the book and went right to the end. Wow! Case solved. Did Jonathan really write this? Bring back Dr. Delaware and Milo. Get rid of the twins. Their birth story is too fanciful even for fiction.
I Also Recommend: When the Bough Breaks (Alex Delaware Series #1), 206 Bones (Temperance Brennan Series #12), Love's Eclipse Of The Heart.
Read them Allby Anonymous
Reader Rating:
See Detailed Ratings
August 29, 2009: The brothers were introduced in his last work. He did a good job with it, but I miss the interaction between his established characters. There are times when Milo gets off some classic lines, and that didn't happen here. I have read all the Jonathan Kellerman books and will continue to do so. I guess he has just given us the new brothers and their wonderful mother to become new family members. It will take a while. If you now or have ever lived on the westside of Los Angeles, you will especially enjoy a Kellerman work.
Fact File
Name:
Jonathan Kellerman
Current Home:
Beverly Hills, California
Place of Birth:
New York, New York
Education:
B.A. in psychology, University of California-Los Angeles; Ph.D., University of Southern California, 1974
Awards:
Edgar Award, Anthony Award for When the Bough Breaks, 1986
Biography
"I like to say that as a psychologist I was concerned with the rules of human behavior," Jonathan Kellerman has said. "As a novelist, I'm concerned with the exceptions." Both roles are evident in Kellerman's string of bestselling psychological thrillers, in which he probes the hidden corners of the human psyche with a clinician's expertise and a novelist's dark imagination.
Kellerman worked for years as a child psychologist, but his first love was writing, which he started doing at the age of nine. After reading Ross MacDonald's Lew Archer novels, however, Kellerman found his voice as a writer -- and his calling as a suspense novelist. His first published novel, When the Bough Breaks, featured a child psychologist, Dr. Alex Delaware, who helps solve a murder case in which the only apparent witness is a traumatized seven-year-old girl. The book was an instant hit; as New York's Newsday raved, "[T]his knockout of an entertainment is the kind of book which establishes a career in one stroke."
Kellerman has since written a slew more Alex Delaware thrillers; not surprisingly, the series hero shares much of Kellerman's own background. The books often center on problems of family psychopathology—something Kellerman had ample chance to observe in his day job. The Delaware novels have also chronicled the shifting social and cultural landscape of Los Angeles, where Kellerman lives with his wife (who is also a health care practitioner-turned-novelist) and their four children.
A prolific author who averages one book a year, Kellerman dislikes the suggestion that he simply cranks them out. He has a disciplined work schedule, and sits down to write in his office five days a week, whether he feels "inspired" or not. "I sit down and start typing. I think it's important to deromanticize the process and not to get puffed up about one's abilities," he said in a 1998 chat on Barnes & Noble.com. "Writing fiction's the greatest job in the world, but it's still a job. All the successful novelists I know share two qualities: talent and a good work ethic."
And he does plenty of research, drawing on medical databases and current journals as well as his own experience as a practicing psychologist. Then there are the field trips: before writing Monster, Kellerman spent time at a state hospital for the criminally insane.
Kellerman has taken periodic breaks from his Alex Delaware series to produce highly successful stand-alone novels that he claims have helped him to gain some needed distance from the series characters. It's a testament to Kellerman's storytelling powers that the series books and the stand-alones have both gone over well with readers; clearly, Kellerman's appeal lies more in his dexterity than in his reliance on a formula. "Often mystery writers can either plot like devils or create believable characters," wrote one USA Today reviewer. "Kellerman stands out because he can do both. Masterfully."
Good to Know
Some outtakes from our interview with Jonathan Kellerman:
"I am the proud husband of a brilliant novelist, Faye Kellerman. I am the proud father of a brilliant novelist, Jesse Kellerman. And three lovely, gifted daughters, one of whom, Aliza, may turn out to be one of the greatest novelists/poets of this century. "
"My first job was selling newspapers on a corner, age 12. Then I delivered liquor, age 16 -- the most engaging part of that gig was schlepping cartons of bottles up stairways in building without elevators. Adding insult to injury, tips generally ranged from a dime to a quarter. And, I was too young to sample the wares. Subsequent jobs included guitar teacher, freelance musician, newspaper cartoonist, Sunday School teacher, youth leader, research/teaching assistant. All of that simplified when I was 24 and earned a Ph.D. in psychology. Another great job. Then novelist? Oh, my, an embarrassment of riches. Thank you, thank you, thank you, kind readers. I'm the luckiest guy in the world.
"I paint, I play the guitar, I like to hang out with intelligent people whose thought processes aren't by stereotype, punditry, political correctness, etc. But enough about me. The important thing is The Book."
More fun facts:
After Kellerman called his literary agent to say that his wife, Faye, had written a novel, the agent reluctantly agreed to take a look ("Later, he told me his eyes rolled all the way back in his head," Kellerman said in an online chat). Two weeks later, a publisher snapped up Faye Kellerman's first book, The Ritual Bath. Faye Kellerman has since written many more mysteries featuring L.A. cop Peter Decker and his wife Rina Lazarus, including the bestsellers Justice and Jupiter's Bones.
When Kellerman wrote When the Bough Breaks in 1981, crime novels featuring gay characters were nearly nonexistent, so Alex Delaware's gay detective friend, Milo Sturgis, was a rarity. Kellerman admits it can be difficult for a straight writer to portray a gay character, but says the feedback he's gotten from readers -- gay and straight -- has been mostly positive.
In his spare time, Kellerman is a musician who collects vintage guitars. He once placed the winning online auction bid for a guitar signed by Don Henley and his bandmates from the Eagles; proceeds from the sale were donated to the Jewish Federation of Greater Dallas.
In addition to his novels, Kellerman has written two children's books and three nonfiction books, including Savage Spawn, about the backgrounds and behaviors of child psychopaths.
But for a 1986 television adaptation of When the Bough Breaks, none of Kellerman's work has yet made it to screen. "I wish I could say that Hollywood's beating a path to my door," he said in a Barnes & Noble.com chat in 1998, "but the powers-that-be at the studios don't seem to feel that my books lend themselves to film adaptation. The most frequent problem cited is too much complexity."
Feature Interview
In the winter of 2008, Jonathan Kellerman took time out to talk with our editors: What was the book that most influenced your life or your career as a writer -- and why?
The Babylonian Talmud taught me to think critically. The Count of Monte Cristo taught me the value of strong characterization in concert with a robust plot.
What are your ten favorite books, and what makes them special to you?
I couldn't hope to limit the list to ten!
What are some of your favorite films, and what makes them unforgettable to you?
To me, Fargo is the perfect movie - mordant, fast-moving, richly characterized, well-structured.
What types of music do you like? Is there any particular kind you like to listen to when you're writing?
I've been playing guitar for 50 years and am currently concentrating on classical. However, I love anything well-done - from Baroque to Rap.
What are your favorite kinds of books to give -- and get -- as gifts?
Well-done novels, visually beautiful art books, biographies. Really, once again, anything reductionistic misses the mark.
Do you have any special writing rituals? For example, what do you have on your desk when you're writing?
I treat writing as a job -- the greatest job in the world, but a job. One needs to be professional -- e.g., get up, exercise, get some nutrition, shower, shave, get dressed ... and prepare to open up a psychic vein for a few hours. No rituals, just intense concentration and a desire to write a novel that will entertain and, hopefully, enrich.
Many writers are hardly "overnight success" stories. How long did it take for you to get where you are today? Any rejection-slip horror stories or inspirational anecdotes?
I won a literary prize in 1971 and published my first novel in 1985. Despite two previous publications of nonfiction books, I regarded myself during that 14-year period as a failed writer with a really good day job (clinical psychologist/medical school professor). The only inspiration I can offer is that sometimes an obsessive-compulsive personality pays off.
What tips or advice do you have for writers still looking to be discovered?
Forget "discovery," "being a writer," "fame," -- all nonsense and most destructive, all distractions from the core: writing. If you are driven to write and have talent, hard work and drive are likely to help. Experience life to the fullest, be intensely curious. Most important, write. And rewrite. And rewrite. And don't take yourself too seriously. The guy who fixes your sink is doing something as important -- perhaps more important -- than you are.
From Barnes & Noble
Moses Reed and Aaron Fox, the battling half brothers of Bones, return for another foray into crime fighting and sibling rivalry. LAPD detective Aaron and private detective (and former cop) Moses share a mother, but little else. When issues about the two-year-old disappearance of Caitlin Frostig resurface, these modern-day Cain and Abel sleuths are once again thrown together to sort out the evidence -- and their abiding differences. A classic setup and a suspenseful family whodunit.
From the Publisher
In Jonathan Kellerman’s gripping novels, the city of Los Angeles is as much a living, breathing character as the heroes and villains who roam its labyrinthine streets. Sunny on the surface but shadowy beneath, this world of privilege and pleasure has a dark core and a dangerous edge. In True Detectives, Kellerman skillfully brings his renowned gifts for breathless suspense and sharp psychological insight to a tale that resonates on every level and satisfies at every turn.
Bound by blood but divided by troubles as old as Cain and Abel, Moses Reed and Aaron Fox were first introduced in Kellerman’s bestselling Bones. They are sons of the same strong-willed mother, and their respective fathers were cops, partners, and friends. Their turbulent family history has set them at odds, despite their shared calling. Moses—part Boy Scout, part bulldog, man of few words—is a no-frills LAPD detective. Aaron, sharp dresser and smooth operator, is an ex-cop turned high-end private eye. Usually they go their separate ways. But the disappearance of Caitlin Frostig isn’t usual. For Moses, it’s an ice-cold mystery he just can’t outrun, even with the help of psychologist Alex Delaware and detective Milo Sturgis. For Aaron, it’s a billable-hours bonanza from his most lucrative client. Like it or not, Moses and Aaron are in this one together–and the rivalry that rules them won’t let either man quit till the case is cracked.
A straight-arrow, straight-A student from Malibu, Caitlin has only two men in her life: her sullen single father and her wholesome college sweetheart, who even the battling brothers agree seems toodownright upright to be true. Reluctantly tag-teaming in a desperate search for fresh leads, Moses and Aaron zero in on Caitlin’s white knight as their primary “person of interest,” hoping that, like most people in L.A., he has a secret side.
But they uncover more than just a secret as they descend into the sinister, seamy side of the City of Angels after dark, populated by a Hollywood Babylon cast of the glamorous and the damned: a millionaire movie director turned hatemongering eccentric; a desperate Beverly Hills housewife looking for an exit from the fast lane; a heartthrob actor being eaten alive by personal demons; a hooker who’s probably seen it all . . . and might just know too much. And at the center, a dead young woman whose downward spiral and brutal end loom over Moses and Aaron like an omen of what may come to be if the dark end of the street claims another lost soul.
From the Hardcover edition.
Publishers Weekly
PI Aaron Fox and L.A. cop Moe Reed, interracial half-brothers who played minor roles in 2008's Bones, take center stage in bestseller Kellerman's routine 24th Alex Delaware novel. When Fox, who used to work for the LAPD, looks into the missing-persons case of 20-year-old Caitlin Frostig, he runs into conflict with Reed. The brothers end up pursuing some predictable lines of inquiry, checking out Rory Stoltz, Frostig's college boyfriend, as well as links to a filmmaker, Lem Dement, who's suspected of domestic abuse. More A-list connections surface after the investigators learn Stoltz was the personal assistant for actor Mason Book, whose rumored suicide attempt came shortly after Frostig's disappearance. The strains between Fox and Reed don't generate much heat, while the pacing and writing aren't up to Kellerman's best. Hopefully, Delaware and detective Milo Sturgis, relegated to cameos, will be back in their usual starring positions next time. (Mar. 24)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.Amanda Scott - Library Journal
Fans of Kellerman's Dr. Alex Delaware and detective Milo Sturgis will find them in his latest novel, but only in passing. Half brothers, private eye Aaron Fox and LAPD detective Moe Reed (Bones), are center stage in this whodunit. They happen to be investigating the same case, and their examination of the life of missing 20-year-old Caitlin Frostig turns up connections she had with various lowlifes, the details of which form the bulk of the novel. As the brothers begin to overcome their issues with each other, they start to piece together the disappearance of another girl and her son, who are associated with Caitlin. All of this eventually leads back to the current whereabouts of Caitlin. Kellerman's writing, usually neat and not overly burdened by extraneous detail, fails to move the story along, as is the case with the unsympathetic characters. The conclusion is too easily wrapped up as well. Public libraries should see demand for this best-selling author, but readers who are not already fans probably won't take notice. [See Prepub Alert, LJ11/1/08.]
Loading...Product Details
- Pub. Date: September 2009
- Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
- Format: Mass Market Paperback, 480pp
- Sales Rank: 5,609
- Series: Alex Delaware Series
- ISBN-13: 9780345495181
- ISBN: 0345495187
- Edition Description: Reprint
Read an Excerpt
Chapter OneAugust 9, 1979
Alleged air-conditioning," said Darius Fox. "What's your take, John Jasper? Motor pool morons set us on bake or broil?"
Jack Reed laughed and used a meaty, freckled forearm to clear sweat from his face. Scanning the night-darkened Dumpsters and butt-sides of shuttered, low-rent businesses that lined the alley, he sucked on his Parliament and blew smoke out the cruiser's window as Darius kept the car moving forward at ten mph.
Ten years ago, to the day, the Manson Family had butchered Sharon Tate and a whole bunch of other people. If either Fox or Reed was aware of the anniversary, neither thought it worth mentioning.
Crazy Charlie's crimes might as well have been on another planet; big-ticket outrage on high-end real estate. Fox and Reed's Southwest Division shifts were filled with nonstop penny-ante crap that sometimes blossomed into stomach-churning violence. Reality that never made the papers because, as far as they could see, the papers were works of fiction.
Fox said, "Man, it's a steam bath."
Reed said, "Alleged, as in this is a motor vehicle. More like a shopping cart with a cherry on top."
Fox had prepped for driving the way he usually did, hand-vacuuming the driver's portion of the bench seat, then wiping the steering wheel down with his private bottle of Purell. Now it was his own sweat coating the plastic. "Hand me a tissue, J.J."
Reed complied and his partner rubbed the wheel till it squeaked. Both men continued to study the alley as they crawled. Nothing.Good. One half of the shift had passed.
Jack Reed said, "Alleged, as in Jimmy Carter's a commander in chief."
"Now you're getting unpleasantly political."
"That's a problem?" "Night like this it is."
"Truth is truth, Darius. It was Peanut Boy helped that loony towel-head back into Eye-Ran and look at all the crap that brought down."
"No debate on Farmer Bucktooth being a nitwit, John Jasper. I just don't want to pollute our precious time together with small things like international affairs."
Reed thought about that. "Fair enough."
"I'm known for my fairness."
Slow shift; the usual drunk and disorderlies at Mexican dance halls on Vermont, a couple of false-alarm burglary calls, an assortment of miscreants warned and released because none of them was worth the paperwork.
The last call they'd fielded before embarking on alley-duty was yet another noise complaint at a USC fraternity, already taken care of by the campus rent-a-cops by the time Fox and Reed arrived. Rich, confident college boys saying yessir and nossir, scooping up beer bottles from the lawn, hurrying inside to continue the merriment. Wink wink wink.
Reed smoked his Parliament down to a shred, pinched it cold between his fingers, flicked the remnant out the window. He was a ruddy, blond fireplug, five nine on a good day, two hundred muscled pounds, thirty but looking older, with skin leathered by the sun and a nose flattened by high school football. A hay-colored crewcut topped his bullet skull. A naturally grainy voice was coarsened further by two packs a day.
Three years out of the service, all his time spent running an armory in Germany.
He said, "Tell you what alleged is, Darius: L.A. nights cooling off. Night like this, might as well have stayed in Bull Shoals." "And missed the opportunity to ride with me?"
Reed grinned. "Perish the thought."
"Damn heat," said Fox, dabbing sweat from his straight-edge mustache. He was a tall, rangy black man, thirty-one years old, a former air force mechanic who'd been told by many people that he was handsome enough to act.
Jack Reed, a small-town Arkansas boy, was comfortable with black people in a way northerners could never be. He found L.A. scary. Everyone pretending to love everyone else but the streets hummed with anger.
Working with a black man-sitting side by side, eating, talking, trusting your life to a black man-was a whole different level of comfort for a transplanted southerner, and he was surprised how fast he'd gotten used to riding with Darius.
Knowing what Darius was thinking without Darius having to put it into words.
He could only imagine what his cousins would say if he bothered to talk to them anymore, which he didn't. All that ignorance and stupidity was history.
He contemplated another cigarette as Darius exited the alley, drove a block, entered a neighboring back lane. More garbage and accordion-grated rear doors.
Same old same old; both patrolmen were bored and crazy-hot.
Darius used his forearm to wipe sweat off his chin. Shiny nails flashed. Jack resisted the urge to kid his partner about the weekly manicures. Night like this, no sense being tiresome.
Jack had been to Darius's neat little bungalow in Crenshaw for barbecues and the like, played with Darius's little boy, made chitchat with the woman Darius was supposed to be committed to till death do us.
Madeleine Fox was a small-waisted, curvy, strong-featured white girl who thought she was an artist but had no talent anyone else could perceive. Great teeth and hair, even better body. Those big soft . . . Jack imagined Darius getting close to her. Sliding down the bed and putting his manicured hands on . . . Jack's own face and body and hands transferred to the scene.
Feeling like a shit, he shut down the movie, lit up another Parliament.
"You okay?" said Darius.
"Yeah."
"You got fidgety. Pumping those knees, like you do."
"I'm fine."
"Okay."
"Okay, what?"
"You fidget when something's bugging you."
"Nothing's bugging me."
"Okay."
Jack said, "All that intuition, apply for detective."
"Big fun," said Darius. "Sitting on my ass all day typing, no more stimulating conversation with you? Not to mention fringe benefits?"
Jack had been riding with Darius for thirteen months, knew the perks his partner was talking about. Comped meals, "donations" of merchandise by grateful civilians.
Last week, both he and Darius had gotten brand-new pocket calculators from an Arab with a store on Hoover after they'd busted two kids trying to shoplift cassette tapes.
Darius's favorite perk had nothing to do with tangible goods.
Police groupies. Hit the right cop bar at the right time and they swarmed like ants on molasses. Sad girls, for the most part, not Jack's thing. But he didn't judge.
Sometimes he wondered, though. Darius married to a good-looking, downright sexy girl like Maddy, nice backyard, cute little Aaron.
Jack ever got married, he was pretty sure he'd never step out.
Sometimes he thought about Maddy, those teeth. The rest of the package. Sometimes that brought on headaches and long, itchy thoughts. Mostly when his crappy little single in Inglewood got real quiet and Penthouse wasn't gonna cut it.
Darius said, "Wind blows the heat in, then the heat just sits down and stays until another wind finally decides to kick its ass out of town."
Jack said, "Tonight's weather report is brought to you by Cal Worthington Dodge. Now for the latest on them Dodgers."
Darius laughed. "Nasty night like this, almost a full moon on top of the heat, you'd think we'd be having more fun."
"People carving each other up," said Jack.
"People shooting each other full of holes," said Darius.
"People stomping each other till the brains ooze out of their cracked skulls."
"People strangling each other till the tongues are sticking out like limp . . . salamis."
"For a moment I thought you were gonna say something else-hey, look at the land-yacht."
Pointing up the alley to a big white car idling, maybe ten yards up, pulled to the left. Lights off but the security bulb of a neighboring building cast an oblique band of yellow across the vehicle's rear end.
Darius said, "Caddy, looks pretty new. How come it's smoking worse than you?"
He rolled closer and each of them made out the model.
Big white Fleetwood, matching vinyl top, fake wire wheels. Tinted windows shut tight.
Someone's A.C. wasn't alleged.
Darius rolled close enough to read the tags. Jack called in the numbers.
One-year-old Caddy, registered to Arpad Avakian, address on Edgemont Street, no wants or warrants. Darius said, "East Hollywood Armenian. Bit of a drive to Southwest."
Jack said, "Maybe something worth driving for."
"Real worth driving for."
Both of them thinking the same thing without having to say it: no logical reason for Arpad Armenian or whoever was using his wheels to be in this crap-dump neighborhood in a newish luxury boat unless someone had a serious jones.
Dope or sex.
Or both.
Guy with a fresh Caddy had the potential to be a fun bust, bit of diversion from the brain-dead locals they usually dealt with.
If Arpad was polite, they might even let him go with a warning. Some of those Hollywood Armenians owned stereo stores and the like. Nothing wrong with chalking up another grateful civilian.
Darius got closer, put the cruiser in Park. Got out of the car before Jack could place his hand on the door handle.
Jack watched his partner hitch up his trousers, approach the Caddy with the cop swagger that originated when you learned to walk with all that heavy gear on your belt. Like making your way on the rolling deck of a boat; eventually, you came to like it.
Darius walked right up next to the Caddy, shined his flashlight at the driver's window, holding it high, the way they were trained, to prevent it being grabbed. His free hand hovered near his holstered .38, and Jack felt his own paw settling on his weapon. Nowadays everything had to be logged, so he called in the stop, caught a bad connection on the radio, tried twice more before reaching Dispatch.
Meanwhile, Darius was rapping on the window.
Tinted almost black. It stayed closed.
"Police, open up."
The Caddy sat there, smoking away.
Maybe suicide? Or a carbon mono accident? Normally, you had to be in an indoor situation to asphyxiate yourself with exhaust, but Jack had heard about venting gone bad.
"Open up now." Darius put that menacing edge in his voice. You'd never know this was a guy who loved his weekly salon manicure.
The Caddy's window remained shut.
As Darius repeated the command, he reached to unsnap his holster and Jack moved for his own gun and opened the cruiser's passenger door.
Just as he got to his feet, the window slid down silently.
Whatever Darius saw relaxed him. He dropped his gun arm. Smiled. Jack relaxed, too. "License and reg-" The night cracked.
Three shots in rapid succession. Each hit Darius square in the chest. Each caused him to buck. He didn't fall back the way they did in the movies. He sank down into a sitting position, hands flat on the asphalt, as the Caddy lurched into gear and shot forward.
At first glance, just a guy resting.
Crazily, Jack thought: He's okay.
Then Darius pivoted, half faced Jack. What looked like motor oil leaked through Darius's tailored navy shirt. His face was that of a stranger.
Jack screamed and fired at the fleeing car. Emptying his revolver as he ran to Darius.
"Oh man, oh Jesus, oh man, Lord Jesus . . ."
Later, he'd learn that one of his bullets had pierced the Caddy's rear window, but that hadn't slowed the big car down. Darius continued to sit there. Three wet holes in his chest.
Jack cradled him, put pressure on the wounds. "Hold on, Dar, you're gonna be fine, just hold on hold on hold on." Darius stared at the sky with dull, sightless eyes. His mouth gaped.
Jack felt for a pulse. Gimme something, c'mon, c'mon, gimme . . . Darius's skin turned to ice.
Jack began CPR, covering Darius's cold mouth with his own.
Like breathing into an empty cave. Darius lay there. Still as the heat that had blown in from the desert and decided to stay.
Chapter Two
By now, Aaron Fox understood Mr. Dmitri.
Once a level of trust had developed, he'd stay out of your face.
Aaron's favorite type of client. Real deep pockets made Mr. Dmitri the perfect client.
Before his first meeting with the guy, Aaron had done his usual research. Googling Leonid Davidovitch Dmitri and coming up with two dozen hits, the most informative a rags-to-riches tale in a business journal: Moscow born, trained as an electrical engineer, Dmitri had been stuck for fifteen years in a dead-end Communist job measuring noise levels at restaurants and filing reports that never got read. At the age of thirty-seven, he'd emigrated to Israel, then the U.S., taught night school math and physics to other Russians, tinkered in his kitchen, inventing numerous objects of dubious value. Ten years ago, he'd patented a tiny, wafer-thin stereo speaker that produced outsized sound and was perfect for cars-especially high-end sports models with their limited cabin space.
Aaron's Porsche had been outfitted with Dmitri's gizmo when he'd had it customized and the fidelity was kick-ass. The article estimated Mr. Dmitri's net worth at a couple hundred million, and Aaron was expecting to meet some tycoon sitting behind an acre of desk in an over-the-top inner sanctum crammed with imitation Fabergé and God knew what else. What he encountered was a short, bald, stubby-limbed, bullnecked man in his late fifties with a pie-tin face blued by stubble, sitting behind a plywood desk in a no-window hole at a factory in a Sylmar industrial park.
Dmitri was maybe five five, at least two hundred, lots of that muscle, but also some fat. Dark brown laser-sharp eyes never stopped moving.
Two hundred biggies, but the guy wasn't spending it on wardrobe. Short-sleeved pale blue shirt, baggy gray pleated pants, gray New Balances. Aaron came to learn that it was Dmitri's uniform. Cheap digital watch.
Fake-o tongue-and-groove covered all four walls of the office. Same for the door, giving the place a claustrophobic feel. That first meeting, he'd played it safe clothes-wise, not knowing what kind of rapport he'd have to develop with the client.
That kind of individual attention was one of the many keys to Aaron's success. Variety was what he liked about the job. One day you might be meeting at Koi with a pathetically tucked, youth-chasing record producer still thinking he could pull off hip-hop. Chopsticking miso black cod and waiting as the client struggled for nonchalance, inside he's rotting from insecurity as he fumbles to explain his reason for hiring a detective. Finally the confession: He needs to know, is his twenty-seven-year-old fourth wife blowing the good-looking guy someone saw her with at Fred Segal, or is Darrett really a gay hairdresser she took along as a shopping buddy?
Situation like that, you don't dress down to the client's level but you don't wear a suit. Aaron met the poor fool wearing indigo Diesel jeans, a slate-colored, retro Egyptian cotton T-shirt from VagueLine, unstructured black linen jacket, perforated black Santoni driving shoes.
The following day, he was at a downtown law firm, corporate client talking through a six-hundred-dollar-an-hour mouthpiece, needing someone to check out the goings-on at a Temple Street construction site where tools and building materials were disappearing at an alarming rate. For that one, Aaron chose a navy pin-striped Paul Smith made-to-measure, pearl-gray Ferré shirt, maroon Sego tie, blue pocket square, brown kidskin Magli loafers.
From the Hardcover edition.
Read a Sample Chapter
True Detectives
A Novel
By Jonathan Kellerman
Random House Large Print
Copyright © 2009
Jonathan Kellerman
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780739328224
Chapter One
August 9, 1979
Alleged air-conditioning," said Darius Fox. "What's your take, John Jasper? Motor pool morons set us on bake or broil?"
Jack Reed laughed and used a meaty, freckled forearm to clear sweat from his face. Scanning the night-darkened Dumpsters and butt-sides of shuttered, low-rent businesses that lined the alley, he sucked on his Parliament and blew smoke out the cruiser's window as Darius kept the car moving forward at ten mph.
Ten years ago, to the day, the Manson Family had butchered Sharon Tate and a whole bunch of other people. If either Fox or Reed was aware of the anniversary, neither thought it worth mentioning.
Crazy Charlie's crimes might as well have been on another planet; big-ticket outrage on high-end real estate. Fox and Reed's Southwest Division shifts were filled with nonstop penny-ante crap that sometimes blossomed into stomach-churning violence. Reality that never made the papers because, as far as they could see, the papers were works of fiction.
Fox said, "Man, it's a steam bath."
Reed said, "Alleged, as in this is a motor vehicle. More like a shopping cart with a cherry on top."
Fox had prepped for driving the way he usually did,hand-vacuuming the driver's portion of the bench seat, then wiping the steering wheel down with his private bottle of Purell. Now it was his own sweat coating the plastic. "Hand me a tissue, J.J."
Reed complied and his partner rubbed the wheel till it squeaked. Both men continued to study the alley as they crawled. Nothing. Good. One half of the shift had passed.
Jack Reed said, "Alleged, as in Jimmy Carter's a commander in chief."
"Now you're getting unpleasantly political."
"That's a problem?" "Night like this it is."
"Truth is truth, Darius. It was Peanut Boy helped that loony towel-head back into Eye-Ran and look at all the crap that brought down."
"No debate on Farmer Bucktooth being a nitwit, John Jasper. I just don't want to pollute our precious time together with small things like international affairs."
Reed thought about that. "Fair enough."
"I'm known for my fairness."
Slow shift; the usual drunk and disorderlies at Mexican dance halls on Vermont, a couple of false-alarm burglary calls, an assortment of miscreants warned and released because none of them was worth the paperwork.
The last call they'd fielded before embarking on alley-duty was yet another noise complaint at a USC fraternity, already taken care of by the campus rent-a-cops by the time Fox and Reed arrived. Rich, confident college boys saying yessir and nossir, scooping up beer bottles from the lawn, hurrying inside to continue the merriment. Wink wink wink.
Reed smoked his Parliament down to a shred, pinched it cold between his fingers, flicked the remnant out the window. He was a ruddy, blond fireplug, five nine on a good day, two hundred muscled pounds, thirty but looking older, with skin leathered by the sun and a nose flattened by high school football. A hay-colored crewcut topped his bullet skull. A naturally grainy voice was coarsened further by two packs a day.
Three years out of the service, all his time spent running an armory in Germany.
He said, "Tell you what alleged is, Darius: L.A. nights cooling off. Night like this, might as well have stayed in Bull Shoals." "And missed the opportunity to ride with me?"
Reed grinned. "Perish the thought."
"Damn heat," said Fox, dabbing sweat from his straight-edge mustache. He was a tall, rangy black man, thirty-one years old, a former air force mechanic who'd been told by many people that he was handsome enough to act.
Jack Reed, a small-town Arkansas boy, was comfortable with black people in a way northerners could never be. He found L.A. scary. Everyone pretending to love everyone else but the streets hummed with anger.
Working with a black man-sitting side by side, eating, talking, trusting your life to a black man-was a whole different level of comfort for a transplanted southerner, and he was surprised how fast he'd gotten used to riding with Darius.
Knowing what Darius was thinking without Darius having to put it into words.
He could only imagine what his cousins would say if he bothered to talk to them anymore, which he didn't. All that ignorance and stupidity was history.
He contemplated another cigarette as Darius exited the alley, drove a block, entered a neighboring back lane. More garbage and accordion-grated rear doors.
Same old same old; both patrolmen were bored and crazy-hot.
Darius used his forearm to wipe sweat off his chin. Shiny nails flashed. Jack resisted the urge to kid his partner about the weekly manicures. Night like this, no sense being tiresome.
Jack had been to Darius's neat little bungalow in Crenshaw for barbecues and the like, played with Darius's little boy, made chitchat with the woman Darius was supposed to be committed to till death do us.
Madeleine Fox was a small-waisted, curvy, strong-featured white girl who thought she was an artist but had no talent anyone else could perceive. Great teeth and hair, even better body. Those big soft . . . Jack imagined Darius getting close to her. Sliding down the bed and putting his manicured hands on . . . Jack's own face and body and hands transferred to the scene.
Feeling like a shit, he shut down the movie, lit up another Parliament.
"You okay?" said Darius.
"Yeah."
"You got fidgety. Pumping those knees, like you do."
"I'm fine."
"Okay."
"Okay, what?"
"You fidget when something's bugging you."
"Nothing's bugging me."
"Okay."
Jack said, "All that intuition, apply for detective."
"Big fun," said Darius. "Sitting on my ass all day typing, no more stimulating conversation with you? Not to mention fringe benefits?"
Jack had been riding with Darius for thirteen months, knew the perks his partner was talking about. Comped meals, "donations" of merchandise by grateful civilians.
Last week, both he and Darius had gotten brand-new pocket calculators from an Arab with a store on Hoover after they'd busted two kids trying to shoplift cassette tapes.
Darius's favorite perk had nothing to do with tangible goods.
Police groupies. Hit the right cop bar at the right time and they swarmed like ants on molasses. Sad girls, for the most part, not Jack's thing. But he didn't judge.
Sometimes he wondered, though. Darius married to a good-looking, downright sexy girl like Maddy, nice backyard, cute little Aaron.
Jack ever got married, he was pretty sure he'd never step out.
Sometimes he thought about Maddy, those teeth. The rest of the package. Sometimes that brought on headaches and long, itchy thoughts. Mostly when his crappy little single in Inglewood got real quiet and Penthouse wasn't gonna cut it.
Darius said, "Wind blows the heat in, then the heat just sits down and stays until another wind finally decides to kick its ass out of town."
Jack said, "Tonight's weather report is brought to you by Cal Worthington Dodge. Now for the latest on them Dodgers."
Darius laughed. "Nasty night like this, almost a full moon on top of the heat, you'd think we'd be having more fun."
"People carving each other up," said Jack.
"People shooting each other full of holes," said Darius.
"People stomping each other till the brains ooze out of their cracked skulls."
"People strangling each other till the tongues are sticking out like limp . . . salamis."
"For a moment I thought you were gonna say something else-hey, look at the land-yacht."
Pointing up the alley to a big white car idling, maybe ten yards up, pulled to the left. Lights off but the security bulb of a neighboring building cast an oblique band of yellow across the vehicle's rear end.
Darius said, "Caddy, looks pretty new. How come it's smoking worse than you?"
He rolled closer and each of them made out the model.
Big white Fleetwood, matching vinyl top, fake wire wheels. Tinted windows shut tight.
Someone's A.C. wasn't alleged.
Darius rolled close enough to read the tags. Jack called in the numbers.
One-year-old Caddy, registered to Arpad Avakian, address on Edgemont Street, no wants or warrants. Darius said, "East Hollywood Armenian. Bit of a drive to Southwest."
Jack said, "Maybe something worth driving for."
"Real worth driving for."
Both of them thinking the same thing without having to say it: no logical reason for Arpad Armenian or whoever was using his wheels to be in this crap-dump neighborhood in a newish luxury boat unless someone had a serious jones.
Dope or sex.
Or both.
Guy with a fresh Caddy had the potential to be a fun bust, bit of diversion from the brain-dead locals they usually dealt with.
If Arpad was polite, they might even let him go with a warning. Some of those Hollywood Armenians owned stereo stores and the like. Nothing wrong with chalking up another grateful civilian.
Darius got closer, put the cruiser in Park. Got out of the car before Jack could place his hand on the door handle.
Jack watched his partner hitch up his trousers, approach the Caddy with the cop swagger that originated when you learned to walk with all that heavy gear on your belt. Like making your way on the rolling deck of a boat; eventually, you came to like it.
Darius walked right up next to the Caddy, shined his flashlight at the driver's window, holding it high, the way they were trained, to prevent it being grabbed. His free hand hovered near his holstered .38, and Jack felt his own paw settling on his weapon. Nowadays everything had to be logged, so he called in the stop, caught a bad connection on the radio, tried twice more before reaching Dispatch.
Meanwhile, Darius was rapping on the window.
Tinted almost black. It stayed closed.
"Police, open up."
The Caddy sat there, smoking away.
Maybe suicide? Or a carbon mono accident? Normally, you had to be in an indoor situation to asphyxiate yourself with exhaust, but Jack had heard about venting gone bad.
"Open up now." Darius put that menacing edge in his voice. You'd never know this was a guy who loved his weekly salon manicure.
The Caddy's window remained shut.
As Darius repeated the command, he reached to unsnap his holster and Jack moved for his own gun and opened the cruiser's passenger door.
Just as he got to his feet, the window slid down silently.
Whatever Darius saw relaxed him. He dropped his gun arm. Smiled. Jack relaxed, too. "License and reg-" The night cracked.
Three shots in rapid succession. Each hit Darius square in the chest. Each caused him to buck. He didn't fall back the way they did in the movies. He sank down into a sitting position, hands flat on the asphalt, as the Caddy lurched into gear and shot forward.
At first glance, just a guy resting.
Crazily, Jack thought: He's okay.
Then Darius pivoted, half faced Jack. What looked like motor oil leaked through Darius's tailored navy shirt. His face was that of a stranger.
Jack screamed and fired at the fleeing car. Emptying his revolver as he ran to Darius.
"Oh man, oh Jesus, oh man, Lord Jesus . . ."
Later, he'd learn that one of his bullets had pierced the Caddy's rear window, but that hadn't slowed the big car down. Darius continued to sit there. Three wet holes in his chest.
Jack cradled him, put pressure on the wounds. "Hold on, Dar, you're gonna be fine, just hold on hold on hold on." Darius stared at the sky with dull, sightless eyes. His mouth gaped.
Jack felt for a pulse. Gimme something, c'mon, c'mon, gimme . . . Darius's skin turned to ice.
Jack began CPR, covering Darius's cold mouth with his own.
Like breathing into an empty cave. Darius lay there. Still as the heat that had blown in from the desert and decided to stay.
Chapter Two
By now, Aaron Fox understood Mr. Dmitri.
Once a level of trust had developed, he'd stay out of your face.
Aaron's favorite type of client. Real deep pockets made Mr. Dmitri the perfect client.
Before his first meeting with the guy, Aaron had done his usual research. Googling Leonid Davidovitch Dmitri and coming up with two dozen hits, the most informative a rags-to-riches tale in a business journal: Moscow born, trained as an electrical engineer, Dmitri had been stuck for fifteen years in a dead-end Communist job measuring noise levels at restaurants and filing reports that never got read. At the age of thirty-seven, he'd emigrated to Israel, then the U.S., taught night school math and physics to other Russians, tinkered in his kitchen, inventing numerous objects of dubious value. Ten years ago, he'd patented a tiny, wafer-thin stereo speaker that produced outsized sound and was perfect for cars-especially high-end sports models with their limited cabin space.
Aaron's Porsche had been outfitted with Dmitri's gizmo when he'd had it customized and the fidelity was kick-ass. The article estimated Mr. Dmitri's net worth at a couple hundred million, and Aaron was expecting to meet some tycoon sitting behind an acre of desk in an over-the-top inner sanctum crammed with imitation Fabergé and God knew what else. What he encountered was a short, bald, stubby-limbed, bullnecked man in his late fifties with a pie-tin face blued by stubble, sitting behind a plywood desk in a no-window hole at a factory in a Sylmar industrial park.
Dmitri was maybe five five, at least two hundred, lots of that muscle, but also some fat. Dark brown laser-sharp eyes never stopped moving.
Two hundred biggies, but the guy wasn't spending it on wardrobe. Short-sleeved pale blue shirt, baggy gray pleated pants, gray New Balances. Aaron came to learn that it was Dmitri's uniform. Cheap digital watch.
Fake-o tongue-and-groove covered all four walls of the office. Same for the door, giving the place a claustrophobic feel. That first meeting, he'd played it safe clothes-wise, not knowing what kind of rapport he'd have to develop with the client.
That kind of individual attention was one of the many keys to Aaron's success. Variety was what he liked about the job. One day you might be meeting at Koi with a pathetically tucked, youth-chasing record producer still thinking he could pull off hip-hop. Chopsticking miso black cod and waiting as the client struggled for nonchalance, inside he's rotting from insecurity as he fumbles to explain his reason for hiring a detective. Finally the confession: He needs to know, is his twenty-seven-year-old fourth wife blowing the good-looking guy someone saw her with at Fred Segal, or is Darrett really a gay hairdresser she took along as a shopping buddy?
Situation like that, you don't dress down to the client's level but you don't wear a suit. Aaron met the poor fool wearing indigo Diesel jeans, a slate-colored, retro Egyptian cotton T-shirt from VagueLine, unstructured black linen jacket, perforated black Santoni driving shoes.
The following day, he was at a downtown law firm, corporate client talking through a six-hundred-dollar-an-hour mouthpiece, needing someone to check out the goings-on at a Temple Street construction site where tools and building materials were disappearing at an alarming rate. For that one, Aaron chose a navy pin-striped Paul Smith made-to-measure, pearl-gray Ferré shirt, maroon Sego tie, blue pocket square, brown kidskin Magli loafers.
From the Hardcover edition.
Continues...
Excerpted from True Detectives by Jonathan Kellerman Copyright © 2009 by Jonathan Kellerman. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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