True Detectives

True Detectives

Moses Reed and Aaron Fox have the same mother; their respective fathers were cops, friends, and partners. And despite their shared calling, their turbulent family history has set them at odds. Moses is a no-frills LAPD detective; Aaron is a smooth-talking private eye. Usually they go their separate ways, but the disappearance of straight-A student Caitlin Frostig isn’t usual. Reluctantly tag-teaming to crack a cold case that won’t die, Moses and Aaron descend into the sinister underside of the City of Angels. Surrounded by twisted millionaire moguls, tarnished trophy wives, and famous faces with hellish secrets, they pull no punches as they penetrate the strange, seductive world of glamour, wealth, and power to keep L.A.’s dark dreamland from claiming another lost soul. “Jonathan Kellerman’s novels are an obsession; once started it is hard to quit.”— Orlando Sentinel “No one does psychological suspense as well as Jonathan Kellerman.”— Detroit Free Press “[Jonathan] Kellerman really knows how to keep those pages turning.”— New York Times Book Review Jonathan Kellerman  is the #1  New York Times  bestselling author of more than three dozen bestselling crime novels, including the Alex Delaware series,  The Butcher’s Theater, Billy Straight, The Conspiracy Club,   Twisted,  and  True Detectives . With his wife, bestselling novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored  Double Homicide  and  Capital Crimes . With his son, bestselling novelist Jesse Kellerman, he co-authored the first book of a new series,  The Golem of Hollywood . He is also the author of two children’s books and numerous nonfiction works, including  Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children  and  With Strings Attached: The Art and Beauty of Vintage Guitars . He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Jonathan and Faye Kellerman live in California, New Mexico, and New York. 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 sk