Read True Detectives for Free Online Page B

… I love him, honey, he’s a great kid, you know I’d never hurt him, honey, you know that, you know that, right? All I want to do is take care of my family …”
    “Then how could you—”
    “It was hours ago,” Jack insisted.
    “At the Drop Inn.”
    “Couple of beer-and-shots is all.” Jack reached out to touch her arm. She avoided him. “Aw, c’mon, hon. I’da used vodka, you’da never known.”
    Maddy turned to leave.
    Jack got out of the van and hurried to her side.
    He did seem to be walking okay.
    “I’ll call the station, get ’em to bring a Breathalyzer, okay?”
    Maddy said, “It’s not funny.”
    “I’m not trying to be funny,” Jack lied.
    Bad liars were the worst. At least with the good ones you could fantasize they were sincere. Jack’s inability to dissemble had caused her to lose respect within weeks of their marriage.
    She said, “Don’t do it again. Aaron should never smell that on you.”
    “I’m sorry, honey.”
    “Forget it.”
    “Love you, honey.”
    Maddy didn’t answer.
    “Either way,” said Jack.
    By the time they returned to the kitchen, Aaron was at the table snarfing from a huge bowl of Froot Loops. His free hand grazed a glass of milk so saturated with chocolate that undissolved clumps floated on the surface like water lilies.
    Cereal speckled the floor. Not too big of a mess, considering. The boy had always been coordinated.
    He’d climbed up to the cereal cupboard, taken the time to close the door, move the chair back into place.
    When he saw her, he opened a mouth full of Technicolor mush and said, “Yum!”
    Jack winked and said, “Hey, that looks good.”
    From down the hall came the chuffing of Baby Moe’s initial wake-up cries.
    Time for
his
snack.
    Maddy left the kitchen, freeing her left breast.

CHAPTER
7
    I nstead of heading for the parking lot, Moe began walking toward Santa Monica Boulevard.
    Aaron said, “We’re hiking to the Peninsula?”
    “Forget the Peninsula.”
    “Too rich for your blood?”
    Moe picked up his pace.
    “Okay, I bite. Where we going?”
    “Suzy Q’s.”
    “That dump?”
    “Too cop for your blood?” said Moe.
    “Bacon on sausage on lard on trans fat with a side of LDL cholesterol? Suit yourself, bro.”
    A flush spread from Moe’s pecs up to his face. His father—the man whose name Aaron had never taken—had dropped dead of a heart attack at thirty-nine. Last year, Moe had finally dug up the death report.
    The deceased had fallen off a bar stool, probably cold before he hit the floor.
    Moe ate a lot of skinless chicken breasts.
    “Suzy’s too much for you to handle? Let’s do Indian.”
    Aaron said, “That place where they worship Sturgis?”
    “That a problem for you?”
    “Life is beautiful, I’ve got no problems.” Four steps later: “You like working with Sturgis?”
    “Why wouldn’t I?”
    “No reason. So tell me what you’ve done on Frostig.”
    Moe sped up to a near jog.
    Aaron said, “Aerobics and chutney in the a.m. I’m always open to new experiences.”
    The bespectacled woman who ran Café Moghul recognized Aaron the moment he pushed the door open. She flashed him a neon smile, brighter than her aqua-blue sari.
    Moe thought: A whole different greeting from the first time. Aaron had walked in on a marsh-murder sitdown and the woman had reacted to a black face with instinctive anxiety. Despite Aaron’s custom suit, the easygoing grin, the deliberately unthreatening posture.
    All those strategies his brother used to put people at ease.
    Moe had his feelings about Aaron and they made empathy a huge nuisance. But once in a while he let himself imagine what it would be like to
be
Aaron, always having to
present
yourself …
    “Sir.” The woman gave a little flourish and bow. “Please, anywhere you like.”
    That day, Aaron had eaten nothing, drunk half a glass of clove tea. But picking up everyone’s tab and tipping big had bought him some social status.
    As they settled at a corner