True Detectivesby Jonathan Kellerman
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
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.
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.
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.]
“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
Read an Excerpt
By Jonathan Kellerman
Random House Large Print
Copyright © 2009
All right reserved.
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.
"You got fidgety. Pumping those knees, like you do."
"You fidget when something's bugging you."
"Nothing's bugging me."
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.
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.
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.
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.
Meet the Author
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.
- Beverly Hills, California
- Date of Birth:
- August 9, 1949
- Place of Birth:
- New York, New York
- B.A. in psychology, University of California-Los Angeles; Ph.D., University of Southern California, 1974
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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True Detectives by Jonathan Kellerman is a break from his usual Alex Delaware series and stars Aaron Fox and Moe Reed from his 2008 book Bones. Alex and partner Milo Sturgis are listed as tertiary characters, but that is misleading; in 363 pages, they show up for about 3 of them. Fox and Reed and half-brothers and rivals. Fox is a high-priced private detective hired to look into the disappearance of a college girl, Caitlin Frostig . The girl's disappearance just happens to be a cold case belonging to Reed, a police detective still trying to find just where he belongs. The brothers have a complicated history leaving their communications prickly and full of competition. Working together, they discover the dark and dirty secrets of the very rich and very famous, but will that help them discover what happened to Caitlin? I was a bit disappointed with this book; it truly suffered from the terrific chemistry between Delaware and Sturgis that Kellerman has perfected over 20 some books. While the mystery takes plenty of twists and turns, the brother relationship is more frustrating than compelling. Fox is portrayed so differently from his appearance in Bones, I didn't even recognize him at first. In the end, readers will either love or hate the truth behind Caitlin's disappearance. Personally, I felt betrayed, like Kellerman was just playing with me. I'll be back to read more of Delaware's books, but I'll skip those featuring the detective brothers.
I love Janathan Kellerman's books, I have read them all but this is the most boring, awful book he has ever written. I skipped ahead to the end to see what happened to the girl, I have never done this with a book. This book is not worth reading, not even for Summer reading.
I am a big fan of Jonathan Kellerman's writing and truly enjoy his Alex Delaware novels. And although some stories are better than others, TRUE DETECTIVES has to be one of his worst. I was disappointed in this story of two brothers (one a cop, the other a private detective) and them working the same case. The main characters here were minor characters in another Kellerman novel, and he does bring in Alex, Milo and Petra as minor characters in this one. But the story drags and didn't hold my interest. I hope his next novel brings back to Alex Delaware.
I love the Alex Delaware series but I actually didn't even finish reading this book. The characters were cardboard and Moses was so immature. I think I'll stick with his Alex Delaware series only after this.
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.
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.
I was very disappointed in the book True Detectives. It was boring and the characters lacked. The writing didn't seem up to JK's previous books either. I understand wanting to branch out into other characters, but this attempt wasn't worth the money I spent on the book. I won't buy another hardcover books of his in the future - no matter what character.
The first four pages included a reference to the use of Purell by a character, cleaning off the steering wheel of his vehicle. The book is set in 1979. Purell wasn't even invented at that time. I stopped reading to look it up on the internet---an easy find. So, okay, a glitch, a lack of research by the author. I should be able to tolerate it, huh? I just couldn't. I normally love J.Kellerman's books, but I felt insulted that so little care had been put into making the setting and plot detail congruent. I had bought the book but returned it for refund.
I always look forward to a new Jonathan Kellerman book, but this one was a big disappointment. I couldn't get into the characters - they didn't come close to being as good as Dr. Delaware and Milo. I fuinished it, but it was just something to read.
Have read every Kellerman book since he started publishing. Loved 75% of them. Liked 100% of them, except for this one. Instead of not being able to put it down and losing sleep some nights, I put it down 4-5 times and read other books before finishing it.
"Hip" is certainly not Kellerman's strong suit nor anyone else's for that matter. He does know his clothes labels and should probably talk to his therapist about that. Characters are much too phony even for California. Will be more careful before I buy another of his works. He is on a downward slope.
Wish I'd read the reviews first. This was not the Jonathan Kellerman I've been reading for years. I struggled through 12 chapters and gave up. Hope someone found the girl!
For Alex Delaware fans, this is a nice break with fresh new characters (briefly introduced in Bones).
I have read all of his books and love the Sturgis/Delaware stories. This was so far out there that I had to force myself to continue to read it in the hopes it would get better.(it took two weeks to read when I usually finish a book in 2-3 days). The brother Aaron Fox did not even belong in the story, with out him it would have been much better. I kept expecting him to turn out to be a Psychopathic serial killing psychotic who would be killed off. (one could hope) His character was so weirdly developed that it was pathetic. I kept wondering if Kellerman was on some form of Psychedelic drugs. Needless to say this one was donated to the library.
delivers as usual
This book has pretty much everything - it's easy to get into - and keeps going with a solid story line that connects the dots in the end. The characters are interesting - and the overall premise is believable. Stylistically, it delivers on all points - it doesn't meander, set up meaningless facts or add too much description.
Good book! Ready for his next one.
This book never seems to delve into the essence of the characters. They're bascially very stiff and one dimensional. The plot could be developed more, but the plot takes a back seat to the relationship between the brothers. I was disappointed by the book.
Kellerman has a great style, can't put down till the final page.
This is not one of Jonathan Kellerman's Alex Delaware novels. It was good though and kind of a nice change for Kellerman. I enjoyed it and the development of the previous characters Moses Reed and Aaron Fox. I recommend it to anyone who likes Kellerman's work!