True Detectives Read online

  “Ouch,” said Rau. But good-naturedly. Liana’s peripheral vision spotted motion. His hand gesturing for another beer.

  As it arrived, Liana managed another of her famous sidelongs and took in the cut of his suit. Decent, but nothing custom or exceptional. The shirt was pinpoint oxford cloth, eighty bucks, give or take. The shoes were nondescript black loafers but they did look like calfskin. Bottom line: solid, not junk, not haute. Maybe Nordstrom.

  Working for Aaron, she’d picked up a few things.

  Steve Rau said, “I’d offer to buy you another, but you haven’t made much headway on the first and you might go military on me again.” Aping the salute.

  Liana chuckled.

  The bartender said, “Some nuts or shrimp, Steve?”

  “No, thanks, Gus.”

  You come here often?

  Aaron just wanted her to soak up the atmosphere, but here was an opportunity.

  She rehearsed an entry line, discarded it, searched for another. Rau made it easy for her by saying, “This is my second beer and my last. For the record.”

  Liana swiveled gracefully, gifted him with more face and body. The warm, sincere smile. “You are nothing if not temperate.”

  “Temperate, sane, dependable. Gus can vouch for me.”

  “Is Gus called upon to do that regularly?”

  Rau got flustered. Laughed. “Only for the last three months.”

  He showed her his left hand. Pale circle of skin on the ring finger. “As they say, an amicable split.”

  Liana said, “Didn’t know that was possible.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Oops.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Rau. “I’m not going to get all maudlin and mawkish.”

  “A dual guarantee, huh?”

  The music veered back to the Beach Boys. “Little Deuce Coupe.” The two of them sipped in silence. Liana working slowly because that was her style even when she wasn’t on the job. A man needed to be kept slightly off balance.

  She said, “Seeing as you’re a regular, you know I’m not.”

  “Visiting L.A.? I ask because sometimes women come over from the hotel.”

  “No, I’m a native.” If you didn’t count military bases in six other states.

  “Rara avis,” said Rau. “Rare bird.”

  “Quo vadis,” said Liana. “Non sequitur, ipso facto. So, Steve, what do you do other than drink Heineken and indulge yourself in Latin?”

  Rau motioned to the bartender. “Gus, what do I do when I’m not hunched over in self-pity?”

  Gus said, “You’re a spy.”

  “Double-O something, huh?”

  Rau said, “Gus is embroidering. I work at RAND—the think tank, we’re not far from here, on Main.”

  “You get paid to think.”

  “The official title is security analyst.”

  “As in stocks and bonds?”

  “As in shoe bombers and suicide belt morons.” Some edge had crept into the mellow baritone. “But I’m not going to insult your intelligence by making it out as some covert, civilian contractor deal. My degree’s in economics. I play with statistics, try to spot trends. Lately, I have been doing more financial analysis than security. It’s about as exciting as watching beard stubble sprout.”

  “Still,” said Liana, “at least you know you’re doing something important. How many people can say that?”

  “On some lofty theoretical plane, I guess that’s true. But half my time is filling out grant applications and going to meetings. I used to do something even more blood-stirring. Want to guess?”

  “College professor.”

  Rau stared. “It’s that obvious?”

  “You’ve got a Ph.D.”

  “I said I had a degree.”

  “I extrapolated.”

  Rau laughed.

  Liana said, “Stanford?”

  “Chicago.”

  “Where’d you teach?”

  “Community college. All that came up were nontenured positions, so I switched gears. I was really committed to teaching, figured RAND would be temporary. It’s been twelve years, so much for spotting trends.”

  Liana smiled.

  Silence settled between them for several moments before Rau spoke up. “So what do you do—fill in name here.”

  “Laura,” she said. Fishing out the alias she’d used for the Playboy shoot because it didn’t sound that different from her real name.

  Laura Layne. Sometimes she carried pink satin business cards in her purse ... had she brought any tonight?

  Twenty-one years ago.

  Rau said, “Same question, Laura. What occupies your days?”

  “I’m in between obligations,” she said. “My c.v. includes teaching preschool, executive assisting, interior designing, house-sitting, and, before all that, waitressing, big surprise.”

  “Ah,” said Rau. “How many pilots have you been in?”

  “It’s that obvious?”

  “RAND doesn’t pay me for not reading big print.”

  “Well,” said Liana, “RAND wouldn’t have gotten their money’s worth this time. Acting’s not my thing. Like I said, I’m a California native, not some kid off the bus from Iowa.”

  “Sorry,” said Rau. “For assuming. May I dig myself out by suggesting you take it as a compliment, as in ‘looks like an actress’?”

  Liana swiveled on her stool and offered him a full view of the goods. “I get that all the time and, yes, I do take it as a compliment.”

  Rau mimed wiping his brow. “Phew—so ... I ask this at great risk—of all the gin joints ...”

  “I was at Loews, having dinner with friends. It broke up early— they’re all married with kids and needed to return to their mundane lives. I wasn’t quite ready for a quiet night with Kurt Vonnegut.”

  “Slaughterhouse-Five?”

  “Welcome to the Monkey House.”

  “Never read that one ... I met Joseph Heller, once. Catch-22?”

  “Did you?”

  “Yup,” said Rau. “I was in fifth grade and he gave a speech at the U. and my dad was on faculty there—in the med school—and he insisted on taking me. Wanting me to soak up some antiwar fervor. At ten, I was pretty apolitical.”

  “Dad wasn’t.”

  “Dad was a highly principled man.” Putting rough emphasis on the word and for a second, Rau’s face toughened up.

  Anger turned him appealingly masculine.

  Liana said, “So he dragged you along.”

  “He dragged me and after the speech, he insisted we both go up to Heller, going on about how the guy’s a genius, meanwhile I’d daydreamed through the whole thing. Dad pumps Heller’s hand, makes sure I shake, too, then he goes off on this big oration about Catch-22 being the ultimate antiwar masterpiece. Heller looks at him and says, ‘It’s not about war, it’s about bureaucracy.’”

  “Poor Dad.”

  “It fazed him, but only temporarily. During the ride home, he informed me authors sometimes didn’t understand their own motivation.”

  “Motivation,” said Liana. “A med school prof. I’m putting money on psychiatrist.”

  Rau’s smile was wide, warm. Nice teeth. “You should think about RAND.”

  “Like they’d take me.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “I sure would.”

  Several beats.

  “So you’re in between obligations,” said Rau. “Sounds nice.”

  “It can be.”

  Rau scratched his temple. “Laura, I’m not good at this, but... since you’ve already had dinner I know suggesting we shift to the dining area is out of the question. So is, I imagine, blowing this gin joint.”

  “I didn’t hear a question in there, Steve. But yes, I think I’ll stay put.”

  Rau beat his breast, bowed his head. “Aargh. Hopes dashed asunder.”

  Liana touched his jacket sleeve. Smooth fabric, maybe better than she’d initially appraised. “Steve, I wouldn’t be a very
smart girl if I waltzed off with someone I just met.”

  “Of course ... would it be totally out of line asking you for your number?”

  Poor guy was blushing.

  “Why don’t you give me yours?”

  Liana expected another burst of self-deprecation but he seemed pleased, as he fished into his pocket, drew out a battered wallet, then a RAND business card.

  On the surface, everything looked kosher. Easy enough to verify.

  She slipped the card into her purse. This one might come in handy.

  Steve Rau said, “Anyway ... like I said, I’m really not good at this.”

  “Practice, practice, practice,” said Liana, giving him another arm pat. “How long has Riptide been around?”

  The change of subject relaxed Rau. “As Riptide? Maybe five years. It got that name when some movie honchos bought it. No one famous—producers and the like. Before that it was a neighborhood bar called Smiley’s, before that it was The Riptide. I don’t know exactly how old it is, but probably at least forty years.”

  Making that sound antique. Liana suppressed a flinch.

  “No more the,” she said. “Industry honchos thought it was hip-per.”

  “No, they were cheap. A storm knocked down part of the sign. They stuck on that neon martini glass instead.”

  “Subtle,” said Liana.

  Rau chuckled. “This is tragic, Laura.”

  “What is?”

  “I meet a highly intelligent woman who looks like a movie star and she’s smart enough not to be impulsive.”

  Liana smiled.

  “I guess if you did agree to go off with me, I’d wonder about your judgment.” He shrugged. “Story of my life. Ambivalence and second-guessing. My ex said it drove her crazy. My lack of quote unquote ‘constructive recklessness.’ Why it took eleven years and division of assets for her to reach that insight, she couldn’t explain.” Deep blush. “Sorry, that was stunningly awkward and inappropriate.”

  “Hey,” said Liana, “you’ve been through it. Three months is pretty fresh.”

  “Papers came through three months ago. We’ve been separated for three years.”

  His look said it had taken him a long time to give up hope.

  “Steve, I, for one, appreciate that you understand about the need for caution. A girl can’t be too careful. Even in a nice place like this.”

  Rau didn’t answer.

  “It is a nice place?” she asked.

  “Never seen a brawl,” said Rau. “And Gus keeps his eye on the inebriation level. Yeah, it’s nice. Back when the celebs used to show up— two, three years ago—it could get... a little different.”

  “Different, how?”

  “Long stays in the bathroom.” He touched his nose. “Obviously underage girls, fake I.D.’s. People getting up and dirty-dancing when the music didn’t call for it.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Gobs, Laura. I stopped coming for a while. Things are a lot quieter now, and I’m sure the owners are feeling it in the pocketbook but I, for one—and I’ll bet I speak for all the regulars—don’t miss those days.”

  “Celebs,” said Liana. “They do get entitled.”

  Rau got more aggressive with his beer, taking two deep gulps. He dribbled a tad and wiped his lips with his napkin.

  “How come the egomaniacs don’t come here anymore, Steve?”

  “They moved on, Laura. That’s what they do, it’s all about the Next Big Thing.”

  “Ah,” she said.

  Rau emptied his mug. Looked over at the bartender but when Gus pointed to the tap, he shook his head.

  Liana said, “So two years since it’s been celebbed up.”

  “Two, three. Here’s the irony, Laura: Back then, with all the bodyguards and drivers and such hanging around, you’d think it would’ve been safer than milk. But that’s when there were some problems.”

  He wrapped both hands around the empty mug. The music had switched to Brian Wilson singing about the wonders of his room.

  “What kind of problems, Steve?”

  “Forget it,” said Rau. “Last thing I want to do is spook you. Because I do want you to come back.”

  Staring at her. Soft brown eyes.

  Liana said, “I’m a big girl.”

  “Not important—ancient history.”

  “Come on, Steve. I don’t spook easily.”

  Rau knuckled his forehead. “Brilliant, Rau.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not saying it had anything to do with this place. I’m sure it didn’t, because it happened outside ... oh Lord, I’m bad at being single.”

  Liana wet her lips with Seabreeze. She’d taken in maybe a quarter ounce, felt sharp and on her game as she waited the guy out.

  He said, “You really want to know?”

  “I do.”

  “A girl who worked here—in the dining room, as a hostess—back then they served more food—she left after her shift was over and was never seen again. But nothing happened to her here—we’re talking a year and a half ago, something like that... so I guess some celebs were still here. At least that’s the way I remember it. The irony, like I said. Then something else happened shortly after. A couple, tourists staying at Loews, dropped in for a few drinks and also vanished. That I heard on the news. They mentioned Riptide as the last place the couple was seen. After that, I stayed away.”

  “I can see why you were spooked.”

  “Not spooked, just... Maria had broken off marriage counseling, I was by myself ... I’m sorry. Now you’ll never come back.”

  “Steve, I do not allow myself to be ruled by the misfortunes of others.”

  “Laura, all I do, day in and day out, is immerse myself in the misfortunes of others. This afternoon it was devising algorithms to predict the correlation between economic downturns and the rise of insurgency in Malaysia.”

  “How’s it looking for Malaysia?”

  “You don’t want to know.” Suddenly he stood.

  Taller than she’d thought and really not that heavy. Hint of a soft little gut, but broad, square shoulders and long, strong-looking legs.

  Tossing bills on the bar, he held out his hand. “Great to meet you, Laura. I mean that.”

  This time Liana pressed flesh. His was cool, dry, smooth.

  “If for some reason you do come back, I hope it’s a night that I’m here.”

  Sighing, he pressed his lips to her fingers. Dropped her hand quickly and shook his head and muttered, “Dork.”

  Before she could reassure him, he was gone.

  “Poor Steve,” said someone up the bar. “That wife of his really racked him up.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  Half the cookie,” said Liz Wilkinson.

  Moe Reed said, “Pardon?”

  “As in Oreo. We are fifty percent of a cookie, baby. Or maybe seventy, seeing as all the crème’s here.”

  Reaching under his butt, she squeezed. Her smooth brown body rested atop the hard bunches and swells of his pale, freckled musculature.

  Hips touching. Everything glued together. They’d finally stopped kissing.

  He said, “Didn’t Oreo used to be a dis? Black on the outside, white on the inside?”

  “I’m adapting it for my own purposes.”

  “Creative.”

  “I’m glad you agree.” She laughed. He loved that sound.

  Moments later: “Liz, with an Oreo, the dark part’s all crusty and the crème is soft. Isn’t this more like a reverse Oreo?”

  She propped herself up, looked into his eyes. “Now you’re a philosopher.”

  He craned to kiss her. When their lips parted, he pressed his mouth to her long, smooth neck. She lowered her weight back onto him.

  “Mr. Literal.”

  “I’m with a trained scientist, I want to be accurate.” He rubbed her back. “Trained scientist, natural gorgeous.”

  Liz smiled to herself, felt the sting of bone against bone and
shifted her pelvis. The movement, an innocent attempt at comfort, produced a new swell below. “I can tell you’re sincere, Detective Reed, because the forensic evidence is in plain sight.”

  She sat herself up, ran her hands over those slab-like pectorals. Knowing what human skeletal muscles looked like, beneath the sliver that was skin. Visualizing Moe’s striated sheath.

  The boy was solid, rock-hard.

  Everywhere.

  She touched him. Stroked him. He looked up at her, wide-eyed. Guiding him back in, she rocked slowly. Doing it, at first, for his sake, because boys behaved better when they were satisfied to the point of stupor. But soon they were fitting so perfectly and moving so perfectly, Liz’s eyes closed and her head began swaying, flaps of her long hair grazing Moe’s chest.

  She straightened her locks religiously, but some texture remained and he said he liked that. Now the ends tickled his nipples and he turned his head to one side.

  “Oh, man.” Shifting his hands to her breasts.

  She said, “Exactly.”

  Twenty minutes later, they sat at the breakfast room table of her condo on Fuller Avenue off Melrose, drinking peach Fresca and eating takeout deli sandwiches. The neighborhood was Intensely Ironic Postmodern Hipster but Liz had no interest in any of that. For all the time she spent at home, a motel would’ve served just as well.

  Mother and Father had chipped in for the down payment, tossed in some extra for furniture. One day, she’d have to buy something nicer than the foldable card table at which they were eating, IKEA cases to hold all her books, the mattress on her bedroom floor.

  Meanwhile, the simple life served quite nicely, thank you. Moe sure didn’t care about interior decorating; his own place in the Valley was neat and clean but except for that gym, it looked like a college dorm room.

  Lots of books there, too. Pleasant surprise.

  She watched him chomp his sandwich. Skinless turkey breast, because of the cholesterol issue. Liz had ordered the same, even though she preferred beef.

  Love, Mother had always preached, was all about compromise.

  If only Mother knew ...

  One month out of a Stanford Ph.D. in physical anthro, Liz’s dissertation on microchanges in humidity and visceral muscle decomposition had landed her a postdoc with Eleanor Hargrove at the LAPD-affiliated bone lab. The following year, funding came up for a real job at the lab and Liz snagged it. The position meant long hours spent with mummified skin, studying the finer points of rot and shred, the awful detritus that came with finality.