Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

Her eyes drooped. “I lost a child myself. Seventeen months before Rory was born. Her name was Sarah, she had the most gorgeous brown eyes you've ever seen and she was three months old when I found her in her crib not breathing.”

“I'm sor-”

“When Rory was nine, his father passed. So I figured I could offer Mr. Frostig something by way of understanding. But no one can ever really know how anyone feels, that's just pop-psych nonsense. We're put on this planet for a few years, just us and our shadows, Detective Reed. Maybe there's someone up there, pulling the strings, I don't know. Anyone who tells you he does know wants your money or is trying to get elected to something.”

“Ma'am-”

“Rory's a good boy, please don't put his job at risk. It's perfect for him, gives him a toehold in the Industry.”

“Rory wants to act?”

“Rory wants to be an entertainment lawyer, or maybe an agent. It's all about connections, he was so lucky to connect right at the top. Mason may have had personal issues but he treats Rory well and Rory loves working for him.” Softening her voice. “He's really a nice young man. Mason, I mean. Rory brought him here for breakfast and I served him personally and he couldn't have been more gracious.”

“Great,” said Moe.

“What is?”

“Success hasn't made him obnoxious.”

“Yes,” she said. “That is nice, isn't it?”

Riptide was ripe with the odors of tequila, aftershave, and slightly rancid cooking oil.

Liana Parlat took a stool at the far end of the spar-varnished bar, aware of male eyes shifting as she crossed the length of the room.

Long, dark room, kind of tunnel-like. Off to one side, a double-width doorway led to a small dining area. No one in there she could see.

The action was at Cocktail Central. A few couples in their thirties, the rest men batching it. Beach Boys on soundtrack.

“Don't Worry Baby.” Her favorite. Made it easy to smile.

The smile snagged the ponytailed bartender's attention and she ordered a Grey Goose Greyhound, rocks, twist. “Pink grapefruit juice, if you have it.”

Ponytail grinned. “Sorry, just regular.”

“That's fine.”

“I can splash in a little cranberry, if you'd like. For color.”

“You know,” said Liana, “maybe I would rather have a Seabreeze.”

“Good choice.” The guy got to work and seconds later, the extra-large cocktail was set down in front of her. Orange slice, which she liked. Maraschino, which was all wrong.

“Yum,” she said.

“Enjoy.”

Sipping slowly, she took in the flavor of the place. “Good Vibrations” came on. Nice, but earlier stuff-the surf songs-would've fit better with the décor.

She figured it was mostly original: rough plank cedar walls, lacquered coils of hemp rope, ship's lamps, circular glass balls, a couple of buoys. At least two captain's wheels she could spot and she bet there were more in the dining room.

All of it probably a throwback to the bar's previous life as a working-class drinkery.

Before arriving, she'd revved up the old Mac and read up on the place, found a three-year-old gushing travel piece from the Times that emphasized a “festive Jimmy Buffett ambience” and the occasional “spontaneous” appearance of celebs.

Britney, Paris, Brangelina, Mel, Mason, even the Governator. Supposedly, they favored the Meyer Rum Tsunami. As if anything those people did was spontaneous. Inane, but what else could you expect from a paper where half the entertainment “articles” were press releases fed by studio publicists?

Obsolete, too, because Liana found no recent name-drops, so any star appeal was history.

Celebs, like sharks, needed to keep moving to breathe.

Not that she needed the Internet to know that; when she'd walked over from Loews there wasn't a pappo or limo in sight.

A few homeless guys, though, Aaron had been right about that. One of them gave her the willies as his watery eyes followed her twenty-yard traipse and she imagined him snagging Caitlin and dragging her into an alley.

Rather than ignore him, she stopped and stared him down.

Chancy move, but she had to follow her instincts.

The bum shrank back, resumed pushing his cart up Ocean, clattering and bumping on sidewalks long in need of repair.

Too bad those guys didn't have to hang special license plates from their carts. I M CRAY ZEE.

She sipped and used her eyes discreetly. Someone at the other end of the bar laughed. The track switched to Jan and Dean. “Dead Man's Curve,” eerily prophetic of Jan's auto crash.

Happy song about tragedy… at least the floors were clean oak, no sawdust cliché.

Liana knew all about clichés. She trucked in them for a living- using her voice to sell feminine hygiene products, grocery specials, whatever.

Using her looks and her brains to gig for Aaron.

Not exactly what she'd dreamed about back in South Dakota, but at her stage in life, any role came up, you took it.

Tonight she'd gone for sultry but subdued: black V-neck sweater with a triangle of white cammie hiding some but not all of her cleaves, snug gray wool/Lycra slacks that hugged her like a lover.

The absence of panty line suggested bare skin underneath, but her entire lower body was sheathed in support hose.

Everyone said she looked young for her age, but Liana prided herself on self-awareness, so no sense pretending butt and belly were the way they'd been when she auditioned for Playboy.

Twenty years ago.

A starlet's entire lifetime; sometimes it seemed like yesterday.

She'd walked out of the Playboy session beaming at the photo editor's praise. Two days later, he called to let her down gently. Twenty-four hours after that, he phoned to ask her out.

The perfect retort had jumped into her head.

Sorry, but I limit my social life to men with normal penises.

She'd said, “Sorry, Luigi, but I'm involved with someone.”

Twenty- twenty-one years ago.

Gawd!

A baritone voice said, “Come here often?”

Just loud enough to rise above the music. Liana glanced to her right.

The nervously smiling face she encountered belonged to a slightly overweight but decent-looking guy around her own age working a beer mug. Sandy hair, five o'clock shadow, nice masculine features; he'd probably been hot ten years ago.

Dark suit, pale blue dress shirt open at the collar, sensible shoes.

“What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” he said. “Glad I worked out this morning 'cause I can tell you're no easy pickup. Your mother must have been a sculptor 'cause you're in great shape. I thought perfection was an ideal until about a second ago.”

Liana stared.

He shrugged, smiled.

Despite herself, Liana's lips curved in imitation.

The guy said, “Now that I've used up all the fresh material, I'd better lug out the hackneyed stuff.”

“You write for Leno?”

“If I did, he wouldn't be beating out Letterman.” He extended a hand. “Steve Rau.”

In lieu of pressing flesh, Liana gave a small salute and returned to facing forward. Her top had ridden up, exposing an inch of back. She tugged it down, moved her head in time with the music.

“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.