Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

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?”