Free True Detectives by Jonathan Kellerman

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. Raumade 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