Free True Detectives by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

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 daydreamedthrough 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 seemedpleased, 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,