True Detectives (22 page)

“What do you mean?”

“Did she seem remorseful? Angry? Or was she mouthing words as if they were scripted.”

Fox thought. “Maybe all of the above. The sense I got was a really screwed-up head.”

Reed observed his brother, as if expecting more.

Fox shrugged. “That’s it.”

Reed said, “How does the religious aspect fit in, Doc? Ax’s daddy gets big-rich off what’s basically a splatter flick camouflaged as a hymn, now he’s building a church on the family compound.” Before Alex could answer, he turned to his brother. “For all we know, they’ve got a damn cult blossoming there and Mason Book got sucked into it. Actors are ripe for that, right? Always into the Next Big Thing.”

Fox nodded.

Reed said, “Guy’s an anorexic, addicted zombie with no will—hell, maybe they were programming him in the hospital and
that’s
why he got admitted. Or someone else was
de
programming him, whatever. Any way you can find out who his doc was?”

Fox smiled. “Going through alternative channels? I’m sure gonna try—forget you heard that.” To Delaware: “Is this session confidential, like therapy?”

Delaware laughed. “I’ll have to study that.”

Reed said, “What about the religious aspect, Doc?”

“Moe, a wise man once said, ‘Religion’s a good thing for good people and a bad thing for bad people.’”

“Meaning anything’s possible with this bunch … okay, so we concentrate on Ax.”

“Not necessarily,” said Alex. “Same as with Book, there’s not enough evidence and Daddy’s dough makes him a big fish. Rory Stoltz is a minnow but that protective mother and theoretical access to Book and Dement’s legal resources cools him as an entry point. Also, he may be totally innocent.”

“Why theoretical?”

“Big fish eat little fish. They’d sacrifice him if it suited their purposes.
On the other hand, you do have someone you could leverage, because he’s likely to get into trouble and has really poor judgment.”

“Ramone W,” said Reed.

“A loser with impulse-control problems,” said Fox.

Alex said, “And no gates to hide behind.”

“I started watching him,” said Moe Reed, “and Petra Connor got a rookie in plainclothes to take over when I’m not there. Problem is, Doc, what I saw today surprised me big-time.” He described the sidewalk encounter with Alicia Eiger. “She smacked him upside the head and he just stood there and took it. And here I was thinking he’s capable of mindless brutality.”

Fox said, “Maybe he was too stoned to react.”

“Still,” said Reed, “what kind of tough guy lets himself get smacked down in public by a woman? That doesn’t smell of contract killer.”

Alex said, “Ramone got caught peeping his niece but it’s likely that wasn’t the only time he’d tried it. How old is he?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Interesting. Voyeurs generally start young and some progress to sexual violence. The fact that he’s still watching implies a certain passivity.”

Reed said, “What does that say about his ability to get bloody and homicidal?”

“Maybe nothing,” said Alex. “Wars are planned by generals but carried out by foot soldiers.”

“Following orders,” said Fox. “Sure, why not, think Manson Family—think any whack-group—hell,
that
fits with a bizarro cult thing. We need dogs out in Carrillo, Moses.”

Reed didn’t appear to have heard. “Fine, I’ll keep on Wohr. Anything else, Doc?”

Delaware said, “Sounds like you’re doing all the right things.”

Fox said, “And
that
sounds like therapy.”

L
iana Parlat adjusted the washcloth draped over Steve Rau’s right nipple.

Terry cloth was a lot easier on her cheek than Steve’s steel-wool chest hair.

He said, “You okay?”

“Mmm.” She laced her arm over his barrel torso.

“If you’re not, I could shave it.”

“And subject me to stubble?” Liana traced his jawline with a fingertip. Felt stirring under the bedcovers. Saw visual proof.

“Oh, my, Stephen.”

“It’s been a long time, Laura. I probably forgot stuff I never knew.”

The use of her fake name bothered her. For the first time. She said, “Fishing for a compliment? Fine: You’re a stud.”

That lowered the flag to half-mast. “Oh, no,” she giggled. “Sorry.”

A sensitive one. But so sweet. He’d entered Riptide half an hour after she’d been sitting at the bar. Accomplishing nothing because the place was nearly empty and the few rummies in sight were well on their way to stupor. The barkeep wasn’t the guy she’d seen the first time—
Gus. The taut woman with some sort of southern accent projected the couldn’t-care-less attitude of a temp, had trouble locating lime juice.

When Liana asked how long she’d been working there, she squinted as if faced with a calculus problem. “Um, four days. Tonight’s my last.”

“Don’t like it?”

“Dead. No tips.” She turned her back on Liana, checked her cell phone, let a filmy used beer mug sit on the bar.

A Diet Coke and two sips of a gimlet later, Liana was feeling low. She hated serving Aaron an empty plate.

Receiving Adella Villareal’s photo had put it on a personal level.

Happy, beautiful girl. Baby in a blue blanket.

That flashed Liana back to the October of her senior year in high school.

Backseat oops that led to the bump. More family turmoil than if Liana had died, Mom closing up like a scared anemone, Dad even worse, shutting her out completely the entire pregnancy. Their relationship had never been the same; her feeling she’d failed him, his never saying the opposite, made her hate him.

Her brother and sister treated her like a freak.

Especially when she was forced to drop out of school because the rules said girls like her were a Serious Bad Influence.

Morning sickness and depression ravaged her body and her self-esteem. At four months and two days into the ordeal, cramps seized her and made her feel like a rotary razor was churning up her insides. Five hours after the pain started, she was spewing a bloody mass into a toilet at a truck stop.

Relieved.

Crushed by guilt.

Even though she’d done nothing to bring on the miscarriage. Or had she? All those prayers, wishes, bad thoughts. Maybe she hadn’t eaten right. Dehydrated herself?

Or the stress her family had put her through had killed what had grown inside of her.

She got her GED, left home, found a waitress job.

Three years later, at the age of twenty-one, not really sure why, she had her tubes tied.

Adella Villareal had
produced
life. Only to have it taken from her.

Someone had to pay.

She was constructing revenge scenarios, knuckles white around her gimlet glass, when Steve entered the bar. She pretended not to notice when he looked at her. Continued the act as he ordered a beer and headed over.

Dressed casually this time. Dark green polo and khakis, nice match for his fair coloring. But still wearing clunky brown wingtips that went with a suit. The boy needed help.

Big smile. He waved like a tourist. She looked his way.

“Laura.” He took the adjacent stool, spilling significant beer in the process. “Oops.”

Smooth. Oddly, she found that endearing.

“Hi, Steve.”

“So … how’ve you been?”

“Fine. You?”

“Just great—working—is it okay?”

“Is what okay?”

“My sitting here.”

“Fine with me.” That sounded cold and he winced. Impulsively, Liana served up a nice, warm smile. Sat up straighter and made sure the pink satin blouse stretched over all the right places. Soft-but-strong pink, worked great with her black pencil skirt. Her hair was brushed out and gleaming, Michal Negrin jewelry glinted in all the right places, she knew she smelled great.

Steve smelled a little musky—like Interested Guy. Probably hadn’t renewed his antiperspirant after getting home from work.

Oddly, that didn’t offend her.

“What’ve you been up to, Dr. Rau?”

“Nothing interesting,” he said, but her open face and her wide eyes and the fact that he was a guy led him to embark on a five-minute discourse
on South American economics trajectories as they related to oil futures. Then another five psychoanalyzing Hugo Chávez.

Liana faked interest as she thought of the folded color photo inside her purse. She’d taken pains to fold in a way that didn’t cut into Adella Villareal’s face. Or Baby Gabriel in his blue blanket.

Aaron hadn’t volunteered the infant’s name, had been perplexed when she’d called him an hour later to ask.

She said, “Humor me.”

“Okay, Lee. Gabriel.”

“Little angel.”

By the time Steve Rau’s second beer arrived—inadequately filled by Snooty Ms. Dixie, but he didn’t complain—he and Liana had been small-talking for twenty minutes.

Stupid stuff that neither of them cared about. He was as nervous as a high school boy on a first date. Did boys today even get nervous?

Oddly …

When he made a move at touching her hand, then pulled back, she made serious eye contact and smiled, gave him psychic space for a second attempt.

Instead, he said, “Laura, is there any possible way you’d consider going out with me?”

Liana said, “I would.”

“Really?”

“How about now?”

They walked north on Ocean toward Ivy at the Shore as Steve cell-phoned the restaurant and asked if a table was available.

“It can get jammed, all those movie types,” he told her, while on hold. As if she’d never been there.

She’d her arm laced through his. The boy was built solid. Sweating, though the night was cool.

“Yup,” he said, “I’m still here—okay, great, thanks, see you right away.”

They got seated inside, at a table next to a noisy party of rich kids, a placement Liana knew was D list. Steve hadn’t a clue, was thrilled to get in.

They both ordered Sapphire Martinis and as usual, Liana nursed the booze. So did Steve. Explaining, “I’m not a major-league drinker.”

She ordered the soft-shell crabs that were always on “special.” He had a steak.

As they ate, they small-talked some more while Liana figured out a way to bring up Adella Villareal.

Tough, because it meant a confession of her own.

The proper moment never came up. They split key lime pie. Drank decaf. Steve left a generous tip and they stepped out to a briny night. Most of the lookie-loos hovering around Colorado Boulevard were gone, a few nocturnal cyclists wheeled by on Ocean Front. Several of the homeless psychotics Santa Monica welcomed with open arms prowled the sidewalks.

Steve put his arm around her shoulder as they headed back toward Riptide, where they’d both parked. Instinctive protectiveness, no weasely attempt to cop a feel.

For some reason, this felt like the senior year she’d never had.

They walked in silence. Steve had a bounce in his step, but not the triumphant stride of a player who’d closed the deal. Just being with her made him happy and she knew she should cut it off, return to the bar, try to do
something
for Aaron.

She offered Steve a cheek to peck, changed her mind at the last minute and aimed her lips at his. Parted them and gave him some tongue.

He broke away, gasping. “Wow.”

Soft eyes. You couldn’t fake that.

Liana said, “Let’s go do something.”

Working hard to erase Adella Villareal’s face from her head.

The baby.

Her baby.

Aaron Fox’s polished, almost too-handsome face. Now, there
was
a player.

When Steve said, “Pardon?” she said, “Let’s hang out a bit more. Unless you’re tired.”

“No, no—um, at the risk of being … my place isn’t that far. You could follow me. If you’re comfortable, with that, I mean … or sure, we could find somewhere to hear live music—”

Liana said, “Which car is yours?”

He pointed. “That VW.” White Passat.

She said, “I’ll follow you.”

“Isn’t that far” turned out to be a high-rise on the south side of the Wilshire Corridor, a few blocks east of Westwood.

L.A.’s highest-end condo row. Nice crib for a Ph.D. working on grant money. True, Steve’s building was comparatively plain, when appraised alongside its neighbors—simple, beige, sparingly landscaped. One of the earlier structures, starting to show its age. But still, serious money.

Full-service, with a uniformed doorman out front.

The guy said, “Evening, Dr. Rau.”

“Hey, Enrico. This is my friend Laura.”

“Ma’am.” Enrico tipped his hat, hurried to open the door. “Ma’am.”

As they entered a small, mirrored lobby, Liana was wondering if she’d stay Laura.

Twelve floors to the building. The elevator was déclassé gilded mirror and flocked wallpaper. Kind of an old-person smell.

Steve’s one-bedroom unit was four stories below the penthouse, with a nice view of city lights. The furnishings, also geriatric: fussy, quilted floral couches in unfashionable colors with all sorts of buttons, pecan-wood furniture, brown shag carpeting, a shade of green on the walls Liana hadn’t seen since the seventies.

Avocado
appliances in a kitchen.

Time warp—a time before Steve’s. Some kind of inheritance? Even so, why not update?

Maybe inertia—or being stingy—had led the ex-wife to split. But, no, he’d tipped thirty percent.

He said, “This is it… ta-dah … want some water? I’m a little parched myself.”

“No, thanks.”

“Another decaf? Anything.”

“I’m fine.”

He filled himself a glass from the tap. “Oh, sorry—please sit, make yourself comfortable.”

Liana perched on a sofa. Stuffed as firm as a surfer in a wet suit.

Why am I in this guy’s place? He just happens to show up at the bar? Okay, he’s a regular, he didn’t stalk me. But that could be even scarier; a regular at a place where two women disappeared, and for all I know, I’ve walked right into his—

Aaron’s voice overtook her own:
Stupid, Lee, not what I pay you for. Run like hell…

Steve Rau rinsed his glass, walked toward her, stopped a couple of feet away. “Ultrachic décor, right?”

“It’s … nice and domestic.”

He laughed. “Full disclosure: My parents own it. Five years ago they moved to a retirement community outside Las Vegas and what started out as house-sitting ended up quasi-permanent. I say quasi, because they keep threatening to come back.”

Liana said, “The boomerang generation.”

“That’s good—I think I’ll steal it for a paper.”

“Be my guest.”

“Anyway, I’m not allowed to change a thing, just in case. Except the books—they took all their paperbacks and Dad’s medical stuff, so at least I’ve got that.”

He pointed to a case full of drab textbooks. Econ, poli sci, business, math, computer programming, human-factors psychology.

Exactly what you’d expect for what he claimed to be. And he’d used his real name—the doorman’s greeting was proof of that.

Doctor Rau.

And Gus the bartender had confirmed the ex-wife thing.

So far, on the level. Unlike someone else we know.

Liana said, “If my parents left me anything, I’d be thrilled.” She sashayed to a large, single-pane window. “Look at that view.”

“I love it, but I should still get my own place.” His voice was low, throaty, warm against her ear. He’d moved behind her silently.

She turned, faced him.

He said, “Oh, man, you are so incredibly beautiful.”

Oh, man?

Oddly enough … she kissed him.

He was putty.

The first time was on one of his parents’ floral couches. Scratchy polyester itched Liana like crazy but for the ninety seconds the whole thing took, she was okay.

The second time was in his bed. A whole lot better, in all regards.

He drifted into REM sleep, eyes shifting beneath the lids, back and forth like windshield wipers.

Liana extricated herself, sat up, waited, making sure he was out.

His mouth dropped open. He began snoring. She slipped into her panties, left the bedroom, explored his living room.

Frozen dinners in his freezer, three bottles of Heineken in the fridge, along with an old pizza and a single orange growing penicillin. The avocado oven looked to be rarely, if ever, used. A microwave sitting on the counter smelled of oregano, tomato paste, and stale cheese.

She examined some of his textbooks. In many, he’d printed neat notations.

Does this connect to Ecuador?

Corr, caus, both? Orthogonal? Reg.analysis worthwhile? Prob no
.

Hedge fund manip of unreg fuel funds relev to short-term per/barrel? Saudi p.f?

A small desk in the corner comprised his study. In the drawers were bank receipts and credit card bills that confirmed his identity and said
he was frugal. And doing all right: a hundred nine thousand bucks in a money market account. He paid his credit card debt in a timely fashion.

The bottom drawer was filled with notebooks featuring the same academic printing. Also, a letter from his boss, a Dr. Hauer, praising Steve’s presentation at “the World Affairs Council meeting.”

Nothing false, nothing kinky, nothing remotely evil.

She headed back to the bedroom.

Steve met her in the doorway, wearing a blue bathrobe, looking groggy.
Big
guy.

“You okay?”

“A little restless,” she said.

“I’d give you a tour, but there’s nothing to see.”

“I was enjoying the view.”

“Let’s enjoy it some more.”

“I’d better get going.”

His face sagged. “You’re sure?”

She nodded.

“Okay … I was hoping you’d … I understand, it’s up to you. But don’t take that as apathy, Laura. I… this was … I’m so glad we met up again.”