True Detectives (7 page)

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, before that it was
The
Riptide. I don’t know exactly how old it is, but probably at least forty years.”

Making that sound antique. Liana suppressed a flinch.

“No more
the,”
she said. “Industry honchos thought it was hip-per.”

“No, they were cheap. A storm knocked down part of the sign. They stuck on that neon martini glass instead.”

“Subtle,” said Liana.

Rau chuckled. “This is tragic, Laura.”

“What is?”

“I meet a highly intelligent woman who looks like a movie star and she’s smart enough not to be impulsive.”

Liana smiled.

“I guess if you did agree to go off with me, I’d wonder about your judgment.” He shrugged. “Story of my life. Ambivalence and second-guessing. My ex said it drove her crazy. My lack of quote unquote ‘constructive recklessness.’ Why it took eleven years and division of assets for her to reach that insight, she couldn’t explain.” Deep blush. “Sorry, that was stunningly awkward and inappropriate.”

“Hey,” said Liana, “you’ve been through it. Three months is pretty fresh.”

“Papers came through three months ago. We’ve been separated for three years.”

His look said it had taken him a long time to give up hope.

“Steve, I, for one, appreciate that you understand about the need for caution. A girl can’t be too careful. Even in a nice place like this.”

Rau didn’t answer.

“It is a nice place?” she asked.

“Never seen a brawl,” said Rau. “And Gus keeps his eye on the inebriation level. Yeah, it’s nice. Back when the celebs used to show up— two, three years ago—it could get… a little different.”

“Different, how?”

“Long stays in the bathroom.” He touched his nose. “Obviously underage girls, fake I.D.’s. People getting up and dirty-dancing when the music didn’t call for it.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Gobs, Laura. I stopped coming for a while. Things are a lot quieter now, and I’m sure the owners are feeling it in the pocketbook but I, for one—and I’ll bet I speak for all the regulars—don’t miss those days.”

“Celebs,” said Liana. “They do get entitled.”

Rau got more aggressive with his beer, taking two deep gulps. He dribbled a tad and wiped his lips with his napkin.

“How come the egomaniacs don’t come here anymore, Steve?”

“They moved on, Laura. That’s what they do, it’s all about the Next Big Thing.”

“Ah,” she said.

Rau emptied his mug. Looked over at the bartender but when Gus pointed to the tap, he shook his head.

Liana said, “So two years since it’s been celebbed up.”

“Two, three. Here’s the irony, Laura: Back then, with all the bodyguards and drivers and such hanging around, you’d think it would’ve been safer than milk. But that’s when there were some problems.”

He wrapped both hands around the empty mug. The music had switched to Brian Wilson singing about the wonders of his room.

“What kind of problems, Steve?”

“Forget it,” said Rau. “Last thing I want to do is spook you. Because I
do
want you to come back.”

Staring at her. Soft brown eyes.

Liana said, “I’m a big girl.”

“Not important—ancient history.”

“Come on, Steve. I don’t spook easily.”

Rau knuckled his forehead. “Brilliant, Rau.”

“What happened?”

“I’m not saying it had anything to do with this place. I’m sure it didn’t, because it happened outside … oh Lord, I’m
bad
at being single.”

Liana wet her lips with Seabreeze. She’d taken in maybe a quarter ounce, felt sharp and on her game as she waited the guy out.

He said, “You really want to know?”

“I do.”

“A girl who worked here—in the dining room, as a hostess—back then they served more food—she left after her shift was over and was never seen again. But nothing happened to her here—we’re talking a year and a half ago, something like that… so I guess some celebs were still here. At least that’s the way I remember it. The irony, like I said. Then something else happened shortly after. A couple, tourists staying at Loews, dropped in for a few drinks and also vanished. That I heard on the news. They mentioned Riptide as the last place the couple was seen. After that, I stayed away.”

“I can see why you were spooked.”

“Not spooked, just… Maria had broken off marriage counseling, I was by myself … I’m sorry. Now you’ll never come back.”

“Steve, I do not allow myself to be ruled by the misfortunes of others.”

“Laura, all I
do
, day in and day out, is
immerse
myself in the misfortunes of others. This afternoon it was devising algorithms to predict the correlation between economic downturns and the rise of insurgency in Malaysia.”

“How’s it looking for Malaysia?”

“You don’t want to know.” Suddenly he stood.

Taller than she’d thought and really not that heavy. Hint of a soft little gut, but broad, square shoulders and long, strong-looking legs.

Tossing bills on the bar, he held out his hand. “Great to meet you, Laura. I mean that.”

This time Liana pressed flesh. His was cool, dry, smooth.

“If for some reason you do come back, I hope it’s a night that I’m here.”

Sighing, he pressed his lips to her fingers. Dropped her hand quickly and shook his head and muttered, “Dork.”

Before she could reassure him, he was gone.

“Poor Steve,” said someone up the bar. “That wife of his really racked him up.”

H
alf the cookie,” said Liz Wilkinson.

Moe Reed said, “Pardon?”

“As in Oreo. We are fifty percent of a cookie, baby. Or maybe seventy, seeing as all the crème’s
here.”

Reaching under his butt, she squeezed. Her smooth brown body rested atop the hard bunches and swells of his pale, freckled musculature.

Hips touching. Everything glued together. They’d finally stopped kissing.

He said, “Didn’t Oreo used to be a dis? Black on the outside, white on the inside?”

“I’m adapting it for my own purposes.”

“Creative.”

“I’m glad you agree.” She laughed. He loved that sound.

Moments later: “Liz, with an Oreo, the dark part’s all crusty and the crème is soft. Isn’t this more like a reverse Oreo?”

She propped herself up, looked into his eyes. “Now you’re a philosopher.”

He craned to kiss her. When their lips parted, he pressed his mouth to her long, smooth neck. She lowered her weight back onto him.

“Mr. Literal.”

“I’m with a trained scientist, I want to be accurate.” He rubbed her back. “Trained scientist, natural
gorgeous
.”

Liz smiled to herself, felt the sting of bone against bone and shifted her pelvis. The movement, an innocent attempt at comfort, produced a
new
swell below. “I can tell you’re sincere, Detective Reed, because the forensic evidence is in plain sight.”

She sat herself up, ran her hands over those slab-like pectorals. Knowing what human skeletal muscles looked like, beneath the sliver that was skin. Visualizing Moe’s striated sheath.

The boy was solid, rock-hard.

Everywhere.

She touched him. Stroked him. He looked up at her, wide-eyed. Guiding him back in, she rocked slowly. Doing it, at first, for his sake, because boys behaved better when they were satisfied to the point of stupor. But soon they were fitting so perfectly and moving so perfectly, Liz’s eyes closed and her head began swaying, flaps of her long hair grazing Moe’s chest.

She straightened her locks religiously, but some texture remained and he said he liked that. Now the ends tickled his nipples and he turned his head to one side.

“Oh, man.” Shifting his hands to her breasts.

She said, “Exactly.”

Twenty minutes later, they sat at the breakfast room table of her condo on Fuller Avenue off Melrose, drinking peach Fresca and eating takeout deli sandwiches. The neighborhood was Intensely Ironic Postmodern Hipster but Liz had no interest in any of that. For all the time she spent at home, a motel would’ve served just as well.

Mother and Father had chipped in for the down payment, tossed in some extra for furniture. One day, she’d have to buy something nicer than the foldable card table at which they were eating, IKEA cases to hold all her books, the mattress on her bedroom floor.

Meanwhile, the simple life served quite nicely, thank you. Moe sure didn’t care about interior decorating; his own place in the Valley was neat and clean but except for that gym, it looked like a college dorm room.

Lots of books there, too. Pleasant surprise.

She watched him chomp his sandwich. Skinless turkey breast, because of the cholesterol issue. Liz had ordered the same, even though she preferred beef.

Love, Mother had always preached, was all about compromise.

If only Mother knew …

One month out of a Stanford Ph.D. in physical anthro, Liz’s dissertation on microchanges in humidity and visceral muscle decomposition had landed her a postdoc with Eleanor Hargrove at the LAPD-affiliated bone lab. The following year, funding came up for a real job at the lab and Liz snagged it. The position meant long hours spent with mummified skin, studying the finer points of rot and shred, the awful detritus that came with finality.

Lots of travel to conferences, because Eleanor wanted the lab to get exposure. All of which Liz had expected and generally relished.

What
hadn’t
been in the game plan was hooking up with a guy, let alone one whose formal education had ended with a criminal justice B.A. from Cal State Northridge.

Liz’s parents were full professors with Yale degrees. Poli sci at Howard for Mother, sociology at GW for Father. She still hadn’t told them about Moe.

The first time she and Moe met, she was waist-deep in marsh muck, pulling up frags of human skeleton. Moe, the first D at the scene, had stood on the banks, conferred with Hargrove, not noticing Liz at all.

Then he’d spotted her, and darn if he didn’t take a second look.

Long
second look.

She’d been intrigued by him from the beginning. So young and intense—that earnest boyishness you didn’t see much anymore.

Cute, too.

In a Celtic way.

When he asked her out, she accepted without hesitation, despite the fact that Moe wasn’t her type.

Light-years
from her type. Her upbringing in the rarefied world of black academia had funneled her dating contacts to articulate men with advanced degrees and accomplishments to match.

Men whose skin tone matched hers.

Half a cookie …

Moe reached over and touched her hand in that gentle way she adored. The athletics of the previous hour had rubbed him pink in spots and the blotches hadn’t faded.

Delicate boy, he never tanned. Strawberry yogurt was the last thing Liz had figured she’d ever find attractive.

Go know. She kissed his knuckles.

He said, “You are unbe
liev
able.”

“Keep thinking that, Moses.”

“I always will,” he assured her. Like a six-year-old promising to be good. Not a
trace
of postmodern irony.
That
was a novelty.

She’d rehearsed her little speech a hundred times.
He’s highly intelligent, Mother. Intuitive. Anything
but
simple
.

All of it true, but it rang hollow. Trying too hard.

She was twenty-nine and Moe was barely that. Both of them paying their own bills, they didn’t have to answer to anyone.

Right.

He finished his sandwich. She pushed half hers toward him. “I’m full, finish it.”

“Thanks.” Five bites did the trick. Hungry boy—sometimes, Liz couldn’t help but think in kid terms when she was with him.

She adored the way he held on to the guileless part of himself, despite the job. Wondered how the job would play at the Georgetown
salons
Mother favored.

No, she didn’t. She knew how he’d be treated.

He got up and cleared the table. Rolled his neck.

Liz said, “Got a crick?”

“Not really.”

She stepped behind him and massaged that incredibly dense hunk of neck.

“Oh, wow, that’s great.”

“Any reason for all these knots, Detective Reed?”

“Not really.” Two beats later: “I’m back full-time on Caitlin. Pressure from above.”

“That’ll screw up the trapezius, all right.”

“Hey,” he said, “no big deal. I’ll work it.”

“I know you will. But sorry for the hassle, baby.”

“Anything interesting at the lab?”

“No new cases,” she said. “Catching up on grant applications.”

He turned to face her, slipped his arm around her waist. “Want your own massage?”

“No, thanks, you’ve loosened me up quite well, sir.”

He smiled. A flicker of anxiety sprinted across his eyes. Split-second storm, then it was gone.

“What?” she said.

“It’s a loser, Liz.”

“You can’t create facts on the ground, baby.”

“I know … it sticks me with a crappy close rate, right at the outset.”

“You closed the marsh murders, Moses.”

“Sturgis really did that.”

“Now, that I won’t listen to, Moses. You and Sturgis. It’s not like he didn’t give you credit.”

“He’s a gentleman.”

“Maybe so,” said Liz, “but he was only doing what was right.”

“Yeah … Aaron’s on Caitlin, too.”

That caught her off balance. “How’d that happen?”

“Caitlin’s father’s boss is footing his bill. Aaron thinks all he needs to do is chew through enough billable hours and he’ll close it.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Maybe he’s right, Liz.”

“At this stage, how would he know if it’s closable or not?” she said.

Moe didn’t answer.

She massaged him some more. “C’mon, let’s get mindless and watch some tube.”

“Sure,” said Moe. But the evening had changed.

♦

During the months Liz and Moe had dated, she’d met Aaron Fox exactly once.

Six, seven weeks ago, while walking up the leafy pathway to Moe’s mom’s house, meeting Maddy for the first time—an experience in itself.

Halfway up, a black man appeared around a bend.

Moe tensed up and for a second Liz wondered if the guy posed some sort of threat.

A brief handshake and Moe’s curt introductions dispelled all that, but the entire time, Moe never relaxed.

Aaron, on the other hand, had been nothing
but
mellow. One of those people who make you feel you’ve been friends for years.

Growing up in D.C. she’d seen that brand of charisma in politicians and financial types, distrusted it instinctively.

As Moe and Aaron made small talk on the pathway, Liz tried to figure out how Moe knew him.

Maybe another cop? Then what was he doing visiting Moe’s mom?

Sensing a long story, she bided her time.

A personal trainer?

No, something more, he definitely had made her baby tense.

Maybe Mom’s young black
boyfriend?

Aware that she categorized people too quickly, she still couldn’t stop herself.

Good looking, but spends way too much time at the mirror
.

Great clothes, same issue
.

He’d been nothing but polite, with polished diction and intelligent eyes, but way too smooth. What Liz termed Upper Division Player.

Not all that different from the guys she’d dated prior to Moe, minus the Ivy League Polish.

What did he do for a living?

A lawyer making a house call? Possibly.

Or something in show business—an agent? Moe said Maddy had once aspired to stage and screen, never got very far.

Or an acting
coach
. Guy was handsome enough and the clothes and
that snappy little Porsche out by the curb said he was doing just fine. Or pretending, this was L.A.

Maybe that’s why he came across as Instant Friend—expecting to be recognized.

Liz couldn’t recall ever seeing him on anything.

By the time he’d walked off, she’d compiled a dossier. Moe watched the Porsche speed away, a brow-wrinkling frown implying disapproval.

Conspicuous consumption wasn’t Moe’s game. Something else he and Liz had in common.

Elizabeth Mae, you really need to make more of the looks God gave you
.

The sports car was long gone but Moe continued to stare down the street.

Liz took hold of his tree-trunk arm. “C’mon, I want to meet the woman who gifted you to the world.”

They resumed their walk.

Liz couldn’t control herself. “Does Aaron work with your mother?”

“He’s my brother.”

“As in, he ain’t heavy?”

“As in sibling.”

“No really, baby, seriously.”

“I wish I was kidding.”

Over the next few weeks, Liz teased out details of the brothers’ upbringing.

Both of their fathers had been cops, both were deceased.

Maybe
that
was the issue: one dad stepping in for another, all that blended-family tension. If so, Mama had made her sons’ lives even more complicated.

An apparent serial marrier, Madeleine Fox Reed Guistone Entley (“but we don’t talk about Entley, dear”) had buried her third husband fifteen years ago. A wealthy orthodontist and “visionary entrepreneur,”
Stan Guistone had invested in enough real estate to ensure his widow a lovely lifestyle. Two years after his death, she’d tried yet again, divorced “Shiftless Bum Entley” within months.

The woman kept framed photo portraits of hubbies one, two, and three propped on her bedroom dresser, a fact that Liz had gleaned during that same Sunday visit, after ducking into Maddy’s private bathroom because the main one was occupied by Moe.

Two cops in uniform and a squat, beetle-browed, white-haired man in a wide-lapeled suit.

Aaron was a clone of his father.

Moe was built heavier and thicker than his father, and his fine, symmetrical features were Maddy’s. But the coloring was there … maybe something around the eyes. The ears, too.

Officer Darius Fox, RIP.

Officer John Jasper Reed, RIP.

Dr. Stanley Edgar Guistone, D.D.S., M.P.H., M.B.A., ditto.

The woman was bad news for the morbidity/mortality stats.

Three husbands, two kids. If she’d had a child with Dr. G, the poor thing might’ve ended up looking like a depressed raccoon.

Now curiosity about Moe’s family history was nibbling her brain even harder, but she resolved to take it slow. Pushing issues didn’t work with most men and it sure wouldn’t work with Moe.

Between her travel and the open-ended schedule of a homicide detective, the two of them needed to use their time together wisely. No sense dashing good times with the emotional ice resulting from mention of Aaron’s name.

Still, that level of sibling hostility did intrigue her. She had two brothers and adored them both. Sean and Jay had suffered through some friction but they got along great now. Played golf together, for God’s sake.

Moses and Aaron, on the other hand … a stupid person might assume race was the problem, because stupid people always jumped on “the obvious solution” to explain complex problems.

The Little-Person Fallacy, she called it, in honor of a case during
her internship. The corpse of a three-foot-eight woman had been found moldering in a Menlo Park apartment, too decayed for an obvious COD. Post-autopsy, Dr. Lieber, the medical examiner, had asked everyone to guess. Those brave enough to venture opted for spondyloepiphyseal dwarfism and the health issues that went along with that.

Truth was, the woman had smoked three packs a day and died of throat cancer.