True Detectives

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.