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Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
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named Caitlin Frostig.”
Tough-guy bravado in his voice.
Now who’s acting?
“I know that man is suffering. Caitlin’s father. I phoned him shortly after Caitlin vanished. To offer support, one parent to the other. He thanked me and hung up and I realized I’d been stupid. Presuming I had something to offer him. Empathy’s damn weak tea, Detective.”
Her eyes drooped. “I lost a child myself. Seventeen months before Rory was born. Her name was Sarah, she had the most gorgeous brown eyes you’ve ever seen and she was three months old when I found her in her crib not breathing.”
“I’m sor—”
“When Rory was nine, his father passed. So I figured I could offer Mr. Frostig something by way of understanding. But no one can ever really know how anyone feels, that’s just pop-psych nonsense. We’re put on this planet for a few years, just us and our shadows, Detective Reed. Maybe there’s someone up there, pulling the strings, I don’t know. Anyone who tells you he does know wants your money or is trying to get elected to something.”
“Ma’am—”
“Rory’s a good boy, please don’t put his job at risk. It’s perfect for him, gives him a toehold in the Industry.”
“Rory wants to act?”
“Rory wants to be an entertainment lawyer, or maybe an agent. It’s all about connections, he was so lucky to connect right at the top. Mason may have had personal issues but he treats Rory well and Rory loves working for him.” Softening her voice. “He’s really a nice young man. Mason, I mean. Rory brought him here for breakfast and I served him personally and he couldn’t have been more gracious.”
“Great,” said Moe.
“What is?”
“Success hasn’t made him obnoxious.”
“Yes,” she said. “That
is
nice, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER
10
R iptide was ripe with the odors of tequila, aftershave, and slightly rancid cooking oil.
Liana Parlat took a stool at the far end of the spar-varnished bar, aware of male eyes shifting as she crossed the length of the room.
Long, dark room, kind of tunnel-like. Off to one side, a double-width doorway led to a small dining area. No one in there she could see.
The action was at Cocktail Central. A few couples in their thirties, the rest men batching it. Beach Boys on soundtrack.
“Don’t Worry Baby.” Her favorite. Made it easy to smile.
The smile snagged the ponytailed bartender’s attention and she ordered a Grey Goose Greyhound, rocks, twist. “Pink grapefruit juice, if you have it.”
Ponytail grinned. “Sorry, just regular.”
“That’s fine.”
“I can splash in a little cranberry, if you’d like. For color.”
“You know,” said Liana, “maybe I would rather have a Seabreeze.”
“Good choice.” The guy got to work and seconds later, the extra-large cocktail was set down in front of her. Orange slice, which she liked. Maraschino, which was all wrong.
“Yum,” she said.
“Enjoy.”
Sipping slowly, she took in the flavor of the place. “Good Vibrations” came on. Nice, but earlier stuff—the surf songs—would’ve fit better with the décor.
She figured it was mostly original: rough plank cedar walls, lacquered coils of hemp rope, ship’s lamps, circular glass balls, a couple of buoys. At least two captain’s wheels she could spot and she bet there were more in the dining room.
All of it probably a throwback to the bar’s previous life as a working-class drinkery.
Before arriving, she’d revved up the old Mac and read up on the place, found a three-year-old gushing travel piece from the
Times
that emphasized a “festive Jimmy Buffett ambience” and the occasional “spontaneous” appearance of celebs.
Britney, Paris, Brangelina, Mel, Mason, even the Governator. Supposedly, they favored the Meyer Rum Tsunami. As if anything those people did was spontaneous. Inane, but what else could you expect from a paper where half the entertainment “articles” were press releases fed by studio publicists?
Obsolete,
Tough-guy bravado in his voice.
Now who’s acting?
“I know that man is suffering. Caitlin’s father. I phoned him shortly after Caitlin vanished. To offer support, one parent to the other. He thanked me and hung up and I realized I’d been stupid. Presuming I had something to offer him. Empathy’s damn weak tea, Detective.”
Her eyes drooped. “I lost a child myself. Seventeen months before Rory was born. Her name was Sarah, she had the most gorgeous brown eyes you’ve ever seen and she was three months old when I found her in her crib not breathing.”
“I’m sor—”
“When Rory was nine, his father passed. So I figured I could offer Mr. Frostig something by way of understanding. But no one can ever really know how anyone feels, that’s just pop-psych nonsense. We’re put on this planet for a few years, just us and our shadows, Detective Reed. Maybe there’s someone up there, pulling the strings, I don’t know. Anyone who tells you he does know wants your money or is trying to get elected to something.”
“Ma’am—”
“Rory’s a good boy, please don’t put his job at risk. It’s perfect for him, gives him a toehold in the Industry.”
“Rory wants to act?”
“Rory wants to be an entertainment lawyer, or maybe an agent. It’s all about connections, he was so lucky to connect right at the top. Mason may have had personal issues but he treats Rory well and Rory loves working for him.” Softening her voice. “He’s really a nice young man. Mason, I mean. Rory brought him here for breakfast and I served him personally and he couldn’t have been more gracious.”
“Great,” said Moe.
“What is?”
“Success hasn’t made him obnoxious.”
“Yes,” she said. “That
is
nice, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER
10
R iptide was ripe with the odors of tequila, aftershave, and slightly rancid cooking oil.
Liana Parlat took a stool at the far end of the spar-varnished bar, aware of male eyes shifting as she crossed the length of the room.
Long, dark room, kind of tunnel-like. Off to one side, a double-width doorway led to a small dining area. No one in there she could see.
The action was at Cocktail Central. A few couples in their thirties, the rest men batching it. Beach Boys on soundtrack.
“Don’t Worry Baby.” Her favorite. Made it easy to smile.
The smile snagged the ponytailed bartender’s attention and she ordered a Grey Goose Greyhound, rocks, twist. “Pink grapefruit juice, if you have it.”
Ponytail grinned. “Sorry, just regular.”
“That’s fine.”
“I can splash in a little cranberry, if you’d like. For color.”
“You know,” said Liana, “maybe I would rather have a Seabreeze.”
“Good choice.” The guy got to work and seconds later, the extra-large cocktail was set down in front of her. Orange slice, which she liked. Maraschino, which was all wrong.
“Yum,” she said.
“Enjoy.”
Sipping slowly, she took in the flavor of the place. “Good Vibrations” came on. Nice, but earlier stuff—the surf songs—would’ve fit better with the décor.
She figured it was mostly original: rough plank cedar walls, lacquered coils of hemp rope, ship’s lamps, circular glass balls, a couple of buoys. At least two captain’s wheels she could spot and she bet there were more in the dining room.
All of it probably a throwback to the bar’s previous life as a working-class drinkery.
Before arriving, she’d revved up the old Mac and read up on the place, found a three-year-old gushing travel piece from the
Times
that emphasized a “festive Jimmy Buffett ambience” and the occasional “spontaneous” appearance of celebs.
Britney, Paris, Brangelina, Mel, Mason, even the Governator. Supposedly, they favored the Meyer Rum Tsunami. As if anything those people did was spontaneous. Inane, but what else could you expect from a paper where half the entertainment “articles” were press releases fed by studio publicists?
Obsolete,
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