R Is for Ricochet

diminutive, a full head shorter than he, which forced him to lean toward her attentively as the two of them talked. I went back to cleaning my bowl – food, in this instance, taking precedence over idle speculation.
    A moment later they appeared and Reba gestured at him. "Alan Beckwith. I used to work for him. This is Kinsey Millhone."
    He held his hand out, his wrist thin, his fingers long and slim. "Nice to meet you. I'm Beck to most."
    I put him in his thirties – fine lines on his face, but no pouches anywhere. "Nice meeting you, too," I said, shaking hands with him. "Are you joining us?"
    "If you don't mind. I don't want to butt in."
    "We're just chatting," I said. "Have a seat."
    On their side of the booth, Reba slid in first, scooting over to make room for him. He sat down, half-slouching, his long legs outstretched. He was clean shaven, but I could see the shadow of a beard. His eyes were the dark, rich brown of Hershey's Kisses. I picked up the scent of cologne, something spicy and light. I'd seen him before… not here, but somewhere in town, though I couldn't imagine why our paths would have crossed.
    He tapped on the back of Reba's hand. "So. How've you been?"
    "Fine. It feels great to be home."
    I tuned them out, watching as the two exchanged pleasantries. For people who'd once worked together, both seemed ill at ease, but that might have been because he'd turned her over to the cops, a move that would put a damper on most relationships.
    "You look good," he said.
    "Thanks. I could use a decent haircut. I did this myself. What about you? What have you been up to?"
    "Not much. Traveling a lot on business. I just got back from Panama last week and I may be heading out again. We're in the new building, part of the mall that was finished last spring. Restaurants and shops. It's really slick."
    "That was in the works when I left and I know what a pain in the ass it was. Congratulations."
    "Have you seen it?"
    "Not yet. Must be convenient for you, working right downtown."
    "Dynamite," he said.
    She smiled. "How's the office gang? I hear Onni took my old job. Is she doing okay?"
    "She's fine. It took her a while to learn the system, but she's doing great. Everyone else is pretty much the same."
    What did I sense? I tested the air with my little feelers, trying to identify the nature of the tension between them.
    Idly, I listened while Beck continued. "I got a new deal in the works. Commercial property up near Merced. I just met with some guys who have capital to invest so we may pull something together. I stopped in here for a good-luck drink before I headed home." His attention shifted in an effort to include me in the conversation. A smooth move, I thought. He wagged a finger between Reba and me, like a windshield wiper. "How do you two know each other?"
    I'd opened my mouth to speak, but Reba got in first. "We don't. We just met this morning when she picked me up and brought me home. I was going nuts, stuck at the house. Pop went to bed early and I was too hyper to sit still. The silence was really creeping me out so I called her."
    His gaze settled on mine. "You live around here?"
    "Half a block down. I rent a studio apartment. Matter of fact, that's my landlord over there," I said, gesturing toward Henry at his table near the front. "The bartender's his older brother William, who's married to Rosie, the gal who owns this place, just to fill you in."
    Beck smiled. "A family affair." He was one of those guys who understands the power of being totally focused on the person he's talking to. No barely disguised glances at his watch, no surreptitious shift in his gaze to see who's coming in the door. Now he seemed as patient as a cat staring at a crack in a rock where a lizard has disappeared. "You live in the area?" I asked.
    He shook his head. "I'm in Montebello, right where East Glen and Cypress Lane intersect."
    I rested my chin on my hand. "I've seen you someplace."
    "I'm a native, Santa Teresa born and bred. My folks had a place in Horton Ravine, but they've been gone now for years. My dad owned the Clements," he said, referring to a three-story luxury hotel that folded in the late seventies. Subsequent ownerships had failed as well and the building had been converted to a retirement facility. If I remembered correctly, his father had been involved in numerous businesses around town. Major bucks.
    I glanced over to see Rosie moving toward us with an empty tray, her sights fixed on Beck, her approach as