Lanyon, Josh - Adrien English 04 - Death of a Pirate King (13 page)

What I was thinking, though, was that I hadn’t solved those other
crimes on my own. I had certainly played a part in helping solve them -- maybe
I had even been instrumental -- but Jake had played every bit as vital a role
in closing those cases. It had been teamwork all the way -- even if Jake hadn’t
wanted me on his team.

If Jake didn’t want Porter Jones’s murder solved, it wouldn’t
be solved.

I’m not sure where the thought came from, but once it
occurred to me, it was hard to shake.

“Porter wasn’t the kind of person that gets murdered,”
January said. I opened my mouth, and he waved me off. “Oh, I know what you’re
going to say -- that there is no particular type of person who gets murdered,
but Porter was…” He shook his head.

“I got the impression at the funeral that he was well liked,”
I agreed. “But murder isn’t always about the victim. Sometimes it’s more about
the perpetrator.”

“I see what you mean,” he said. He sipped his whiskey.
“Porter was a big old teddy bear, but…if you crossed him…”

“Had anyone crossed him lately?”

January’s eyes were that very pale blue that looks gray in a
certain light. He gazed out over the treetops. “I guess he had his share of
conflicts,” he commented.

I realized that January, while not hostile, was not going to
be hugely helpful at the expense of his old friend’s good name. And I liked
that about him. In fact, I liked January, period -- and not just because he was
adapting my book for a screenplay and had said nice things about it. Though
that didn’t hurt.

I said, “Well, I know he was having some marital problems.”

“Who isn’t?”

The bitterness of that caught my attention. I was pretty sure
January was gay. There was no sign of a Mrs. January -- actually, there was no
sign of any other person beyond a maid -- in January’s life.

He added, “Ally doesn’t have the brains to kill a fly.”

“Paul Kane seems to think otherwise. He’s pretty sure Ally
wanted Porter out of the way.”

“She might have wanted him out of the way, but I don’t buy
for one moment the idea that Ally killed Porter.”

We chatted for a bit -- mostly about Ally. While January didn’t
seem to bear the hostility toward her that Kane did, I got the impression he
thought Ally had the brains and morals of a ground squirrel. He mentioned that
Porter met her on the set of some film Ally had a part in; he didn’t go so far
as to say she was an actress, and whatever Ally’s career ambitions had been,
she seemed content to abandon them in favor of becoming a full-time Hollywood
wife. But maybe Hollywood widow was an easier gig. Especially with a studly
personal trainer waiting in the wings.

The maid brought out a platter of tortilla wraps: grilled
chicken and cheese and avocado wrapped in flour tortillas slathered with herb
mayonnaise. January and I helped ourselves.

Swallowing a bite, I said, “Had any of Porter’s recent
business deals gone wrong?”

He washed down a mouthful of wrap with whiskey. “As a matter
of fact, Porter had withdrawn financing for a project Valarie Rose and I were
involved in -- and neither of us was too happy about it.”

“Why did he withdraw financing?”

He smiled. “You’re being very diplomatic. Why don’t you just
come out and ask me if I killed Porter?”

“I’m assuming your answer would be no.”

“It would, but in this case it happens to be true.”

“For the record, I don’t think you killed Jones,” I said,
“but his wife suggested that there was bad blood between you.”

“Oh, Ally.” He waved another dismissing hand. “What can I
say? From the start Ally was jealous of the friendship between Paul, Porter,
and me.” He shook his head very definitely. “No. Porter and I bickered over
scripts and finances and the usual things, but we’d been friends a long time. A
very long time.”

“Did you argue at Paul Kane’s party?”

He wrinkled his forehead like he was trying to remember. “I
don’t think so. Maybe there was some good-natured ribbing.”

“No shouting, no gunplay?” I was trying to keep it light. “No
songs and switchblades at thirty paces?”

“No shouting,” January said. “Maybe we got a little…pointed
with each other, but anyone who knew us knew it wasn’t anything.”

“Was Porter always the money man on Paul’s projects?”

“God, no. Porter financed Paul’s indie projects, but most of
Paul’s work is through the studios.
The
Last Corsair
-- his pirate movie -- that was through Paramount. Everyone
wanted to do pirate movies after the success of that Johnny Depp thing.
Although I think the last one probably killed swashbucklers for the next decade
or so.”

I brooded for a moment on the likelihood of that. Even I had
been relieved to see the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise shipwreck with
At Wits’ End
or whatever it had been
called.

January said, “Now on these indie projects -- take your own
Murder Will Out
-- Paul picks the
projects, Porter financed, and I write the screenplays. We’ve been very
successful. I mean, given that most indie projects are lucky to break even.”

“Where did you first meet Paul Kane?” I asked. Porter and Al
had been of the same age, but Paul Kane was quite a bit younger. I wondered
about that.

“Hold that thought,” he said, rising. He pointed to my glass.
“Did you want another?”

“Sure.”

He disappeared inside the house, and I wondered if he had
deliberately called for a time-out. He didn’t seem unduly troubled by any of my
questions. In fact, Al was about the most relaxed I’d ever seen someone in a
murder investigation -- taking into account that I wasn’t the police and we
both knew it.

He came back with a second bottle of noni juice for me and
another whiskey for himself. He stretched his long legs out and tilted his face
to the warm afternoon sun.

“I met Paul through Langley Hawthorne. You probably never
heard of Langley.”

“Paul mentioned him during his eulogy.”

“That’s right,” he said vaguely. “Langley was the brains
behind Associated Talent, which is now Paul’s production company. It started
out as me, Langley, and Porter. Langley came from old money. A son of the
South.” He winked at me. “He was raised on Stephen Foster and mint juleps.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a background for going into the
moving pictures business?”

“Everyone loves the flickers,” January said. “Anyway, Paul
was a friend of Langley’s. That’s how we originally met.”

“What happened to Langley?”

“He drowned off Catalina.” A funny expression crossed his
face.

He picked up his glass, and I said, “What? You just thought
of something.”

“It’s a crazy idea, really, but you were wondering if anyone
had a motive to get rid of Porter. Langley’s daughter Nina sort of had a
motive. This is years ago, mind, but Nina and Porter had an affair. It didn’t
end well. Porter was married at the time -- not to Ally. He was married to an
actress by the name of Marla Vicenza.”

“She was at the funeral yesterday,” I said. “In fact, I heard
her mention something about Porter not being in good health.”

“I don’t know about that. His doctors were after him for
years to cut back on his drinking and to give up cigars. Anyway, Langley
insisted that the affair end.”

“How young was Nina?”

“Very young. Just eighteen, I think.”

“I can see why Langley had a problem.”

He stroked his mustache, smiling. “You don’t have children, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Nina was furious with Langley -- and Porter. She felt doubly
betrayed.”

“This was back when? The eighties? Could she be holding a
grudge after all this time?”

“Nina is a world-class grudge holder,” Al said, “but in
fairness to her, I don’t think she killed Porter. She’s not the…lie in wait
type. If she killed anyone, it would probably be three and a half minutes after
they pissed her off. Especially back then.”

“Why especially back then?”

“Nina was not always…in control in those days. Well, it was
the eighties. I don’t know anyone who was in control.”

“Was she at the party last weekend?”

“No.” January got that evasive look again. “Not exactly. Her
company catered the party.”

Chapter Eleven

Friday afternoon traffic was a bitch -- as usual -- and I got
back to Pasadena in a less than jolly mood. Shelling out over fifty bucks on
gasoline and the same again on a few staples like tilapia, Tab, and the magical
elixir known as orange-pineapple juice did little to improve my mood.

When I reached Cloak and Dagger I saw that -- predictably --
the construction crew had knocked off work early again, and that the store was
empty of customers barring one: a slim young man who looked like a sexy Harry
Potter. He wore artfully ripped jeans and a fitted bronze mesh T-shirt, and he
was contemplating Natalie over the top of his Windsor-style specs.

“Oh, here’s Adrien,” she said as I approached the counter.
“He can probably tell you when the best time to drop by is.” To me, she said,
“Hey, Adrien, this is…uh…one of Guy’s former students.”

I nodded hi, setting the bag of groceries down, and then I
took another look. There was something very familiar about Guy’s former
student. Something familiar about the cool, slightly challenging way he stared
back at me. But it took a minute to place the pale pointed face and cropped
dark hair.

Peter Verlane.

Last time I’d seen him, he had been doing his level best to
help kill me. Well, no. To be fair, the very last time I’d seen him, he’d been
fleeing into the night trying to avoid arrest for kidnapping, extortion, and
murder. And suddenly I had a clear memory of the envelope that had fallen from
Guy’s pocket the night I’d tried to catch him before he left for Margo’s book
signing -- the letter that had borne the return address of the men’s prison in
Tehachapi.

“Peter Verlane,” I said. “Who left your cage open?”

He reddened, glanced at Natalie, and said stiffly, “I did my
time. I’ve got as much right to be here as anyone.”

“Not exactly,” I said. “She works here, and I own the place.
Remind me why you’re here again?”

Natalie looked from me to Verlane and said uncertainly, “He
was asking for Guy.”

“Why?” I asked him.

“Not that it concerns you,” he said, “but he told me to
contact him when I got out. We’re friends.”

“There’s no accounting for taste,” I admitted. “But why are
you
her
e
?”

He said evenly, “I know he’s seeing you now.”

“I’m relieved he thought to mention it,” I said. “Didn’t he
also mention that he still keeps an office at UCLA? Or that he still has his
townhouse?”

The glasses gave Verlane an unfairly vulnerable look;
scorpions have offspring too, after all.

He said, “I wanted to see you.”

“Uh-huh. Well, you came, you saw, you confounded. Now how
about you skedaddle? I’ll let Guy know you called.”

“Guy
wants
to see
me,” he said with complete and quiet conviction.

Against my best effort I was getting mad, and my heart was
starting to race. I said, “I’m betting he wants to see you
else
where. And
I
sure as
hell want to see you elsewhere. So leave a number where he can reach you, and
go.”

I wasn’t being magnanimous there. I thought it might be a
good idea if I knew where Verlane could be found -- just in case.

Bewildered, looking from me to Verlane, Natalie pushed a
notepad at him and he scribbled something down.

He raised his bespectacled gaze to my face. “Guy wants to see
me,” he said again with certainty.

“I don’t,” I said. “And if you show up here again, I’ll have
a restraining order slapped on you.”

He gave me a final assessing look, turned and walked
unhurriedly up the aisle, pushing out through the glass doors. As they jingled
shut behind him, Natalie let out a long breath.

“What an arrogant little prick!” she said indignantly. “He
seemed fine until you walked in.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.” I started
for my office. My heart was starting that uncomfortable tripping beat,
signaling trouble. Aggravatingly, she followed me, talking.

“I’ve never heard you talk to anyone like that. You were kind
of an arrogant prick too.” She sounded like she found it entertaining. If only
I did.

I sat down at my desk, pulled open a drawer, and pulled out
my pills.

“Are you okay?”

I looked at her. “I just need a minute or two.”

She nodded but didn’t go away. Wouldn’t the normal thing be
to give me a few moments? Controlling myself with an effort, I popped my pills,
took a swallow from the bottle of tepid water on my desk. I drew a couple of
experimental breaths. I seemed to be okay. My heart was already slowing back to
its normal rhythm, so maybe I’d just mistaken reasonable agitation for
something else.

“I really am okay,” I told her. “Do I have any messages?”

“Hmm? Oh. Paul Kane called again. A couple of authors want to
set up signings. It was a pretty quiet day. Only three people came in searching
for books with red covers and the word ‘murder’ in the title.”

Guy would have called my cell phone or left a message on the
upstairs phone. Assuming Guy had anything to say to me. He’d left without
waking me that morning.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Natalie said.

“I’m fine,” I said, and despite my efforts, it snapped out. I
glanced at the clock over the desk. “Shit. And I’m late picking Em up.”

“Adrien, Emma can do without her horse riding lessons! You
need to --”

“There’s no need for her to do without.” I rose, and she
asked, “Aren’t you going to call Guy?”

“No.” And that was much curter than I intended. I glanced at
her. “Sorry. Listen, Nat, can you do me a favor?”