Lanyon, Josh - Adrien English 04 - Death of a Pirate King (25 page)

“Nothing. I’m just…following orders. I’m going to see Al
January this afternoon.”

“Why?”

“I told you. I’m following up on a couple of things.”

“What things?”

“Apparently Porter Jones was writing his memoirs.”

I could hear the crackle and static of empty air. He said
slowly, “You’re the one who thought Paul was the real target. That was your
theory.”

“I’ve been wrong before.”

“Oh yeah, that’s for damn sure.” He was angry, but
controlled. “Someone knocked Porter off because he was going to write a kiss and
tell biography? That’s the current theory?”

Kill and tell in this case. “Don’t you think it’s worth
checking out?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Have you figured out how Nina got the poison into Porter’s
glass?”

He didn’t answer.

I said, “Well, maybe Al can shed some light on that. He was
standing right at the bar with me.”

Still no answer.

It occurred to me -- and it was not a happy thought -- that
perhaps his feelings ran deeper than I had allowed myself to believe. I was
astonished to hear myself say, “Look, if you…ask…me not to go over there…I
won’t go.”

“I…” He didn’t finish it. Or I couldn’t hear what he said
over the heavy pounding of my heart. I felt like we were standing on the edge
of some precipice -- and I remembered two years ago and a vacation from hell when
he’d kept me from taking a nosedive off a cliffside. So many close calls. So
many near misses. I had relied on Jake to be my safety net then, and I was
relying on him now. And I was willing to return the favor -- if he needed it.

“Call me after you talk to him,” he said abruptly and rang
off.

* * * * *

“I was a little surprised to get your phone call,” Al said,
handing me a bottle of noni juice.

I set the bottle on the table. It was very hot today, the air
still and heavy. Even the bees sounded hot and lazy. The wild grass rustled
dryly on the burnished gold hillside.

“You were pretty definite the last time we talked that no way
was Nina capable of murder.”

“I didn’t say that,” Al said slowly, apparently thinking back
to our last conversation. “I said, no way did she push her father over the side
of that boat.”

“But you think she’s capable of trying to kill Paul Kane?”

One of the dogs stood at alert, staring out across the gorge
at the hillside. Al spoke quietly and the dog came back and sat down, panting,
beside his chair. Al said, “I think Nina…at one time might have been capable of
that. I find it hard to believe that she would wait this long to go after Paul.
They’ve been…maybe not friendly, but…cordial for years now.”

“Did Paul use her company a lot of cater his parties?”

“I don’t really know.” He frowned, thinking. “I think he
might have used her once or twice. She’s very good and very popular. I’ve used
her a couple of times -- back when I used to give parties.” There was that
little flash of bitterness again.

“So Nina’s arrest took you by surprise?”

He sighed. “Yes. And no. It’s the kind of thing I can imagine
Nina doing -- maybe not at this point in her life, but at another point, yes.
She hated Paul very much at one time. Maybe she still does.”

So much for that angle. I said, “Those cocktails Paul Kane
makes. The Henley Skullfarquars. Was that an unusual thing?”

“The skull fuckers? No. Paul makes them at most of his
parties -- especially on the
Pirate’s
Gambit
. Liquid headache, that’s what those are. Gin, grenadine, cider,
Pimm’s, Smirnoff…and we’re usually drinking them in the sun on the boat.” He
shuddered.

I already knew the answer, but I wanted confirmation.
“They’re made by the glass or what?”

“By the jug. He mixes them up in an antique silver punch
bowl.”

I couldn’t recall seeing a punch bowl anywhere, but I was
pretty sure only Paul had been behind the bar that afternoon.

“That’s interesting,” I said, “because only Porter’s drink
was poisoned.”

“Right. The punch bowl wasn’t poisoned, just Porter’s glass,”
agreed Al.

“Do a lot of people drink that punch?”

“Not more than once,” Al said. “Like I said, it’s a headache
in a glass. Porter drank it. Porter would drink anything. Paul swears by the
stuff. Paul can put the booze away.”

I said, “I was standing right there at the bar -- I handed
Porter his glass -- and for the life of me, I can’t think how Nina would have
got poison into it. She wasn’t even there.”

Al’s eyes met mine. “That’s for the police to work out,
right? They must be pretty sure or they wouldn’t have arrested her.”

I used to think that way too a few murder investigations ago.

“You don’t remember seeing anything?”

He was absently stroking the dog, which rested its big head
on his thigh. “I’d have told the police if I’d seen anything.” He glanced at
the untouched bottle of juice. “Did you want some ice with that?”

“I’ve got to get going,” I said. “Oh, did you know Porter had
started working on his memoirs again?”

I was watching him, so I saw his hand freeze on the dog’s broad
head. He looked at me. He said slowly, “Yes.”

I didn’t say anything and neither did he. Then, finally, he
said, “Why?”

“I wondered what happened to the manuscript.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ally says it’s not with Porter’s papers. It’s not anywhere.”

“Marla --”

“Marla says no. She confirmed that he was working on the book
again, but she didn’t know what might have happened to it after his death.”

“Maybe he lost interest,” Al said. “Maybe he decided to let
sleeping dogs lie.”

“Maybe he did at that,” I agreed.

* * * * *

I was not surprised that Jake didn’t pick up when I called
after leaving Al January’s hillside home.

He rang me back while I was watching Emma riding around the
paddock at the club that afternoon, but I didn’t pick up. He knew what he
needed to know: I was still alive and annoying people.

All I really had was a string of suppositions and my
instinct. And I wasn’t about to use the
I
word in Jake’s presence. I needed more in the way of tangible proof, but I had
no idea of how to make that happen. And if I tried to go to Jake with anything
less than tangible proof, I knew he’d dismiss it -- and I couldn’t say I blamed
him.

I was walking back to the parking lot with Emma when her
riding lesson was finished, my thoughts a million miles away, when she said
suddenly, very quietly, “Adrien, are you going to have that operation?”

Was it, like, a topic of dinner conversation around the
Dauten household?

“Probably, kiddo.”

She slipped her hand into mine.

* * * * *

When I got back home after dropping Em off, I found two
police cars parked in the alley outside Cloak and Dagger.

One police car could mean anything, but two… Not that I have
a guilty conscience.

I parked next the unmarked car and got out, making sure I
kept my hands where everyone could see them; they were sweating -- there’s no
way this could be anything but bad news; how bad was the only unknown -- but I
resisted the temptation to wipe them on my jeans.

The doors flew open on the black-and-white and two cops got out,
holsters unbuttoned. The side door to the bookstore opened, and Detective
Alonzo stood framed there. He was wearing that big, unpleasant smile of his.

“Mr. English! Where’ve you been all afternoon?”

The uniformed officers moved up on either side of me.

I said warily, “What part of the afternoon? I’ve been at the
Paddock Riding Club down by Griffith Park for the last couple of hours.”

“Yeah? I guess you can prove that?” Alonzo inquired, walking
toward me. He had his handcuffs out. “And where were you before that?”

I said, “What the hell is going on?” I think I took an
instinctive step backward.

One of the cops grabbed me and shoved me against the side of
the Forester. Someone kicked my feet apart, yanked my arms behind my back.
Someone else was patting me down with ruthless efficiency.

Alonzo announced cheerfully, “Adrien English, you’re under
arrest for the attempted murder of Al January.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The ground tilted sharply beneath me, and I rested my
forehead on the Forester’s warm paint, breathing in long and slowly. I thought
just about anything would be preferable to passing out at the feet of that
sonofabitch Alonzo.

Attempted murder. Now that I hadn’t seen coming. Not at all.

After a few seconds the dizziness eased enough that I got a
grip on myself. I turned my head to try to see Alonzo’s face. No luck. “Al’s
alive?” I got out.

“That’s right,” Alonzo said behind me. “Disappointed?”

He snapped the handcuffs around my wrists -- cold metal --
and tighter than you’d expect -- and peeled me off the side of the car.

I rasped, “Al said I tried to kill him?” I couldn’t make
sense of it. I felt dazed, as if someone had punched me hard where it counted.

“January’s not saying anything,” Alonzo said. “He’s in a
coma. The housekeeper --” He broke off as a silver sedan drew down the alley
and rolled up beside us. I recognized Jake behind the wheel and -- maybe
illogically -- I felt a surge of relief. I mean, for all I knew, he had ordered
them to pick me up…

“Is that Riordan?” one of the uniforms said uneasily.

“Shit,” Alonzo muttered.

Jake didn’t even turn off his car engine. The door flew open,
he unfolded, and there was no mistaking the fury on his face. He said, “What
the fuck is going on here, Detective? I told you not to --”

Alonzo interrupted, “I have a right to pursue any avenue of
investigation that I --”

And Jake roared, “Goddamn it, that wasn’t a suggestion, I
ordered
you to back off. I
told
you I talked to English before and
after the interview with January. I spoke to him at three o’clock.
I’m
his fucking alibi.” His eyes -- hard
and flat -- met mine for a fleeting instant. He jerked his head at one of the
uniforms. “Cut him loose.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Alonzo screamed. “This
is
my
case. You’ve blocked me every
fucking step of the way, trying to protect your rich faggot friends --”

Jake lunged forward; there was scuffling behind me and the
uniforms let me go and tried to get between Jake and Alonzo.

“Lieutenant, Lieutenant!” one of the officers protested,
sounding winded.

Jake had Alonzo backed up against the side of the building,
massive fists bunching Alonzo’s shirt as he pinned him. Alonzo fought to free
himself, hand raised like he wanted to punch Jake, but one of the uniformed
officers was hanging onto his arm -- the other cop shouldered between Jake and
Alonzo, trying to keep his footing as the two men surged at each other. Then
Jake stepped back, shrugging his shoulders, cranking his head side to side like
one of the early Terminator models.

Alonzo was cursing -- practically crying with rage. I
couldn’t make out what he was saying.

Jake jabbed his finger a centimeter from the detective’s
nose. “You think you got a problem with me? File a grievance, asshole.”

“You think I won’t? You think I’m the only one with a
complaint? You think I’m the only cop who’s noticed there’s something hinky
with you?”

“Alonzo, cool it, man,” one of the officers warned.

Jake turned his back on Alonzo like he wasn’t worth the time.
He nodded at me. “Get the handcuffs off him,” he told the other uniform, and
the man moved to obey.

A moment later the handcuffs were off, and I was rubbing my
wrists as Alonzo tore free and brushed by. He slammed into his car, screeched
into reverse, and tore out of the alley, tires squealing.

The two uniforms hovered uneasily.

“Okay?” Jake asked me brusquely.

I nodded.

The message in his eyes was clear, so I turned and went
inside the building.

I closed the door, leaned back against it. My heart was hopping
and skipping like a rabbit that had unexpectedly been missed by a set of
impending tires. I took a couple of long, slow breaths.

The phone jangled into life on the counter, and I pushed away
from the door and picked it up.

“Adrien?” It was Natalie. “Is everything okay? Those cops
kicked me out of the store! What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, but everything’s okay. I’ll call you in a
little bit.” I hung up on her protests. Since I couldn’t see the alley from the
bookstore, I went up to the flat and looked down. Jake was still there talking
to the uniforms. He had turned his car engine off and everything looked calm.
One of the officers was laughing, so it seemed like things were under control
again.

The rush of adrenaline drained away, leaving me sick and shaky.
I sat down on the sofa and rested my head in my hands. I needed to go
downstairs and lock up the place, but for now I just didn’t care -- anyone who
wanted to steal a book that bad was welcome to it. Hell, they were welcome to
the cash register.

I tried to think. Al had been attacked. Was in a coma. It
didn’t have to be connected to Porter’s death -- to the questions I had been
asking -- but the timing was awfully coincidental.

According to Guy, there were no coincidences.

And Detective Alonzo probably agreed with him, which is why
he was so eager to see me in stainless steel bracelets. I could sort of
understand Alonzo’s position. I remembered a saying by Grace Murray Hopper:
If you do something once, people will call
it an accident. If you do it twice, they call it a coincidence. But do it a
third time and you’ve just proven a natural law.

Four murder investigations did seem like a lot for an average
citizen.

After what seemed like a long time, the door opened behind
me. Jake said, “I locked up for you downstairs. Are you okay?”