Lanyon, Josh - Adrien English 04 - Death of a Pirate King (28 page)

I nearly stepped on him -- it was dark and I was preoccupied
with my own thoughts. Having arranged your own murder is not a comfortable
feeling.

There was a feeble meow, and I saw the pale glimmer of his
form right before I put down my boot.

I knelt and I could see in the wan security lights that its
skinny frame was streaked with dark, its narrow flanks moving quickly up and
down. It looked flat -- like a cartoon cat after it’s been run over.

I whispered, “What happened to you?”

Not that I was expecting an answer, but it gave another of
those pained meows.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Didn’t I
tell
you?” I informed it. I rose, went inside, and ran upstairs.
The timing could hardly be worse if the damned cat had planned it. I grabbed a
towel from the cupboard, hurried back downstairs, and stopped behind the
counter long enough to look up the address of the nearest emergency animal
clinic.

There was a place on Colorado Boulevard that was supposed to
be open from six in the evening to eight in the morning. I rang them; they were
still in business and accepting customers. I thanked them and went outside to
see whether the customer was still alive.

He was breathing, which is always a good sign.

As gently as I could I picked him up, placed him on the
towel, wrapped it around him, and put him in my car. I drove to the emergency
clinic, the cat purring on the seat beside me.

“What’s his name?” the young man at the front desk asked as
my towel and cat were whisked to a back room.

“Uh…John Tomkins,” I said.

“That’s different,” the receptionist said, writing it down.

“He was a pirate,” I said. “I mean Tomkins. I don’t know
about the cat. Would you have any idea how long this might take?” I needed to
call Jake before it got too late.

He shook his head, his expression politely sympathetic.

I sat down to wait, picking up a battered copy of
Cat Fancy
. Just the
name
… I was not -- had never considered myself -- a cat person. And
I didn’t plan on starting now. Yet here I was, watching the clock and reading
an article on nutrition for young cats.

After about ten minutes, the vet came out. “It looks like a
dog got hold of him.”

I couldn’t imagine where Tompkins found a dog to tangle with.
“Is he…uh?”

He waited.

I gestured, which I guess was supposed to signify animation
-- or maybe what the hell was I supposed to do next.

“He’s alive,” the vet supplied -- and I was astonished at the
relief I felt. Mostly, I told myself, because I didn’t want to hear what
Natalie would have to say about the damned cat getting itself mauled.

The relief vanished in the wake of a nine hundred dollar bill
for testing, X-rays, stitches, etc. The only good news was they were going to
keep Mr. Tomkins overnight, so I wouldn’t be tempted to strangle him.

I took my bloodstained towel and my bloodstained credit card
back, bade them good night, and returned to Cloak and Dagger.

By then it was eleven thirty, which was way too late to be
calling married friends at home, but I didn’t have a choice.

I rang Jake up on his cell. It went straight to message.

I said, “Can you call me when you get this? It’s…” A matter of
life and death? I didn’t want to be melodramatic, but it sort of was. And no
sort of about it. “Urgent,” I compromised.

I clicked off, went back downstairs to check the security
gate and all the locks -- jeering my own unease. Why did I keep putting myself
in these situations when they obviously scared the hell out of me?

As I returned upstairs the phone was ringing. I picked it up.

“What’s wrong?” Jake asked. His voice was sleep-roughened,
but he sounded alert.

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I’ve set myself up to go sailing with Paul Kane tomorrow.
I’m pretty sure he’s going to try to kill me.”

There was a very long silence, and then Jake said, “He’ll
have to take a number.”

“Look…” And then I couldn’t think of what to say to him. I
knew what I was asking -- I’d known before I ever tried to set myself up as
bait -- and I knew it might just be too much to ask of anyone.

“You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” Jake said, and I
could hear the fury, although he kept his voice low.

“Murder? No, I couldn’t leave murder alone, Jake. And I’ll
tell you what: I don’t know how safe it would have been for me to leave it
alone, because your boyfriend has settled on murder as the quickest and easiest
way to resolve his problems.”

“Bullshit.”

“Fine. If I’m wrong, I’ll just go for a pleasant sail and
come back slightly drunk and slightly sunburned. But if I’m right --”

“You think he’s going to attack you in broad daylight?
There’s a crew on board, for chrissake.”

“There was a house full of people at that party in Laurel
Canyon. I don’t think crowds intimidate him. And I don’t think he’s planning to
shoot me. He’s going to need it to look like another accident. He’ll try to
shove me overboard or push me down the stairs or something. Put something in my
drink maybe.”

Jake said in choked tones, “That’s nearly as brilliant as
your plan. What
is
your plan, by the
way? Besides getting yourself killed?”

“It’s the simplest thing in the world. You come too. And you stop
him from killing me. And then you arrest him.”

“On attempted murder? How the fuck does --” He abruptly
lowered his voice. “Even if we get him on trying to take you out, how does that
prove anything else?”

“Why would he try and kill me if it wasn’t because --”

“I can think of a dozen reasons,” Jake said.

“That hurts,” I said after a pause. He was joking -- sort of
-- and that had to be a good sign, right? I added, “Anyway, I plan to wear a
wire. I bought some gear at Radio Shack --” I stopped. He was laughing.

It was one of those wheezy, near-silent Muttley laughs. When
he managed to speak, he sounded slightly hysterical. “You’re insane,” he said.
“How did I never notice this about you before?”

“I’m not insane. This is very simple, very straightforward. Provided
he doesn’t kill me, it’s foolproof.”

He said very quietly, “Listen to me carefully. Don’t get on
that fucking boat tomorrow. I am not going to back you up on this. I am not
going to let you manipulate me any more than I am going to let Paul manipulate
me. You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do here?”

Now that threw me. Talk about ego-centric. “You think this is
all about getting you to come out?”

“That’s what you’re asking of me. And you know -- you
know
-- I
cannot
do this. I
will not
do this.”

“You’d rather that he got away with murder?”

“He didn’t kill
anyone!”

In the wake of that cry we were both silent.

I heard him cover the receiver and speak to someone, then he
came back on the line. “I’ve got to go. We’ll talk about this later. Don’t -- I
repeat --
don’t
get on that boat.
Don’t do anything stupid. Do you understand?”

And I did. And I believed him.

“Jake…” I wasn’t sure how to say it. “I’ve set something in
motion now that I can’t stop. He’s going to come after me, and it would be better
if I could control the circumstances of it.”

“You think a boat in the middle of the ocean is controlling
the circumstances?” His voice shook both with anger and something not so easily
identified. “You just told me your heart is worse, and you pull this stunt. Are
you out of your goddamned
min
d
?”

By now it was clearly a rhetorical question.

I said, trying for patience, “This way I know where and I
know when he’s going to try. I won’t have that opportunity again. I won’t have
any control over it after tomorrow. And if I don’t show up, he’ll know that I
know --”

He cut me off, and I almost didn’t recognize that low voice
as Jake’s. “I know you’re trying to do the right thing. I know this is partly
my fault for letting Paul bring you into this. But I am asking you…” His voice
dropped lower. “I am begging you, Adrien. Don’t do this. There isn’t much I
wouldn’t do for you -- but don’t ask this. I can’t help you this time.”

“There isn’t anyone else I can ask, Jake.”

The click of the receiver was soft but definite against my
ear.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Are you really intending not to drink or eat anything this
entire trip?” Paul asked lazily.

It was just after nine o’clock in the morning, and we were
sailing in open water. The fog was beginning to burn off. It was going to be a
beautiful day, but it was chilly, the ocean smelling of salt and rain and
things down deep below the restless green water. Paul and I sat on the open
deck of the
Pirate’s Gambit
. A brunch
tray sat on the table between us and it was enticingly arranged with plates.
There was something called baked omelet roll -- ham and cheese and mushroom --
fresh fruit, muffins. I was more tempted by the pot of hot coffee.

“I’ll probably have something later,” I said.

He smiled. “I would have to be pretty stupid to poison you
aboard my own boat.”

“Yes, you would,” I agreed, and he chuckled.

We were by ourselves. When I had arrived at the marina Paul
told me he had canceled the party.

“You obviously have something on your mind,” he’d said. “This
way we can chat undisturbed.”

But we hadn’t chatted. We’d put out to sea -- and I was not
particularly reassured by the sight of Paul’s captain taking the helm. I’d
taken what precautions I could. I’d talked to Guy -- and if possible he was
even more disgusted and furious with me than Jake. I’d written down my detailed
theory on why I believed Porter Jones had been killed -- heck, I’d written down
everything I could think of that might help prosecute Kane if things went wrong
-- and I’d mailed it off that morning to Mr. Gracen to be opened in the event
of my death.

Of course just receiving a communication like that was liable
to result in dear old Mr. Gracen popping off this earthly plane, but that
couldn’t be helped. If I wasn’t successful, if Kane was stupid enough --
desperate enough -- to try to kill me after I explained these precautions, then
at least I wanted to know that LAPD would have sufficient cause to
reinvestigate Langley Hawthorne’s death. Not to mention my own.

But I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

And certainly Paul had been easy and charming for the half
hour or so we had been together, chatting pleasantly while he enjoyed his
breakfast.

But at last he finished eating, brushed the crumbs from his
muffin fastidiously from his hands, shoved the plate aside, and studied me with
those bright, amused eyes.

“You know, I really don’t believe that you’re out here
planning to try a spot of blackmail.” His mouth twitched. “I have to say,
though, you’d be quite good at acting yourself. That bit in the café last night
was brilliant.” He mimicked, “
I can write
my own screenpla
y
!” He shook his
head. “What a turn for comedy you have.”

I have to admit I wasn’t quite expecting this relaxed
frankness. I said cautiously, “If you don’t think I’m trying to blackmail you,
what do you think I’m doing out here?”

“Besides having seen one too many detective films? I think
you want answers. I think you’re insatiably curious. And I don’t mind answering
your questions. You won’t be able to prove any of this. There is no proof. Now.
And I like you, Adrien.” He arched an elegant eyebrow. “I like you a good
deal.”

Oddly enough, that was the first scary thing he’d said. It
was like finding a cobra curled up in the foot of your sleeping bag. I said,
and it wasn’t even a guess, “You destroyed Porter’s memoirs.”

“Yes.” He said it promptly, like awarding points in a
contest.

“But why kill him?”

“Because he knew why I destroyed the manuscript. That was a
mistake on my part. I should have stalled longer.”

“He knew you murdered Langley Hawthorne?”

“Just for the record” -- he raised his eyebrows as though
making sure we both understood this -- “I didn’t murder Langley. His death was
an accident.”

“Then why wasn’t it reported as an accident?”

“Because we had been arguing, and I suppose I felt guilty. I
knew I would be a suspect in his death. He had told me about his will -- he was
very set on Nina and me marrying. And of course neither Nina nor I had any
desire to marry each other. We were young but we weren’t stupid.”

“So what happened?”

“We were rowing. Langley turned away and fell against the
rail gate. He went into the water and he must have hit his head. By the time I
got him out, he was dead. Porter came along as I was trying to resuscitate him.
I was panicking -- badly. It was Porter’s idea to…put Langley back and recreate
discovering the body. Then he provided me with an alibi for the time that
Langley died.”

He made it sound so simple, so plausible, it took me a moment
to think of the obvious. “Why would he?”

Paul said irritably, “Because he was my friend and because he
knew exactly how it would look to the authorities. He did it to help me --
nothing could be done for poor old Langley. And it
was
an accident.”

“And in these memoirs Porter described what had really
happened?”

Paul nodded. “He wanted to set the record straight. Clear his
conscience. Not that his conscience wasn’t perfectly clear. ”

Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. But I thought the story of
Langley Hawthorne falling through the rail gate and conveniently drowning before
help could reach him was a little pat. How the hell long had it taken Kane to
drag him out of the drink? Why hadn’t he yelled immediately for help? Maybe
Porter had begun to think Kane’s story was a little pat too as he reexamined
his past.