Lanyon, Josh - Adrien English 04 - Death of a Pirate King (3 page)

“He is. I think he knows Paul Kane. It’s a high-profile case.
There’s liable to be a lot of media attention.”

“You don’t honestly think they -- he -- thinks you’re
involved?”

“No.”

Guy poured wine for himself and mineral water for me. He sat
down at the kitchen table and began to eat, scowling. “You don’t plan on…”

“No. I don’t.”

He relaxed a little.

I said, referring to the murder case where Guy and I first met,
“When you talked to the cops about Grimaldi, you kept me out of it, right?”

“As much as was possible.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means that Detective Riordan had a pretty good idea of
where I got my information.” He studied me. “He didn’t push it, and neither did
I since you’d asked me to keep you out of it. I couldn’t help noticing…”

“What?”

“He has this little muscle in his jaw.” Guy gestured to his
own lean, tanned jaw. “And every time your name came up, the muscle moved.”

“It was pretty much a permanent twitch by then.”

Guy didn’t laugh.

I reached my hand across the table. “Hey. Guy, I’m sorry this
is bringing back bad memories for you. I’m not involved. I have no intention of
getting involved.”

He took my hand, but he was not smiling.

“You’re not the one I’m worried about. I don’t trust that
bastard Riordan.”

* * * * *

Lisa phoned as we were lying in bed watching Michael Palin’s
Palin’s New Europe
. Actually Guy had
been watching, and I had been dozing. Ever chivalrous, Guy took the bullet for
me.

Gratefully, I listened to his side of the conversation.

“He’s fine, Lisa. He’s right here. Just having an early
night.”

Poor Guy. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. Did my
mother think we were in separate rooms? Sleeping in bunk beds? I lowered the TV
volume with the remote control. The TV in the bedroom was Guy’s idea. He found
watching TV together more companionable than reading -- not that we spent a lot
of sheet time in intellectual pursuits.

“Yep, he’s taking all his meds.”

“Oh my God,” I said.

Guy’s eyes laughed at me.

“He’s eating. He’s resting. He’ll give you a call tomorrow. I
give you my word.”

I raised my brows at this. Guy raised his own in reply.

Folding my arms behind my head, I stared at the streetlamp
shining behind the lace drapes over the window. Not that I would have admitted
this to anyone, but my lack of energy scared me. I knew it was normal after
pneumonia, like the sore ribs and the ugly cough, but the fatigue and shortness
of breath brought back unpleasant memories. As had the hospital stay.

When my number came up, I wanted it to be lightning-bolt
fast. I sure as hell didn’t want to end things struggling for breath in a
hospital bed, hooked up to machines and stuck full of needles.

“Sweet dreams,” Guy cooed and leaned over to replace the
handset on its hook.

“I owe you, man.”

“She’s a doll, really.”

“Mm. Bride of Chucky.”

He chuckled and bent over me, his breath light and cool as
his mouth touched mine. “Say the word and I’ll make running interference a
permanent part of my job description.”

I kissed him back lightly.

“No?” He raised an eyebrow.

I sighed.

“What’s it take to convince you I’m here for the long haul?”

“Maybe I’m just too set in my ways,” I said. “I’ve been
living on my own a long time.”

“You’re thirty-five, Adrien. It’s not like your best years
are behind you.”

They felt behind me, I thought, with my heartbeat fluttering
in my throat as it did more often now. But I couldn’t tell Guy that. I couldn’t
tell anyone that.

“You know I love you,” Guy said. “Right? So what’s the
problem?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m the problem.”

“No. You just need time.” He kissed me again. “That’s okay,
lover. You take all the time you need.”

* * * * *

The next morning, Monday, Natalie and I were having a little debate
about inventory loss control -- Natalie taking the view that stealing books was
not really a crime so much as a cry for help -- when Detective Alonzo showed up
with Jake in tow.

“Can we talk to you for a few minutes, Mr. English?” Alonzo
asked over the din of power tools from behind the plastic curtain.

I looked at Jake. His face gave nothing away.

We went back to my office. Jake leaned against the wall as
though he were strictly there in some official capacity as observer in a
training exercise for Alonzo.

Alonzo said, “We were wondering if you’d had a chance to
remember anything else after you made your statement yesterday.”

“You mean like, did I remember I killed Porter Jones?”

He smiled, a genial cat to a smart-ass mouse. “Something like
that.”

“Not that I know of.”

He looked interested. “What’s that mean?”

I’d been debating since the evening before whether to mention
the thing about handing Porter his drink before we went into lunch, and I
concluded that it would be easier -- safer -- to have it out now. I said, “It
means that if he was poisoned, then I think there’s a possibility I handed him
the drink that killed him.”

“You think he was poisoned, Mr. English?”

“I think I’d have noticed if he’d been shot or stabbed.”

Alonzo looked toward Jake as though seeking confirmation.
“You got a little bit of an attitude, Mr. English, if you don’t mind my saying
so.”

“I don’t mind.”

His black brows drew together.

“I guess you won’t be surprised to hear that the coroner’s
preliminary findings indicate that Mr. Jones
was
poisoned.”

“I see.” And I thought I did.

“We’ve found the glass that was probably used to administer
the poison. It was broken in a bag of trash, but there was enough to lift
fingerprints.”

“Let me guess. Mine.”

“Jackpot,” said Detective Alonzo. He did seem to enjoy his
work.

I reminded myself I’d been through police questioning before
and that I had nothing to hide. “I did say I might have inadvertently given him
the poison. I passed him his glass right before we went into lunch. There
should be other prints on the glass as well.”

“The vic’s.”

“Paul Kane’s fingerprints should also be on the glass.”

“Well, it’s his house,” Alonzo pointed out.

Jake said, “The interesting thing is the poison.”

I had avoided looking his way till now. His gaze was
impassive.

Alonzo asked, “Do you have a heart condition, sir?”

Jake’s gaze shifted pointedly to Alonzo.

I nodded.

“What medications do you take?”

“Digoxin and aspirin.”

“Digoxin. That’s a form of digitalis, right?”

“Right. It slows and strengthens the heartbeat.”

“You take tablets or injections or what?”

“I take tablets.”

I waited. I knew what was coming.

“You’ll find this interesting. The autopsy results indicate
that Mr. Jones died of a massive heart attack brought on by a fatal dose of
some form of digitalis.”

They both stared at me.

Two or three murder investigations ago I might have panicked.
As it was, I studied Detective Alonzo, perplexed.

“The glass was sitting on the bar for a few minutes. It was
crowded, especially by the bar. Any number of people could have slipped
something into that drink.”

“How would they know whose drink it was?”

“How would I? Paul Kane picked it up and said it was Porter’s
drink. I handed it to Porter.”

“You need a prescription for digitalis, right?”

“No. That is, it’s a cardiac glycoside found in the foxglove
plant, which is pretty common.” I thought of Lisa’s house in Porter Ranch
surrounded by a classic English cottage garden full of graceful spires of
foxglove. “The entire plant is toxic, but the leaves especially so.”

“You seem to know a lot about it.”

“I watch a lot of TV.”

“And you’re a mystery writer. I bet you know a lot about
poisons.”

“Enough. I’m also a heart patient, so if I was going to
poison someone I’d choose something that wouldn’t immediately make me a
suspect.”

Detective Alonzo gave Jake another one of those looks as if
seeking guidance. None was forthcoming.

“You know, I’ve got to say, Mr. English, I’ve interviewed a lot
of suspects, and usually people react a lot differently when they’re questioned
in a homicide investigation. Innocent people, I mean.”

“It’s not my first homicide investigation.” I replied. I
turned to Jake. “Maybe you should fill him in on how we know each other.”

He didn’t move a muscle. “He knows.”

“Really?” I smiled crookedly.
“Everything?”

Not a bat of an eyelash. “Everything relevant.”

He waited for me to say it. My heart sped up as I pictured
myself speaking the words, betraying the secret he had protected for forty-two
years. I could hurt him every bit as badly as he had hurt me -- and the hurt
would be lasting, permanent -- devastating everything he cared about, from his
career to his marriage. I could wreck him with a couple of sentences, and he
knew it. He could see I was considering it.

He expected me to say it. His eyes never left mine, but there
was no asking for quarter. He just…waited. Not breathing.

I said to Alonzo, “Then you know that I understand how this
works and that I have confidence in the process.”

Alonzo, who had been looking from Jake to me, put his hand to
his jaw like I had sucker punched him.

Jake straightened from the wall and said, his voice
unexpectedly husky, “Thanks. I think that’s about it.” He looked to Detective
Alonzo who said, “Uh, yeah. I guess that’s it for now. Thanks for your time,
Mr. English.”

“What was
that
about?” Natalie demanded as soon as the front door closed behind Jake and
Alonzo. “Were they
polic
e
?”

“Yeah. It’s just routine,” I told her. “Someone died at the
party I was at yesterday, so they’re just checking with people to see if anyone
noticed anything suspicious.”

“Oh,
wo
w
! You mean, like a murder?”

“Maybe.” I was purposely vague. Natalie is a mystery buff,
and she’s often lamented that she wasn’t around to “assist” me the last few
times I was involved in a homicide investigation.

“Are you going to investigate?”

“You’re joking, right?”

She seemed slightly puzzled. “No. Oh, hey, a bunch of calls
came in for you. Lisa
really
needs
you to call her.” Here she gave me the look that managed to indicate sympathy
while spelling disapproval of me dodging my filial responsibilities. “Your
doctor appointment is confirmed for three o’clock. And
Paul Kane
phoned.”

“What did Paul Kane want?”

Natalie gave a disbelieving laugh. “Adrien, you never said
you knew
the
Paul Kane!”

“I don’t. He’s sort of interested in one of my books.”

“Interested? You mean in the
film
rights?” Her voice rose on the magic word “film.” I winced.

“He’s just expressed interest,” I said hastily -- and not
totally truthfully. “It probably won’t go any further than this.” Her
expression was disbelieving. “Did he say what he wanted?” I asked again.

“He didn’t say. But he wants you to call him right away.”

I nodded, returned to my office, and dialed Kane’s number.

I expected to have to go through at least one personal
assistant, but Kane himself answered on the third ring. “Adrien, how are you?”
He had a great voice. Smooth and sexy. I wondered if he had ever considered
recording audiobooks. “I can’t apologize enough for yesterday.”

“Is that a confession?”

“Is that a --?” He laughed. “You’ve been chatting with the
coppers. Apparently I’m their number one suspect.”

“I didn’t get that impression.”

“No? I did. Look, are you free for lunch? I’ve got something
I want to discuss with you.”

All I wanted was to lie down and sleep for an hour or two. I
was so damn tired all the time. But I wanted this film to be made. The
bookstore expansion was costing a fair bit, and I was five years away from
inheriting the balance of the money left to me by my grandmother.

“I’m free,” I said. “Where would you like to meet?”

“I’m working on the lot today. What about the Formosa Café?
Shall we say one o’clock? I’ve a proposition I think you’ll find rather
intriguing.”

Chapter Four

Walking into the Formosa Café is like stepping into Old
Hollywood: red bricks, black and white awning, and a neon sign. It looks like
the kind of place where Raymond Chandler would have knocked back a few
highballs while he was writing for the studios; maybe he did. The Formosa has
been around since 1939 and bills itself “where the stars dine.”

Over two hundred and fifty of those stars are plastered on
the walls in black and white stills, including Humphrey Bogart, Elizabeth
Taylor, James Dean, and Elvis. Even New Hollywood dines at the Formosa -- or at
least stops in for drinks. The mai tais are legendary, and Paul Kane was
enjoying one when I found my way through the gloom to his table.

“You made it,” he said in relief, as though there had been
some doubt about my showing up. He beckoned to the waitress, indicating a mai
tai for me. I quickly signaled
no thanks
as I slid into the red leather booth.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid I’ll poison your drink,” Kane
said, pulling a rueful face.

“What would be your motive?”

He laughed delightedly. “You really
are
a mystery writer!”

“Tell it to the critics.” I smiled at the waitress and ordered
an orange juice. “So what makes you think the police suspect you more than
anyone else?”

He sighed and reshaped his mobile features into another of
those charming expressions. “It’s been tactfully pointed out to me that I mixed
the fatal cocktail.”