Lanyon, Josh - Adrien English 04 - Death of a Pirate King (4 page)

I considered him objectively -- tried to, anyway: he was
distractingly good-looking, and this was the perfect setting for his
old-fashioned handsomeness. I seriously doubted that Jake considered him a real
suspect. Jake’s sense of self-preservation would have ensured he steered clear
of Paul Kane’s sphere if he suspected Kane was really involved.

Wow. Maybe Jake was right. I
was
getting cynical in my old age. After all, even if Jake knew
Kane was innocent, eager beaver Detective Alonzo would -- should at least --
consider the possibility that Kane was guilty. And, unless Jake had changed a
lot in two years, he would allow the investigation to proceed unimpeded.

“Let’s order,” Kane said.

I had the chopped cucumber salad which offered carrots,
cilantro, daikon radishes, bean sprouts, and Napa cabbage with crisp won ton
strips. Kane had the rack of lamb. While we ate he chatted amusingly, cattily,
about various celebrities -- including a couple seated within earshot of us.

He was on his third mai tai -- and I was seriously
considering giving in and having one too -- when he said, “I assume Jake
mentioned that we know each other…socially.”

I managed not to snort at the delicate pause before that
“socially” comment. Because nothing said social occasion like butt plugs and
paddles. I’d heard a few rumors that Kane, who was openly bisexual, was into
the BDSM scene. It wasn’t a world I knew much about, but it was Jake’s
playground -- or had been before his marriage.

“I gathered,” I said. I also gathered that he must know
something of my own former relationship with Jake, although -- Jake being Jake
-- no way would he know a lot beyond the fact that there had been a
relationship.

Kane smiled as though amused by everything I wasn’t saying.
“He happened to mention that in addition to writing mysteries, you’re something
of an amateur sleuth -- and not a bad one.”

I choked on my orange juice -- which triggered one of my
coughing spells. When I had regained my composure, and the worried-looking
waiters had retreated once more, I said, “No way did Jake tell you I was an
amateur sleuth -- let alone a good one.”

“He didn’t say you were a good one,” Kane admitted with a
little bit of a twinkle -- yeah, a twinkle, and if that wasn’t stagecraft, I
don’t know what is. “But he did say you had a real knack for it.”

Was that what he’d said? Interesting. Because I distinctly
remembered…

Yeah. Whatever. Misty watercolor memories. There must have
been something grim about my expression because Kane said quickly, “It wouldn’t
be a formal arrangement. Nothing like that.”

“What wouldn’t?”

“I was thinking that you might -- unofficially -- ask a few
questions.”

“About?” I blinked. “You’re not asking me to…what
are
you asking?”

He reached across and squeezed my hand in a lightly reassuring
gesture. “It probably sounds mad, but I think someone like yourself would have
greater luck getting to the bottom of this tragedy than Jake and his storm
troopers. And I say this as someone who adores Jake, with or without his storm
troopers.”

I was trying to make sense of the words “Jake” and “adore” in
the same sentence. “I’m not sure I’m following,” I said slowly. I already knew
that Jake and Kane were playmates -- but former playmates? Or was Jake back
doing the club scene? And they were apparently friends? Like, did they go to
each other’s birthday parties? It seemed unlikely, given how skittish Jake had
been about our own friendship. I said, “I feel like I need to ask: what exactly
is
your relationship to Jake?”

Kane’s brows drew together. “I thought you knew. Jake and I
have been lovers for about five years.”

I didn’t say a word.

Apparently I didn’t need to.

He said awkwardly, “I don’t know why I thought you realized.”
His sensual mouth pulled into a little grimace. “I knew about you.”

There was a grinning Buddha statue sitting a few feet from
us; I could see it peering right over Paul Kane’s shoulder, and I felt like I
had been staring at that knowing stone face for years, and that years from now
I would be able to close my eyes and see those crinkled laughing eyes and the
wide gleeful mouth and the delicate folds of jowls frozen in sidesplitting
merriment. And I thought maybe I didn’t need to worry about my heart anymore
because it had stopped beating a couple of seconds earlier, and I was still
sitting there living and breathing -- though admittedly I wasn’t feeling much
of anything.

“No,” I said, “I didn’t know.” And I was startled to hear
that level, cool voice come out of my face.

“Anyway,” Kane continued, “It occurred to me when that ape,
Detective Alonzo, was grilling me for the third time that people are far more
likely to talk to someone like you than the police. Someone with a little tact.
A little sensitivity. A little discretion. I could ask people to cooperate with
you, and they would. Of course any information you uncovered would be
immediately turned over to Jake. I’m not asking you to solve a murder, just
to…informally support the efforts of our boys in blue.”

I laughed -- and that was a surprise too because I didn’t
really find much funny about this. “You can’t have discussed this with Jake. He
would never have agreed to it.”

“Er…no,” admitted Kane. “But I don’t tell Jake everything.”
His eyes met mine. “And Jake doesn’t tell me everything.”

Which I suppose was intended to restore confidence that my
boyish secrets were still my own.

I said, “I don’t think you realize how badly Jake reacts to
interference in a police investigation. Believe me, it wouldn’t be pleasant --
for either of us.”

I had a sudden memory of myself flat on my back blinking up
at the decorative molding of my entrance hall, and Jake, his face dark with
fury, looming over me.

“Let me handle Jake,” Kane said, and he spoke with easy
confidence. Hey, and why not? He’d survived five years and Jake’s marriage.
Safe to say he knew Jake a great deal better than I ever had.

He smiled at me, waiting for my answer. It was petty, but it
was a pleasure to deny him something. I said with false regret, “I don’t think
so, Paul. I don’t think it would be a wise move on my part.”

It seemed to catch him by surprise, though he recovered fast,
hiding his disappointment. “Bollocks! Is there a way I can convince you to
change your mind?”

I was shaking my head, regretful but firm. I sipped my orange
juice, and I was pleased that my hand was perfectly steady. Maybe it was
because I felt numb. Or maybe it was because it had all been a long time ago,
and none of it really mattered now.

He eyed me speculatively. “You know, mate, it’s going to be
very difficult for me to concentrate on getting this film of yours made while
I’m under a cloud of suspicion.”

He did it beautifully -- charming and rueful and mostly
joking. Not for one instant did it seem a serious threat. And it’s not like I
was a stranger to the gentle art of blackmail; my mother would have put Charles
Augustus Milverton to shame. And in Kane’s favor, I understood very well how it
felt to be the prime suspect in a murder investigation. He had my sympathy
there, even if I thought he was wrong about being the prime suspect; I happened
to know that I was a popular contestant in the suspect sweepstakes too.

Which, come to think of it, did me give an incentive in
seeing this investigation wrapped up as quickly and quietly as possible.

He must have caught my hesitation because he coaxed, “What
about this? Suppose you simply start out by asking a few informal questions,
and if you decide you don’t want to continue, then it ends right there. I won’t
say another word.”

I sighed.

“Please?” he said.

He really was a very good-looking man, and he really did have
an engaging smile. All the same, I’d have read his obituary without a flicker
of regret. And how unfair was that? He’d done nothing to hurt me. It wasn’t
Paul Kane I should be angry with -- assuming I should be angry with anyone.

So I said slowly, reluctantly, “I guess it wouldn’t kill me
to ask a few questions.”

You’d think by then I’d have known better.

* * * * *

Dr. Cardigan draped the stethoscope around his neck. “Your
lungs appear to be clearing nicely. How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” I said.

I know it isn’t logical, but I don’t trust a doctor who is
younger than I am. Dr. Cardigan was a comfortable sixty-something with shrewd,
black cherry eyes and a brisk but attentive manner. I liked him about as well
as I was ever going to like a doctor, and I trusted him. Which didn’t mean I
looked forward to seeing him, and if my stepsister wasn’t apparently in the
employ of my mother and faithfully reporting back to HQ on my every movement, I
might have blown off my appointment at Huntington Hospital.

Especially after lunching with Paul Kane. About three minutes
after I agreed to ask a few informal questions on Kane’s behalf, I was having
second thoughts. Anything liable to put me in Jake’s path was a bad idea. And
the very thought of poking around in Porter Jones’s death was…wearying.

The black gaze met mine. “How tired?”

I shrugged. “Short of breath, coughing a lot.”

“That’s to be expected. Are you using oxygen at night?”

I shook my head.

“Adrien…”

“I’m not
that
short
of breath. It’s okay with a couple of pillows.”

He gave me a disapproving look. “It’s very important that you
get plenty of rest and that you do not push yourself.”

I nodded.

He studied me, and I tried not to shift uncomfortably. I
hated this part. Actually, I hated all the parts of being a young guy with a
funky heart. He said, “Because of your history it’s probably a good idea if we
run a couple of tests, do another ECG.”

I kept myself from sighing again. He was liable to think I
needed on-the-spot oxygenating. “Okay,” I said.

He raised his brows at my tone and started scribbling out
prescriptions. “Meantime get plenty of rest, drink lots of fluids, and continue
taking your antibiotics.”

“Okeydokey.”

He glanced up. “And cheer up, Adrien.”

* * * * *

It had taken some doing, but I had finally persuaded Lisa to
agree to riding lessons for my youngest stepsis, Emma. Mondays, Wednesdays, and
Fridays I drove Em down to Griffith Park and the Paddock Riding Club to watch
her go through her paces. The kid was a natural -- even more of a horse nut
than I’d been at her age -- which was why I had been determined to win that
particular battle with Lisa. Next, I planned on getting Em her own horse, but I
knew I’d have to wait for the right psychological opportunity to spring that
one. I figured I could start small and suggest a hamster.

Usually Em and I would ride together after the lessons --
Griffith Park has something like fifty riding trails -- but a little less than
one week out of hospital I didn’t feel up to it. Instead I watched her sailing
over her jumps in one of the six sandy arenas -- cute as a button in her riding
apparel -- and tried to think about how best to approach Porter Jones’s widow.
Significant others are always the first suspects in a murder investigation --
which doesn’t say much for the course of true love.

Anyway, thinking about how to approach the widow Jones was a
lot better than thinking -- brooding -- about the fact that all the things I
had believed about Jake Riordan were pretty much a lie. And now that I thought
back, I wasn’t sure why I’d believed he’d given up his S/M activities while
he’d been seeing me. He had never specifically said so; I guess I had just
assumed it. Because I wanted it to be so.

If I was honest, Jake continuing his S/M activities wasn’t
even the part that gnawed my guts. It was the idea that he’d been seeing Paul
Kane steadily during that time -- because I really had flattered myself that I
was his first genuine relationship with another man. He’d said so. But whatever
he called his encounters with old English Leather, five years was a
relationship to my mind.

So, yes, it bothered me. And it bothered me that it bothered
me because…Jesus Christ, it was over. It was two years over. I was involved
with someone else myself, so why the hell was I standing there with the smell
of manure and horse in my nostrils and my stomach in knots over something that
didn’t matter anymore?

It made murder seem like a cheerful change of subject.

According to Paul Kane, the only person at the party with
motive to kill Porter Jones was his much younger and soon to be ex-wife,
actress Ally Beaton-Jones. If Paul’s intelligence was correct, Porter had been
planning to divorce Ally, and he’d had a PI following her.

“Let me guess,” I’d said. “There’s a prenup?”

“Common sense in this day and age,” Paul had replied.

And maybe it was. I’d never reached the stage of negotiations
in my
affaires de coeur
, as my old
friend Claude would have put it.

“Adrien, watch me!”

I looked up out of my thoughts, catching Emma’s grin as she
cantered toward the next jump. I gave her thumbs-up and wondered if Lisa and
Bill Dauten had drawn up a prenup, and what the odds were of my getting Em in
any possible settlement.

Not that my mother’s second marriage looked shaky. Far from it.
Which just went to prove how little I understood about these things. I thought
of Guy and my thoughts shied as though faced with their own unexpected triple
bar.

As fond of Guy as I was, I wasn’t ready to make any
commitments -- and hearing from Paul Kane that he and Jake had been carrying on
the whole time I’d been seeing Jake didn’t do much to improve my attitude. Why
was it such a shock? After all, I’d known Jake was seeing Kate Keegan during
that time -- engaging in unprotected sex that resulted in a pregnancy -- and
I’d been able to deal with it. I’d even accepted it on one level. It was a
little late to be angry now. Posttraumatic Sex Syndrome?