Lanyon, Josh - Adrien English 04 - Death of a Pirate King (6 page)

Not that I was convinced Ally was a murderess. I thought she
had been telling the truth right up until the end of our interview. And she
might have been telling the truth when I asked her about other people with a
motive for wanting Porter out of the way, but she had definitely got cagey. Of
course everyone got cagey in a murder investigation -- including me.

She didn’t have any qualms about putting Al January under the
bus, so it wasn’t like she was resisting the idea that Porter had been
murdered. She seemed to have accepted that. So who had she suddenly realized
had a motive for murder -- and why did it bother her?

I crossed the brick courtyard, climbed into my Forester and
started down the long drive through what looked like a private park. Positioned
outside the gates at the bottom of the driveway was a silver unmarked police
car, prickling with antennae. Jake Riordan leaned against the side of the car,
arms folded, clearly waiting.

I pulled through the gates and parked beside his car, rolling
down my window.

“Well, well,” he said. “This can’t be a coincidence.”

“It could,” I said. “The odds aren’t high, but they do exist.”

“Uh-huh.” His face was impassive as he stared at me, and I
felt a flare of nerves. I think it was nerves; certainly I knew firsthand just
how unpleasant he could make himself. “So you’re trying to tell me that this is
just a sympathy call, and you’re not thinking of sticking your nose into this
investigation?”

I didn’t say anything. According to Paul Kane, my asking a
few questions wasn’t supposed to be a problem, but here Jake was, and that
generally spelled p-r-o-b-l-e-m in my book.

Into my silence, he said, “You mean like you kept your nose
out of the Grimaldi investigation?”

“Sure,” I said warily.

He snorted. “You’d think with all the practice you’d be
better at lying.”

“
My
lies?” I said,
forgetting caution in an irrational surge of anger as I remembered Paul Kane
admitting that Jake had been fucking him all the time he had been fucking me.
He straightened up at whatever he read in my face. I hoped we weren’t in for
another wrestling match because, really, what would the neighbors think? Even
in Bel Air, where they say celebrities get away with murder, there were
standards.

I said, “Maybe I was invited over here.”

“Maybe you were,” he agreed -- and it dawned on me that
despite the hard appraisal of his eyes, he wasn’t angry. He should have been.
The old Jake would have been. This Jake seemed…watchful? Guarded? The truth
was, I didn’t know what he seemed. I couldn’t read him. And that, more than
anything, confirmed for me how much time had passed since we were together.
Together
being relative.

It was painful and it was freeing at the same time.

“Maybe me and Mrs. Jones, we got a thing going on,” I said.

His mouth twitched into that reluctant, wry half smile I
remembered so well. “I hope not,” he said. “That would make you a prime suspect
in Mr. Jones’s murder.”

“I thought I already was.”

Astonishingly, he said, “Yeah. Well. Maybe we should talk.”

“Is that why you’re waiting here?”

“I’m waiting for Alonzo,” he said. “He’s late.” He checked
his watch, and I found myself staring at his wedding ring again. Not that it
was particularly flashy, but it kept catching my eye. “It’s nearly lunchtime.
Let’s go grab something to eat.”

I didn’t want to have lunch with him. I didn’t want to ever
see him again, but I needed to hear what he had to say, so I nodded and rolled
up my window.

I followed him to the Beverly Glen Deli at the top of Beverly
Glen Boulevard just below Mulholland Drive.

We got a table on the patio. The sun was already warm on this
late June morning, which was fine with me; I felt like I’d been cold ever since
I got out of the hospital. Jake sat back in his chair, studying me, and I
studied him right back.

What was his secret? Did he get vitamin B shots? How the hell
did he keep up with all the men and women and barnyard animals in his life? And
if he’d intended to continue playing dangerous liaisons with Paul Kane, what
about all that bullshit about breaking off with me because he wanted a real
marriage? It didn’t make sense -- even from Jake’s admittedly screwy point of
view.

Or maybe he hadn’t intended to continue with Kane. Maybe
nine-to-five normal had just proven harder than Jake anticipated. Two years
ago, desperate for a family and a “normal” life, he’d broken off his
relationship with me in order to marry policewoman Kate Keegan. End of story. A
few months later I’d learned from his partner, Paul Chan, a member of the
writing group I ran at the bookstore, that Kate had miscarried and returned to
duty. I guess there was still a chance of the family Jake always wanted, but
the fact that he had resumed his old extracurricular activities -- had,
apparently, never broken them completely off -- seemed to limit his chances of
success.

I wondered if I’d have managed to restrain myself from outing
him to Detective Alonzo if I’d known then about the five years with Paul Kane.
I wanted to think I was that chivalrous, but I wasn’t sure.

The waitress appeared and handed us menus. I ordered orange
juice. Jake ordered coffee. His cell phone rang. “Alonzo,” he said, and he
excused himself.

I watched the locals come and go in their Mercedes and
Maseratis, picking up their take-out orders of lox and cream cheese or corned
beef sandwiches. Even the car exhaust smelled more expensive in Bel Air.

Jake returned a few minutes later and sat down again.

Neither of us said anything. It was the strangest moment. I
thought of all the times I had longed for something as simple as going to eat
with him that he didn’t spend the entire time worrying about somebody he knew
seeing us together, and I thought of how we had never run out of things to say
to each other until today.

The waitress brought our beverages and prepared to take our
orders. Jake nodded for me to go first.

I said, “No, that’s okay. I’m not hungry.”

He scowled. “You need to eat something. You look like a
goddamn skeleton.”

I sighed. “I know, I know. I look like the skeleton of that
guy who was in
Red River
.”

It was an old joke. I didn’t think he’d remember, but his
mouth tugged and he uttered a brief, harsh laugh. He shook his head like
I
was the nut at the table, and said to
the waitress, “We’ll both have the chicken pot pie.”

She raised her eyebrows at this highhandedness, but I’ve
learned to pick my battles. “Yeah, that’s fine,” I confirmed indifferently.

She went away and Jake drummed his fingers restlessly on the
table. His gaze rested on the cars in the parking lot -- probably mentally
running wants and warrants. He asked abruptly, “So, how did you get pneumonia?”

Dear God. We were going to make conversation.

“How does anybody get it?” I finished my orange juice. I
wasn’t in the mood for chitchat -- and I didn’t remember it being Jake’s style
either. At this rate he’d be asking about my mother and I’d bounce my juice
glass off his head. “I caught the flu and it went into pneumonia.” Two weeks’
worth. I was relatively young and reasonably healthy, but my heart complicated
things.

“You didn’t get a flu shot?”

We’d had an argument on this very subject about a million
years ago. Jake, being a public servant, was obsessed with the notion that the
right people had their fair share of flu shots. People like me. People
technically at risk.

I gave him a long look. “No, Lieutenant Riordan. I took a
chance. Now I’ve learned my lesson.”

There was another one of those bizarre pauses. The waitress
brought our pot pies, refilled Jake’s coffee and asked if I wanted another
juice. I declined.

Jake mashed the top crust of his pot pie, letting the heat
escape in a spurt of lava-hot gravy and steam. It seemed so him: blunt and
efficient. His lashes threw dark crescents on his cheekbones. I’d forgotten how
long his eyelashes were. He raised his gaze to my face, and I realized I’d been
staring. He said, “Did you know Calamity Jane died of pneumonia?”

“No kidding.”

His tongue appeared to be probing his back molar. I had a
sudden unsettling memory of other things it had probed. “I saw it on the
History Channel.” His light, restless eyes tilted in a sudden smile. “That’s
the kind of useless knowledge you always had handy.”

I snorted, looked away, watched a blue jay stealing crust
from beneath another table. When I looked back Jake was contemplating me with
an expression I couldn’t, for the life of me, fathom.

He said in that brusque way, “Let’s stop fencing. Paul told
me his idea of having you go around quizzing people.”

“And you think it’s a lousy idea,” I said. “And so do I.”

“I didn’t say that.”

At my expression, he shrugged. “I’m not averse to using
outside resources when circumstances warrant it.”

“Who are you and what have you done with that asshole
Riordan?” I asked.

His mouth curved again in one of those grimaces that was not
exactly a smile. “Hey, special circumstances call for special measures.”

“Sure, but since when do you not think me asking questions of
suspects is a really bad idea?”

He said, “I told you a long time ago you had a knack for
investigation.”

“That’s funny,” I said. “I do not remember that. I remember
being told to butt out on pain of death.”

He flushed. “I never --” A muscle moved in his jaw and he
said, “You’re good at talking to people. You like people and they like you.
You’re easy to talk to -- and they end up telling you things. So here’s the
deal: so long as you let me know who you plan on talking to -- and turn over to
me anything you learn -- I don’t see a problem. It might even be helpful.”

“Turn over to
you
anything I learn,” I repeated. “Not Detective Alonzo?”

“I’ll brief Detective Alonzo on anything relevant.”

My smile must have been sardonic because he said irritably,
“Whatever you’re thinking, you’re off base. This is a very close-knit
community, and we -- the police -- have to tread carefully. If Paul can
convince these people to open up to you, it’s a win-win for all of us.”

Unbelievable. I picked up my fork and started eating. I
wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t heard it myself. Jake was trying to
intercede behind the scenes on behalf of his lover. And he was willing to use
me to do it. I felt disgusted and disappointed, but really, what the hell did
it matter? Whatever his motives were they didn’t concern me, and I should be
grateful that he was giving me the opportunity to clear myself of suspicion as
well. Which reminded me.

“Does Alonzo really think I’m a suspect?”

“He finds your attitude…suspicious.”

Feeling his gaze, I raised my eyes, and sure enough he was
staring at me -- at my mouth. I licked my bottom lip suspecting errant pastry
crumbs. His gaze flickered.

I needled, “And did you vouch for me?”

“I told him not to waste his time.”

I said, “But I could have changed, you know. Maybe I’m not
the guy you thought I was. Maybe I never was.”

He met my gaze levelly. “I don’t think you killed Porter
Jones,” he said.

I let it go. “Who do you like for it?” I asked.

“I think the wife’s as good a place to start as any. What did
she have to say?”

“That she and Porter had their problems but that was all in
the past. She said Paul has it in for her, although she didn’t make it clear on
why that would be. She tapped Al January.”

“The screenwriter?”

I nodded, forcing myself to take another bite of pot pie --
the food was good. I just wasn’t hungry these days.

“Did she offer any reason why she thought January might want
her husband out of the way?”

“She said they never got along and that they were arguing the
afternoon of the party.”

“That shouldn’t be hard to verify,” Jake said. “Did you have
a chance to form any opinion of the Joneses at the party?”

“Not really. They didn’t seem to spend much time together,
but married people don’t always hang out at parties.” I said consideringly,
“There didn’t seem to be any sign of him in her bedroom, and she isn’t exactly
prostrate with grief.” I pushed my plate away.

“Is that all you’re eating?” he questioned, disapproval
clear.

I glanced down. “Yeah.” And then unkindly, “You want the
rest? You always did have quite an appetite -- although you haven’t done a bad
job of keeping the weight off.”

He stopped midchew. There was a hint of color in his face. He
swallowed and said mildly, “You have changed.”

I felt petty and mean-spirited -- especially since he was the
leanest I’d ever known him. All hard muscle and bone. All sharp edges and bite
-- except he wasn’t biting.

When I couldn’t come up with a reply, he said, as though that
exchange hadn’t happened, “The wife seems to inherit the bulk of Jones’s estate
-- that’s several million motives right there.”

“Except I don’t think she has the brains to poison someone
without taking herself out as well.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Yeah, I can still be surprised,” I agreed. His eyes met mine,
and I realized I needed to knock it off if I didn’t want a confrontation -- and
I didn’t. It was over. And it’s not like I had been some virginal youth seduced
off the streets of Paris by the wicked comte. I’d known what I was getting
into. I amended, “Well, they say poison is a woman’s weapon.”

“Yeah, but not always,” Jake said, “so don’t make any
assumptions. Since our killer used heart medication to trigger a fatal attack,
I’d say it wouldn’t hurt you to be especially careful about eating or drinking
anything anyone offers you. Someone might argue that you accidentally
overmedicated yourself.”