Stranger Things Have Happened: An Adrien English Write Your Own Damn Story (The Adrien English Mysteries) (7 page)

“That the murderer would return to the scene of the crime.”

You suck in a sharp breath, but as you stare at him you realize that there is a gleam of humor in his hazel eyes.

“I didn’t kill Robert. I’m not saying our friendship was what it used to be, but I didn’t have any reason to want him dead. I
don’t
want him dead.” For some reason, you get a little choked up, so you reach for your beer.

Riordan watches you consideringly. “You took a big chance going over to his place. If it had been Chan or anyone else who caught you, you’d be on your way downtown right now.”

“Why aren’t I?”

Just for an instant his gaze wavers. He shrugs. “I don’t think you killed Hersey. Not that I couldn’t be wrong.”

“You’re not wrong. I didn’t kill him. I couldn’t kill anyone.”

“Sure you could.” Now his gaze is very direct. “Anyone is capable of killing under the right circumstances. That said, I think killing would be a last resort for your type.”

“My…type?”

You figure he means gay, but he says, “Intelligent, sensitive, civilized.”

It’s an observation, not a compliment, but you flush anyway.

He adds, “But B&E is out of character for you too, so I could be wrong about you in other ways. If you didn’t go back to Hersey’s to cover your own tracks, then you’re trying to protect someone else. Who?”

“No one.”

“Who?”

“I told you why I went there.”

“There are no secrets in a murder investigation, Adrien-with-an-e.”

“I bet that’s not true.”

He says quietly, “It would be safer for you not to keep any secrets from me.”

“What does that mean?”

“Exactly what I said. Trust me on this.”

You say lightly, “Sadly, I have trust issues.”

“Does this have something to do with Mel Davis?”

Somehow it’s a shock to hear Mel’s name in this context, and you must not be hiding that shock very well. Riordan grimaces. “Like I said, there are no secrets in a murder investigation. Is Davis the reason you have trust issues?”

You take a mouthful of beer, swallow, and admit finally, “Could be.”

He waits for you to say more, but what is there to say? He’s already seen first hand that you’re not exactly built for endurance, no need to emphasize that you’ve been returned for a refund once already. But then you remember Riordan’s efforts at resuscitation, and you feel warm and almost…silly. Yes. You feel silly because anything else would be…even sillier.

Riordan says, “See, if you can’t trust me, I can’t trust you either.”

“Trust me with what?”

He shrugs. He drains his beer, looks at his watch and says, “I’ve got to get going. Watch your back, English.”

__________

Click here

A
ll this time, the machinery has been humming, and now the humming changes its note to a shrill whistle. Sir Basil goes to the eye-piece and looks into it. Opening a door in the machinery, he disappears inside. He comes out soon, flushed and evidently elated.

“Bring the stretcher, English,” he orders.

You bring the stretcher, placing it close to the machine. Then Sir Basil opens a metal door and gently eases out a human body.

It’s Jake Riordan, unconscious but alive and breathing. You help the scientist to get Jake on the stretcher, noticing that his crushed legs are perfectly healed.

Together you carry the insensible man to a long seat. Jake’s eyes are still closed, but his even breathing indicates that he is only sleeping.

Suddenly you point a finger and cry out. “My God, Sir Basil, look at his hands and feet!”

Jake Riordan, still lying like a recumbent bronze statue sculptured by a master, is perfect from shoulder to wrist, from thigh to ankle. But, somewhere in that diabolical machine through which he had passed, his hands and feet have undergone a hideous metamorphism which has transformed them from the well-formed extremities of a splendid young hunk into the hairy paws of a giant rat!

HUH?

How did you get over here?!

If I were you, English, I’d get back to the main storyline before Riordan wakes up.

R
obert’s apartment is not sealed. No official yellow tape stretches across the front door proclaiming it a crime scene. So…you have a key and a standing invitation. That counts for something right?

You unlock the door and let yourself inside. In the gloom, you can just make out the shapes of furniture and exercise equipment. You don’t want to risk turning on the lights, so you use your pencil flashlight as you quickly go through Robert’s few belongings. What conclusions can you draw from piles of bills and photos of the life Robert left behind? Not many. Robert kept a couple of his high school yearbooks and he kept Claude’s letters and poems.
Sacre bleu!
Those poems!

Suddenly you hear the scrape of a key in the front door lock. You jam the lid on the box of poems and letters and leap into the closet, pulling it closed.

Through the plywood, you hear the front door open and then shut. A band of light appears beneath the bottom of the closet door. Your scalp prickles in horror.

A floorboard creaks.

Is Robert’s murderer prowling through the apartment at this very moment?

You wait, drenched in sweat, your heart ready to explode from nerves and tension. Then the floor creaks again. The band of light beneath the door vanishes. The front door closes as quietly as it opened. You hear the snick of the lock.

Silence.

You open the closet and step out.

The overhead light switches on again. Detective Riordan leans against the front door, one hand resting casually on his jacket lapel, shoulder holster within easy reach.

He drawls, “That’s one of the oldest tricks in the world, Adrien-with-an-e.”

The next time you open your eyes, Detective Riordan is leaning over you, patting your cheek. He looks relieved as you blink up at him, though his face is instantly impassive again.

He says, “You know, English, maybe you should consider another line of work. I don’t think you’re cut out for burglary.”

No kidding. But instead you flutter your eyelashes and do your best to look meek and non-threatening. He takes your wrist in his warm, big grip, checking your pulse rate, so he probably knows you’re not as helpless as you’re trying to pretend. But when you fumble around for your pills and request a glass of water, he acquiesces.

You actually do need a pill, which is irritating, but in a couple of minutes you’re back to your normal self, such as it is. What’s interesting is that, as you watch Riordan watching
you
, it occurs to you that…

Well, no. That can’t be right.

But if he wasn’t straight, that particular look would indicate…

Something.

Interest?

Or maybe just suspicion. He’s definitely suspicious of you. It might be the Breaking and Entering thing.

Riordan informs you that Robert’s apartment has already been searched, top to bottom. When he slowly says the words “top to bottom,” he gives you a very direct look and you feel your face warming.

What the heck?

You tell him you didn’t kill Robert. You can’t tell if he believes you or not, but he suggests you go somewhere and talk about it.

__________

If you decide to go with Detective Riordan, click here

If you decide to go home instead — oh come on! Who are you kidding?Click the damn link!

Y
ou take Riordan to Café Noir so that you can warn Claude that the cops are on the verge of discovering his identity. You know Riordan is eventually going to ask if you know who “Black Beauty” is, and you won’t be able to lie without putting yourself in worse jeopardy than you’re already in.

Claude is, naturally, not thrilled with you, but you’ve got bigger concerns. Detective Riordan shows you a white plastic chess piece. A queen.

“A piece exactly like this was found on Hersey’s body.”

“On his body?” you repeat uncertainly.

“Clutched in his hand.” Riordan gives you a strange, unpleasant smile. “As Hersey lay dying, his assailant pressed this into his hand and folded his fingers around it. Held it closed. There were bruises on Hersey’s hand.”

“Fingerprints?”

“No fingerprints.”

You swallow. It’s more of a gulp. Riordan pockets the game piece. “Keep that to yourself. We haven’t released it to the press yet.”

“Why tell me?”

“Because I think you know what this chess piece means.”

You don’t. In fact, you’re more confused than ever, but Riordan is clearly one of those guys who doesn’t like to second guess himself. He’s either sure you’re guilty of Robert’s murder and he’s setting a trap for you, or he’s going to use you to set a trap for someone else.

The next day is the first Saturday of the month, which is when you get together with your mother for brunch at the ancestral home in Porter Ranch.

__________

If you choose to get together for brunch with Lisa as usual, click here

If you decide to hire a private detective to help you clear your name, click here

T
he PI’s name is Gavin Spade.

He’s got an upscale office in Old Town with retro décor and Spade Investigations stenciled on the door. All that’s missing is a Girl Friday named Effie. You appreciate the attention to detail. You just hope Spade is more than the sum of his shticks.

Spade’s handshake lasts maybe a second or two too long, and you give him a closer look. Nice. Very nice. Dark curly hair, long-lashed brown eyes, and a jaw like Dick Tracy.

He ushers you into his inner office, and waves you into a chair. He takes the chair behind the desk.

You explain your dilemma and he hears you out in grave, attentive silence.

When you at long last roll to a stop, Spade says, “So let me get this straight, Adrien — may I call you Adrien?”

You nod, clear your throat. “Yeah. Of course.”

“You can call me Gavin, by the way.”

“Okay, Gavin.”

Gavin treats you to a dazzling smile. “I think you’re very wise to tackle this thing head on, Adrien. I’ve got the greatest respect for the police, but I can tell you from long experience, their modus operandi is to grab the first and easiest solution and keep working it till they can make it fit.”

You don’t get told you’re “very wise” a lot and you smile weakly in return.

“I’m working a couple of cases right now,” Gavin admits. “But I’m going to make you — your case — a priority.”

Flattering but potentially expensive, and you’re a little short of cash these days. You say, “Okay. But maybe we should discuss your fee?”

“I’ll work with your budget, don’t worry about that, Adrien.”

Every time Gavin says your name, says
Adrien
, in that slow, almost savoring way, you get this funny little fluttering sensation in your chest. Well, let’s face it, you write mysteries and this guy is the living embodiment of every PI fantasy you ever had. Not that you realized you even had PI fantasies until this moment. But then you didn’t realize you had cop fantasies either until —

The outer door to Gavin’s office flies open and who should barge in but Detective Riordan. Speak of the Devil. His face is flushed and his blond hair looks ruffled. Or at least as ruffled as hair that short can get.

Gavin’s face falls into tough lines. He rises from behind the desk. “Can I help you, pal?”

Detective Riordan doesn’t seem to hear him. He stares straight at you. “Oh,
hell
no!” he says. “You are not getting involved with some handsome PI romantic interest. Not on my dime. Get the hell back over to the main storyline.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t give me that wide-eyed, innocent look. You know damn well —” He breaks off.

You say, “I know damn well
what
?”

Astonishingly, he seems choked with emotion. Or maybe it’s just choler at the idea that someone would dare argue with him.

“Listen, pal.” Gavin starts to come around the desk. “I don’t know who you are or what you think you’re doing here —”

Riordan gives you a direct and dark look. “On your head,” he warns.

“Gavin,” you say quickly. “Wait.” You stand too. Your heart is pounding fast, your mouth is actually dry. “Okay,” you tell Riordan. “What am I missing?”

“Everything,” he says. “Some of it, you’re just as well off without. But some of it…you don’t want to miss. I know you don’t, because I don’t want to miss it either. As hard and as painful as it’s going to be — and believe me, there are moments coming that you’ll think are going to break you — I wouldn’t trade any of it. Not a minute. Because.” He comes to another of those sudden stops.

“Because why?” you whisper.

Why are you whispering? Because nobody should hear this except the two of you?

“Because we get something most people don’t get.”

“That could mean a lot of things,” you point out. “It could mean Willie Wonka chocolate bars. It could mean we both develop the same rare disease. In fact, that’s kind of how it sounds. You’re going to have to say it. The words matter. One word in particular.”

“Love,” Riordan says. “We get love. And we get it for a long time — longer than either of us thought we’d have. But that’s not what I mean. That’s not the rare thing.”

He looked so angry, so dangerous when he burst into Gavin’s office, but somehow you’ve covered that distance of floor and carpet and you’re standing right in front of him, gazing into his eyes, and you’re not afraid of him. Maybe a little afraid of some of what lies ahead, but not of him. Not of Jake.

“So what’s the rare and special part?”

“We understand what we have. And not a day goes by that we don’t remember it.” He’s watching you, waiting to see if you understand.

Gavin says suddenly, skeptically from behind you, “You’re saying you live happily ever after?”

“I’m not saying that,” Jake says. “For all I know, you’d actually be happier with him.” He nods at Gavin, but his tawny gaze never leaves your own. “It would sure as hell be easier with him.”