Lanyon, Josh - Adrien English 04 - Death of a Pirate King (2 page)

Chapter Two

“Gosh, you look terrible!” Natalie exclaimed.

I batted my lashes. “You always know the right thing to say.”
I flipped through the day’s sales receipts.

I’d acquired Natalie two years ago when Angus, my former
bookstore employee, split for parts unknown. After a string of temps I let my
mother -- against my better judgment -- persuade me into hiring Natalie.

Natalie, at that time, was my brand-new stepsis. After
thirty-odd years of widowhood, my mother Lisa had suddenly decided to remarry,
and with Councilman Bill Dauten had come three stepsisters, in order of
appearance: thirty-something Lauren, twenty-something Natalie, and
twelve-year-old Emma.

The Dautens were the nicest family in the world. I kept a watch
out for the insidious undercurrents, the clues that all was not as it should
be, but nope. Nothing. Okay, maybe Bill overdid the Jägermeister on the
holidays and got squirm-makingly sentimental, and I could have done without
Lauren and her many crusades -- and Natalie had the worst taste in men I’d ever
encountered outside of my own -- but Emma was a pip.

“Where’ve you been? I was getting worried.”

I replied vaguely, “It took longer than I expected.” Anything
I told her would hit the familial newswire within the hour, and for now I
needed this to be an exclusive.

“Did you have a good time?” She really wanted to know; she
really hoped I’d had a good time. This was one of the things that I found hard
to get used to in having an extended family. All this friendly interest was
nice but it was strange.

After years of it being just Lisa and me -- okay, actually
being mostly just me -- all these interested and involved bystanders made me
uneasy.

I glanced without favor at the boyfriend du jour: Warren
Something. He lolled in one of the club chairs near the front desk, looking
bored. Straggly hair, emaciated body, and one of those wispy goatees that made
me yearn for a sharp razor -- and not so that I could give him a shave. He wore
a T-shirt that read
Chicks Hate Me
.
Supposedly he was some kind of musician, but so far all he seemed to play was
on my nerves.

Hiring Natalie turned out to be one of my better decisions.
My only problem with her was she kept trying to persuade me to hire Warren.

“It was okay,” I said. “Aren’t you two going to a concert or
something?”

Warren showed signs of life. “Yeah, Nat, we’re going to be
late.”

“Lisa called four times. She’s really upset you went out so
soon after getting discharged. You better call her.”

I muttered something, caught Natalie’s eye. She chuckled.
“You’ll always be her baby.”

Warren laughed derisively.

Yep, I was definitely getting tired of old Warren.

“I’ll give her a call. Lock up, will you?”

Natalie assented, and I went upstairs to my living quarters. Years
ago I bought the building that now houses Cloak and Dagger Books with money I
inherited from my paternal grandmother. At the time I thought it would be
something to tide me over until my writing career took off.

I turned on the lights. The answering machine light was
blinking red. Eight messages. I pressed Play.

“Darling…”

Lisa. I fast forwarded.

“Darling…”

Fast forward.

“Darling…”

Holy moly
. Fast
forward.

“Darling…”

Jeeeesus
. Fast
forward.

Fast forward.

Fast forward.

Fast forward.

Guy’s taped voice broke the silence of the apartment. “Hello,
lover. How’d it go?”

Guy Snowden and I had met a couple years earlier, and we’d
been seeing each other since Jake and I parted ways. I hit Stop on the machine,
picked up the phone, but then considered.

If I called Guy now it wouldn’t be a quick call, and I didn’t
have the energy to deal with what I was feeling, let alone his possible
reaction.

I replaced the phone and went into the bathroom, avoiding
looking at my hollow-eyed reflection in the mirror. I didn’t need a reminder
that I looked like something the cat dragged in. I felt like something the cat
dragged in -- after he chewed on it for a few hours. My chest hurt, my ribs
hurt. Coughing really hurt, but suppressing the cough was a no-no because my
lungs had to clear. A truly delightful process.

I took my antibiotics and stretched out on the couch. Fifteen
minutes and I’d call Lisa, and then if I had strength left, I’d call Guy and
tell him about the party and Porter Jones and Jake. Guy wouldn’t be happy about
any of it, especially the part about Jake. Not that I’d ever really gone much
into my relationship with Jake; but Guy, who taught history and occult studies
at UCLA, had been a suspect in one of Jake’s murder investigations, and it had
left him with not very friendly feelings toward cops in general and Jake in
particular.

I thought about the party at Paul Kane’s. Not that
party
was exactly the word for the
afternoon’s events. I tried to pinpoint exactly when I’d met Porter Jones. Paul
Kane, who had been mixing cocktails behind the bar, had introduced us. He’d
handed me a glass that had been sitting on the bar for a few minutes, and said,
“This is for Porter. My secret recipe.”

I’d handed the glass to Porter.

Of course Porter had had a lot of drinks that afternoon. A
lot of glasses had passed his way…

* * * * *

When I woke, the buzzer was ringing downstairs.

I sat up, groggy and a little confused by a series of weird
dreams. The corners in the room were deep in shadow. Just for a moment it
looked like someplace else, someplace strange, someone else’s house. It looked
like the home of whoever would live here years after I was gone.

The clock in the VCR informed me that it was nine o’clock.
Shit. I’d stood Guy up for dinner.

The buzzer downstairs rang again, loud and impatient.

Not Guy, because he had a key.

No way, I thought. I started coughing like I’d inhaled a
mouthful of dust. Dusty memories maybe.

I got up, adrenaline zinging through my system like someone had
flipped a switch. Heading downstairs, I turned on the ground level lights. I
crossed the silent floor of towering shelves and strategically placed chairs,
my eyes on the tall silhouette lurking behind the bars of the security gate.

Somehow I knew -- even before he moved into the unhealthy
yellow glow of the porch light. I swore under my breath and unlocked the front
door. Pushed the security gate aside.

“Can I come in?”

I hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure.” I moved out of the way.
“More questions?”

“That’s right.” Jake stepped inside the store and stared
around himself.

The previous spring I’d bought the building space next door,
and between the bookstore and the gutted rooms was a dividing wall of clear,
heavy plastic. Otherwise it didn’t look too different: same comfortable chairs,
fake fireplace, tall walnut shelves of books, same enigmatic smiles of the
kabuki masks on the wall. Everything as it was. Me excluded. I had certainly
changed.

I remembered when I’d first met Jake, when he’d been
investigating Robert Hersey’s murder. He’d scared the hell out of me, and I
wondered now why I hadn’t paid attention to that first healthy instinct.

His stare came at last to rest on me. He didn’t say anything.

“Déjà vu,” I said, and was relieved that my tone was just about
right.

It seemed to annoy Jake, though. Or maybe he was annoyed at
being forced to remember there had ever been anything between us besides
criminal investigation.

He said flatly, “I want to know what you were holding back
when we interviewed you this afternoon.”

That caught me off guard. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit. I know you. You were hiding something.”

Now that really was ironic. “You think?”

He just stared, immovable, implacable, impossible. “Yeah.”

“I guess some things never change.”

“Yeah,” he drawled. “Two years later I find you smack in the
middle of another homicide investigation. Coincidence?”

“You think not?” I started coughing again, which was
aggravating as hell.

He just stood there watching.

When I’d got my breath again, I rasped, “If I were hiding
something I guess it was the realization that you and Paul Kane are also
already…acquainted.”

He didn’t say a word.

“Same club, old chap?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sound jealous, Adrien. And
bitter.”

Did I? The thought startled me.

“Nah. Just curious.”

“About?”

I shrugged. “Not really my business.”

“You’ve got that right.” He was curt. After a moment he said
slowly, “So that’s all it was? You guessed that Paul and I…knew each other.”

“In the Biblical sense?” I mocked. “Yeah.”

Silence.

After we’d parted company he’d called twice when I hadn’t
been there to take his call. Or maybe I had been there, but just hadn’t picked
up. Anyway, I knew from caller ID who the hang-up calls were from.

And then, eleven months after the whole thing was over, he’d
called and actually left a message.

It’s Jake.

Like, did he think I’d forgotten his voice along with his
number?

Silence.

It’d be nice to talk to
you sometime.

As he himself would have said:
Uh-huh.

Silence.

Dial tone.

What did he think we’d talk about? His marriage? Work? The
weather?

“So are we done?” I heard the tension crackle in my voice and
knew he heard it too. I didn’t have the strength to keep fencing with him. I
didn’t have the energy to keep standing there pretending this wasn’t getting to
me, that it wasn’t opening up a lot of wounds that weren’t as well healed as
I’d believed.

He said flatly, “Yeah, we’re done.”

Chapter Three

“I don’t believe it,” Guy said. “There’s something wrong with
my karma.”

“Check the expiration date,” I suggested.

He paused in setting out little white cartons of rice and
shrimp in lobster sauce to give me the British two-finger salute.

“Two words,” I said. “Sounds like duck flu.”

His smile was reluctant. His eyes, green as the curl of a
wave, studied my face and narrowed. “You overdid it today, lover.”

“I’m out of shape. I find murder tiring.”

This reminded him of the thing I kept hoping he’d forget.
“And of all the cops in all the world, why the hell would that asshole
Riordan
show up today at Paul Kane’s?
It’s fucking unbelievable. I thought he was a lieutenant or something?”