The Boy With The Painful Tattoo: Holmes & Moriarity 3 (29 page)

J.X. put a hand to his forehead as though he wondered whether he was feverish.

“Then how do you figure Sydney killed Elijah?” Izzie asked.

“Did Ladas sustain any other injuries beyond the knife wound?”

“No.”

“No. So there was no fight. And I think if Kenneth or even Beck had been Elijah’s killer, it would have all happened differently. I think there would have been a fight. But someone was able to stand right next to Elijah and stab him in the heart with a small blade.”

“Huh.” Izzie stroked his chin thoughtfully. “That’s an interesting angle.”

No pun intended. Clearly. “So Elijah wasn’t afraid of this person, wasn’t afraid to let her get right into his personal space. One thing about heterosexual guys, they defend their personal space from other heterosexual guys.

“Secondly, Ladas’ death obviously wasn’t planned because of the crazy, desperate way his body was disposed of. By the way, that required two people, and the only remaining twosome in that group was Kenneth and Sydney. I think they were terrified of Ladas’ body showing up and being identified because Beck was bound to come after one or all of them. So I think Sydney and Kenneth started driving—I think the plan was to dump Ladas just as far from San Francisco as they could. But then they spotted the broken-down moving van and thought they’d found the perfect solution.”

“Except, the van was headed for San Francisco.”

“Which they couldn’t know. Cue the Alanis Morissette.”

“But why would Syd kill Elijah? Especially when none of them knew where the coins were hidden?”

“And why would she keep turning up here?” J.X. put in. “She would certainly know the coins weren’t here.”

“She wasn’t looking for the coins. She was trying to keep tabs on the investigation. She figured because of my connection to you and your connection to SFPD, we’d probably have the inside track on what was going on. As for why she killed Ladas, I’m not sure. Maybe she just lost it when she realized he was double-crossing them. Maybe he did something to make her feel threatened. He was a big guy and he was no angel, despite the whole gentleman thief act.”

They were both silent. Izzie stroked his chin some more. “So that’s it?” he said finally. “That’s your theory?”

“Yes.”

He made a disgusted noise. “All I can say is, if you weren’t as good as married to my ex-partner, you’d be on your way to the slammer.”

Slammer?
There was a golden oldie. Maybe Izzie thought that was what they called it back in my day.

“You don’t believe me?”

“What I believe or don’t believe is beside the point.”

Well, not really. But I kept my mouth shut.

Izzie nodded to J.X. and they both walked out of the breakfast room and went into the garden.

There remained a lot of crime scene personnel wandering up and down the brick walkways. It was still a ways from morning, but the night was starting to fade. The colored solar lights were dimming as the flowers took shape and hue once more. I watched J.X. listening to Izzie. He looked as tired as I felt. He nodded a couple of times, but mostly he was just hearing out all that Izzie had to say. There seemed to be a lot of it.

I resisted the temptation to put my head on the table. My collarbone had not been rebroken, but my shoulder hurt. My face hurt. There was a bruise on my cheekbone and forehead both. My stomach was in knots. I didn’t think I was going to be arrested. Izzie’s exasperated
as good as married to
seemed to indicate otherwise. But I couldn’t help wondering if that hadn’t been overstating the current situation between me and J.X. It was clear to me that I had crossed a line there was perhaps no coming back from. Despite all that had happened that night—hell, maybe
because
of it (and who could blame him?)—J.X. was keeping an unmistakable distance.

I’d nearly died twice, but he hadn’t even put his arms around me. Oh, he’d been beside me one hundred percent, explaining the situation with Jerry and the situation with Ladas. I had his support and his protection, no question. But there was none of the warmth or affection or tenderness I’d come to rely on.

I could have been any good friend in trouble.

My eyes stung. I wiped at them impatiently.

I shouldn’t have said what I had about the kid. J.X.’s family meant everything to him. I knew that.

My thoughts broke off as Izzie gave J.X. a commiserating pat on the back. What the hell did
that
mean? My stomach dropped another couple of floors.

They walked back inside, Izzie took his chair at the table, and we began to go through my account of the evening’s events again.

The sun was coming up by the time J.X. and I stumbled up to bed.

“Try not to worry,” he said as we undressed.

I glanced at him. He met my gaze solemnly and I nodded.

That seemed to be all he had to say. He pulled the bedclothes back, crawled between the sheets and closed his eyes.

I dropped my clothes to the floor and lay down on the bed. The sheets felt cool and caressing, the mattress soft and comfortable. A little groan escaped me.

J.X. opened his eyes. He said nothing. I said nothing. He closed his eyes.

I turned on my back and stared up at the ceiling.

The argument seemed like a million years ago. I wasn’t even sure now of everything I’d said. Let alone what he’d said. No, I did remember. He’d said I was self-centered, self-pitying… Probably true. Maybe self-destructive too, if I was going to let this go without a fight.

I could hear his soft, even breaths slowing, deepening.

I found myself studying the painting by Friedlander, the study of autumn wine country. I let myself remember how it had felt when I’d thought J.X. was dead.

My eyes stung just thinking about it. I never wanted to feel that again. Couldn’t afford to feel like that again. That kind of emotion could destroy you. If you gave someone that much power and then they changed their mind, decided they didn’t want you, didn’t feel the same?

That wasn’t for me. I wasn’t built like that.

And I was kidding myself because it was already too late. Way too late.

I turned my head and said, “J.X.—”

His lips were parted, his lashes never stirred.

Or maybe he was pretending to be asleep.

Either way, the moment had passed.

He let me sleep late.

When I woke, it was to the comforting smells of coffee and bacon. But when I padded downstairs after my shower, the kitchen was deserted. The dishes had been done and put away, but coffee was still warming on the machine and I discovered four pieces of bacon on a covered plate.

J.X. was in his office. The door was closed and music was playing softly.

I’d kind of hoped that the new day might set us right. Offer us a fresh start. But no.

The walls were up, the doors were closed.

So that was that.

Right?

I couldn’t do this on my own. And like D.H. Lawrence said,
We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.

I scrambled eggs and had my breakfast, and then I went out to get the mail.

It was a pretty day. A little hazy, but that would burn off. It was kind of nice to know that Beck wasn’t hiding behind the hedges, waiting to jump me. And hopefully Jerry was still busy answering questions downtown. Or uptown. Whatever they called it here in San Francisco.

Maybe I wouldn’t be staying long enough to find out.

There were a couple of forwarded letters for J.X., our first utility bill, and a small parcel for me from a bookseller I didn’t recognize. I carried the mail inside.

J.X. was in the kitchen pouring a glass of milk. “Hey,” he said indifferently.

Okay, I don’t know that his greeting was indifferent. It was polite and it was not exactly enthusiastic. But maybe it was just guarded.

“Hey,” I replied in the same careful tone. “Mail call.” I placed his envelopes on the table and went through the breakfast room to the patio.

Technically, the upper level of the garden was now a crime scene, but I turned my chair so I didn’t have to see the yellow-and-black crime scene tape. I put my head back and closed my eyes.

The sun felt good on my face. Despite sleeping late, I had not slept well. I was still very tired. Physically worn out. Emotionally…flattened.

“Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo!” Emmaline’s voice floated on the warm breeze.

I opened my eyes and sat up.

A small hand was waving to me over the hedge.

I got up and walked over to the hedge. Emmaline looked cheerful enough, though I wouldn’t have been surprised to see some dismay after the events of the previous evening. Maybe teaching high school prepared you for anything.

“Christopher! What on earth happened here last night? All those police cars and crime scene people again. And was it my imagination or were police helicopters circling us for a few hours?”

“It’s a long story,” I said. But since I had no one else to talk to, I launched into it.

“Oh my gosh!” Emmaline exclaimed at intervals. Occasionally, she broke it up with “Oh, my goodness!”

She was not at all like my dear Miss Butterwith, but she was a comfortable sort of person. I could see growing fond of Emmaline. If I stuck around long enough.

When I was finished with my long and rambling tale, she said, “I don’t imagine there’s been this much excitement in the old neighborhood since Dimitri Foden murdered Julia Clare Hargetter.”

“Probably not,” I agreed. And then,
“Who?”

Emmaline’s cheeks pinked. “Oh! I took it for granted you knew. About the murder.”

“What murder?” I stared and the meaning of her discomfort registered. “There was a murder in our house?”

“Well, yes. I thought you must know. I thought that was probably one of the attractions for a pair of mystery writers.”

“No. Not really.”

“Well, it was long before any of our time. Julia Clare Hargetter used to live at 321. She was a very famous 19th century painter. Quite eccentric, so the story goes. Anyway, she was murdered by her lover, Dimitri Foden, who disappeared and was never seen again.”

She sounded quite chipper about the whole thing.

I said, “Great. I know what that means. I used it in
How Does Your Garden Grow, Miss Butterwith?
Foden’s somewhere in our backyard. With my luck, beneath the swimming pool.”

Emmaline laughed merrily at the idea. “You mystery writers! What sinister minds you have.”

We chatted a little more. Emmaline invited us to dinner Saturday evening, and I told her J.X. would be out with his nephew. So she invited us to dinner on Monday evening. I said I would check with my better half.

We said goodbye and I returned to my place in the sun. I unwrapped the parcel from the bookstore. It was a slim, battered paperback titled
Dead Man’s Chest: A Lazlo Ender Mystery
. By Richard Cortez and Elijah Ladas.

I began to read.

An hour later I knocked on J.X.’s office door. He turned down the music and called, “Come in.”

I opened the door.

He was seated at his desk, scowling, though the scowl cleared when he saw me. “What’s up?” he asked.

I held up the paperback. “I think I know where Ladas hid the coins.”

Chapter Twenty

The scowl returned. “Where?” J.X. asked.

I took a deep breath. “Before I get to that, I just want to say that I know you’re angry with me. And disappointed. I know I’m not—”

He interrupted harshly, “Did you mean what you said about having second thoughts?”

“Second thoughts, third thoughts, fourth thoughts. Aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

It hurt. A lot. But in a funny way, hearing it helped. Because I already knew it was true. And if we could talk about it honestly to each other, maybe we could work our way through it.

“But I still want it to work,” I said. “I love you and I believe you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Some of the hardness left his face. J.X. said uncertainly, “Is that true?”

“Yes.” Honest. But naked. Too naked. I said hastily, “Well, I mean, next to Miss Butterwith. And Mr. Pinkerton. But you’re definitely in the top three.”

There was a very faint smile in his eyes. He said, “Right. Of course.”

I said, “And I know you love me too and that you really want this relationship to work out—if only to avoid having to move me back to Southern California.”

“Do you resent the fact that you’re the one who had to move? That you’re the one who got uprooted?”

“No.” I meant that. “It makes sense because of Gage and Nina. I don’t resent them, if that’s the real question. And I don’t resent that I’m the one who had to make the great migration.”

He didn’t say anything and I offered a lopsided smile. “So although I know you think I try to control everything and that rules are going to kill any spontaneity between us, I think it’s in our best interests if we agree on a couple of things. Like…no matter how mad I get, I’m not ever going to talk about having second thoughts or us splitting up again. Unless I really am packing my bags. I’m not eight years old, and getting mad and threatening to take my ball home is not okay. Unless it really is game over.”

J.X. let out a long, unsteady breath and said quietly, “That would help.”

“But you have to cut me some slack too.” I was startled when my throat closed, cutting off the words. I hadn’t realized until that moment how deeply some of his words had cut. “I probably am self-centered and I probably do feel a little too sorry for myself right now. But I’m trying. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t trying. And I’m trying for you. Not because I want to be a better person or for any other reason than I want to make you happy.” A swallow caught me at that embarrassing juncture.

“Kit—” J.X. came around the desk.

I waved him away. “Wait. I’m not finished. Here comes the deal breaker.”

His brows drew together. “Go on.”

“You have a different relationship with your family than I have with mine. And I respect that. And I admire how you’re there for Nina and Gage. But I don’t know that I can be part of that. Any of that. I’ll do what I can. I’ll try to meet them halfway. But you have to understand that…it’s probably not going to turn out the way you want. I’m not that person. I’m not
The Waltons
.”