Death of a Pirate King Read online

  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 Garibaldi 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 still 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 eyes 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 s
top 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.”

  It had occurred to me that what I was doing was potentially dangerous. Even so, what Jake said gave me pause. I didn’t plan on pushing anyone too hard or too far, but who knew how a guilty conscience might interpret a few casual questions?

  I asked, “Would you happen to know the name of the PI that Porter used?”

  His face went blank. “What PI?”

  Hell. My mistake. I said cautiously, “I had the impression Porter had hired a PI to follow Ally.”

  “Did she tell you that or did it come from Paul?”

  I said reluctantly, “Paul mentioned it, yeah.”

  How well I remembered that old flash of anger -- and how happy I was that this time it wasn’t directed at me. Jake said curtly, “Leave the PI to me. That’s a different thing.”

  He didn’t say anything else but I could see that he was not happy. We finished our meal -- rather, he finished his and I watched people go in and out of the pet shop next door. I thought about what Lisa would do if I showed up with a puppy for Emma. What she would do was call my bluff, and as I didn’t really have a place to keep a dog, I let the idea go.

  Jake paid the bill -- and since as far as I was concerned this was a business lunch, I let him pick up the tab without comment. We parted ways as soon as we were through the glass door, Jake heading for the back parking lot, I walking toward the front. As I unlocked the Forrester, he called, “Hey.”

  I turned inquiringly, and Jake was striding back toward me.

  “I’m dead serious about this: I want you to call before and after each interview. Understood?”

  Understood? Wow. Was there an echo out here? Like from two years ago?

  I sketched a salute and he said as though I had objected -- which I wouldn’t, since it made perfect sense to me to have some kind of safety net, “Call me before you talk to anyone else.”

  And for one stupid moment, I was actually touched, thinking he might be concerned for me -- except that his concern would be that I didn’t screw up his investigation or that a civilian didn’t get injured poking around. Either scenario would not go over well with the brass, and no way would Jake want to endanger those all-important stripes he wore to funerals and award ceremonies.

  “And here I thought you didn’t care anymore.” I was smiling, mocking him a bit -- and myself.

  He said evenly, “You’re the one who cut all ties, Adrien. That wasn’t my choice.”

  I don’t know why his words hit me so hard. To start with, it wasn’t true -- but that was sure as hell not a discussion I planned on ever having with him. My smiled faded. I said, “Ancient history.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  I got into my car, started the engine, and reversed unde
r his hard gaze. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I could see him in my rearview, standing there straight as a soldier, the afternoon sun shining on his blond hair.

  Chapter Six

  Dear Adrien,

  I hope you are well and that business is great. I have been thinking of coming home. Do I still have my job at Cloak and Dagger Books?

  Yours sincerely,

  Angus Gordon

  “Did you forget to meet Lisa for lunch?” Natalie asked over the din of power tools and construction workers shouting to each other behind the plastic wall that separated Cloak and Dagger books from the adjoining space.

  I looked up blankly from the postcard offering four scenic shots of the pyramids at Chichen Itza. “Huh?”

  She said, “Isn’t today your day for lunch with Lisa?”

  “Jesus!” I yelped, dropping the card -- and knocking over the stack of mail that had accumulated while I was ill and that I’d been sorting through.

  “Adrien! What’s the matter with you?”

  “It totally skipped my mind.”

  Her blue eyes widened. “Yeeowch,” she said, which was the understatement of the year.

  By then I was on my cell phone dialing.

  Before my mother remarried we had a long-standing tradition of Saturday brunch. She wanted to keep up this tradition after her marriage -- and include her new family and Guy in the mix. I’d declined on the basis of not being able to afford getting genteelly snockered with the stepfamily every weekend, and had managed to move our weekly session to lunch on Tuesdays. I told myself that this way it kept the innocent bystander casualties to a minimum.

  I got her on the first ring.

  “Adrien!” Lisa said, and lucky for me the blend was ninety percent relief and only ten percent caustic acid.

  “Lisa, I can’t apologize enough,” I said -- although I was well aware I was going to have to. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten, and put it down to the fact that my schedule was still whacked after nearly a week in hospital.

  “Why weren’t you answering your cell phone? I’ve been so worried. Darling, where in the world have you been?”