Adrien English Mysteries: A Dangerous Thing & Fatal Shadows (10 page)

I tried to think back to the days before Robert had died. Had he said anything that might give me a clue? I considered snippets of overheard phone conversations. The sad truth was I’d been so busy bottling my anger at his haphazard work, his obvious indifference to the job, 56

Josh Lanyon

I hadn’t paid much attention. I had noticed -- and been irritated -- by his sunny indifference in the face of my glowering disapproval. That in itself indicated his attention had been elsewhere, because when he had first returned to LA he had definitely been interested in picking up where we left off.

What if Rob’s death hadn’t had anything to do with romance, ill-fated or otherwise? If Rob had been in some kind of trouble, would he have confided in me?

I wasn’t sure. He confided in me less and less. You’re turning into an old maid, Adrien, he’d said when I lectured him about promiscuity in the age of AIDS.

Only ten percent of people infected with the virus even know they’ve got it, Rob.

It would have to be immaculate contagion in your case, wouldn’t it, Adrien?

He hadn’t told me he was having serious money trouble. That news had come from Claude, and he had assumed that I already knew.

But the eighty bucks missing from petty cash would not have solved Robert’s credit problems. So what did he need the eighty for? My best guess: To take someone out. To buy someone dinner. It kept coming back to this unknown other. Mr. X.

Why hadn’t Rob just asked for the money?

Because he didn’t want to hear it, Adrien, I answered myself. Only he had to hear it anyway. And my last memory of Robert amounted to me calling him a liar and a thief, and Robert telling me to fuck off. Now there’s a Kodak moment for you.

I sighed. Tossed against the pillows. I watched the shadow of lace curtains patterned against the wall. Listened to pinpricks of rain against the windows. The wettest winter since El Niño, everyone kept saying. That’s something I missed, lying in bed listening to the rain with someone I loved. That’s something I missed, having someone I loved.

But in the meantime there were still methods that worked. I rolled onto my side, face buried in the cool linen, one hand between my legs. Solo sex. The cheapest and safest of dates. I closed my eyes and Robert’s face floated into my mind. I pushed it away. Thought of Riordan. Thought of a big hand wrapping around my shaft, sliding up and down, pumping hard ... harder. The head of my cock leaked a single salty tear to slick my own hand’s efforts.

Yikes. Think of Bruce. Yeah. Better. Safer. Saner ...

* * * * *

Tuesday afternoon Angus and I were sorting through a shipment from St. Martin’s Press when he found the card slipped in between some copies of Crime Scene.

“This must be for you.” He handed over a large, square envelope. I noticed the fingernails on both his little fingers were about two inches long. I tried to remember from my reading what that meant. Lead guitar or warlock? Or maybe just a nice normal cocaine addiction.

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“Thanks.” A plain white greeting-sized envelope. I opened it, drew out the large In Sympathy card. Red roses and a pair of praying hands. My own hands were none too steady as I opened the card. The inscription was standard fare. I’d sent something similar to Robert’s father. Below in familiar black calligraphy someone had written: Our acts our angels are --

For good or ill

“When did this come?”

Angus shrugged, having already lost interest.

“How long have those magazines been stacked there?”

“Since Saturday,” he breathed.

I contemplated the black script. There was something about those lines. They were from a poem, I thought. Not Shakespeare; I knew my Shakespeare pretty well, thanks to old Jason Leland and Murder Will Out. Bacon? Marlowe?

I tried to remember what the note on the roses had read. Something about all things in their time.

I slid the card back into the envelope. Glancing up I caught Angus watching me with an enigmatic expression.

Angus could have slipped the card in there, I realized, and then pretended to find it.

Tara had also been standing in front of the counter when I ran upstairs to get sodas for the kids. And Riordan had been in the shop on Saturday. Hell, Bruce could have slipped it in yesterday. For that matter dozens of people had stood by the counter, by the magazines. It needn’t have been anyone I knew.

I had given Riordan the florist’s card so that he could double-check whether there had been a screw up. Had he bothered to confirm one way or the other?

With a word to Angus, I went into my office and dialed the number on the card Chan had left me that first morning. I got the Hollywood Area Homicide Unit. Neither Chan nor Riordan was available. I left a message.

After I hung up I sat there idly tapping the card against the clock on my desk.

It occurred to me that I hadn’t heard from Claude following our spat yesterday. That seemed odd.

It occurred to me that since the card had been left for me, there probably hadn’t been any mix-up at the florists. The roses with their cryptic message had also been intended for me.

It occurred to me that Tara was right about possible mice. There was definitely a peculiar odor permeating the shop. Here in the office it was quite pungent.

It occurred to me that I didn’t know what any of that meant, but I didn’t like it.

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Josh Lanyon

Chapter Eight

In the week since Robert had died he had gone from second page news to a blurb filling space between the Robinson-May and Nordstrom shoe ads. The investigation was “ongoing”

in the police vernacular.

On Tuesday night the Partners in Crime writing group met again. The main topic was still Rob’s murder or, more accurately, the ensuing investigation. It seemed as though everyone had been visited by Chan and Riordan. I think for the most part they found it mildly titillating, and yet it did seem to me that I was being surreptitiously observed by my partners in crime. Was there something artificially eager in their conversation? Was there something awkward in the pauses?

Eight o’clock came and went with no sign of Claude. Grania’s little cobblestones (she swore they were granola cookies) were handed out (although I didn’t notice anyone risking their dental work on them), a gallon of coffee was poured, and the discussion moved from Robert to other topics.

“It’s not a crime film, but the worst movie I ever saw,” Max volunteered, “was Bwana Devil with Robert Stack.”

“I saw that,” Ted volunteered. “Sunday before last when I was waiting up for Jean.”

“I was home last Sunday,” Jean said instantly.

“Sunday evening before last, sugar pie.” Yes, he calls her “sugar pie,” and she calls him

“honey bun.” I don’t get the pastry thing myself.

“I was home Sunday evening. It was Saturday evening I was out late,” she protested. “I went to the movies with a girl from the office,” she added for the rest of our benefit.

Oh yeah, the world famous I-was-at-the-cinema alibi. So had Jean been MIA on Sunday night or Saturday night? Not that it mattered to me, but it seemed to matter to Jean -- and that in itself made it worth checking the previous week’s TV Guide to see what night Bwana Devil had been televised.

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That’s how bad I had it. I was actually considering whether diminutive Jean could have slaughtered Robert. Never mind trivial considerations like motive. I mean, what possible motive could she have? I couldn’t remember Robert ever having spoken to her.

“Yeah,” Max was saying, apparently seeing nothing odd in Jean and Ted’s tiny disagreement over her alibi. “The best part is toward the end when the lions have eaten this native kid, and the white hunter’s wife screams at one of them, ‘animal!’ ”

“You know, that movie is based on a true story,” Jean informed Max.

Grania cut across his guffaws. “Are we going to wait all night for La Pierra?” Tonight she wore fatigue pants and a black chemise. Her wide mouth was outlined in poppy red. I wondered what the occasion was. Chapter meeting of her paramilitary cooking club?

Max stopped laughing and fixed her with his eye.

“It’s pretty damn rude. This is the Finches’s night,” Grania continued. “We all showed up for Homicide les Hommes or whatever it’s called.”

“Always thinking of others, eh, Toots?”

Grania flushed and tossed her head.

I wondered if this was the adult heterosexual version of pigtail pulling.

“We may as well get started,” I agreed with one last look at the door.

Max smirked, swiped the last cookie and crammed it in his mouth. I wondered if that crunching sound we all heard was the last of his fillings.

“Well, we re-wrote Chapter Two,” Jean began, handing copies around the circle.

Someone groaned. I hoped it wasn’t me. I wasn’t sure.

Jean said defensively, “Well, we thought Claude made some good points about angle of entry and blood spatter patterns on a raincoat. And even a highly disciplined mime probably would scream --”

“So where is La Pierra?” Max interrupted, propping his feet on the long table.

Ted looked irritated. “Who cares? Jean is talking.”

“Sorry, Jean.”

Jean handed Max a copy. She and Ted performed a little You-First-No-You-First routine and Jean finally plumped down in the Sheraton chair.

“Jean will read tonight,” Ted announced. He beamed at Jean.

Grania sighed in the manner of one exerting inhuman patience.

Jean read, and I sat there mechanically following along, all the while mentally turning over and over the Rubic cube of Claude’s absence. Was he still pissed off? Despite leaving two messages, I hadn’t heard from him since his phone call Sunday. That wasn’t like Claude.

His sulks never lasted more than a few hours.

Jean had a soothing voice. Perfect for reading kids to sleep.

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Josh Lanyon

Absently I made notes in the margin. Robert had been killed in the alley outside his apartment. Why? Why not in the apartment? Because he didn’t bring his killer home with him? He had gone to meet someone. Yet he had come back to the Blue Parrot alone. Then, instead of looking for me, he had gone home. And someone had killed him out in the alley.

What would lure Robert out into the alley?

Everyone turned to the next page. I followed suit.

Let’s say I was a homicidal maniac who wanted to kill Robert someplace where we could have a little privacy. How would I do that? I might go up to his door very late at night and say, Sorry about standing you up earlier but I had car trouble. In fact my piece of junk is parked out back blocking the alley right now.

And Robert, not famous for caution or second thoughts, would be happy that I’d turned up after all, and naturally offer to lend a hand, and out we would go.

And when it was over, I could drive away in my bloodstained clothes unseen. Robert hadn’t had time to put up much of a fight, but his attacker had not been willing to take any chances. Thumps and groans from the apartment next door might generate concern. Not so from an alley where bums and winos prowled.

I glanced up, caught Max staring at Grania intently. Feeling my gaze he gave me a cool look, turned to the manuscript he held. Grania pulled a pencil out of her hair, lined out what appeared to be a paragraph.

“Avery narrowed his eyes in thought at the inspector’s question,” read Jean. “Why would anyone want to kill a mime?”

“Go figure,” muttered Grania.

Max smothered a laugh.

* * * * *

When the meeting was over and my partners in crime had left, I felt restless. I went around locking and bolting every conceivable entryway. Then I went upstairs and prowled around my flat. I turned on the computer, logged on and realized my brain had less going on than my screen saver. I signed off again, and popped The Black Swan into the video machine, went into the kitchen, and started stacking dishes in the dishwasher.

I needed to keep busy, needed to avoid thinking in order to relax enough to go to sleep without resorting to chemicals. I filled the solitude with the rumble of the dishwasher and Tyrone Power and Maureen O’Hara in a “Tale of the Spanish Main -- when villainy wore a sash.” I do like well-dressed villainy.

In the living room I stretched out on the floor and practiced deep breathing. I could feel the hard wood hitting all the sharps and angles of my bones. My spine felt kinked in a dozen places. Crikey. Middle-age was catching up to me. I stood with a groan and made myself go Fatal Shadows

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through the motions of my Tai Chi routine. Touch the South Wind. Touch the East Wind.

The Tide Comes In and Out.

The funny thing was I did feel better after a few minutes. More tranquil. Like I could bend without breaking -- emotionally and physically. I moved on to the hard style movements. Defy the Dragon. Defy the Leopard. Defy the Cops. I first started doing Tai Chi in college, and besides promoting a relaxed mental attitude -- something I don’t come by naturally -- it does result in greater flexibility, coordination, and balance. Which is not to say it’s everyone’s cup of tea. I couldn’t, for example, picture Detective Riordan giving up beating the shit out of a punching bag, or rowing frowning, sweat-streaked odometer miles in favor of Bird with the Folding Wing.

Thirty minutes and I headed for the shower. When I got out I noticed the light blinking on my answering machine. Abstracted as I’d been, it could have been flashing away all evening. I played back the message, but it was not Claude. Bruce Green had called. Despite his words he sounded unexpectedly diffident.

“Hi, Adrien. It’s Bruce. I was just wondering when you’d like to have dinner? Give me a call.”

I picked up the phone then slowly replaced it. Too late to call now. Besides ... the habit of solitude had become ingrained. Other than the occasional twinge of loneliness, my single status was as comfortable as a mole snuggled in its hole -- and as safe. Did I really want to risk that hard-won equilibrium?

I thought of the long, painful months after Mel left.

Wandering into the kitchen, I made a glass of Ovaltine, trailed back to the sofa and propped my feet on the sofa arm, watching the tail end of The Black Swan. Idly, I flipped through the yearbook Tara had left me.