Текст книги "Death of a Pirate King "

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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?”

“He is. I think he knows Paul Kane. It’s a high-profile case. There’s liable to be a lot of media attention.”

“You don’t honestly think they – he – thinks you’re involved?”

“No.”

Guy poured wine for himself and mineral water for me. He sat down at the kitchen table and began to eat, scowling. “You don’t plan on…”

“No. I don’t.”

He relaxed a little.

I said, referring to the murder case where Guy and I first met, “When you talked to the cops about Grimaldi, you kept me out of it, right?”

“As much as was possible.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means that Detective Riordan had a pretty good idea of where I got my information.” He studied me. “He didn’t push it, and neither did I since you’d asked me to keep you out of it. I couldn’t help noticing…”

“What?”

“He has this little muscle in his jaw.” Guy gestured to his own lean, tanned jaw. “And every time your name came up, the muscle moved.”

“It was pretty much a permanent twitch by then.”

Guy didn’t laugh.

I reached my hand across the table. “Hey. Guy, I’m sorry this is bringing back bad memories for you. I’m not involved. I have no intention of getting involved.”

He took my hand, but he was not smiling.

“You’re not the one I’m worried about. I don’t trust that bastard Riordan.”

* * * * *

Lisa phoned as we were lying in bed watching Michael Palin’s Palin’s New Europe. Actually Guy had been watching, and I had been dozing. Ever chivalrous, Guy took the bullet for me.

Gratefully, I listened to his side of the conversation.

“He’s fine, Lisa. He’s right here. Just having an early night.”

Poor Guy. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. Did my mother think we were in separate rooms? Sleeping in bunk beds? I lowered the TV volume with the remote control. The TV in the bedroom was Guy’s idea. He found watching TV together more companionable than reading – not that we spent a lot of sheet time in intellectual pursuits.

“Yep, he’s taking all his meds.”

“Oh my God,” I said.

Guy’s eyes laughed at me.

“He’s eating. He’s resting. He’ll give you a call tomorrow. I give you my word.”

I raised my brows at this. Guy raised his own in reply.

Folding my arms behind my head, I stared at the streetlamp shining behind the lace drapes over the window. Not that I would have admitted this to anyone, but my lack of energy scared me. I knew it was normal after pneumonia, like the sore ribs and the ugly cough, but the fatigue and shortness of breath brought back unpleasant memories. As had the hospital stay.

When my number came up, I wanted it to be lightning-bolt fast. I sure as hell didn’t want to end things struggling for breath in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines and stuck full of needles.

“Sweet dreams,” Guy cooed and leaned over to replace the handset on its hook.

“I owe you, man.”

“She’s a doll, really.”

“Mm. Bride of Chucky.”

He chuckled and bent over me, his breath light and cool as his mouth touched mine. “Say the word and I’ll make running interference a permanent part of my job description.”

I kissed him back lightly.

“No?” He raised an eyebrow.

I sighed.

“What’s it take to convince you I’m here for the long haul?”

“Maybe I’m just too set in my ways,” I said. “I’ve been living on my own a long time.”

“You’re thirty-five, Adrien. It’s not like your best years are behind you.”

They felt behind me, I thought, with my heartbeat fluttering in my throat as it did more often now. But I couldn’t tell Guy that. I couldn’t tell anyone that.

“You know I love you,” Guy said. “Right? So what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m the problem.”

“No. You just need time.” He kissed me again. “That’s okay, lover. You take all the time you need.”

* * * * *

The next morning, Monday, Natalie and I were having a little debate about inventory loss control – Natalie taking the view that stealing books was not really a crime so much as a cry for help – when Detective Alonzo showed up with Jake in tow.

“Can we talk to you for a few minutes, Mr. English?” Alonzo asked over the din of power tools from behind the plastic curtain.

I looked at Jake. His face gave nothing away.

We went back to my office. Jake leaned against the wall as though he were strictly there in some official capacity as observer in a training exercise for Alonzo.

Alonzo said, “We were wondering if you’d had a chance to remember anything else after you made your statement yesterday.”

“You mean like, did I remember I killed Porter Jones?”

He smiled, a genial cat to a smart-ass mouse. “Something like that.”

“Not that I know of.”

He looked interested. “What’s that mean?”

I’d been debating since the evening before whether to mention the thing about handing Porter his drink before we went into lunch, and I concluded that it would be easier – safer – to have it out now. I said, “It means that if he was poisoned, then I think there’s a possibility I handed him the drink that killed him.”

“You think he was poisoned, Mr. English?”

“I think I’d have noticed if he’d been shot or stabbed.”

Alonzo looked toward Jake as though seeking confirmation. “You got a little bit of an attitude, Mr. English, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I don’t mind.”

His black brows drew together.

“I guess you won’t be surprised to hear that the coroner’s preliminary findings indicate that Mr. Jones was poisoned.”

“I see.” And I thought I did.

“We’ve found the glass that was probably used to administer the poison. It was broken in a bag of trash, but there was enough to lift fingerprints.”

“Let me guess. Mine.”

“Jackpot,” said Detective Alonzo. He did seem to enjoy his work.

I reminded myself I’d been through police questioning before and that I had nothing to hide. “I did say I might have inadvertently given him the poison. I passed him his glass right before we went into lunch. There should be other prints on the glass as well.”

“The vic’s.”

“Paul Kane’s fingerprints should also be on the glass.”

“Well, it’s his house,” Alonzo pointed out.

Jake said, “The interesting thing is the poison.”

I had avoided looking his way till now. His gaze was impassive.

Alonzo asked, “Do you have a heart condition, sir?”

Jake’s gaze shifted pointedly to Alonzo.

I nodded.

“What medications do you take?”

“Digoxin and aspirin.”

“Digoxin. That’s a form of digitalis, right?”

“Right. It slows and strengthens the heartbeat.”

“You take tablets or injections or what?”

“I take tablets.”

I waited. I knew what was coming.

“You’ll find this interesting. The autopsy results indicate that Mr. Jones died of a massive heart attack brought on by a fatal dose of some form of digitalis.”

They both stared at me.

Two or three murder investigations ago I might have panicked. As it was, I studied Detective Alonzo, perplexed.

“The glass was sitting on the bar for a few minutes. It was crowded, especially by the bar. Any number of people could have slipped something into that drink.”

“How would they know whose drink it was?”

“How would I? Paul Kane picked it up and said it was Porter’s drink. I handed it to Porter.”

“You need a prescription for digitalis, right?”

“No. That is, it’s a cardiac glycoside found in the foxglove plant, which is pretty common.” I thought of Lisa’s house in Porter Ranch surrounded by a classic English cottage garden full of graceful spires of foxglove. “The entire plant is toxic, but the leaves especially so.”

“You seem to know a lot about it.”

“I watch a lot of TV.”

“And you’re a mystery writer. I bet you know a lot about poisons.”

“Enough. I’m also a heart patient, so if I was going to poison someone I’d choose something that wouldn’t immediately make me a suspect.”

Detective Alonzo gave Jake another one of those looks as if seeking guidance. None was forthcoming.

“You know, I’ve got to say, Mr. English, I’ve interviewed a lot of suspects, and usually people react a lot differently when they’re questioned in a homicide investigation. Innocent people, I mean.”

“It’s not my first homicide investigation.” I replied. I turned to Jake. “Maybe you should fill him in on how we know each other.”

He didn’t move a muscle. “He knows.”

“Really?” I smiled crookedly. “Everything?”

Not a bat of an eyelash. “Everything relevant.”

He waited for me to say it. My heart sped up as I pictured myself speaking the words, betraying the secret he had protected for forty-two years. I could hurt him every bit as badly as he had hurt me – and the hurt would be lasting, permanent – devastating everything he cared about, from his career to his marriage. I could wreck him with a couple of sentences, and he knew it. He could see I was considering it.

He expected me to say it. His eyes never left mine, but there was no asking for quarter. He just…waited. Not breathing.

I said to Alonzo, “Then you know that I understand how this works and that I have confidence in the process.”

Alonzo, who had been looking from Jake to me, put his hand to his jaw like I had sucker punched him.

Jake straightened from the wall and said, his voice unexpectedly husky, “Thanks. I think that’s about it.” He looked to Detective Alonzo who said, “Uh, yeah. I guess that’s it for now. Thanks for your time, Mr. English.”

“What was that about?” Natalie demanded as soon as the front door closed behind Jake and Alonzo. “Were they police?”

“Yeah. It’s just routine,” I told her. “Someone died at the party I was at yesterday, so they’re just checking with people to see if anyone noticed anything suspicious.”

“Oh, wow! You mean, like a murder?”

“Maybe.” I was purposely vague. Natalie is a mystery buff, and she’s often lamented that she wasn’t around to “assist” me the last few times I was involved in a homicide investigation.

“Are you going to investigate?”

“You’re joking, right?”

She seemed slightly puzzled. “No. Oh, hey, a bunch of calls came in for you. Lisa really needs you to call her.” Here she gave me the look that managed to indicate sympathy while spelling disapproval of me dodging my filial responsibilities. “Your doctor appointment is confirmed for three o’clock. And Paul Kane phoned.”

“What did Paul Kane want?”

Natalie gave a disbelieving laugh. “Adrien, you never said you knew the Paul Kane!”

“I don’t. He’s sort of interested in one of my books.”

“Interested? You mean in the film rights?” Her voice rose on the magic word “film.” I winced.

“He’s just expressed interest,” I said hastily – and not totally truthfully. “It probably won’t go any further than this.” Her expression was disbelieving. “Did he say what he wanted?” I asked again.

“He didn’t say. But he wants you to call him right away.”

I nodded, returned to my office, and dialed Kane’s number.

I expected to have to go through at least one personal assistant, but Kane himself answered on the third ring. “Adrien, how are you?” He had a great voice. Smooth and sexy. I wondered if he had ever considered recording audiobooks. “I can’t apologize enough for yesterday.”

“Is that a confession?”

“Is that a –?” He laughed. “You’ve been chatting with the coppers. Apparently I’m their number one suspect.”

“I didn’t get that impression.”

“No? I did. Look, are you free for lunch? I’ve got something I want to discuss with you.”

All I wanted was to lie down and sleep for an hour or two. I was so damn tired all the time. But I wanted this film to be made. The bookstore expansion was costing a fair bit, and I was five years away from inheriting the balance of the money left to me by my grandmother.

“I’m free,” I said. “Where would you like to meet?”

“I’m working on the lot today. What about the Formosa Café? Shall we say one o’clock? I’ve a proposition I think you’ll find rather intriguing.”

Chapter Four

Walking into the Formosa Café is like stepping into Old Hollywood: red bricks, black and white awning, and a neon sign. It looks like the kind of place where Raymond Chandler would have knocked back a few highballs while he was writing for the studios; maybe he did. The Formosa has been around since 1939 and bills itself “where the stars dine.”

Over two hundred and fifty of those stars are plastered on the walls in black and white stills, including Humphrey Bogart, Elizabeth Taylor, James Dean, and Elvis. Even New Hollywood dines at the Formosa – or at least stops in for drinks. The mai tais are legendary, and Paul Kane was enjoying one when I found my way through the gloom to his table.

“You made it,” he said in relief, as though there had been some doubt about my showing up. He beckoned to the waitress, indicating a mai tai for me. I quickly signaled no thanks as I slid into the red leather booth.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid I’ll poison your drink,” Kane said, pulling a rueful face.

“What would be your motive?”

He laughed delightedly. “You really are a mystery writer!”

“Tell it to the critics.” I smiled at the waitress and ordered an orange juice. “So what makes you think the police suspect you more than anyone else?”

He sighed and reshaped his mobile features into another of those charming expressions. “It’s been tactfully pointed out to me that I mixed the fatal cocktail.”

I considered him objectively – tried to, anyway: he was distractingly good-looking, and this was the perfect setting for his old-fashioned handsomeness. I seriously doubted that Jake considered him a real suspect. Jake’s sense of self-preservation would have ensured he steered clear of Paul Kane’s sphere if he suspected Kane was really involved.

Wow. Maybe Jake was right. I was getting cynical in my old age. After all, even if Jake knew Kane was innocent, eager beaver Detective Alonzo would – should at least – consider the possibility that Kane was guilty. And, unless Jake had changed a lot in two years, he would allow the investigation to proceed unimpeded.

“Let’s order,” Kane said.

I had the chopped cucumber salad which offered carrots, cilantro, daikon radishes, bean sprouts, and Napa cabbage with crisp won ton strips. Kane had the rack of lamb. While we ate he chatted amusingly, cattily, about various celebrities – including a couple seated within earshot of us.

He was on his third mai tai – and I was seriously considering giving in and having one too – when he said, “I assume Jake mentioned that we know each other…socially.”

I managed not to snort at the delicate pause before that “socially” comment. Because nothing said social occasion like butt plugs and paddles. I’d heard a few rumors that Kane, who was openly bisexual, was into the BDSM scene. It wasn’t a world I knew much about, but it was Jake’s playground – or had been before his marriage.

“I gathered,” I said. I also gathered that he must know something of my own former relationship with Jake, although – Jake being Jake – no way would he know a lot beyond the fact that there had been a relationship.

Kane smiled as though amused by everything I wasn’t saying. “He happened to mention that in addition to writing mysteries, you’re something of an amateur sleuth – and not a bad one.”

I choked on my orange juice – which triggered one of my coughing spells. When I had regained my composure, and the worried-looking waiters had retreated once more, I said, “No way did Jake tell you I was an amateur sleuth – let alone a good one.”

“He didn’t say you were a good one,” Kane admitted with a little bit of a twinkle – yeah, a twinkle, and if that wasn’t stagecraft, I don’t know what is. “But he did say you had a real knack for it.”

Was that what he’d said? Interesting. Because I distinctly remembered…

Yeah. Whatever. Misty watercolor memories. There must have been something grim about my expression because Kane said quickly, “It wouldn’t be a formal arrangement. Nothing like that.”

“What wouldn’t?”

“I was thinking that you might – unofficially – ask a few questions.”

“About?” I blinked. “You’re not asking me to…what are you asking?”

He reached across and squeezed my hand in a lightly reassuring gesture. “It probably sounds mad, but I think someone like yourself would have greater luck getting to the bottom of this tragedy than Jake and his storm troopers. And I say this as someone who adores Jake, with or without his storm troopers.”

I was trying to make sense of the words “Jake” and “adore” in the same sentence. “I’m not sure I’m following,” I said slowly. I already knew that Jake and Kane were playmates – but former playmates? Or was Jake back doing the club scene? And they were apparently friends? Like, did they go to each other’s birthday parties? It seemed unlikely, given how skittish Jake had been about our own friendship. I said, “I feel like I need to ask: what exactly is your relationship to Jake?”

Kane’s brows drew together. “I thought you knew. Jake and I have been lovers for about five years.”

I didn’t say a word.

Apparently I didn’t need to.

He said awkwardly, “I don’t know why I thought you realized.” His sensual mouth pulled into a little grimace. “I knew about you.”

There was a grinning Buddha statue sitting a few feet from us; I could see it peering right over Paul Kane’s shoulder, and I felt like I had been staring at that knowing stone face for years, and that years from now I would be able to close my eyes and see those crinkled laughing eyes and the wide gleeful mouth and the delicate folds of jowls frozen in sidesplitting merriment. And I thought maybe I didn’t need to worry about my heart anymore because it had stopped beating a couple of seconds earlier, and I was still sitting there living and breathing – though admittedly I wasn’t feeling much of anything.

“No,” I said, “I didn’t know.” And I was startled to hear that level, cool voice come out of my face.

“Anyway,” Kane continued, “It occurred to me when that ape, Detective Alonzo, was grilling me for the third time that people are far more likely to talk to someone like you than the police. Someone with a little tact. A little sensitivity. A little discretion. I could ask people to cooperate with you, and they would. Of course any information you uncovered would be immediately turned over to Jake. I’m not asking you to solve a murder, just to…informally support the efforts of our boys in blue.”

I laughed – and that was a surprise too because I didn’t really find much funny about this. “You can’t have discussed this with Jake. He would never have agreed to it.”

“Er…no,” admitted Kane. “But I don’t tell Jake everything.” His eyes met mine. “And Jake doesn’t tell me everything.”

Which I suppose was intended to restore confidence that my boyish secrets were still my own.

I said, “I don’t think you realize how badly Jake reacts to interference in a police investigation. Believe me, it wouldn’t be pleasant – for either of us.”

I had a sudden memory of myself flat on my back blinking up at the decorative molding of my entrance hall, and Jake, his face dark with fury, looming over me.

“Let me handle Jake,” Kane said, and he spoke with easy confidence. Hey, and why not? He’d survived five years and Jake’s marriage. Safe to say he knew Jake a great deal better than I ever had.

He smiled at me, waiting for my answer. It was petty, but it was a pleasure to deny him something. I said with false regret, “I don’t think so, Paul. I don’t think it would be a wise move on my part.”

It seemed to catch him by surprise, though he recovered fast, hiding his disappointment. “Bollocks! Is there a way I can convince you to change your mind?”

I was shaking my head, regretful but firm. I sipped my orange juice, and I was pleased that my hand was perfectly steady. Maybe it was because I felt numb. Or maybe it was because it had all been a long time ago, and none of it really mattered now.

He eyed me speculatively. “You know, mate, it’s going to be very difficult for me to concentrate on getting this film of yours made while I’m under a cloud of suspicion.”

He did it beautifully – charming and rueful and mostly joking. Not for one instant did it seem a serious threat. And it’s not like I was a stranger to the gentle art of blackmail; my mother would have put Charles Augustus Milverton to shame. And in Kane’s favor, I understood very well how it felt to be the prime suspect in a murder investigation. He had my sympathy there, even if I thought he was wrong about being the prime suspect; I happened to know that I was a popular contestant in the suspect sweepstakes too.

Which, come to think of it, did me give an incentive in seeing this investigation wrapped up as quickly and quietly as possible.

He must have caught my hesitation because he coaxed, “What about this? Suppose you simply start out by asking a few informal questions, and if you decide you don’t want to continue, then it ends right there. I won’t say another word.”

I sighed.

“Please?” he said.

He really was a very good-looking man, and he really did have an engaging smile. All the same, I’d have read his obituary without a flicker of regret. And how unfair was that? He’d done nothing to hurt me. It wasn’t Paul Kane I should be angry with – assuming I should be angry with anyone.

So I said slowly, reluctantly, “I guess it wouldn’t kill me to ask a few questions.”

You’d think by then I’d have known better.

* * * * *

Dr. Cardigan draped the stethoscope around his neck. “Your lungs appear to be clearing nicely. How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” I said.

I know it isn’t logical, but I don’t trust a doctor who is younger than I am. Dr. Cardigan was a comfortable sixty-something with shrewd, black cherry eyes and a brisk but attentive manner. I liked him about as well as I was ever going to like a doctor, and I trusted him. Which didn’t mean I looked forward to seeing him, and if my stepsister wasn’t apparently in the employ of my mother and faithfully reporting back to HQ on my every movement, I might have blown off my appointment at Huntington Hospital.

Especially after lunching with Paul Kane. About three minutes after I agreed to ask a few informal questions on Kane’s behalf, I was having second thoughts. Anything liable to put me in Jake’s path was a bad idea. And the very thought of poking around in Porter Jones’s death was…wearying.

The black gaze met mine. “How tired?”

I shrugged. “Short of breath, coughing a lot.”

“That’s to be expected. Are you using oxygen at night?”

I shook my head.

“Adrien…”

“I’m not that short of breath. It’s okay with a couple of pillows.”

He gave me a disapproving look. “It’s very important that you get plenty of rest and that you do not push yourself.”

I nodded.

He studied me, and I tried not to shift uncomfortably. I hated this part. Actually, I hated all the parts of being a young guy with a funky heart. He said, “Because of your history it’s probably a good idea if we run a couple of tests, do another ECG.”

I kept myself from sighing again. He was liable to think I needed on-the-spot oxygenating. “Okay,” I said.

He raised his brows at my tone and started scribbling out prescriptions. “Meantime get plenty of rest, drink lots of fluids, and continue taking your antibiotics.”

“Okeydokey.”

He glanced up. “And cheer up, Adrien.”

* * * * *

It had taken some doing, but I had finally persuaded Lisa to agree to riding lessons for my youngest stepsis, Emma. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I drove Em down to Griffith Park and the Paddock Riding Club to watch her go through her paces. The kid was a natural – even more of a horse nut than I’d been at her age – which was why I had been determined to win that particular battle with Lisa. Next, I planned on getting Em her own horse, but I knew I’d have to wait for the right psychological opportunity to spring that one. I figured I could start small and suggest a hamster.

Usually Em and I would ride together after the lessons – Griffith Park has something like fifty riding trails – but a little less than one week out of hospital I didn’t feel up to it. Instead I watched her sailing over her jumps in one of the six sandy arenas – cute as a button in her riding apparel – and tried to think about how best to approach Porter Jones’s widow. Significant others are always the first suspects in a murder investigation – which doesn’t say much for the course of true love.

Anyway, thinking about how to approach the widow Jones was a lot better than thinking – brooding – about the fact that all the things I had believed about Jake Riordan were pretty much a lie. And now that I thought back, I wasn’t sure why I’d believed he’d given up his S/M activities while he’d been seeing me. He had never specifically said so; I guess I had just assumed it. Because I wanted it to be so.

If I was honest, Jake continuing his S/M activities wasn’t even the part that gnawed my guts. It was the idea that he’d been seeing Paul Kane steadily during that time – because I really had flattered myself that I was his first genuine relationship with another man. He’d said so. But whatever he called his encounters with old English Leather, five years was a relationship to my mind.

So, yes, it bothered me. And it bothered me that it bothered me because…Jesus Christ, it was over. It was two years over. I was involved with someone else myself, so why the hell was I standing there with the smell of manure and horse in my nostrils and my stomach in knots over something that didn’t matter anymore?

It made murder seem like a cheerful change of subject.

According to Paul Kane, the only person at the party with motive to kill Porter Jones was his much younger and soon to be ex-wife, actress Ally Beaton-Jones. If Paul’s intelligence was correct, Porter had been planning to divorce Ally, and he’d had a PI following her.

“Let me guess,” I’d said. “There’s a prenup?”

“Common sense in this day and age,” Paul had replied.

And maybe it was. I’d never reached the stage of negotiations in my affaires de coeur, as my old friend Claude would have put it.

“Adrien, watch me!”

I looked up out of my thoughts, catching Emma’s grin as she cantered toward the next jump. I gave her thumbs-up and wondered if Lisa and Bill Dauten had drawn up a prenup, and what the odds were of my getting Em in any possible settlement.

Not that my mother’s second marriage looked shaky. Far from it. Which just went to prove how little I understood about these things. I thought of Guy and my thoughts shied as though faced with their own unexpected triple bar.

As fond of Guy as I was, I wasn’t ready to make any commitments – and hearing from Paul Kane that he and Jake had been carrying on the whole time I’d been seeing Jake didn’t do much to improve my attitude. Why was it such a shock? After all, I’d known Jake was seeing Kate Keegan during that time – engaging in unprotected sex that resulted in a pregnancy – and I’d been able to deal with it. I’d even accepted it on one level. It was a little late to be angry now. Posttraumatic Sex Syndrome?

And why the hell was I once again thinking about this? Once more – with feeling – I redirected my thoughts.

My own impression of Ally and Porter was vague at best. If I’d realized he was going to get himself bumped off, I’d have paid closer attention. He had seemed too old for her – and way too obsessed with deep-sea fishing. She had seemed very…blonde.

Blonde or not, I couldn’t see why she’d have to resort to murder. Granted, I was no judge, but she seemed like a girl who wouldn’t have a lot of trouble landing another meal ticket – assuming her acting skills weren’t breadwinner caliber.

Maybe Porter had told her one too many deep-sea fishing stories. In that case, she had my sympathy. There had been a moment or two at luncheon when I wouldn’t have regretted seeing Porter impaled on a swordfish’s bill and disappearing into the sunset à la Captain Ahab in the last act of Moby Dick.

Anyway, it wasn’t like I had any theories, so Ally Beaton-Jones was as good a place to start as any. I just couldn’t imagine her willingly opening up to me – even if she hadn’t knocked her old man off – regardless of how sensitive and tactful Paul thought I was.

“Look, Adrien!” cried Emma.

I looked and smiled. Her cheeks were pink, her blue eyes sparkled, the dark ponytail bobbed perkily beneath her safety helmet as she cantered past, the gelding’s hooves thudding rhythmically on the sand. I never saw myself as the paternal type, but even I had to admit I was pretty damned fond of Emma.

“Heels down,” I ordered.

She giggled.

Paul had promised to phone Ally and set up my visit. That was fine as far as it went. I wondered if there was some way of my finding out the name of the PI that Jones had hired.

Jake probably knew. Jake was a methodical and relentless investigator. By now he’d be deeply immersed in Porter Jones’s public and private lives, sifting and sorting through the kinds of things most of us would prefer to have buried with us. But cops can’t afford to be tactful – not in the ordinary course of things. In a homicide investigation every minute counts; most murders are solved within forty-eight hours. Of course, that’s because most murders are committed by morons.

Yeah, if Porter Jones had really hired a PI, Jake probably knew all about it. But there was no way I could ask him. I wasn’t going anywhere near Jake. Of course, I could always ask Paul Kane to talk to Jake, but – funny thing – I didn’t like that idea any better than the idea of me talking to Jake.

In fact, I liked it less.