Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  “I don’t trust them. If I could only figure out where they have her.”

  “Are the police continuing their search?”

  “Discreetly.”

  She sighed. “I still wish you hadn’t gone to them.”

  “What, and sat on my hands till the three weeks were over?”

  “If they should learn that you’ve not done as they told you, they said they’d—hurt—Susanna.”

  “Kill is what they said.”

  “You’re gambling, Larry. With Susanna’s life.”

  He kissed her long and hard. He drew away. “Toni—” He had to tell her. She’d approve of this. Maybe. “I’m about to raise the stakes.”

  She pulled back from him. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to hire an independent investigative firm.”

  “Oh, Larry. That’s so dangerous.”

  “These two apparently take discretion as their credo.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “A colleague. He’s hired them and he’s very impressed.”

  “Oh, I wish you weren’t doing this. Just wait the three weeks. They’ll let her go.”

  “I can’t know that. I can’t trust them.”

  “And if they find out you’ve gone against what they asked?”

  “They won’t. No way they could know.” He wished he were more sure of that. He wished he’d never mentioned this to her. It was stupid now to be arguing about this. He hadn’t even hired Franklin and Rachel yet. Didn’t know if they’d actually take the job. Toni, he realized, had rolled over and was getting out of bed. “Are you okay?”

  She scowled over at him. “Need to pee.”

  “See you soon.” He blew her a kiss. He watched as she walked away, the rich hair down to her shoulder blades, her lovely back and slender waist, her elegant behind. She grabbed her purse and closed the door to the bathroom tight. Was she angry with him? He wished he could take back telling her about the detectives. He should have known she wouldn’t approve—she’d been so clear about her concern at bringing in the Sheriff’s office. But what was done was done—a cliché he hated but it covered the fact: words spoken cannot be unspoken, information given can’t be recalled. Had he just ruined their few hours together? No, when she came back they’d make love again and all would be well. He lay back and considered the last half hour. She brought his body to life as no one ever had before. With her he was smart and strong and witty. Often wise, occasionally silly. For which he felt thankful. Even blessed.

  The bathroom door opened and she came out. Wearing a bathrobe. “Maybe you’re not hungry, but I am.”

  “Good,” he said. Good that she wanted to share food with him, good that she was showing no sign of annoyance.

  She sat on his side of the bed and leaned on an elbow so her face was inches from his but not close enough to kiss. “Larry, I’m frightened for you. And for Susanna. Please, call off the detectives.”

  He could tell her he hadn’t hired them yet. He could say he’d call them off and then let them go about their work. He’d never lied to her—would it be wrong to start now? “I’m frightened too, Toni. That’s why I have to do something. I’ve got to push harder, searching for her. I can’t do that myself—I wouldn’t know where to start. That’s why I need professional help.”

  “But just to bring in two people off the street—”

  “They’re well recommended. I told you.” He rolled past her and off the bed. He picked up his shirt and took the Triple I card from the pocket. He handed it to her.

  She turned to sit, took the card, read it.

  Larry quoted, “Discretion is our calling card.”

  She stared up at him. Her eyes filled with tears. She shook her head, then leaned toward him. She put her arm about his waist and set the side of her head against his belly. “Oh Larry, Larry. Don’t.”

  “What would you like to eat?” He knew then he’d let fate decide what he’d do. Talk to the investigators. If they said no to the case, he could tell Toni he hadn’t hired them after all.

  And trust the kidnappers to release Susanna after the three weeks were up? Not possible, since he’d purposely given them the wrong set of algorithms in the hope that the Sheriff would find her before the deadline came.

  EIGHT

  THIS TIME NOEL ran the full text of Jordan Beck’s “Piper Blues” on CrossList (downloaded for a free seven-day trial) and on Citation Source (one hundred and seventy-five dollars per week, self-destroying after that time, or five hundred and fifty dollars for a permanent version; Noel went for the week, to be charged to Morsely University’s English Department). No matches, which did not absolutely prove that Beck had not stolen the novella; so either he had in fact written it himself or the search engines weren’t strong enough.

  He pushed the chair back from the kitchen table and stared at the screen. Where to look next? They’d interviewed all Beck’s friends they could find. The lot of them had been thoroughly unhelpful. Rossini’s daughter was off the scene. Maybe by tomorrow when they talked to Rossini he’d have heard from her. Beck’s documents didn’t tell Noel anything, except that the man wrote his fiction in a style that was different from his essays. Looked like Triple I was about done with this case.

  But how could the man shift his style so thoroughly in so short a period of time? Both the essays and the novella had a kind of honesty about them; they didn’t suggest any forced new writing techniques—new yes, not forced. So what was going on here? Different ways of writing. Was only one style his, the other someone else’s?

  Hey! Maybe he’d been thinking this wrong. Maybe the novella was in fact Beck’s, written in his personal style, but he’d plagiarized the essays! Back to CrossList, back to Citation Source. Maybe the trouble with Viper and Plague was that they were free, so less powerful. Now that he’d downloaded the two new ones, better because he had to pay for them, perhaps he’d find what he was looking for. He fed the text of the three essays into CrossList. The computer told him to wait. Ten seconds, fifteen. Half a minute.

  They should just tell Peter that they could find no proof of plagiarism. Innocent till proven guilty, no? Not a shred of proof of guilt.

  His Blackberry rang. He glanced at the source. Kyra. “Hi there.”

  “I’m done reading. You ready to pick me up?”

  “Ten minutes. Any thoughts?”

  “Tell you at lunch.”

  “Good.” He set aside the phone. Shift to the computer screen, a message: No strong matches. One very weak match. He checked the material they’d found for him, a test on “Rivers Dancing.” Noel read carefully. Okay, some similar words, one brief phrase, “. . . flowed gently through . . .” but Beck had ended the phrase with “the dark channel” and the so-called match ended with “the dying forest,” and so on. Hardly a case of plagiarism. Two separate minds can imagine and describe the gentle flow of rivers. He tried it on the other search engine, with the same weak results.

  Good idea, but nothing gained. So Jordan Beck was in fact not a plagiarist? He’d talk with Kyra before making a final judgment. He turned off his computer, closed it and set it in the case.

  He found Peter in the living room, Delilah on his lap, from her purr appreciating her master’s stroking massage. “Kyra called. She’s done.”

  “She say anything?”

  “That she and I have to talk.”

  “Let’s go.” They drove back to the university in self-conscious silence.

  Okay. No sense pursuing any kind of relationship with Peter. Ridiculous to give the notion even the least consideration. Noel glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Good chin, straight nose. Fine profile altogether. His hair seemed redder here in the car. A kind of bemused smile on his lips. Oh dear. Noel felt his neck grow warm.

  No. He should never have let events move along as quickly as they had. He had to stop himself from going any further with Peter.

  Peter drove around to the back of the Mansion, parked, killed the engi
ne. Noel reached for the door and realized Peter had dropped his hand on Noel’s forearm. His breath, he suddenly knew, had gone shallow. He turned to Peter.

  Peter said, “Can we talk for a minute?”

  “Now?”

  “No better time.” He withdrew his hand.

  “Sure.” Noel turned from the door to face Peter. “What’s up?”

  Peter pulled his lips into his mouth, as if unsure what to say. Then he puffed out a breath. “I enjoy spending time with you.”

  “We haven’t done a lot of that.” Don’t be contrary.

  “Enough to know I’d like to spend more. You’re—Are you okay about spending time with me?”

  Oh, the euphemisms. Okay, go ahead. Honesty only. “I am, Peter. I hope you’ve sensed that.”

  “Would you consider—spending the evening with me?”

  “I’d like to spend some time with you. I’d like to get to know you. Better.” Talking, his breath became normal again. “But this evening wouldn’t work. I’m on a case. Kyra’s with me. Let us try to answer your plagiarism question. Then we’ll see.”

  “You’d consider it, then?”

  “I am considering it.” And damn it, he was.

  Peter again set his hand on Noel’s arm, and squeezed a little. “I’ve never done this before. Noel, thank you.” He withdrew his hand.

  “First of all, stop thanking me. And second, let’s see what happens.” He reached for the door handle. “And whatever happens, I do enjoy your company. Okay?”

  “Very okay.” He smiled, pulled up the hand brake, and they got out of the car.

  Never done what before, Noel wondered. Have sex with a man? Or ask a man out on a date? Or something else?

  But he mustn’t continue in this vein. He stopped. “Look, Peter, I need to do some heavy thinking. If we spend time together, it’s going to complicate my life. Massively. I have to figure out if I want that. There’re a lot of pros and cons here. Okay?”

  Peter stopped, took Noel’s elbow gently, looked into his eyes, smiled. “Very.”

  Noel picked up Kyra from Peter’s office and took his lunch suggestion of the Garden Path Café, deli-style food, a pleasant light meal. Driving there, he told her about the call from Rossini—that he was interested in acquiring their services. No, no idea for what. They’d meet him at noon tomorrow. Not till after they ordered, egg salad sandwich for Kyra and a Reuben for Noel, did he start in about the plagiarism case. “Okay, what do we know?”

  “Well, I don’t know much.” Real doubt in her voice. “I’ve read the essays and the novel and they’ve pretty much convinced me that our friend Beck didn’t write both.”

  “That’s not enough to charge him with plagiarism.”

  “They’re just too different.”

  “I spent more time this morning running all the texts through some other plagiarism search engines. No matches. Nothing.”

  “Maybe he bought the novella and/or the essays from somebody.”

  “Somebody who wrote the text just for him, you mean. Oh, thank you,” he added to the waiter, who brought them each a glass of water.

  “Could be.”

  “And how could we ever prove that?”

  Kyra grinned. “We could ask him.”

  “And he’d admit it, right up front.” He sipped water. “Doubtful.”

  “Other ideas?”

  “I’ve run out.”

  “How about searching his computer.”

  “Kyra. You are not—repeat, not—going to sneak into his apartment while he’s away and open his computer. N-O-T. Got it?” Because Kyra was much given to snooping in this manner. Yes, they’d often learned a lot from her B and E activities. But her illegal—way more than quasi-illegal—searches horrified Noel.

  “Okay, so we just meet with our client and tell him we failed?”

  “No, we didn’t fail. We succeeded in proving that it’s impossible to cast Jordan Beck as a plagiarizer.”

  “Which doesn’t prove he isn’t.”

  “That’s the beauty of our profession, Kyra.”

  Their sandwiches arrived. After a couple of bites, Kyra said, “Is your friend Peter going to be pissed off that you couldn’t prove Beck guilty or innocent?”

  Noel considered the question. Though he’d come to like Peter, in the end he believed that Peter, in collusion with the English Department, was just covering his tail. Now he’d be able to show he had taken all necessary steps to find out if an act of plagiarism had taken place. If Noel couldn’t find evidence of stolen words, he doubted anyone else at the university could. “I think he’ll be happy to leave the incident behind. And we’ll meet with Rossini and the next day we’ll leave San Juan behind. You can probably get an afternoon ferry tomorrow.”

  “Or stay here. We still have the house as long as we’re here.”

  She was heading for that conversation. Noel felt it on his skin. “If you’d like.”

  She nodded. “I’d like. I know that.” Okay, time had come. “Want to know what else I know?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I want to have a baby.”

  Noel smiled as gently as he could. “I know you do.”

  “And I need your help, Noel.”

  “We’ve been through this before.”

  “And I don’t understand why you won’t cooperate. The Perlman Institute is very good. It’s right in Bellingham. You just go there and they collect some of your sperm.”

  “Go in and masturbate onto a Petri dish, you mean.” Under those circumstances, likely he wouldn’t even be able to get an erection.

  “Yep, and they’d freeze most of it while they test a small batch.”

  “Test it?”

  “To make sure you don’t have any diseases.”

  Noel felt himself shriveling. “I’m quite healthy. You know that.”

  Kyra noted his discomfort. “Look, they have to test. It’s the law.” She didn’t tell him he himself had to have a preliminary health screen done and have his blood tested, and give them his health history as well as that of his parents. And only then would they take the sperm. Before he got told any of that, he’d have to assent. And that didn’t look too close. Yet. “It’d take just a few minutes. It’s not like it’d cost you anything.”

  He took a deep breath. “It might cost me you.”

  “What? What’re you talking about.”

  “A baby would change everything between us. Our work, our friendship—”

  “A baby—a child—would just add to all that.”

  “Yeah? What, you’d breastfeed it on stakeout? Carry it in a backpack when you break into somebody’s office?”

  “Don’t be silly.” But she smiled. A baby in a carriage would be great cover while she picked a lock or tailed someone for Triple I or Puget Sound Life.

  “Kyra, I do not want to be someone’s father. I don’t want the responsibility for a young life.” He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed. “You’d start to see me as the baby’s father instead of as your friend. And worse, I’d see myself the same way.” He took a larger bite, his mouth now so full he couldn’t speak.

  She wondered, but did not say, Would that be so bad? At fifteen she’d had a mighty crush on Noel, a whole summer long. Till she came to understand he didn’t go for girls. Her only salvage back then was to realize he hadn’t rejected her specifically. “I doubt that’d happen. We’ve been through a lot together and we’re closer friends for it.”

  He swallowed most of his mouthful. “Nothing like this. We’d argue—”

  “As we have, many times. And made up. We’ve done many crazy things together.” She took a bite of egg salad. “And undone them. Together.”

  “A baby is something that can’t be undone. Once it’s made, it’s there for a lifetime. It’ll be your responsibility. And mine.”

  “I’ll be in Bellingham and you’ll be in Nanaimo. It’ll be my responsibility. I am perfectly capable of being a single mother.”

  “How do you kn
ow?”

  “I know myself pretty well. And you can come and visit. Maybe visit your friend Peter on your way.”

  “Peter?”

  “He likes you. A lot.”

  “What’s that got to do with your having a baby?”

  “Just an association.” She gave Noel an evil grin. “Maybe Peter will give me some sperm.”

  “Oh stop it!”

  “Well face it, I want to have a baby, and if you can’t be the donor, some other guy will have to be.”

  Noel said nothing. He hadn’t gone this far in his thinking. She’d mentioned it after the Quadra case and he’d said no, and surely that was that. The idea of Kyra having a child fathered by some unknown person was all of a sudden acutely upsetting. “I think the whole idea is bad. You have a kid, everything changes.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “Okay, okay.” She took a large bite of her sandwich.

  “Okay what?”

  She shook her head and chewed, eyes cast on her plate. In truth, she hadn’t given much thought to getting pregnant with the sperm of someone she didn’t know. She couldn’t believe Noel could be this stubborn. She thought she could break him down. She thought he was a friend and would do her this small favor. Hold it—more than a small favor. A very large favor. She did understand that.

  “Okay what?” he repeated.

  She swallowed. “Okay, let’s stop talking about it. I don’t want to argue with you.”

  “You’re not going to get just any sperm to impregnate you. Are you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You’ve been wanting to talk about it for weeks.”

  “And when we start, you see what happens.”

  “What?”

  “You get angry.” She took a small bite of her sandwich. “We argue.”

  “I’m not angry. And we’re not arguing.” He finished the last of his Reuben.

  “What is this, a cheerful chat or something?”

  “Okay,” he said while chewing. “No more.”

  “I’m going to the washroom. If the waiter comes, I’m finished.”

  Noel watched her head toward the door marked TOILET. He truly didn’t want to talk about this. If they stopped the conversation about having a baby, maybe the baby would just go away. Until minutes ago, he had truly believed that if he refused to father her child, she’d give up on the idea. But she was going to have a baby whether he agreed to her plan or not, and that would assuredly destroy their friendship and their partnership. Damn her! He read the menu front to back to take his mind off their disagreement.