by Josh Lanyon
She went to the crate, still draped in yellow-and-black crime scene tape. “Is it okay to look through this?”
“Uh, if you want to. The crime scene people were all through there.”
I could have saved my breath. She sifted through the blood-browned popcorn and then straightened. She looked at me. I said, “Go ahead and look in any box you like. The police have been through everything down here, but if it will make you feel better, see for yourself.”
She did. She went through every single box. She checked the washing machine and dryer (not mine, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her) and the empty refrigerator musing quietly to itself in the corner. She was swift and she was thorough. She was also sweaty and pale by the time she finished.
Ingrid joined me on the sofa and put her face in her hands. She wasn’t crying. She was just…spent.
From behind her hands she said, “I don’t know what we’re going to do.”
“Was the collection insured?”
She shook her head.
I hadn’t thought it would be. It was hard to get insurance for a coin collection, not least because collections were fluid, their owners buying and selling items constantly.
“I can’t believe it’s all gone.”
“It may not be,” I said. “Ladas might have sold some of the coins, but then again he might not have. Scandinavian coins are going to get a pretty close look from any potential buyer right now because of the murder of the gallery owner. Plus a couple of those coins are just too well known. A Gustav II Adolf gold dukat doesn’t just pop up on the market every day. I think there’s a good chance Ladas might have stashed the whole take, planning to wait out the publicity and attention.”
She lowered her hands. “Stashed them where?”
I looked at her in surprise. “I have no idea. I don’t know anything about Ladas. I’m just theorizing.” Putting that brilliant criminal mind of mine to use, as it were.
“Where would be a likely place?”
“To hide a thousand coins? I have no way of knowing. If it was me, I sure as hell wouldn’t hide them in any place or building that the police could easily connect me to.”
Ingrid looked thoughtful.
I said, “I don’t know if it would help or not, or what your finances are, but you could hire a private investigator to check into Ladas’ background. Find out where he lived, his known associates. The police will be doing the same, of course, but their focus is on solving the robbery and murder. They don’t have quite the same interest in recovering the coins that your family does.”
She brightened. “That’s a good idea!”
“I have them occasionally.” I rose. “Sorry. I hate to throw you out, but you can see how much I’ve still got to do to get this place ready.”
“Yes. Sorry! Of course.” Ingrid stood up and preceded me out of the basement and up the steps leading to the kitchen. She was silent all the way to the front door, lost in her unhappy thoughts. But as I was releasing her back into the wild, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. You’ve been really kind. And really helpful.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful,” I said, and I meant it. Because until those damn coins were found and the mystery of who killed Ladas answered, I had the uncomfortable feeling I was not going to get much peace and quiet.
* * * * *
By six o’clock I was on my way back to L.A. I fed Jack Johnson’s To the Sea in the CD player and put many miles between me and San Francisco as swiftly as the speed limit would allow.
You and your heart
Shouldn’t feel so apart…
I hoped the house would be okay. I hoped Little Ladas would not break in looking for a treasure trove of old coins. I had set up timers for lamps and TVs, I had notified my nosey neighbor and the police that I was going out of town, and we had a good security system. More than that, I could not do. It was in the hands of the gods. And they probably had more important things to worry about. Like the price of gasoline on this godforsaken trek.
Highway 101 was about an hour longer than taking the I-5, but it was a little more scenic and a lot less stressful minus the big trucks and traffic once I got away from the city and surrounding environs.
A couple of hours into the trip, my back began to twinge, but I was set on making it to Paso Robles, which was about the halfway mark. I wanted to time the second half of my drive so I avoided the L.A. Monday morning work traffic.
One thing about a long drive, it gives you time to reflect, and the more I reflected on the events of the past couple of days, the more I thought there was something odd about Ingrid Edwards’ visit. Not the visit itself, though that did seem a little unusual, but her reaction to the crate where Ladas had been hidden.
I liked to think I was a reasonably sensitive person, but that question about whether Ladas had suffered? In my opinion, that was the question of someone taking a personal interest.
Of course, she might just be the kind-hearted type, but Ladas had robbed her grandfather and murdered her grandfather’s old friend, so her sympathy—if that had been sympathy and not morbid imagination—was unexpected.
She seemed a bit naïve, granted.
Or was that an act?
Maybe I was the naïve one, letting a strange woman in my house to poke around my basement simply because she claimed to be related to one of Ladas’ victims. All because she’d sprinkled a few tears and claimed Grandpa was my biggest fan?
I hated to think what J.X. would say when he heard the details of my latest adventures in householding.
But suppose, worst case scenario, she was a not very bright confederate of Ladas and Co.? Maybe letting her in to have a look wasn’t such a bad idea. Maybe allowing her to see first hand that there was no possibility the coins were in the house was the best way to take the focus off both myself and my domicile. Maybe she would report back to Beck and tell him there was no further point to lurking around 321 Cherry Lane. Assuming he was still lurking and not on the run from the law.
Except…when I had mentioned Beck had been to the house, she’d looked genuinely frightened. Not just alarmed, which would be a normal reaction from any law-abiding person upon hearing there might be a violent criminal in the vicinity. No, I’d seen fear in her eyes.
Of course, again, she might just be the overimaginative, oversensitive type.
Or I might be.
By King City my back was starting to give me hell. Most of the time it was fine, provided I didn’t lift anything too heavy or forget my stretching exercises for too long. But the last week had put a lot of strain on muscles I rarely used, and those ominous pinches up and down my spine and right leg were bad news. I started to watch the highway exits for likely-looking lodging. In the end I held out for Paso Robles and my previously booked motel, though I could barely totter from my car to the reception desk.
A quick shower, and chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes at the adjacent coffee shop revived me. And a couple of gin and tonics in the motel bar completed the restoration project. By the time I reached my room I was humming, “I left my house in San Francisco…”
I stopped humming and started swearing when I noticed J.X. had texted me.
I called him and he picked up at once, as though demonstrating how these things were properly handled.
“I’m not ignoring you. It’s because it’s on vibrate,” I said. “I can’t get it off vibrate. Obviously I would rather talk to you.”
“Than vibrate on your own?” J.X. teased.
The teasing was a relief, even if he was clearly off drinking somewhere without me.
“Exactly. Where are you?” I asked.
“Exactly where am I? Vegas. Actually I’m sitting in the St. Mark’s Square plaza at the Venetian with your agent and my agent. I’m looking at a beautiful, painted sunset and wishing you were here. Oh. Your agent wants to say—”
“Christopher!” shrieked Rachel, nearly piercing my eardrum. “Have you started the book yet? When can you have the pr
oposal ready?”
“You know who you’re starting to remind me of? Edna Mode. Give the phone back to J.X.”
A brief commotion followed. Then came what sounded like a splash. Hilarity ensued—or possibly hysteria—before J.X. was back on the line. I could practically taste the alcohol from where I sat. Or maybe that was canal water. I sighed.
“Kit? Are you there?”
“You seem like you’re having a good time.” I tried not to sound grudging. After all, it had been my choice to stay home and practice becoming a recluse.
“We’re celebrating. The entire Dirk Van de Meer series is going to be translated into Japanese.”
“That’s nice. All eighty-seven books?”
He laughed. “All ten books, yes. The entire series. I am going to take you on the nicest vacation with that fucking great advance. Just you wait.”
“Yay,” I said. “Please tell me none of you are driving?”
“Would you like to go to Venice? I mean the real one. Not this place.”
“Sure. So how are you getting back to the hotel? I don’t think the gondolas go all the way to the Marriott.”
“We’ll get a taxi back to the hotel. Listen, I just called to say I love you, I miss you, I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”
I could hear the chorus of awwwwwws from Rachel and Simon Legre—who I liked to refer to as Simon Legree—J.X.’s agent. I started to laugh. “Likewise,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll be wearing a white gardenia in our lapel and holding a bottle of aspirin.”
I think Rachel was shouting final words of career advice as I clicked off.
I woke several hours later to an unfamiliar darkness and the hair-raising certainty that someone was trying to get into my motel room.
For a few disbelieving seconds I lay still, listening to that cautious but definite shifting of the door handle.
I raised my head. Wrong door. That was it. Happens all the time. I’d been guilty of it myself.
Jesus, this guy was slow to catch on.
I pulled off my sleep mask. It didn’t sound like someone was trying to slide a key card. It sounded like someone was furtively, carefully trying the handle. And there was another sound. A thin, scratching sound. Was someone trying to pick the lock?
I reached for my glasses, slid them on. Through the part in the curtains, the parking lot light threw a band of yellow across the door. I watched the latch rise and depress like a silent tongue.
Dry-mouthed, heart hammering, I sat up, feeling for the motel phone.
As I did, I heard the distinct, terrifying slide of a bolt. The door opened a crack, outlined in fuzzy yellow porch light. The cool night air, smelling of exhaust, warm rubber and chlorine bleach, swirled in.
I dropped the phone and on some instinct—the instinct that makes you grab for the remote to change the channel before you see something terrible—snatched my car keys, pressing the panic button. The BMW’s car alarm blasted into the night from what sounded like a foot from the door.
The motel door dropped back into its frame, and the room was pitch black again. I scrambled out of bed and got over to the window in time to see a giant blond man running through the parking lot and crashing through a feathery white wall of Chinese fringe trees.
Chapter Ten
The real mystery at Cloak and Dagger Books was how they managed to stay open. A few years ago you had a better chance of marrying a terrorist than finding Adrien English behind the counter—or anywhere else in the shop.
When I arrived a little after seven, the place was already crowded with people milling through the aisles, clutching J.X.’s books in their feverish little hands.
“Oh, I know you!” a woman said as I sidled through the throng, trying to make my way to where J.X. stood talking to a dark-haired man and a woman with matching corduroy blazers. “You’re…you’re…”
“Agatha Christie,” I replied.
I had not had a good day, although I’d have been the first to admit that I would have had a much worse day had Beck Ladas—or whoever that had been—managed to break into my room. I’d packed and left the motel within five minutes after watching the intruder disappear into the trees, and I’d driven the next few hours with one eye on my rearview mirror. I didn’t think I was being followed, but what did that matter? It wasn’t like Ladas didn’t know where I lived.
I’d stopped for breakfast as the sun was rising and I’d phoned Izzie Jones. He had taken being woken at the crack of dawn better than I had, but he hadn’t been able to offer much in the way of comfort.
“Why is this lunatic following me?” I’d demanded. “What is it he wants?”
“I don’t know,” Izzie said. “But if there’s something you’re not telling us, now would be the time to speak up.”
I spoke up all right. When I stopped yelling, the terrified kitchen staff popped their heads up from behind the counter, and Izzie said, “Look, Christopher, I had to ask.”
“No, you didn’t, and I resent the question. Do I look like a criminal to you?”
“Er, no. But—”
“No. I have anxiety attacks over parking tickets. I am not the outlaw type. I’m the homesteader type. I am the circle-the-wagons-leave-me-alone type. I don’t know what’s going on here, but it’s nothing to do with me.”
And maybe if I kept saying it loudly and often enough everyone would agree and leave me alone.
Anyway, here I was, and I continued to work my way through the crowd toward J.X. He looked good. Mouthwateringly good. In a black T-shirt, black jeans and black boots, he looked both sexy and a little rough around the edges. A study in ebony and gold. The perfect subject for an updated Velázquez. Portrait of a Successful Author.
And he was actually moving away from me on a tide of admirers. I swore inwardly.
When I say work my way, I mean wriggle. I was not socializing. I was not in a socializing mood. I was in a who-the-hell-came-up-with-this-idiotic-plan? mood.
I bumped into an older man who did a double take. “Aren’t you…?”
“Hercule Poirot,” I agreed. I put my finger to my lips.
I was beginning to feel like a hapless salmon in a 7th grade science film—one of those poor fish who never make it past the grizzly bears—when J.X. suddenly looked my way. It took him a split second to recognize me—I believe my hair was in my eyes by then and my clothes were half torn off—but his face lit up. He smiled. A big, white, happy smile. He smiled as though looking across a crowded room and seeing me was the best thing that had happened all day.
He came to meet me—the crowd parted before royalty—and I said, “Hey, sorry I’m la—”
His hand landed on my shoulder, he pulled me in and his mouth covered mine. He smelled like leather, tamarind leaves and auramber. He tasted like breath mints and himself. It was not one of those civil Darling, you made it! kisses appropriate for meeting at public events. This was more of a Darling, they told me you were dead! smooch. Okay, not quite that passionate, but definitely more fervent than I was used to at a book signing. Or anywhere else outside of my bedroom. I think we may have received a round of applause.
By the time I stopped seeing stars, J.X. had shuffled us over to a little alcove by a fake fireplace. A pair of Kabuki masks smiled benignly down on us.
Actually, being Kabuki masks, the smiles were more cryptic than benign.
“Hello to you too,” I said. To J.X.
“I was afraid you weren’t going to make it,” J.X. admitted.
That startled me. “I said I’d be here.”
He smiled. It was sort of rueful and sort of affectionate. I felt an uncomfortable jab, remembering other times I’d promised to be there, but had cancelled or “forgotten” or developed a migraine midway through.
I stumbled through my explanation of the reason for driving to my realtor’s first. J.X. was watching me with an oddly intent expression. I offered a lopsided smile and said, “I’ve accepted the offer on the house.”
“Y
ou did?”
There it was again. There was no mistaking that look for anything but happiness. Not just happiness. Relief. I felt another twinge. Had J.X. really been willing to embark on this relationship trusting me as little as he did?
I nodded. “In for a penny. In for a pound.”
“I can’t wait to pound you,” he said softly, meaningfully.
I swallowed the wrong way. Since I wasn’t chewing or drinking, the gasping and spluttering might have seemed excessive. J.X. took it in stride. When I had recovered, he said, “While I’m thinking of it, where’s your phone?”
I handed it over. He slid his thumb across the screen, clicked a couple of times, shook his head, clicked again, handed it back. “It’s off vibrate, so no more excuses for not taking my calls.”
“I do take your calls!”
He just shook his head, grinning at me.
A slight man with black hair and eyes the cool blue of a Siamese cat’s joined us. He offered a quick, attractive smile and said apologetically, “Sorry to interrupt. J.X., would you mind if we got started?”
“Of course!” J.X. said, “Kit, you remember—”
“Adrien English,” I said.
Everyone in publishing—and devoted fans of Entertainment Tonight—knew the story of how English actor Paul Kane had purchased the film rights to an obscure mystery by an indie bookseller because Kane was in love with Adrien English’s homicide detective ex-boyfriend. It had all ended in true Hollywood fashion. Minus the big budget sequels and merchandising deals.
At the same moment I spoke, Adrien smiled more warmly, offered a hand, and said, “Christopher Holmes. This is a nice surprise.”
I said, “Congratulations. You’ve got a full house tonight.”
We shook hands. Adrien said, “I wish I’d had a heads-up. I’d have pulled some stock for you to sign.”
“Strictly an interested observer this trip,” I said.
He looked puzzled—what sane author ever turned down the opportunity to sign stock?—but offered another of those practiced smiles before spiriting away J.X. I remembered that ruthless charm of old.
