by Josh Lanyon
I spotted Ingrid sitting on the space-age sofa next to a pair of missionaries. Well, okay, that was probably unfair, but I had never seen a couple that better illustrated the term “church-goers.” It’s not that I don’t understand that white oxfords and matching belt have their place, especially when partnering—as these were—a slim lady wearing a beige shirtwaist dress, but somehow I knew that pair had a Bible on their persons at all times. Ingrid looked different too. Her hair was slicked back in an unfrivolous ponytail and she wore a navy-blue dress that looked like the younger sister of the beige woman’s ensemble.
A tall, elegant looking older man with snowy-white hair came to meet us. He took both J.X.’s hands in his. “This is a great honor, Mr. Holmes. A great honor.”
J.X. looked as close to alarmed as I’d ever seen him. “I’m not Mr. Holmes, sir. This is Mr. Holmes.”
I smiled politely at Mr. Lorenson.
I had to hand it to Lorenson. He was fast on the recovery. He gave J.X. a final, dismissing squeeze and turned to me, scooping my hands up in his paws. “Mr. Holmes. You look so much younger than I imagined. I can’t tell you the joy your books give me.”
“Why, thank you.” I nobly refrained from looking at J.X.
“I’m so delighted you could accept my invitation. And on such short notice!”
“Well, there you go,” I said with my usual savoir faire. This is why I don’t do a lot of social events.
“Miss Butterwith is wonderful. And Mr. Pinkerton! How I laugh at his adventures.” He laughed right then and there, apparently remembering some of those delightful adventures. Then he glanced at J.X. “And do you write too, Mr. Moriarity?”
“Some,” J.X. admitted.
“Wonderful. Wonderful.” He released my hands and turned to the watchful gathering. “You must meet my family. Not readers, I’m afraid. Not one of them can read.”
A tall, blond man who looked like a younger, slimmer version of Lorenson rose. “Father, of course we can read!” He sounded exasperated. I suspected that was how he usually sounded at family gatherings. I felt an instant affinity.
“You’re right, Nord,” Lorenson said. “It’s worse. You choose not to read.”
Nord looked at me and rolled his eyes. “I know how to read.”
“Of course,” I said. We shook hands.
Lorenson made the rest of the introductions briskly. Nord was married to Judith, who was a petite and curvy red-head. “I know how to read too,” she said. “I just never have time.”
“It’s okay,” I assured her. “I’m not keeping track.”
Nord and Judith had two children: Kenneth and Cynthia. Cynthia was a bored-looking college-age kid in a black shift. I recognized Kenneth immediately from a national advertising campaign for peanut butter.
“Hey, you’re the ‘nutter butter better’ guy, right?” I said.
“How did you recognize me without the glob of peanut butter on my nose?” Kenneth replied. He looked like a younger and more handsome version of his father, which meant that he looked like a younger and still more handsome version of his grandfather. Willowy, blond, effortlessly elegant. At least when he wasn’t smeared in peanut butter.
I recognized him without the peanut butter because they played those idiotic commercials relentlessly, but I was too polite to say so despite the fact that J.X. thinks I have no social skills.
The churchy couple turned out to be Karla and Lloyd. Karla bore a striking resemblance to the Lorenson men, but frankly so did Lloyd. The matter was settled by Lorenson who introduced Karla as his daughter. “And you’ve met Ingrid,” he added.
Ingrid smiled pallidly and seemed to sink further into the sofa cushions.
Her parents studied her disapprovingly, but their expressions changed the minute Lorenson said, “I must say Ingrid has shown unusual initiative in this matter. In fact, if it had not been for little Ingrid, I’m not sure I’d have hit on this wonderful idea.”
“Wonderful idea?” J.X.’s tone was polite.
“Father,” Karla began.
“Be quiet, Daughter,” Lorenson returned. He said it pleasantly enough, but…seriously? Karla turned pink and fell silent.
The housekeeper materialized again to announce that dinner was ready. Lorenson took me by one arm and J.X. by the other and escorted us like a genial prison guard to the long and stark dining room. The rest of the family trooped after us. They were not speaking, but I had never heard a louder silence.
The situation did improve somewhat when dinner was served. Lorenson might have had his faults—I hated to think anyone with such fine taste in literature had faults—but he knew how to put on a good spread. Well, perhaps “spread” was not accurate. The food was excellent, really excellent, but it was all in those nouvelle cuisine portions: two bites and you’re on to the next course. I will say, the dishes kept a-coming, which helped a bit, though at the end of the eight courses I don’t think I’d eaten as much as the usual Denny’s lunch portion.
There was wine, probably very good wine, but not a lot of it. I don’t like wine, so I left my thimbleful for the others to divvy up and stuck to the sparkling water. Given the meager quantities of booze, it was no surprise that there was no visible loosening up during the meal. Every time I glanced across the table at J.X., he was looking at me, and I knew he was thinking what I was: what the hell were we doing here?
“Have any of your books been optioned for film, Mr. Holmes?” Kenneth asked, while we were waiting for the plates of the third course—which had consisted of exactly two grilled shrimps—to be removed.
“It’s been discussed,” I said. Mainly by me at the beginning of my career, when I’d somehow imagined that having someone reinterpret your work and miscast all the characters would be a welcome thing.
“What a wonderful idea!” Lorenson exclaimed. “But what cat could ever hope to play the remarkable Mr. Pinkerton?”
“Exactly,” I said. “That’s the stumbling block.”
Lorenson leaned toward me in his eagerness. “This is something I’ve often wondered. How do you come up with these amazing ideas for your stories? Do you read the newspapers and then visualize how events should have unfolded?”
J.X. cleared his throat. I was careful not to catch his eye. “Well, not exactly. Mostly I just make up stuff.”
“Real life is frequently disappointing,” Lorenson agreed. I could feel his nearest and dearest move restively, but no one contradicted him. He turned to Kenneth and said, “Where is that fiancée of yours this evening?”
“Sydney had to work, Grandfather. I told you that.”
“Sydney?” I repeated.
“A charming girl,” Lorenson said. “She reports the weather for a local news station.”
“She hasn’t been a weather girl for three years,” Kenneth said. “She’s a reporter.”
Lorenson ignored him. “Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?”
“I did, yeah.”
“And what about you, Mr. Moriarity?”
“No,” J.X. said. “I wanted to be a cop. And that’s what I used to be.”
Ingrid knocked over her water glass. The others began mopping and moving plates and glasses. Lorenson didn’t seem to notice. He smiled delightedly and said to J.X., “I’m guessing Mr. Holmes has been your inspiration and your mentor. Am I correct?”
“You could say that.”
Yes, you could. But you’d be entirely wrong. I said, “Mr. Moriarity is being way too kind.”
“Mr. Moriarity and Mr. Holmes! I just noticed that. How very funny. Are these your real names or pen names?”
“Moriarity not Moriarty.” At Lorenson’s blank expression, I gave up. “Yes, our real names.”
“This goes to prove that truth is stranger than fiction.”
“Well…”
But Lorenson was not listening. He said quietly, though he had to realize everyone at the table was listening to his every word, “What I was thinking, Mr. Holmes, was that perhaps you
might lend that clever brain of yours to this matter of ours.”
I glanced at J.X. He was watching Lorenson and his expression reminded me distinctly of the way Adrien English’s Jake had looked when Adrien showed signs of interest in matters that did not concern him. I said cautiously, “Lend my brain how?”
“I’m sure if I were to speak to the police, they would be willing to give you access to their files on this case.”
J.X. made a smothered sound. I didn’t dare look his way.
“I honestly think your case is in the best possible hands right now,” I said. “Mr. Moriarity is personally acquainted with the detective in charge of the case, and he can assure you—”
Lorenson waved this aside. “To be sure. I realize the police are doing all they can. But I’m sure they would be the first to welcome aid from such a brilliant mind.”
“Uh, actually I kind of doubt that, Mr. Lorenson.”
“Nonsense. Nonsense.”
“Father.” That was Nord.
Lorenson did not glance his way as he said, “Be silent.” And Nord was silent.
“My family believes this matter concerns them. It does not,” Lorenson told me.
I sipped my mineral water and did not look at the others.
“I spent a lifetime putting that collection together. It was my pride and joy. The money…” he shrugged. “A lot of money was tied up in my collection, I don’t deny it. But I’m a wealthy man. I have all that I need for the remainder of my life. I’m eighty-two. What do you think of that?”
“You don’t look eighty-two.” I was being honest. He looked maybe late sixties.
“My father lived to be one hundred and two. His father lived to be one hundred and one. So I still have a few years left. But my needs are simple.”
“You’re fortunate.”
He inclined his head. “I’m very fortunate. That’s true. But losing this collection has been a great blow. I collected my first coin when I was eleven years old. It was a Danish 10 øre coin minted in 1947. I still have—had—that coin. It was part of the collection. Of course it was only worth about one hundred and fifty dollars, but still precious to me. I knew every single coin in that collection.”
“I’m sorry. I understand how upsetting the loss must be. And I know that the gallery owner was a friend of yours.”
“Yes. John was an old friend.”
To me, John sort of sounded like an afterthought. I said, “But I don’t see how I can be of any help. I know it seems like a weird coincidence that the thief wound up in our basement, but—”
“It’s not a coincidence, it’s a sign,” Lorenson interrupted.
“It’s really not.”
“With your insight into human nature and your knowledge of the workings of the criminal underworld, I feel certain you might succeed where the police have failed.”
I thought of Jerry and his your brilliant criminal mind. I said, “But the police haven’t failed. They just haven’t found your collection yet. Honestly, I appreciate your confidence in me, but I think I would just be getting in the way of the official investigation.”
Irresistible Force meet Immovable Object. For the next five courses Lorenson continued to coax, cajole, challenge, charge and finally command me to take his case. As the dinner portions shrank, so did my patience, but I tried to stay pleasant. By the time we got to the cookie-sized mascarpone cheesecake, I was pretty sure my smile had frozen in place like a death rictus. Lorenson remained jolly and cheerful through the whole ordeal, but the other captives at the table were mostly silent and clearly uncomfortable.
Except for J.X. who kept trying to interrupt, and kept getting talked over by our host. At least Lorenson did not actually command him to silence. That was something to be grateful for.
We declined the treat of an after dinner brandy with Lorenson in his study and left as soon as the meal was officially over.
“Un-fucking-believable,” I said as the front door closed behind us. I didn’t bother to keep my voice down. I’d already had an evening of that.
“That was…interesting,” J.X. agreed as we started down the long, steep hill to where we had left our car.
Lights shone in the windows of the houses all around us as we hiked down from Asgaard. It was amazing to me how many people did not bother to pull their drapes. Interesting though, those brief shadowbox glimpses into other people’s lives. All around us people were eating dinner, watching TV, working out…happily oblivious to each other.
“You notice he didn’t even offer to pay me? I mean, not that that would have made a difference, but the arrogance of insisting that I take his case simply because he wants me too. Can you imagine living with him? I’m amazed nobody in that family has poisoned his Geritol by now.”
“He lives there on his own. I was listening to them talk while you were fending off Lorenson. It sounded like they all received a royal summons to show up just like us.”
“I don’t doubt it. That he lives alone, I mean. I’m guessing his wife threw herself off the roof the first chance she had. Five more minutes and I’d have been looking for a window.”
“I’ve got to say, I’m in awe. I didn’t think you’d make it through the cheese plate without using it to clobber him.”
“By then it was a test of will,” I said darkly. “Is there a Kentucky Fried Chicken anywhere around here?”
* * * * *
We dined at the Colonel’s on crispy fried chicken, wedge cut potatoes, cheese macaroni and hot biscuits and honey. The plastic chairs were uncomfortable, the décor less than inspiring, but you couldn’t beat the food—or the company.
J.X. looked rather dashing for our surroundings in black jeans and a black turtleneck. Like a John Robie-style cat burglar. Did that make me Grace Kelly? With five o’clock shadow and a truss? J.X. smiled tolerantly at me as I wiped honey from my fingers with the moist towelettes provided with our meal. “Feeling better?”
“Yes,” I conceded. “A little.”
“Did you catch that bit about Sydney the reporter who used to be a weather girl?”
I sighed. “Yes. And I agree, it’s too much of a coincidence. Clearly she’s the link between the Lorensons and Ladas. In fact, she admitted to knowing Ladas. She told me she interviewed him about a year ago.”
“I guess it’s possible she was an unwitting connection.”
I shook my head. “She’s in it up to her neck,” I said wearily. “They’re all in it. In fact, I think there’s a good chance the old man knows they’re all in it. I think he was having a little bit of fun with them tonight.”
“Fun?”
“Or maybe not. Maybe he doesn’t know. I’m not sure it would occur to him that any of them would have the nerve to defy him.”
J.X.’s brown gaze was very direct. “It’s not your business, Kit.”
“I agree.”
“I’ll talk to Izzie tomorrow. Tell him what we know. Or at least suspect.”
“I’m not arguing,” I said. “But I’m not holding out a lot of hope either.”
“Hope?” J.X.’s brows drew together.
I took a final noisy drag on the straw of my cola. “That our involvement ends here,” I said.
Chapter Fifteen
“How’s your back?” J.X. asked, climbing into bed when we finally arrived home after our double dinners.
I eyed him thoughtfully. “It’s okay.”
“Good.” He smiled. It wasn’t a predatory smile, exactly, but it also wasn’t an I-just-want-to-hold-you smile. He leaned over and his mouth came down on mine, his lips warm, the Van Dyke beard soft. I murmured…not protest but not acquiescence either. I was thinking. Which, frankly, is not conducive to kissing. J.X. kissed me harder, the tip of his tongue probed delicately—but determinedly—and I opened to him.
He smiled against my mouth and his tongue flicked inside, touched mine. I can’t deny that I felt an instant and overwhelming response. I wanted him. It was that simple. But I also felt a flash of this is
getting out of control. And that was not at all simple.
J.X.’s hand went to my cock and he handled me with a firm and expert hand.
Readying me.
Because that’s what this was. As pleasurable as it was to be brought off by J.X.—and to relax in the knowledge that this was just one of many pleasurable things he would do to me that night—there was also my awareness that he believed himself to be completely in control of this moment. And any other moments we would have.
What was there to object to in that? J.X. was using the right pressure, the right angle, even the right speed from the very second my penis hit his palm. He knew what I liked, exactly what I liked, and he was bound and determined to make sure I got what I wanted every single time.
And what he wanted every single time.
Why not? What was wrong with that? Nothing. Not a damn thing. It wasn’t like I didn’t want him. Not like I wasn’t in the mood. I did want it. I was already starting to shiver with the intensity of my reaction to him. There was no greater turn-on for me than thinking of J.X. taking me with that gentle but relentless strength. I wanted it so much. Too much.
Yes, this was the problem: I didn’t just want to make love. I wanted to be fucked. I needed to be fucked. And not only did I know it. He knew it.
I wrenched my mouth away from his and gasped, “Wait.”
J.X. drew back, surprised. His eyes were dark with passion and a little unfocused. “What’s wrong?”
I put my hand on his, stilled him. “I think we need to take turns.”
“Turns?” He sounded like the concept was utterly alien, which simply underscored how out of whack the dynamic between us was getting.
“Yes. Right. We need to…trade off that. If we’re always going to do that.”
“Always going to do what?”
“Fuck.”
He actually glanced around. “What’s wrong?”
“No, I mean if we’re always going to fuck.”
Wide eyes, parted lips. No mistaking that look for anything but dismay. “You don’t want to?”
I took his face in my hands. “Listen carefully to me, Costello. Yes. I want to. I like sex. I love sex. But I don’t always want to be the one being fucked. Okay?”
