by Lanyon, Josh
“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 still 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 still 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 still 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 setti
ng 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.”
“Aren’t you supposed to write what you know?”
“What do I know? I’m a thirty-something gay man with a dodgy heart. I sell books for a living. Who wants to read about that?”
“Good point.”
“I don’t have a lot of practical experience with crime.”
“You seem to be a magnet for it though.”
“Don’t try to cheer me up.”
And Jake grinning that crooked grin. “It is a little suspicious from a cop’s perspective…”
Yeah, misty watercolor memories. There must have been something grim about my expression because Kane said quickly, “It wouldn’t be a formal arrangement or anything.”
“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 still 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 still 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 or anything, 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, still 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. “Still short of breath, still 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.”
