Dark Tide

by Josh Lanyon

  It was like waving raw steak in front of a grizzly. Jake’s head snapped up, his expression cold and dangerous. His body went relaxed and alert — the way a fighter readies himself. I could see in a flash exactly how it was going to play out. Jake was going to pulverize this asshole — boyishly enjoying every minute of it — and then he was going to get thrown in jail for assaulting a police officer and lose his license and probably go to prison, where he would die in a massive riot because he couldn’t control his goddamned temper…

  I moved to meet Alonzo, smiling my best and most practiced smile. “Whoa, Detective. Did you hear what you said? And in front of all these witnesses?”

  I think it was the smile that stopped him cold. You didn’t expect to be greeted by smiles when you were doing your best impression of the Incredible Hulk.

  “You walked in here and, without provocation, insulted me and Mr. Riordan — and then threatened us.”

  Alonzo had been so focused on Jake, so intent on his goal of getting Jake to throw that crucial first punch, I didn’t believe it had occurred to him that these people standing around were technically witnesses. Recognition didn’t calm him down any, and I had to wonder how he’d passed the academy psych test. Maybe his antipathy for Jake was an anomaly.

  Or maybe not. I remembered something Jake had said when Alonzo was investigating Paul Kane: that Alonzo hated fags, hated intellectuals, and hated being wrong. Put it all together, and he was one boiling mess of resentment and frustration. On top of that, he was ambitious, and he believed Jake had kept him from solving the kind of homicide case that made careers.

  So I guessed it was reasonable that he hated my guts — nearly as much as he hated Jake’s.

  Unfortunately he was the kind of guy who didn’t know how to reverse when he found himself in deep shit. He kept spinning his wheels, digging in deeper. He came toward me, saying, “The hell I did. Nobody is going to give a damn what your family says.”

  Jake’s hand fastened around my upper arm like a vise. I expected to be tossed out of the way any second, so I kept talking. “Come on. I already know the Stevens’s case is closed. I got a call from the detective in charge of the case at the CCHU. This is harassment, and we all know it. Everybody in this room knows it. You can stand here and rant and rave, but you’re not going to provoke the reaction you want.”

  Alonzo stopped again. He was nearly in arm’s reach of Jake now — and how they both dearly wanted me to shut up, move out of the way, and let them at it. I could feel it in the tension of their bodies. They were practically quivering with it. And yet…and yet…Jake was listening, waiting, and watching — he wasn’t going to throw the first punch. He was still in control. The grip on my arm was more purposeful than punishing.

  Even Alonzo was still in control enough to take a step back and say, “Oh yeah? We’ll see. We’ll see if it’s over.”

  The first step was the hardest. Having managed it, he began to retreat toward the door, jabbing his finger at Jake as he said, “I’m not forgetting you, Riordan. Not for a minute. This is not over.”

  “It is over,” I said. “I’m going in my office now to call your boss and file a complaint. It’s over, and we all know it.”

  He was less than complimentary as he slammed out of the store.

  “My gosh,” Natalie exclaimed. “Is he crazy?” Over her shoulder, I could see Angus’s horrified face.

  “You’re going to file a complaint?” Jake queried. He still had hold of my arm. Belatedly, it dawned that he had not been planning on throwing me aside; he’d been trying to restrain me. “That’s a new one.”

  “Believe it. I’m sick of this juvenile male posturing. There’s a reason we have laws, and there’s a reason why police, more than anyone, need to be respectful of those laws.”

  There was a line from The Lady in the Lake I could have quoted him: “Police business is a hell of a problem. It’s a good deal like politics. It asks for the highest type of men, and there’s nothing in it to attract the highest type of men.”

  When Jake recognized that he had failed to live up to his responsibility to uphold that law, he had resigned. He had had the honor and the courage to step away. Not every man had that in him; I thought probably very few men did.

  “Yeah, but you’ve never…” Jake said slowly, disbelievingly, “Are you trying to protect me?”

  “What if I am?” I said shortly. “What about it? Can’t it go both ways?”

  I couldn’t tell if he was amused or offended. He seemed at a loss for words. At last he said simply, “Sure it can, Adrien. Thank you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Have you ever been to London, Jake?” Lisa asked.

  “No,” Jake replied.

  “We’re thinking of spending Christmas this year in London.”

  Jake’s eyes met mine in the Forester’s rearview mirror. We were on our way over to Truffauts and Trifles in Beverly Hills. Lisa was riding up front, while I sat in the back and recovered my equilibrium after my showdown with Detective Alonzo. Once the adrenaline had faded, I felt drained. Proof that I was still a ways from my usual self.

  I said, “I haven’t committed to Christmas in London. I haven’t committed to Christmas anywhere.”

  My mother was clearly amused. “Darling, Christmas happens whether you commit to it or not. Why not spend it in London? We had a lovely time in London when you were ten.” She confided to Jake. “He was such a wee imp.”

  “I bet.”

  What a shame Jake was an excellent driver. The likelihood of us all being wiped out by a semi anytime soon was scant, no matter how hard I wished it.

  “What do you think about Christmas in London, Jake?” Something had happened to change Lisa’s attitude toward Jake, and I couldn’t figure out what it was. It was as though she had decided, out of the blue, to call for a cease-fire. She wasn’t grilling him, exactly, though her idea of chitchat would have made an SS officer quake in his shiny boots.

  “I like Christmas with the family.”

  I stared out the window as a Variety billboard flew by. What would Christmas be like for Jake this year? Would his family have come around by the holidays? I thought of how desperately I’d wanted to spend Christmas with him two years earlier.

  I wondered what I’d be doing for Christmas if Lisa took everyone overseas for the holidays. I glanced forward, and Jake was watching me in the rearview mirror again.

  I smiled faintly. His mouth quirked in response.

  “I can’t leave the store unattended for that long.”

  Lisa made a small sound of impatience. “I don’t see why. You’ve hired that boy back. Surely he can handle the holiday trade?”

  “We’re a lot busier than we used to be. That’s why I’m expanding the bookstore.”

  She bestowed on Jake the smile that usually turned strong men to puddles. “If you haven’t noticed how obdurate my darling son is, let me warn you now.”

  He grunted.

  “He’s supposed to be developing a more healthy lifestyle. The doctors are adamant about that. I haven’t seen much sign of it so far.”

  “Speaking of healthy lifestyles, if you don’t want me to fling myself from this speeding car, you’ll stop discussing me like I’m not here.”

  A muscle moved in Jake’s cheek. Either he was keeping himself from saying something he’d regret, or the bastard was trying not to laugh.

  “Of course, darling.” Those arched eyebrows spoke volumes. She confided to Jake, “Naturally, like all men, he’s sensitive about his health. I imagine you’re strong as an ox?” She didn’t actually pat his muscles or ask to check his teeth, but I did get the impression she was trying to determine his market value.

  Jake seemed focused on the traffic — which, granted, was heavy.

  Lisa sat up straighter in her seat. “This junket should be amusing. What’s our cover story?”

  “Cover story?” Jake questioned.

  I said, “I can’t think up a suitable cover stor
y for asking if someone knows their father was a Nazi war criminal. I think we’re going to have to wing it.”

  “Hm.” My mother sounded very much like Emma when Emma did not approve of the vegetables on her dinner plate.

  Jake’s eyes found mine in the rearview mirror. “I’ve got interesting intel on our friend Harry Newman.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nick Argyle said that Louise Reynard never confirmed hiring Newman.”

  “Are you serious?”

  He raised one broad shoulder. “According to Argyle, there’s no confirmation that Newman was ever working for anyone but himself.”

  “Where does Reynard fit in? Was she Stevens’s girlfriend?”

  “That part of the story appears to be true. She did evidently convince Stevens’s sister to go to the police —”

  “If Jinx is Stevens’s sister.”

  “What? Where did you come up with the idea that she might not be?”

  “It’s probably crazy, but it occurred to me the other night that just because Jinx and Jay said they were brother and sister, doesn’t prove that they were.”

  “Ah,” Lisa said. “Crime passionnel.” She was powdering her nose.

  “So you’re theorizing that Jinx and Jay were married, and she killed him in a fit of jealous rage? Why would they pretend to be brother and sister?”

  “Because she was underage. Because if she were his wife, he could have gone to jail for statutory rape, but if she were his sister, he was only guilty of being a lousy big brother.”

  “I admit it’s an interesting theory. Where does the Cross of Rouen fit in?”

  “She took it, sold it, used the money to go to college, where she met and married Senator Powers.”

  “Are you talking about Jane Powers?” Lisa inquired.

  I nodded.

  “Darling, that’s ridiculous. I’ve known Jane for years. She’s no more capable of murder than I am.”

  “I think anyone is capable of murder, given the right set of circumstances.”

  Astonishingly, she said, “Killing, yes. Murder, no. I would certainly kill to protect my family. Could I commit cold-blooded murder? No.” She looked at Jake, smiled sweetly, and snapped shut her compact.

  * * * * *

  Eve Adams-Truffaut was tall, thin, and auburn haired. She looked remarkably like Katharine Hepburn, something she was undoubtedly aware of as she affected Hepburn’s boxy, mannish style of dress, a vaguely ’40s hairstyle, and a certain educated drawl.

  The gallery itself was the perfect background for her: stark, elegant, immaculate. According to what I’d read on their Web site, T&T specialized in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century European antiques, art, and collectibles. Furniture, clocks, sculptures, paintings, silver, glass, chandeliers — I loved antiques, and for the first few minutes after our arrival, I was in danger of forgetting why we were at the gallery.

  “A very fine Italian opaline and crystal chandelier. All original glass. Circa 1902.” Eve languidly steered us through the long and spacious showroom with white walls and floor tiles the color of old blood. “A steal at thirty-five thousand dollars.”

  “Lovely,” my mother murmured.

  “Or this perhaps. A French nineteenth-century belle-epoque gilt-bronze chandelier decorated with leaves.”

  “That is nice,” I admitted.

  “A mere nineteen thousand six.”

  Jake made a pained sound behind me.

  “It’s rather small,” Lisa objected.

  “We’ll call it nineteen thousand,” Eve said carelessly.

  We moved on to the paintings, which were upstairs. The staircase leading to the second level was wide and steep, but I experienced no distress climbing it. Granted, I didn’t run up.

  The gallery was another long white room, though ornamental shutters blocked out harmful sunshine. Strategically placed lights threw dramatic shadows on the paintings lining the walls.

  “Ernesto Ricardi. Oil on canvas. The Chess Game. Signed. Sixteen thousand five hundred.”

  “Is that an Atkinson Grimshaw?” I asked, moving past to a small green and gold oil of a moonlit harbor.

  Eve followed. “John Atkinson Grimshaw. Yes. Eighteen seventy-nine, oil on canvas. Moonlight at Whitby.”

  “Beautiful.” It was classic Grimshaw. Glowing window lamps, shiny, wet streets, sparkling moonlit water, luminous night skies. It looked mysterious, haunting, magical.

  Eve’s sherry brown eyes glinted. “Do you like it?”

  “Very much.”

  Jake must have thought it was time to intervene on behalf of my ailing wallet. “Have you heard of a piece called the Cross of Rouen?”

  Eve considered. “I don’t believe so. What is it?”

  “A cross,” Jake said too patiently.

  “You mean an actual cross? Such as a crucifix? Not a painting?”

  “Right.”

  “Are you in the market for such a piece?”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t look like a guy in the market for a crucifix.

  “Is it an original?”

  Jake looked at me. I said, “I’m sure it is.”

  “Really?”

  I said, “To be honest, it’s a fifteenth-century religious artifact plundered by the Nazis during World War Two. It’s made of carved gold and studded with rubies and agates and pearls.”

  “Oh? We only handle eighteenth- and nineteenth-century works.”

  Jake and I exchanged another look. She was too blasé to be anything but serious.

  “The legend is that the cross belonged to Joan of Arc. She was supposed to have carried it into battle.”

  “That doesn’t sound very practical.”

  “It’s only a legend, but the cross itself existed,” I assured her. “I’ve seen photographs of it in art-history books and on the Web. It was kept at Notre Dame Cathedral in Rouen. It disappeared during the Nazi occupation.”

  She made a moue with her mouth — not a bit like New England Kate Hepburn. “A lot of things did. They turn up now and again. I could put feelers out.”

  Since she seemed to have no qualms about such details like returning or making restitution for stolen cultural assets, I said, “Had you really never heard of the Cross of Rouen? Because we’d heard from a fairly reliable source that your father might have had possession of it for a period of time.”

  “Oh my God,” Eve exclaimed. “Daddy was a Nazi war criminal, blah, blah, blah.”

  The three of us gaped at her. She gazed back as placid as a cow in a field of buttercups.

  “Then you have heard the rumors?”

  She raised her slim shoulders in a distinctly Gallic gesture. “But of course. In fact, one reason my mama closed the original Truffaut Gallery was there were too many questionable pieces among the inventory.”

  “Questionable pieces? You mean…items were correctly identified as those stolen or forcibly sold during the occupation of France?” Lisa inquired.

  I looked at her in surprise. Meeting my gaze, she said, “I saw a wonderful program on Lifetime, darling. It was all about a book called Nazi Looted Art. It was fascinating.”

  “It is fascinating,” Eve said in that polite, slightly bored voice. “However, it was very embarrassing for my mama. So she closed the gallery and sold off most of the inventory posthaste.”

  “You’re saying your mother believed your father was an escaped Nazi?” That was Jake going straight for the legal jugular.

  Eve scrutinized him reflectively. “Among other things. The family joke is that my father murdered his first wife so he could marry my mother.”

  That was some familial sense of humor. Whom was she related to? The Borgias?

  “What does your mother think?”

  “Mama passed away nine years ago, but I don’t think she would have been utterly confounded to learn it was true. My father was…an original.”

  I couldn’t help remarking, “So were Vlad the Impaler and Adolf Hitler.”

  “Don’t be bou
rgeois, darling.” Lisa gave me a chiding look. To Eve, she said, “So if your father had this priceless religious artifact in his possession, and someone nicked it, would it be reasonable to assume your father would be willing to kill to get it back?”

  Most people would be shocked by such a forthright question. Eve didn’t bat an eyelash. “From what I know of my father…let me simply say that nothing would surprise me.” I could believe that, since not that much did surprise her.

  She moved past us to straighten the Grimshaw painting on the wall. When she stepped back to examine it, she planted her Gucci loafer on Jake’s instep. “Sorry.” She smiled charmingly. “I suppose you’re hoping I have a certain special recollection of my father? That I can tell you I remember seeing him acting suspiciously one dark and stormy night? But I was only seven years old when he died. I thought he was wonderful.”

  “Naturally,” my mother returned.

  Eve tilted her head, eyeing the painting critically from the other angle. She said absently, “To say that my father would be willing to kill is not to say that he did kill. I think many people would want to kill in those particular circumstances. Would they kill? I don’t know. I can tell you, my father had a very strong sense of self-preservation — I imagine that could have been a determining factor either way. For what it’s worth, my mother didn’t believe my father was a Nazi. She believed he did what he had to do to survive, but that there was no malice intended, no philosophical or political agenda. He simply wished to live and prosper. You can hardly blame a man for that.”

  I thought you probably could. I thought if anything, it made it worse to go along with atrocities if you didn’t believe in the cause that motivated them. But she was not asking our opinion. Life was different on her planet.

  * * * * *

  While Jake and I waited in the car for Lisa, who had remained inside to complete some suspicious transaction, we talked it over.