Death of a Pirate King

by Josh Lanyon

  It wasn’t Pinkerton’s, but Markopoulos Investigations -- or MI as they now called themselves -- was more than a grubby guy in an office with a bimbo secretary and a bottle of rye in the right-hand drawer. In fact, the receptionist didn’t look old enough to drink. Come to think of it, I’m not sure she looked old enough to work. Maybe it was the Elly May pigtails. Or the Tootsie Pop. Were there intern positions for receptionists?

  She led me down a starkly lit hallway past three other empty offices. The nameplate beside each door bore the last name Markopoulos. Roscoe had the corner office overlooking Wilshire Boulevard.

  He rose from behind his desk, a small, energetic man with an enormous mustache. He bore a disconcerting resemblance to the Luigi character of the phone book ad.

  We shook hands and sat down. I declined an offer of coffee.

  “I’ve been out of town,” Markopoulos told me. “That’s how come I hadn’t heard about Mr. Jones. You say you’re working with the police?”

  I sidestepped that one. “Not on Jones’s murder, no.”

  “The cops!” He shook his head like, what could you do with pesky law enforcement underfoot all the time? “So what are you working on?”

  I’d been giving this some thought on the drive over, and I said, “There are some questions regarding Jones’s will. You know the kind of thing: what his mental and emotional state might have been in at the time of his death.” I shrugged. “I think the fact that he had considered divorcing his wife --”

  “He wasn’t just considering it,” Markopoulos interrupted. “He was just getting his ducks in a row.”

  “And were his ducks in a row?”

  Markopoulos grinned toothily. “His ducks were lined up like they were in a shooting gallery.”

  I said, “So the wife was having an affair?”

  He nodded his head up and down like one of those oil derricks along Santa Barbara. “Oh yeah.”

  “And you handed that proof over to Jones?”

  “Yep. Every last photograph.”

  “Can I ask --?”

  He contemplated me with his dark, alert eyes. “Well, let me ask you this, Mr. English. What’s it worth to your client?”

  I had to think about that one. “The going rate?” I suggested.

  He startled me by laughing. “It’s the first wife, isn’t it? Your client is Marla Vicenza?”

  I smiled and spread my hands.

  He pointed at me and laughed harder. I laughed too -- a little giddily.

  He considered. “Okay,” he said. “Professional courtesy. Five hundred bucks and you get it all.”

  I decided Paul Kane could afford it. “Done.”

  He swiveled his chair around, did some typing at the computer, and then buzzed his secretary and requested the file for JON398.

  I wrote out a check while we waited for the secretary to bring the file in. She bounced in. Markopoulos handed her the check and me the file.

  There were photos -- lots of photos -- of Ally with a stocky, good-looking man I recognized as her funeral escort.

  “Does he have a name?” I inquired, flipping through the photos.

  “Duncan Roe,” Markopoulos said with satisfaction. “He’s her personal trainer.”

  “What’s he training her to do?”

  He laughed.

  I shuffled through the log of times and dates and locations. I tried to think of innocent reasons why Ally and Duncan Roe needed to meet at the Luxe Hotel once a week for two and three hours at a time. Ally already had her own tennis courts, pool, and exercise room. True, I’d heard nice things about the Zen-inspired spa at the Luxe.

  “Kelly will make you copies of anything you need.”

  “Thanks.” I held up a picture of Ally and Duncan lunching on the bougainvillea-covered terrace of Hotel Bel-Air. They sure as hell didn’t appear to be concerned with covering their tracks. “You followed her for six weeks. Any idea of how long it was going on?” I asked.

  “Three or four months, as far as I could make out.”

  I thanked him and asked for copies of everything in the file. Roscoe left while Kelly was still Xeroxing.

  “You like the PI business?” I asked her.

  She shifted her Tootsie Pop to reply. “It’s a living.”

  * * * * *

  Checking my messages when I climbed in the Forester, I saw that Jake had called.

  I clicked on the message and listened to him politely ask me to call him back, and I thought again how odd it was to be on formal terms with someone you had once permitted to lick your ears.

  I called him back -- prepared for another round of phone tag -- but he picked up, catching me off guard.

  “Uh, hey,” I said. “It’s Adrien. English.”

  There was a pause and he said, “I haven’t forgotten your voice. Let alone your last name.”

  A funny little tingle rippled down my spine -- infuriating, considering everything that I knew.

  “Right. Well, I tried to get you earlier but -- anyway, Kane came up with the name of the PI Jones hired.”

  Silence. But I thought I knew that silence. Knew that undertone of anger. And I assumed Paul Kane knew it as well, but apparently he was immune to it. That must have been some inoculation period.

  “Which is what?”

  His tone was neutral -- his beef was with Kane, not me -- but I knew he was wondering why Kane had handed me that information instead of giving it to him. Or maybe he knew Kane well enough to know how his brain worked. It wasn’t my problem.

  I gave up Markopoulos’s name and address, and then steeled myself to tell him the rest of it. Not like I didn’t know how this went, but I also knew there was a good chance he would kick me off the case. And to be honest, I wasn’t sure if I minded or not. In a way I didn’t want to examine too carefully, it would be a relief.

  “Look, Jake,” I said. “You’re not going to be happy. Markopoulos agreed to see me. He was on his way out of town and there wasn’t time to talk to you first.”

  There was an astonished pause. “Are you telling me you went to see Markopoulos after I asked you not to?”

  I took a deep breath. “Pretty much. Yeah.”

  I closed my eyes and waited for the sky to fall.

  His tone was flat. “Why would you do that after I asked you not to? After you told me you wouldn’t.”

  “He was going out of town. I thought --”

  “No, you didn’t think,” he cut in. “There was no good reason for you to bypass me. I don’t give a shit if he was going out of town. I don’t give a shit if he was going to Mars. We have recourse --”

  He bit off the rest of it. There was a sharp silence. I wondered if he heard the same echo I did. Remembered the last time we’d argued a similar situation -- remembered the way it had ended.

  He said into that resounding silence, “I’m disappointed in you, Adrien.”

  He was in the right all the way -- no question, really. I’d wanted to hear firsthand what Markopoulos had to say. I didn’t want to wait for Jake to filter it for me -- assuming he bothered -- but that particular choice of word was…unfortunate.

  “Really?” I said. “I disappointed you? I can’t imagine what that feels like -- to be disappointed in someone you trusted. How’s it feel?”

  He said tightly, “All right --”

  “Does it? Feel all right? Terrific! Then I have something to look forward to --”

  “God damn it!” he said, and that quiet fury shut me up like no amount of yelling could have.

  I could hear him breathing hard. He said, “Listen, I know you think I’m an asshole -- I am an asshole -- but this is for your protection. I don’t --” He broke off whatever he was about to say.

  I snarled, “This isn’t for my protection. Who are you kidding? You’re worried about me screwing up your case. Same thing you’ve always been worried about. So don’t feed me some line of bullshit about giving a fuck about what happens to me.” Acid reflux disease -- it was becoming chronic with
me.

  “You don’t have a clue what I think,” he shot back. “And you don’t have a clue what I feel. I’m not going to waste time with empty threats. We both know I’m not going to throw you in jail. But I can -- and I will -- make it impossible for you to be involved in this goddamned mess. I don’t want to go that route, and believe me, you don’t want me to go that route --”

  I waited for him to finish it.

  He inhaled and exhaled. I had driven him to deep breathing exercises. With an obvious attempt at control, he said, “So will you just, for once in your bullheaded life, do the reasonable thing and touch base with me -- like you gave me your word you would -- before you interview anyone else?”

  In the pause that followed his words I realized that he wasn’t kicking me off the case. It took me a bewildered moment to register it.

  “Yes,” I bit out. “I can do that.”

  “Thank you,” he bit back. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  He disconnected.

  * * * * *

  “Darling, that blue is just wonderful with your eyes,” my mother said as the photographer busied himself setting up his equipment in the Dautens’ formal living room in their Chatsworth Hills home.

  “This old thing?” I inquired, glancing down at the silk Tommy Bahama camp shirt she’d bought me for my last birthday.

  Natalie snorted, and Lauren -- who I rarely saw these days -- bit her lip trying not to laugh. I found it entertaining that my mother never bought me a garment in any color but blue. Different shades of blue -- and occasionally a pattern -- but always and without fail, blue. I’d pointed this out at the last Christmas extravaganza, and it had become a little family joke -- that Lisa did not acknowledge.

  “He even got a haircut for the occasion,” Natalie offered.

  Narrowly eyeing the photographer’s shapely assistant who was positioning Bill Dauten on the end of the sofa, Lisa replied absently, “That’s nice. Are you sure you don’t want Guy to be part of this portrait?”

  “I’m sure,” I said, and my three stepsisters gazed at me with interest.

  “It’s too late for that, darling,” Bill Dauten remonstrated gently.

  “You’re a bit shiny,” the assistant told him, and Dauten grunted.

  Dauten was a big man with the LA City Council. A big man in general -- a little soft around the middle -- bald and tanned. He had that aura of wealth and power that makes up for lack of looks and charm -- but he was unexpectedly both shrewd and kind.

  And he’d managed to spawn three darling daughters.

  They were darlings, too. Dolls. All three of them. Lovely, charming, intelligent girls bearing no physical resemblance to Dauten -- except they all had those blazing bright blue eyes. Maybe they took after Rebecca or Eleanor or whatever her name was: the first Mrs. Dauten. Or maybe Dauten was cranking them out of a factory somewhere.

  “They aren’t married, Lisa,” Lauren said. Lauren was married -- for now -- to a handsome dolt who was wed to his upper management job; the spouse had apparently popped in for dinner, but couldn’t stay for the photo shoot. I wondered if Lauren sensed her days as Mrs. Corporate Clone were numbered. She was the toughest of my stepsisters to read.

  “No, I suppose not,” Lisa said, meeting my eyes thoughtfully.

  “That’s funny,” Natalie piped up. “Nobody has a problem with Warren not being part of the family picture.”

  “Come on, Nat,” Lauren murmured.

  “It’s hardly the same thing, darling,” Lisa put in. “Adrien has been seeing Guy for two years. You and Warren have only been dating a few weeks.”

  “We’ve been dating for three months,” Natalie said.

  No one responded to that.

  Emma, sitting next to me, fidgeted in her frilly pink dress, and said, “I hate taking pictures.”

  “Emma, don’t encourage Adrien,” my mother remonstrated, and Emma giggled. I met my mother’s gaze and she flicked her eyelid.

  The photographer’s assistant began positioning us around the sofa, moving lights.

  “What a lovely family,” she said, and Lisa preened as though she had responsibility for the whole kit and caboodle.

  Eventually everyone stopped blinking and sweating and complaining about their bad sides -- and assuring each other they didn’t have bad sides -- and the photographer got down to it, clicking and snapping away while his assistant continued to flatter and instruct.

  Finally it was over. The photographer packed up his gear and his assistant and left. Lauren and Natalie immediately fled to the nether regions of the house to “get comfortable.” Emma, who had complained several times about her scratchy, uncomfortable dress, apparently forgot all about it and settled on the floor with the box for Worst Case Scenario -- and a hopeful expression.

  “Em…” I said.

  “Adrien, you couldn’t take the time for dinner,” Lisa said. “At least you can visit for a bit.”

  By which, I understood, that she planned on having a word with me.

  I said, “In that case, I need a drink.”

  “Darling, you mustn’t have alcohol while you’re on antibiotics.”

  “I’m joking,” I said, although I wasn’t really. I missed alcohol. I missed it a lot at times like these.

  She poured me mineral water, cut a wedge of lime, said way too casually, “Natalie said that your book is going to be made into a movie.”

  “It’s been optioned. But lots of books get optioned, and almost none of them get made into movies.”

  “You should have had Bill look at any contract before you signed it, darling.”

  I nodded, sipped my mineral water, glanced at the clock.

  “I’m seen some of Paul Kane’s movies,” Lisa said. “He’s very good. Very handsome. He makes a very good pirate.”

  I shifted my eyes her way. “So does Bill,” I remarked.

  “But Bill has kind eyes,” my mother returned equably. “Were you at Paul Kane’s house when that terrible tragedy on the news happened?”

  By which, I assumed, she meant Porter Jones’s murder.

  “Yes,” I said. “But you don’t need to worry about me getting involved in some murder mystery.”

  She grimaced. “I notice you say I don’t need to worry about it, not that you’re not involved.”

  “Adrien!” Emma called impatiently from the front room.

  I bussed Lisa’s cheek. “Don’t fuss,” I said and went to join Emma.

  * * * * *

  Emma read, “‘How to get skin out of a zipper. Do you, A - Rub peanut butter or margarine on the zipper and gently jiggle it --’”

  “Wait, I already know this one,” I said. “Give me something about recognizing bubonic plague. I always forget that one.”

  “Ad-ri-en!”

  “What?”

  She tucked the card away, read the next one. “‘How to soothe a wound in the wilderness. A - Rub tree sap between your hands, then apply it to the wound as a soothing sealant. B - Wrap the wound in wet dark green leaves. C - Wrap a warm rock in a piece of cloth, then press it against the wound.’”

  “I’m going to go with the warm tree sap,” I said.

  She gave a throaty Ming the Merciless chuckle. “Wrong. ‘Wrap a warm rock in a piece of cloth, then press it --”

  Lauren appeared in the doorway. “Guy’s on the phone, Adrien.” She studied her sister. “Emma, you should change that dress. And you’re monopolizing Adrien.”

  “Not yet. Monopoly is next,” I told her, going into the kitchen to pick up the phone.

  “Where are you?” Guy asked.

  The question was clearly rhetorical since he was calling on the Dautens’ land line. Just one of those subconscious little guilt inducers, I guess. “At Lisa’s,” I said. “I told you. It’s the photo thing tonight.”

  “You didn’t tell me that was tonight.”

  “Yes, I did. Didn’t I?”

  “No.” He sounded put out, which was n
ot normal for him. “I’m over at your place but you’re not here. It’s beginning to feel eerily familiar.”

  I started to answer, then lowered my voice, aware I had an audience although the adults in the family room appeared to be mesmerized by some reality show on the television. “What are you talking about?”

  Guy said, “Paul Kane left a message for you, apologizing for landing you in deep shit with Riordan again. What was that about?”

  “It’s not a big deal --”

  “Really? Because it sounded like it was a big deal to Paul Kane.”

  “Really.” I glanced over at the family room again -- the Dautens looked like a magazine layout for fine living -- their taste in television notwithstanding. “It was -- look, we’ll talk about it when I get home.” I hesitated. “I mean, if you’re going to be there?”

  “Of course I’ll be here.” His tone changed again -- flattened. “Or would you prefer that I wasn’t?”

  “No, I wouldn’t prefer that.” I caught a look exchanged between Lauren and Natalie and broke off the rest of what I had been about to say. “I’ll be home in an hour or so, all right?”

  “I’ll see you then,” he said.

  I hung up.

  “There’s Tab in the fridge, Adrien,” my mother said brightly.

  “Thanks. I’ve got to get going,” I said.

  I returned to the living room to break it to Emma. “Just one more game!” she pleaded.

  “I can’t, sweetie.”

  “Please!”

  “Emma,” Lisa said sharply from the doorway. “Adrien’s tired. He’s played with you for over an hour. We didn’t get to visit with him at all.”

  Emma directed a mutinous face at Lisa. I ruffled her hair, and said, “Next time for sure, Em.”

  She gave a sort of droopy, unappeased nod.

  I followed Lisa back to the family room to make my good-byes. There was the usual ring of kisses and then a handshake with Bill.

  “We don’t see enough of you, Adrien,” he said, clearly cued by Lisa.

  I watched her stage-managing the Dautens, and I thought how perfectly she fit in here. She had successfully managed to build a new life, a new family for herself -- and I was happy for her. But yet tonight I felt distant, detached from it all. Or maybe it was just the knowledge that Guy was sitting at home waiting for me -- seething.