Death of a Pirate King

by Josh Lanyon

  I ignored the fact that our knees were brushing -- denim had never seemed like such a flimsy barrier -- that he was close enough for me to see that there was a little more silver at his temples than I’d realized. I told him about my lunch with Al January, and January’s belief -- which coincided with my own -- that the crime just didn’t seem to fit Ally’s profile. I said, “She just strikes me as the type to try to fake a burglary -- and do something like knock the windowpane glass out the wrong way. Or anonymously report the break-in from her own cell phone.”

  “Maybe she didn’t come up with the idea,” Jake said. “Maybe the boyfriend did. He works as a personal trainer to a lot of people. He might have picked up heart meds from a client. It will take a little time, but we can check that out. It’s just a process of elimination.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “But after I left January’s, I did some checking on Nina Hawthorne.”

  “Hawthorne.” I watched him run it through the old memory banks. “The caterer?”

  “Right.” I told him what January had told me about Nina’s youthful affair with Porter. “Except it turns out she had a lot of youthful affairs -- and one of them was with Paul Kane.” This was the difficult bit -- for a lot of reasons. I told him about the child who had played the role of Briseis to Kane and Hawthorne’s Achilles and Agamemnon.

  He was silent as the bartender set my drink before me and departed.

  “I know about Paul’s daughter,” Jake said quietly. “He was devastated.”

  “That’s not the point though, is it?” I said. “The point is, does Nina blame him? And if she does, is she capable of committing murder in revenge for the death of her daughter?”

  At one time there would have been no question. Wild child Nina would have dispatched Paul without a moment’s qualm -- although she might not have remembered it a few hours later. The old Nina clearly had the imagination and recklessness for this kind of crime. But Nina had been a solid citizen for nearly a decade.

  I sipped my drink -- choked on what appeared to be pure alcohol -- and managed to set the glass on the bar before I started coughing. It hurt like hell, my ribs still very painful.

  “Are you okay?” Jake rose, moving behind me, but was apparently reluctant to thump me on the back -- and that was fine by me. The last thing I wanted was his hands on me. I waved him away, and he ordered, “Put your hands up.”

  Which -- don’t ask me why -- struck me as funny. For a spluttering, spiraling moment, I thought my last vision would be of Jake’s scowling alarm. But he rested a steadying hand on my back, and that warm weight between my shoulder blades drained all the laughter out of me. He smoothed his hand up and down my spine, and I got control, drew in a long, wavering breath.

  “I’m okay,” I said, shrugging him off.

  “What the hell is in that?” He picked up my glass, sipped from it. His eyebrows rose. “You’re not drinking that,” he said.

  “Drink okay?” asked the barman, coming up.

  “He’ll have a Harp,” Jake told him, and the man sighed at this disrespect to his creation and stepped away.

  I sat back and examined Jake derisively. “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘arrogant asshole’?” I inquired -- the effect slightly spoiled by my hoarseness.

  “Once or twice.” He sat down again and grinned crookedly. “Come on, you didn’t want to drink that. Who are you kidding?”

  “Not you apparently.” It was like I could still feel his hand lightly smoothing up and down my back -- cell memory or something.

  He didn’t seem to have an answer.

  The bartender slid a pint of Harp in front of me. I took a sip. Big improvement, I had to admit -- not that I would.

  Jake said -- as though we had not been so rudely interrupted -- “I don’t think Paul would have used the Hawthorne woman to cater his company if there was still bad blood between them. I’ll check on that, obviously, but even so, I can’t see how she would have introduced the poison to the vic. She wasn’t there -- unless she was there in disguise, which seems unlikely.”

  “That’s the problem I keep running into,” I admitted. “How did the poison get into Porter’s glass? Especially if these Henley Skullfarquars are made by the gallon.” I gave him a questioning look.

  He said matter-of-factly, “I wouldn’t know. I don’t attend parties at Paul’s.”

  “But you’re friends.”

  “We’re friends.”

  “Old friends.”

  He gave me a funny look. He said, “Let’s just say we travel in different social circles.”

  No exchange of Christmas cards with naked Santa whipping naughty elves?

  I said, “There were a lot of us grouped around the bar. Me, Porter, Valarie Rose, Al January. I don’t remember if Ally was standing next to us or not, but there were a lot of drinks lined up -- half empties, that kind of thing. I mean, barring someone reaching over and dumping poison out of his pinky ring’s secret compartment, I don’t think anyone would have paid much attention.”

  Jake snorted. “I assume you didn’t notice any pinky rings in play?”

  “No.”

  He drank his pint in thoughtful silence, then said, “It’s not a bad theory. A little too Sherlock Holmesy maybe, but we’ll talk to the Hawthorne woman.” His eyes slanted to mine. “That was clever, making that connection.”

  “I learned from the master,” I mocked. I actually hadn’t intended the double meaning, but it worked well.

  He reddened. Turned a stony profile to me.

  “The thing is,” he said curtly, after a moment or two, “the Beaton-Jones chick still has a better motive, and she was on the scene.”

  “I’m the last guy to underestimate the power of the almighty dollar, but I think blaming someone for the death of your child --”

  “But that’s my point,” he interrupted. “After I talked to the PI, Markopoulos, I went to see Ally’s boyfriend.” His eyes met mine again. “According to Duncan Roe, he got Ally pregnant. Jones forced her to have an abortion.”

  Out of the blue I remembered that little shiver Ally had given when I’d asked her about children. I’d taken it as distaste for the idea. But maybe it was something entirely different.

  Yeah, that did sort of change everything.

  Not only did Ally share an eerily similar motive to the one I’d ascribed to Nina, but her pain was a lot fresher -- nor was the forced abortion her only motive. And Ally had been at the party, even if I couldn’t remember her near the bar. Someone else might be able to place her there.

  Following my own train of thought, I said, “Did Jones’s autopsy turn up anything to indicate he was terminally ill?”

  Jake looked surprised. “How’d you come up with that?”

  “I overheard Jones’s first wife at the funeral. She said something in passing that made me think he might not be a well man. I mean, before he was murdered, obviously.”

  “Obviously. Well, she was right. Jones had been recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.”

  “Wow.” I met his eyes. “Poor bastard.”

  “Yeah. Not the way I’d want to go, for sure.”

  “Did his wife know?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Then…why would she kill him?”

  He said patiently, “Because he was planning to divorce her.”

  “But was he? Have you talked to his lawyer? We only have the PI’s word for that.”

  And Paul’s -- and now I understood Paul’s comment about Porter not standing for being cuckolded. It turned out he had been right about that, so maybe he was right about the other things. Why was I so resistant to that idea?

  I said, “Maybe Jones changed his mind about a divorce. Why would he have insisted on an abortion -- why would she have gone along with it -- if they were splitting up?”

  Jake was silent, considering this.

  “I’m just sayin’.”

  “It’s worth checking,” he said grudgingly.

  “The other
thing is that apparently Porter yanked financing for a project near and dear to the hearts of Al January and Valarie Rose. I don’t have anything more to go on that that, but they were both standing at the bar. So was Paul Kane, come to think of it.” I added maliciously, “In fact, Kane had the best access to Porter’s drink of anyone. Any reason he might want Porter out of the way?”

  Jake gave me a level look. “Funny,” he said. But then, proving he was still the hard-hearted bastard I’d known and -- well, sort of known -- he added, “Just the opposite. Most of the funding for these indie projects came from Porter -- or were underwritten by Porter, anyway. And they’d been friends -- good friends according to everyone I’ve talked to -- a long time.”

  I was smiling into my drink, and Jake said, “I wouldn’t compromise an investigation because of my feelings for the people involved. You should remember that.”

  He wouldn’t knowingly compromise an investigation, that I believed. But didn’t he see that his feelings might blind him to certain possibilities? In the interests of impartial justice, shouldn’t he really excuse himself from any involvement in this case? But he hadn’t. And he wouldn’t -- because his personal connection to Paul Kane was something he couldn’t admit to. Wouldn’t want made public.

  Oh yeah, I remembered only too well how that went.

  Studying me, Jake said, “You don’t like Paul, do you?”

  I hadn’t thought about it before. “Not particularly.”

  He nodded like that didn’t surprise him.

  I drained my glass, looked at my watch. “I should get going.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  We paid for our drinks and walked out together. As we strolled around the building to the parking in the back, I said, “I still think Nina’s movements on Sunday would be worth looking into.”

  “We’ll check into it,” Jake said. “I’m not ruling anyone out yet, and she’s a squirrelly broad, no question.”

  The car alarm chirped in welcome as he stopped beside the conspicuously innocuous vehicle -- with the police lights in the back window.

  I said, “Night,” and pulled my keys out.

  He said abruptly, “You know that Kate lost the baby?”

  I said awkwardly -- realizing I hadn’t mentioned it before, “Yeah, I’m sorry.” And I was. I didn’t wish Kate or that kid any harm. In fact, I had almost called Jake when Chan told me about it, but I’d thought better of it. It might have looked like I believed the only obstacle to our own relationship was that baby; the truth was, it had merely been the final roadblock.

  He said unemotionally, “Since we have a choice this time around, she’s not sure if she’s ready to start a family. She’s at a place in her career where taking time off could set her back years. She’s in line for promotion.”

  I didn’t want to hear this. I didn’t want to feel sorry for him -- I didn’t want to feel anything at all. But I couldn’t decently walk away, so I asked reluctantly, “How do you feel about that?”

  I could just make out his lopsided smile in the parking lot lights. “I want a family. But she’s worked hard for this. It’s her call.”

  I’d thought the whole point of the marriage was so that Jake could have family and a “normal” life. Maybe it was a real marriage, despite the fun and games with Paul Kane. Maybe Jake did love Kate. It was to his credit that he seemed to place as much importance on her career as his own -- or at least understand that she would.

  But I had no idea what to say to him. Good luck with that? He was talking to the wrong person. But he was looking at me like he expected something -- needed something.

  I said gently, “Drive safely, Jake,” and walked away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I groaned when I saw Guy’s Miata parked outside Cloak and Dagger. How the hell much of this was I supposed to deal with in one night?

  Then it occurred to me that my lover coming safely home to me should not, technically, fall into the stressful-shit-I-had-to-deal-with category. Yet there it was: the old familiar feeling of not wanting to face this -- and I knew there would be something to face. I’d known since Guy had proposed a romantic weekend in Mexico, and I’d felt nothing but dismay that there was something waiting for me to face.

  I let myself into the store, walked upstairs, and opened the door. Guy stood at the window, staring down at the empty street below.

  “I didn’t know whether to expect you or not,” I said, as he turned to face me.

  “I spoke to Peter,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  Well, the good news was he didn’t apparently care where I’d been, so I didn’t need to admit I’d been having drinks with my own ex-lover. I dropped down on the chair next to the sofa. All at once I was very tired. “Sure,” I said. “We could start with you explaining why you’re pen pals with a kid who tried to kill me.”

  He inhaled like I’d tackled him out of the blue. “Peter did not try to kill you, Adrien. He is not a murderer -- and that’s not merely my opinion. The jury agreed. He was swept along with something that got out of control, that’s all. He’s young, he was naive. He was every bit as manipulated as Angus. You’ve forgiven Angus, haven’t you?”

  Had I? Yeah, apparently I had. I replied, “Angus never tried to kill me.”

  “He involved you in something that could have got you killed. It’s the same thing, nearly.”

  “No, Guy, actually it’s not.”

  He didn’t bother to argue; his expression said it all.

  I said, “Even if we put that aside for a minute, if you can’t see how far out of line his coming here was…I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “You’re completely overreacting.”

  Now that was almost funny, considering that I’d been thinking Guy had spent the last week overreacting about Jake. I said, “I disagree. I think most people would disagree.”

  “Most people.” He shook his head like that was unworthy of me.

  Maybe it was.

  Reaching out, he absently picked up the crystal-encased gold doubloon he’d bought me early in our relationship. He frowned at it as though he’d suddenly spotted a flaw in the lustrous surface. He said, “I know Peter.” He raised his eyes to meet mine. “I’ve known him longer than I’ve known you.”

  “Yes. I recall.”

  “He needs a friend right now. He needs help.”

  I had this sudden Ebenezer Scrooge moment. Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses? Maybe Lisa was right. Maybe I had grown hard, bitter. In any case, I seemed fresh out of the milk of human kindness.

  I said, “He showed up here deliberately, Guy. He was challenging me, letting me know he was back, staking his claim.”

  A look of distaste crossed Guy’s face.

  I said, “Yeah, it is very high school. I agree. And we’re both too old for this shit.”

  “I think you may have misinterpreted --”

  I laughed. Shook my head. “I didn’t misinterpret anything. He wants you back, and he wanted me to know that. He believes you still have feelings for him -- and I’m not so sure you don’t.”

  “I told you at the start there was nothing…serious between Peter and me. That is to say, I’m fond of him, I consider him a friend, and I want to see to him through this…difficult time. He needs someone, Adrien.”

  I need someone, I thought. But what I said was, “And you need to be needed?”

  “Everyone needs to be needed,” Guy answered succinctly. “Even you.” He replaced the pirate coin in its place on the bookshelf.

  When I didn’t respond, he asked quietly, “Are you asking me to choose between you?”

  I’d been massaging my temples against what felt like a looming headache. Migraine. Brain cloud. I looked up. “Wow. I guess I didn’t realize it would be that tough a choice. No, I’m not asking you to choose.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I gave a helpless laugh. “Damned if I know. I think…we seem to have reached impasse. I feel betrayed by your friends
hip with Verlane. I realize that’s not logical. I realize that if I’d made the mistakes Verlane has made, I’d still want my friends to stand by me, hope that someone would help me when the time came. I just…”

  “What?”

  I met his eyes. “I just need to come first for someone, Guy.”

  He said, “Is it fair to ask for that when I don’t come first for you?”

  Fair question. I’m not sure why it felt like I had suddenly run out of highway. I replied, “Probably not.”

  Neither of us seemed to have anything to add.

  At last he moved. “Maybe we both need some time.”

  “Yes,” I said, and I rose, as though seeing a guest to the door.

  We went out on the landing, I followed him down the stairs; saw him out the side door. He hesitated. I knew he was trying to decide if he should offer to give his key back. I didn’t want him to, but I couldn’t seem to make myself say anything.

  He said, “I’ll call you.”

  “I’ll be here,” I said.

  And he smiled as though we both knew that wasn’t true.

  * * * * *

  “Morning,” I called as the glass door swung open with a cheerful jangle of bells.

  “I will never understand men. Why can’t they just say what they want?” Natalie deposited the large pink box of pastries on the counter with strudel-smooshing force.

  I glanced up from the register. “What’s that mean?”

  “That!” She jabbed her finger at my nose. “That look. That’s exactly what I mean. It’s like you think it’s a trick question.”

  “It is a trick question,” I said, “because if we just tell you what we want, you won’t like the answer. And then it will be loud and messy and take up a lot of time we don’t have.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Lisa asked you to talk to me about Warren, didn’t she?”

  “God, no.” I opened the pastry box. “Is it somebody’s birthday?” Hopefully not hers -- or anyone else’s I was now related to.

  She said huffily, “I thought I would like a doughnut this morning.”