Death of a Pirate King

by Josh Lanyon

  I smiled hazily into Jake’s tiger eyes. He kissed me, a soft kiss sweet as melting sugar, slid his arms around me, rolling me onto my side, spooning me, tender and all encompassing.

  Second star to the right and straight on till morning…

  * * * * *

  We drowsed and woke and moved together again, but it was lazy and gentle, and the tightness in my chest, the flutter in my throat was emotion, nothing more. Something dangerously close to happiness, but…not. Because even quiescent and content, I knew this was the lull before the storm. But it was nice to pretend that it was old times, that Jake did not have a wife and another life to go home to in another hour or so. That it all might still work out between us. Nice to lie here and kiss and pet and explore each other as though we didn’t know the contours of each other’s body, the stroke of thumbs and fingers and flat of hand on satin-smooth skin.

  The hand that had been leisurely rubbing my flank slowed. He said almost angrily, “Christ, you’re thin. What’s the matter with you, Adrien?”

  I batted my lashes, playing Bacall to his Bogie. “Nothing you can’t fix.”

  He gave a little snort of unwilling laugh, his exploring hand arrowing down to the swell of my ass. He pinched me, and I jumped, and then he smoothed away the hurt.

  “Bastard,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  We rested there for a moment, and he was smoothing his hand over my ass. “Still beautiful, though,” he murmured. “The most beautiful guy I’ve ever known.”

  I chuckled without much humor. Not more beautiful than Paul Kane -- unless we were talking inner beauty. I was pretty sure I was more beautiful on the inside that Paul Kane. I hoped so anyway.

  I turned my head on the pillow and he was watching me curiously. I said, “My heart’s worse. I have to have surgery.”

  Jake’s face stilled. “When?” he asked. His voice came out thick and unwilling.

  I shook my head. “I haven’t talked to the surgeon yet. It would be soon, I guess.”

  He had sucked in a sharp breath when I said I hadn’t talked to the surgeon. He let it out carefully and said, “What the hell are you doing?”

  I smiled, thinking how odd it was that he was the only person in the world I could say this to. “I’m scared.”

  He was staring at me. “No way. I’ve never known anyone with more guts than you.”

  “We’re just not afraid of the same things,” I told him.

  His face tightened and he stared at the window. At the night beyond this room.

  I brushed my knuckles against the rough velvet of his jaw. “Everybody takes chances, Jake. You take chances. You’re taking a hell of a chance right now.”

  He didn’t speak.

  I stared up at the ceiling. Neither of us said anything for some time.

  Then he bent over me and kissed my forehead, his mouth drifting down to the bridge of my nose…my mouth -- lingering -- my chin…the hollow beneath my ear…the pulse at the base of my throat…my breastbone. My heart beat quietly and steady beneath his touch. He kissed me. His lips were soft as rose petals, his breath warm on my skin. “Don’t take a chance with this, Adrien,” he whispered.

  I didn’t answer, stroking his head, feeling the short silk of his hair beneath my fingers. After a time my stillness must have communicated itself to him. He drew back, studying me.

  “What?”

  “You must know,” I said finally. “Even if you weren’t sure before, you must know now.”

  “I don’t want to talk about that. This is what matters right now. You and me.”

  “You and I are together right now because of Paul Kane.”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Jake. How the hell are we supposed to ignore murder? He’s manipulated us every step of the way.”

  He shook his head. “You’re wrong.” His eyes glinted. “About all of it.”

  “Nothing else makes sense. How would anyone else have got the poison in that glass? Having me hand the glass to Porter is exactly his sense of humor -- so was bringing me in to ask a bunch of questions that any cop could have asked.”

  “Where would he get the digitoxin?” And I could tell by the ready question that he had been mulling this over -- of course he had. He had an instinct for this kind of thing. The hunter’s instinct.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, but I know it’s a lot more important to prove how the poison was introduced to Porter’s glass than where the poison came from. The digitoxin could have been acquired a lot of different ways, but realistically only two people could have poisoned Porter’s drink. Me and Paul. It wasn’t me.”

  “It wasn’t Paul.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  Jake said in a goaded voice, “And Paul’s supposed to have killed Jones because of this autobiography Jones was writing. Is that it?”

  “I’m almost positive it has to do with Langley Hawthorne’s death.”

  “That is total, wild speculation on your part.”

  “Jake. Who else had a motive to get rid of Porter? The man was dying.”

  “If Jones knew a murder had been committed, why would he have covered it up all these years?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t know what it was that he knew. I mean, maybe he didn’t realize there was something incriminating in what he remembered about the night Hawthorne died.”

  “You’re guessing, for chrissake!”

  “Yes, I am, but nothing else makes any sense. You either don’t see it or…”

  “Or what?” he asked evenly.

  “You see it but you can’t arrest him without outing yourself. And as far as you’re concerned, that’s as good as committing suicide.”

  He made an impatient sound.

  I said, “You can’t even afford to antagonize him because he’s got you over a barrel. And he knows it -- and gets off on it. It’s just the kind of game he likes. He reminds me of my old friend Rob in that respect. Except he’s got a cruel streak Rob never had.”

  Jake ignored the digression. “Are you suggesting Paul’s blackmailing me?”

  I met his eyes -- he was very angry but I felt strangely unmoved by his anger. “I don’t think he’d be clumsy enough to put anything into words, but you both know where you stand. He knows what you’re willing to sacrifice --”

  “You think I would let him get away with murder to keep him from outing me?”

  “But you don’t think he committed murder,” I pointed out. “You won’t allow yourself to even consider the possibility, right? So that solves that problem.”

  He rolled up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “That’s a great opinion of me you have. No wonder you wouldn’t see me for two years.”

  I opened my mouth to refute this, but indirectly, he was right.

  I said, “The real problem for you is what happens next. If he gets away with this, if January dies or can’t remember what happened, and Paul gets away with murder -- and you let him -- basically you’re handing him carte blanche over you. And who knows what favor he’ll ask next. Maybe he’ll ask you to get rid of me.”

  “Funny,” he said thickly.

  Not really.

  “Even if I’m totally wrong about him killing Porter -- even if that’s completely unfair -- you’re in a dangerous position with him. I saw that -- I think you did too -- last Sunday when he staged that little tableau with the three of us. He likes yanking your chain.”

  “Bullshit.” But he still wouldn’t face me.

  “He’s arrogant and he’s cruel.” Of course, maybe that was the attraction. What did I know?

  For a time neither of us spoke. At last Jake looked over his shoulder at me. “What’s your suggestion?”

  I sat up. “Come out. Remove his leverage over you.”

  “Come out?” His face tightened. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “If you take away his leverage --”

  He didn’t let me finish. “Do you have any idea wha
t it’s like out there for a gay cop?”

  Oh man, they were playing our song.

  “Doesn’t it depend on the cop?”

  He was off the bed and across the room, dragging his clothes on. “Jesus, you’re naive. It’s hard enough to do this job without turning yourself into an outcast with your fellow officers. Did you see that asshole Alonzo in action out there today? And he doesn’t even know anything. He just suspects.”

  “Okay, I’m naive,” I said. “But I kind of thought that if you allowed yourself to be blackmailed you became an accessory after the fact. Or an accomplice or something. You’re not just contemplating compromising an investigation -- you’re contemplating letting a murderer go free.”

  “Paul is not a killer!”

  Was my jealousy of Paul and Jake blinding me to reality? Warping my view of events? Was I the one who was just seeing what he wanted to see?

  “You sure as hell know that he’s a blackmailer.”

  He didn’t respond.

  Well, hell. We all put up with a little emotional blackmail now and then, right?

  It was sort of funny that Jake, who ordinarily saw the world in black-and-white -- in every possible sense -- would suddenly develop night blindness on this. I understood his fear -- I did -- but I was disappointed all the same. And disgusted.

  Swiftly buttoning his shirt -- well in flight mode now -- he jerked out, “It’s not just the job. It’s my family.”

  “There I can’t help you.” I thought of all the little compromises I had made through the years, the roster of eligible ladies I’d escorted to various functions for the sake of appearances -- for the sake of my mother. But I had never tried to deny who I was -- wouldn’t have the strength or energy for the kind of deception he’d lived his entire life.

  “My dad. My brothers. I’m married, for chrissake.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said dryly. “I keep forgetting.”

  He stopped. “Okay,” he said, meeting my look, “but what the hell did I go through these two years for, if I’m just going to flush it all down the toilet? If anybody ought to understand, you should.”

  I was still trying to work that out when he left.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “You’re not drinking?” Paul inquired.

  “Not at the moment,” I said.

  A private smile tugged the corner of his sensual mouth.

  We were sitting at Café Del Rey at a table looking out over the marina. Yachts bobbed gently in the midnight blue water. A few forlorn stars blinked in the midnight blue sky. A young woman with a midwestern accent approached our table and asked for Paul’s autograph. He signed the little brochure for Starline Tours she was carrying. “You see,” he told her. “There are movie stars everywhere you look in California.”

  She laughed delightedly, and they chatted a few minutes more. He was infallibly gracious.

  “I admit I was a little surprised to get your phone call,” Paul said, turning back to me without missing a beat. “Not that it isn’t always a pleasure.” His eyes seemed bright with that inner mirth. I wondered yet again what Jake saw in him. I still thought he was beautiful, but it was such a strange, hazardous beauty. A little on the exotic side for Jake, I would have thought. But maybe I wanted to think that.

  I hadn’t heard from Jake since Friday evening when he’d fled my place like a creature of the night with a whole village of torch-wielding fanatics on his tail. I hadn’t heard anything from anyone. No one had tried to arrest me or even interrogate me. It was Saturday evening now.

  The last time I’d phoned the hospital was that afternoon. Al January’s condition was reported critical but stable.

  “Were you surprised?” I asked. “I can’t imagine a lot surprises you.”

  “You,” he said -- and it was straight out of one of his films. “You were a surprise.”

  I sputtered into my water, and his fawn-colored eyebrows drew together. “I’m sorry?”

  “No, I’m sorry,” I said, although I clearly wasn’t. “Actually, what I was sort of wondering was what you wanted me to do next.”

  The fawn-colored eyebrows drew together. “What I…?”

  “Well, the case isn’t over. What should my next move be?”

  “Your next…?” He let that trail, adding thoughtfully, “I suppose the case isn’t over. Interesting.” He suddenly chuckled. “Well, I shall have to consult the stars.” He winked. “The other stars. Did you know I had gypsy blood?”

  “I did not know that.”

  “On my maternal grandmother’s side.” He held out his hand, palm up. “I’ll read your fortune.”

  “Another time.”

  “Come on.” He was amused by my reluctance.

  “Shouldn’t I cross your palm with silver?”

  He shrugged. “We’re friends. No charge.” He took my hand in his, gently turning it heel up.

  “Here’s your lifeline.” He traced a line with his thumbnail halfway down my palm and stopped. “Oh dear.” He quirked his eyebrows and gave me a wry, commiserating look.

  I tried to jerk my hand away, but he laughed.

  “I’m teasing you, dear boy. You have a perfectly ordinary lifeline. Your loveline, on the other hand --” He shook his head, his eyes full of wicked amusement, and let my hand go.

  I reached for my glass, the condensation chill on my palm -- washing away the feel of his fingers, washing away whatever fate he pretended to see in the lines of my hand. I swallowed ice water, set the glass down.

  “You know Nina’s been released? They can’t seem to figure out how she got the poison into Porter’s glass.”

  “Yes, I’d heard,” he said indifferently. He lifted his cocktail -- something called an Admiral’s Tea. He did like those sweet, flavored drinks. “I suppose it will be Ally next.”

  “You suppose what will be Ally?”

  His eyes locked on mine. “I suppose the police are looking at her closely as a possible suspect.”

  “Oh!” I chuckled. “I thought you meant…well, people around you have been dropping at an alarming rate.”

  He stared at me.

  I said gravely, “You know about the attack on Al January, of course.”

  “Of course.” He continued to stare at me. “A tragedy.”

  “Hopefully not,” I said. “Hopefully he’ll pull through.”

  He licked his lips.

  I smiled confidingly, “Granted, your original interest in this investigation was the same as mine. Mostly. We neither of us wanted to be suspects in a murder investigation --”

  “And to that end, you succeeded beautifully,” Paul assured me. “Neither of us are suspects any longer.”

  “Aren’t we?” I arched my brows, mirroring his own elegant surprise. “But suppose the police don’t arrest Ally? Suppose they look elsewhere? There’s only you, me, and Valarie left. Al getting clobbered pretty much puts him out of the running.”

  “The attack on Al might not have anything to do with Porter’s death. He told me once they have a great deal of crime in that neighborhood.”

  “Jake may successfully be redirecting that investigation, but I don’t think there’s much doubt that the attack on Al was connected to Porter’s death.”

  He sipped his drink and said nothing.

  “Jake’s influence will only stretch so far,” I said. “Someone is going to be arrested and eventually tried for Porter’s murder. The LAPD take a very dim view of homicide -- even among the rich and famous.”

  He gave me another of those long, bright looks.

  “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “This isn’t going to go away on its own. In fact…yes, this is rather perfect timing. I’m having a small get-together on the Pirate’s Gambit tomorrow. Just a few friends from the party. Why don’t you join us? You’ll be able to do what you do so well. Snoop.”

  “Is that what I do so well?” I mocked. “I was sure Jake would give me higher marks for…well…other things.”

  His eyes locked
on mine, and they were glacial blue. Then he smiled. “Tens all across the board, I assure you. I’m planning to seduce you myself.”

  “I’m planning to let you,” I said. “But maybe tomorrow we can chat some more about getting this movie made from Murder Will Out.”

  He said slowly, “You know, Adrien, that might not be so easy now. Porter was our financial backer and Al was writing the script…”

  “Oh, I can write the script,” I assured him blithely. “And I’m sure you’ll come up with the money from somewhere.” I raised my brows at the expression that fleeted across his face. “No?”

  He smiled -- and I blinked at the radiance of shining eyes and all those teeth.

  “Oh, yes,” Paul said. “I’ll come up with whatever is necessary.”

  * * * * *

  When I got back to the Cloak and Dagger, I found the cat dying outside the side entrance.

  I nearly stepped on him -- it was dark and I was preoccupied with my own thoughts. Having arranged your own murder is not a comfortable feeling.

  There was a feeble meow, and I saw the pale glimmer of his form right before I put down my boot.

  I knelt and I could see in the wan security lights that its skinny frame was streaked with dark, its narrow flanks moving quickly up and down. It looked flat -- like a cartoon cat after it’s been run over.

  I whispered, “What happened to you?”

  Not that I was expecting an answer, but it gave another of those pained meows.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Didn’t I tell you?” I informed it. I rose, went inside, and ran upstairs. The timing could hardly be worse if the damned cat had planned it. I grabbed a towel from the cupboard, hurried back downstairs, and stopped behind the counter long enough to look up the address of the nearest emergency animal clinic.

  There was a place on Colorado Boulevard that was supposed to be open from six in the evening to eight in the morning. I rang them; they were still in business and accepting customers. I thanked them and went outside to see whether the customer was still alive.