Adrien English Mysteries: Fatal Shadows & A Dangerous Thing

by Josh Lanyon

It struck me as more than coincidence. More like fate. Like when you’ve been thinking about someone so hard you seem to conjure him.

  The light changed. The car behind me honked. I pulled away, my eyes glued to the rearview mirror till Riordan was lost to sight. No kidding; the guy had a life outside of being a cop. So much for Claude’s leatherman scenario.

  Right?

  Unless the chick was a beard.

  What the hell did I care? Unless there was some truth to Claude’s theory about Riordan knowing Robert. About Riordan having some involvement in Robert’s death.

  Otherwise I had zero interest.

  Riordan was not remotely my type. Even without the whips and canes and butt plugs. I don’t understand the wish -- let alone the need -- to be dominated, controlled. Not presuming to judge, just not something I wanted for myself.

  And yet.

  And yet there was something about his strength, his arrogance, his sheer size that got under my skin. He probably didn’t couldn’t even spell vanilla. He was probably selfish in the sack. Probably selfish and greedy and ... unsophisticated. And hung like a horse.

  When I got home there was a message on my machine.

  “Adrien? It’s Bruce. I was hoping maybe I’d hear from you.” Silence. Giving me a chance to pick up. “Call me some time.”

  I hit rewind, listened to the message again. He had a nice voice. Maybe he sang in the shower. Would that be a plus or a minus? Was he a morning person or a night person? Did I have a preference?

  I undressed, lay on the couch in my white boxer briefs balancing the phone on my stomach, and called Bruce.

  “Well, hello there, stranger,” he greeted me with pleasure. My heart warmed. Nice to be appreciated.

  Bruce had just come in and wanted to talk. It went pretty well. No awkward pauses. We made plans for dinner the following night.

  I spent Thursday morning letting my fingers do the walking through rows and rows of “Chins” in the White Pages. Two or three calls into it, my lame story about an alumni newsletter was coming more glibly, but I still wasn’t having any luck locating Andy Chin. I didn’t even know if he still lived in the state.

  This, of course, is what comes of ignoring all those invitations to high school reunions.

  “Darling, are the police after you?” my mother inquired when I picked up the phone that afternoon.

  “No more so than usual. Why?”

  “Because I had two police detectives to lunch yesterday --”

  “Lunch? You fed them lunch?”

  “Well, it was noon, darling. I couldn’t very well eat in front of them.”

  “What did you serve them? Never mind. What did they ask about?”

  “Grilled baby salmon, wild rice and asparagus with that luscious cream sauce that Maria makes,” Lisa rattled off cheerfully. “They were quite civilized. For the most part. They asked about your friends. About Robert. When did Robert become gay, Adrien?"”

  Through dry lips, I asked, “What else did they ask about?”

  “Your inheritance.”

  “My what?”

  “Your finances. That led to your inheritance. I told them about Mother Anna and that insane will. Splitting the money that way. I don’t care what dear little Mr. Gracen says, the woman was gaga. Giving a boy your age that much money.”

  I waited for the pause and then got in, “Lisa, what did you tell them exactly?”

  She said plaintively, “Darling, I’ve just told you. I explained you got half your money when you turned twenty-one, and shortly after squandered it on that grubby little shop.”

  I could feel sweat popping out over my forehead. “Lisa, I make a perfectly decent living.”

  My mother made a sound that from a lesser woman would have been a snort.

  “What else did you tell them that was none of their damn business?”

  “Don’t start cursing, Adrien. They were rather nice. Very polite. Not at all what I expected.”

  I bet that worked both ways.

  “And I did warn them darling that you were simply not up to being badgered. I told them what the specialist said -- the first one, not that horrid quack from the Cleveland Clinic Heart Center. I think I made it very clear that if you were harassed any further I would set Mr. Gracen on them.”

  “Set Mr. Gracen ...” I hadn’t the strength to finish it. Set loose the dogs of war in the form of “dear little Mr. Gracen” who was seventy if he was a day and could barely manage to dodder around the golf course? “Lisa, no one is badgering me. It’s just routine.”

  “Say what you like, Adrien, but you looked very white and strained when you were here the other day. I really think you should consider coming home for a while.”

  Here we go again. “Lisa, I am home. Remember? I’m a big boy now. Don’t start fussing.”

  “I never fuss.” She grew lachrymose as another wrong occurred to her. “Did you know that Inspector Chan wants to write mysteries too? He was asking where you get all your ideas from. And you know, Adrien, I simply didn’t know. I’m rather hurt that you’ve never let me read your book.”

  “It’s not published yet.” I was thinking rapidly. “Lisa --”

  “Anyway, don’t worry,” she reassured. “I pointed out that you could have no possible motive for killing poor Robert Hersey.”

  “Did you mention to them when I get the balance of my money?”

  “When you turn forty? It’s none of their affair.”

  I sighed. “Well, at least they provide medical coverage in prison.”

  “That’s not funny,” Lisa said sharply. “It’s in extremely bad taste.”

  “I know. Sorry.”

  She hung up, which is her jolly way of having the last word.

  * * * * *

  The conversation with Lisa convinced me that if I didn’t come up with a suitable alternate, I was destined for San Quentin and an orange jumpsuit. Orange is not my color, and I’ve never wanted to go steady with a guy with hair on his back.

  It wouldn’t take the dynamic duo of Chan and Riordan long to establish that I was over-extended financially. Nothing too serious when you consider the average American is four paychecks from the street, but inheriting a “sizable” life insurance policy would have eased things up considerably. I knew that Chan and Riordan speculated that I had believed myself Robert’s beneficiary. That gave me a motive. A strong motive.

  In Leslie Ford mysteries money is nearly always the motive. But it’s not the only motive. Not in real life. I could think of other motives. Maybe they didn’t make sense to me, but the news is full of people killing each other for reasons that seem senseless. Senseless violence? I suppose it must make sense to the perpetrator.

  It was in this mood that I went to see Max.

  Max lived in a small house on the wrong side of Ventura Boulevard

  . Seashell wind chimes hung on the front porch and a white-muzzled German Shepherd barked at me through a wooden gate.

  I walked up the steps, rang the bell, and Grania Joyce opened the door.

  I think we must have looked mutually startled. She recovered first, holding the screen open for me and inviting me in.

  “Max!” she yelled toward the back of the house.

  “Sorry for barging in.”

  “You’re not.” She was wearing an oversize sweatshirt which read, Pasadena City College, and a pair of granny glasses. If she had shorts or anything on underneath Max’s old sweatshirt, I couldn’t see them. “We were brainstorming,” she said. Then she winked at me and strolled off to vanish into the bathroom.

  The front room had been done in a minimalist bachelor-pad motif. There were a couple of antique typewriters on some oak bookshelves, a couple of wide comfortable chairs and sofas, a vintage Varga poster over a fake fireplace.

  A moment later Max appeared, tucking a flannel shirt into his faded jeans.

  “Yo, Adrien. What’s up?”

  “Two things,” I said. “First off, you and Grania and the Finches are s
et on this newsletter. I’ll finance it, but that’s the extent of my involvement. I don’t have time for another project. The Finches want to contribute with reviews, but they don’t want to manage the thing. Either you or Grania will have to play editor.”

  Max scratched his chest reflectively. “Grania, huh?”

  “You can always arm wrestle her for it.”

  Max laughed as though I’d said something witty. “About Grania,” he said. “We’re collaborating. I’m helping her with her male point of view.”

  I couldn’t help it. “Oh yeah? What’s she helping you with?”

  “Sentence structure.” His grin was wry. He shifted his weight. “Sure. What the hey, I’ll edit your newsletter. Why not?”

  “There’s something else.” Mentally I closed my eyes, pinched my nose and jumped. “A day or two before he died, Rob was talking to me about something that happened between you two, something he regretted.”

  Max hadn’t moved. His narrowed eyes watched me closely.

  “Yeah?”

  “I thought you should know that.”

  For a moment Max didn’t move. Then he snorted. “Bullshit. I don’t know what he told you, bud, but that asshole didn’t have any regrets. He was sick.”

  “Because he was gay?”

  “No, because he was sick. Okay? I’m sure he didn’t give you the whole picture. I mean fags, I just don’t get it. What is wrong with you guys?”

  “Nothing that I’m aware of.”

  “Yeah, well there’s a difference of opinion there, no offense. And Hersey -- that little shit follows me into a pub one night and wants to get it on in the john. He won’t take no for an answer.” Max laughed angrily. “I mean it was fucking ridiculous! The pip-squeak. And the rougher I get the more he likes it! Did he mention that?”

  “No.”

  He shook his shaggy curls. “It makes me want to puke to think about it. The shit he was saying. His face --” Max shuddered with revulsion. “Did he tell you I shoved his head down a toilet?”

  I felt numb in the face of his naked loathing. It was like picking up a rock and glimpsing the slimy things that lived beneath. After a moment I said, “No.”

  “I did. Since he liked to stick his face in assholes it seemed appropriate.” Whatever he read in my face caused him to add harshly, “I have no regrets. He was out of control.”

  “Didn’t it occur to you that maybe he needed help?” Despite myself I was angry.

  “He was beyond help.”

  “He is now, isn’t he?” I pointed out bitterly.

  Chapter Ten

  The phone rang, splitting the quiet of the back office.

  For a minute I thought the whispering on the other end of the line was my stalker.

  “Hello?” I asked sharply, “Who is this?”

  “I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “Claude? Where the hell have you been?”

  “Jail, if you must know.”

  “J-Jail?” I think I stammered it. “Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you let me know?”

  “I wasn’t under arrest. They were holding me for questioning.”

  “Technically that is an arrest.”

  “Whatever! I wasn’t formally charged. Shit, Adrien, will you focus here?” No trace of the gay Parisian now. He sounded angry and accusing. “I’m not going to jail, man. Not for anyone.”

  “Why would they arrest you?”

  “Because they think I did it! They brought every knife in the café in for tests. Listen to me. I need money.”

  “How much money?”

  “Serious money. As much as you can lay your hands on.”

  “Have you spoken to a lawyer yet?”

  “I don’t need money for a lawyer, man, I’m splitting.”

  “Wait a sec. What do you mean you’re splitting? Where are you?”

  “That doesn’t matter. I’ll be at the café at 6:00.”

  Bruce. I was supposed to meet him at 6:00. Shit. I thought fast.

  “Claude, that’s less than an hour. It’s going to take some time to get the money together. Why don’t we meet somewhere and talk?”

  “I don’t have time, Adrien. I know a man with a private plane who can sneak me out of Burbank Airport, but it’s got to be tonight.”

  My inner child was hugging himself and keening, “This can’t be happening!” With comparative calm, I said, “Claude, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “Are you going to help me or not?”

  He sounded like a stranger. Almost threatening. “Of course I’ll help you, but --”

  “Good. Bring the money to the restaurant at six. Come alone.”

  I tried to joke. “This sounds like one of those scenes in a slasher movie --”

  Dial tone.

  * * * * *

  I called Bruce and got his machine. I disconnected without leaving a message.

  By the time I finished pulling on a pair of khakis and a V-neck sweater over my white T-shirt, it was five-thirty. I tried Bruce again. After a succession of clicks and static, while I mentally bit my nails, Bruce picked up.

  I said awkwardly, “Bad news. I’ve got to take a rain check on tonight.”

  Silence.

  I could hear the line crackling.

  “Are you there, Bruce?”

  “Yes,” he said ungraciously. “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Why are you canceling?”

  “I can’t -- this sounds ridiculous, I know. I can’t explain why. Yet.”

  Another silence. A very bad connection. In more ways than one.

  “Yeah. Okay. Well, another time.” He sounded extremely cool.

  “Bruce, it’s something I can’t get out of.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  It obviously was a problem. I said, “I’m free Friday. Tomorrow night.”

  “I’m not.”

  Ouch.

  “I’ll call you,” I said to the unfriendly static.

  “Do that.”

  Click.

  I broke every speed law and ran three ambers in my haste to get across town before Claude did something really dumb.

  When I got to the restaurant, which should have been packed at this time of the evening, a placard in the window read CLOSED. I looked up. Tire treads of black clouds tracked ominously across the gray sky. More bad weather on the way.

  I parked in the back and walked around to the rear entrance. I tried the door. It opened with a screech of hinges more suitable for a haunted house than haute cuisine. Memories of all these scenes from all those movies where the dumb heroine goes to meet the murderer in an abandoned warehouse or a park at night or the backstage of a theater flickered through my brain. Except this was Claude I was going to meet, and I knew he hadn’t killed Rob.

  “Claude?” I stepped into the kitchen, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. Rows of kettles and pots gleamed dully above the counters. The smell of disinfectant hung heavily in the air mixed with the ghostly memory of garlic, basil, thyme -- and a hint of cigarette smoke.

  I wandered through the counters and cutting boards, guided by the emergency lights to the dining room. A tiny red dot in the darkness pinpointed Claude’s whereabouts.

  “What are you doing sitting here in the dark?”

  He must have been lost in thought because at the sound of my voice he started and called out shakily, “Adrien? Shit, man. You scared me.”

  I started across the black ice floor. “Who’d you think it was?”

  “That cop. Riordan.”

  I sat down across from Claude in the booth. He was like a phantom in the gloom, just a glimmer of eyes and teeth and the glint of the glass at his elbow.

  “Did you bring the money?”

  “No.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ! Why not?”

  “Because I don’t have it,” I explained patiently. “If I did have it I wouldn’t have brought it.”

  “Why?” Claude cried. “Why?”

  “Bec
ause I’m trying to keep you from self-destructing. Because I’m your friend.”

  “Friend? You just signed my fucking death warrant. That cop is going to kill me. He killed Robert and he’s going to kill me.”

  I ran both hands through my hair. “Would you listen to yourself? Why would you say that?”

  “Because he told me.” He stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray.

  “He told you he killed Robert?”

  “He told me he was going to kill me.”

  “When?”

  “Right before the pigs turned me loose.”

  “Those were his exact words? I’m going to kill you?”

  “Yes! Yes!” Claude’s shadow moved and I saw the glitter of wet on his cheeks. “Adrien, I’ll give you the title to this place. You know what it’s worth. I can’t go back to prison. Please.”

  I covered his hand with mine. “Is it prison or Riordan you’re afraid of?”

  “Both.”

  “Listen to me. If you run, it’s as good as a confession.”

  “I didn’t do it!”

  “I know. But it won’t matter. You’ll look guilty all the same. They’ll arrest you and you will go to jail. I think they can extradite you from France.”

  “They would have to find me first.” He wiped his cheeks with the back and then the palm of his hand. Picked up his glass.

  “I can’t believe we’re even discussing this. Don’t you understand? They had to let you go because they don’t have enough to hold you.”

  “But they’ll find it.”

  “They can’t find what doesn’t exist.” I hesitated. “Right?”

  Claude drank from his glass, set it down hard. Nodded. “Right. Okay.” He nodded again, sucked in his breath. “But I am begging you, Adrien ... .”

  “I don’t have it.”

  He stared. “You could get it. Your mother --”

  “I’m not asking my mother.”

  “A couple of thousand. That’s all I’m asking. I know you have that much.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said? If you run, it’s all over.”

  “What did you come here for?” Claude demanded loudly. He shoved the table at me, catching me hard below the ribs.

  “Damn it!” I shoved the table back and slid out of the booth. “I’m trying to keep you from wrecking your entire life. I’m trying to keep you from losing everything you’ve worked for.”