Dark Tide

by Josh Lanyon

  I read more about the Tides. In those days the stretch between Point Dume and Malibu had been a wilderness, yet a lot of people had fond memories of driving out to the coast for dining and dancing at Hale’s place. I read those accounts carefully, but there wasn’t much to glean other than historical perspective. A few folks mentioned Hale and his supposed mob connections. It didn’t sound like anyone had actually witnessed evidence of mob influence, though apparently the possibility had added a little spice to the entertainment. Occasionally there were references to the house band, though no one specified Jay Stevens or the Moonglows by name. Mostly it sounded like Hale had run a tight ship.

  Argyle had said Hale was still alive and his last-known address was in Santa Barbara. I decided to give information a call. I learned that there were two Daniel Hales in Santa Barbara.

  The first Dan Hale was not at home. I was pretty sure I had the wrong one.

  “Yo! Danny’s answering machine is broken. This is his refrigerator. Please speak very slowly, and I’ll stick your message to myself with the pineapple magnets.”

  I was tempted to ask to speak to the stove. I restrained myself.

  The second Dan Hale didn’t answer. At all. Who didn’t have an answering machine in this day and age?

  Natalie poked her head into the office to say good night. She eyed me suspiciously.

  I said, “This is recreational computer use. Please don’t tell my mom.”

  Unwillingly, she started to laugh. “You’re a nut, you know that.”

  “That’s what all the guys in the white dinner jackets tell me.”

  The bookstore was very quiet after she left. I read up more on the swing-music scene and ordered a couple of CDs online.

  The phone rang next to me, and I jumped. I picked up before the answering machine could, and Guy said, “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Because you’re wise in the way of the world? How many guesses do I get?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be resting and relaxing?”

  “I am.”

  “Downstairs in your office?”

  “Did you merely call to berate me, or did you have a higher purpose?”

  “Could there be a higher purpose? In fact, I was thinking of dropping by tonight if you’re not too busy pretending to rest and relax?”

  Frankly, I was delighted at the idea and said so.

  “How does barbecue chicken sound?”

  “Probably very quiet. I’m just guessing.”

  “You’re in rare form.”

  I admitted, “I’m bored and lonely.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  * * * * *

  Guy rang me from the outside the building. “Permission to come aboard, captain?”

  “Aye, aye. Hang about.”

  I signed out of the laptop, locked my office, and went over to open the side door.

  Guy was medium height, lean, with long, loose silvery hair, an imperious face, and knowing, bright green eyes. Tonight he smelled irresistibly of barbecue chicken.

  “You didn’t waste any time changing the locks.”

  “What’s that?” I realized what he meant and said, as I leaned forward to kiss him, “That wasn’t on your behalf. Don’t be a dope.”

  He asked about the break-in as we marched upstairs, and I filled him in on the developments as well as my trip to Ojai with Jake.

  Guy heard me out. “Riordan seems to be playing a starring role in your latest adventures.”

  “Yeah, well he’s the only cop I know.”

  “Ex-cop.” There was a certain pithy satisfaction in Guy’s voice.

  “Yes.”

  He couldn’t resist observing. “You know Paul Chan.”

  “True. But no way would Chan —”

  “Humor you?”

  I shrugged.

  “And has it occurred to you to wonder why Riordan continues to humor you?”

  “Yes. Except this time I dragged him into it, and I’m paying him to humor me.”

  “Yes,” Guy said drily. “I find that fascinating.”

  We dished out the food in the kitchen and sat down at the table. Tomkins stole into the room, and Guy nearly choked on his potato wedge.

  “Where did the cat come from?” he questioned hoarsely.

  I’d completely forgotten Guy’s allergies.

  I got up, cornered Tomkins, and threw him — to his astonishment — into the bedroom, closing the door after.

  “Sorry,” I said, coming back to the table. “He just sort of happened.”

  “Yes.” Guy sighed. “Well, I’d say that doesn’t bode well for the rest of the evening.”

  Our gazes caught, and I smiled sheepishly.

  I was relieved that I’d put off dinner with Mel one more night. It was comfortable and relaxed with Guy in a way it wasn’t with Mel, let alone Jake. We talked about the summer courses he was teaching. He asked me how the work was going on A Deed of Dreadful Note, and I detailed Jason’s latest adventures.

  Interestingly, Guy had always found my writing as unrealistic as Jake, although his reasons were totally different. Guy deplored my pulp sensibilities. Jake deplored my lack of realistic police procedure.

  Guy told me he was thinking of writing another book himself, this time based on his part in the Blade Sable murder case.

  “Speaking of Blade Sable,” I said, “How is Harry Potter?”

  “Peter is…adjusting. He’s back in school, and he’s doing quite well. I wish you could find it in your heart to forgive him.”

  “I’ve got this funny resentful streak about people who try to kill me.”

  Guy sighed, long-suffering. “He didn’t. You know he didn’t.”

  “I don’t know that. If it makes you feel better, I don’t wish him any harm. I hope he is rehabilitated. I hope he does…whatever it is you hope he’s going to do for you.” I lifted my lashes, grinned lazily.

  Guy was gazing at me with such an intent expression, I stopped smiling, puzzled. “Something wrong?”

  His smile was twisted. “I think it’s finally sank in on me that it really is over between us, isn’t it?”

  “I… Yeah. I suppose it is.” I managed to bite back the one about always being friends. Not because it wasn’t true — it was — but I knew he didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t need to hear it.

  He nodded, looked away. His shoulders sagged. He glanced back at me. “Tell me it’s not that asshole Riordan.”

  “It isn’t anything to do with Jake.”

  “He won’t ever change, Adrien. It doesn’t matter the promises he makes; it doesn’t matter even that he might want to change.”

  The correct response was to repeat the truth: that it had nothing to do with Jake. I heard myself argue, “He already has changed, Guy.”

  He was shaking his head stubbornly. “He was forced into coming out. Circumstances forced it. If your life hadn’t been on the line, he’d still be safely in the closet and married.”

  I didn’t have a response, because I feared that was the truth. Not that I wasn’t grateful that Jake had chosen to sacrifice the lie of heterosexuality in order to spare my life, but there really had never been a question of that. Okay, maybe for a few seconds there had been a question in my mind. Looking back…realistically, there shouldn’t have been. He was simply too good a cop — too good a man — to have let me be murdered.

  He did care for me. I did believe that.

  “Would you like another beer?”

  Guy nodded.

  I got up and went to the fridge. “Harp okay?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  He sounded dispirited. I tried to think of something that would ease his pain. I didn’t believe Guy loved me, though I knew he was pretty fond of me, and I knew he thought I was headed for disaster with Jake.

  I took the beer to the sink, picked up the bottle opener, and stared out the window. My gaze fell on the lamp-lit streets and the alley below — sharpened as I caught a shadow moving along the deep s
hade of the tall cinder-block wall that separated the alley from the apartments across the way.

  As I watched I saw it again: a figure creeping through the long shadows and squares of window light.

  I stepped back and said urgently, “Guy, there’s someone in the alley.”

  “So?”

  “He’s lurking.”

  His expression reminded me of the looks Dr. Shearing threw my way when I resisted her helpful efforts on my behalf.

  “He’s skulking,” I clarified impatiently. “He’s…furtive. Come here. See for yourself. He’s up to something.”

  Guy shoved his chair back at once and started to the window. I said quickly, “Don’t let him see you.”

  He muttered something. I caught the words right nutter. The rest of it escaped me.

  “There,” I whispered. “You see?”

  “I can’t see a bloody thing. Are you sure —” He stopped short.

  “See?”

  He nodded.

  “I think it’s my burglar.”

  Guy’s profile grew forbidding.

  “Can you follow him?”

  He whipped around to face me. “Can I what?”

  “Can you see where he goes? Can you follow him?”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No.” The plan, to use the term loosely, took form instantly in my mind. “You follow him. If he manages to break in to the building, we’ll see what it is he’s after. And if he doesn’t break in, follow him. See where he goes. Maybe we’ll get an address on him. Meantime, I’ll grab my camera and see if I can get a photo of him. But in case I can’t get down there fast enough —”

  “Are you out of your bloody mind?” He was looking at me with something like horror. “Sometimes I wonder if your mother isn’t right. Sometimes I wonder if you haven’t got a self-destructive streak.”

  “Later, Guy. Right now just do this for me.” I added belatedly, “Please.”

  I could see the internal struggle. Unfortunately we didn’t have time for it. I spared a harried glance back at the alley. I couldn’t see the prowler any longer. We were liable to lose this chance. I started for the doorway, and Guy grabbed my shoulder.

  “Oh no, you don’t.” He gave me an exasperated shake. “Right. I’ll do this. However, you don’t leave this flat. Understand? Stay put. I’ll see what the bastard is doing in your alley.”

  “That almost sounds salac —” He was moving for the door, and I went after him warning, “Be careful, for God’s sake. And remember he can’t see you, Guy. Don’t confront him. If it were simply a matter of talking to him, I’d —”

  He was out the door. I heard him taking the stairs quickly. I went to the window, standing well to the side as I stared down.

  There.

  The prowler was trying for one of the back windows, perhaps thinking — rightly — that I would delay arming the alarm system till my visitor left.

  “You stubborn son of a bitch,” I murmured, watching the shadow prying at the frame. I looked for Guy but saw no sign of him. It wouldn’t take him more than thirty seconds to get down the stairs and out the back door. Hopefully he was already getting into position. Maybe now we’d find out what this guy was after.

  I left the window, heading for the bedroom. Tomkins, contently putting claw marks on the bottom drawer of an antique dresser meowed, and I meowed back louder, which shut him up. I’d received a very nice camera for my last birthday — with a terrific zoom lens. I’d never really learned to work it. Still, I thought I could fumble my way through this photo op.

  The camera wasn’t in my bedroom, though. I’d relegated it to the room I was supposed to use as my upstairs office. I found it at last, only to hear the alarming crash and bang of trash cans.

  I ran back to the window and saw Guy struggling with a slim figure in black. “Shit.”

  Belatedly, it occurred to me that Guy might be seriously injured. Because the prowler had fled the previous times, didn’t mean he wouldn’t turn violent if he thought he was in real jeopardy.

  “Hey!” I yelled from the window. “You’d better run, you bastard.”

  Guy went sprawling back into a mound of black trash bags. The intruder sprinted away, although he seemed to be limping.

  “Guy, are you all right?” I shouted.

  I couldn’t make out his answer, although it was encouragingly vigorous.

  I got down the stairs and out to the alley as Guy was getting to his feet. He brushed off the pieces of colored packing peanuts — and less-innocuous materials — clinging to his clothes.

  “Are you all right?” I gasped again as I reached him.

  “Yes, I’m fucking brilliant. No thanks to you.”

  “What the hell happened? How did he see you?”

  He wiped his face on his forearm. “He saw me when I took his picture with my cell phone.”

  “You did what?” I was torn between alarm and delight. “Why did you do that? Jesus. I told you not to let him see you. I told you to be careful. He could have been armed, for all we knew.”

  Guy’s head snapped up. “You of all people have one hell of a nerve telling me off for not being careful.”

  “Well, Guy.” I really didn’t have an answer to that one. Shutting up seemed my best bet.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, thrusting it into my hands. “Download whatever is on there so I can get the hell out of here.”

  I started to speak, but his face, a jaundiced yellow in the waxen light from overhead, was not encouraging. I turned away, pausing at the sight of something flat and furry in the alley. For one repelled instant I thought it was a dead animal. I realized it was a toupee.

  “Look at this.”

  I bent to pick it up, and Guy said with savage satisfaction, “I thought so.”

  I dangled the toupee. “I think you’re supposed to count coup or something.”

  “Ugh.”

  “This is what I call a clue.”

  Guy followed me inside the bookstore. I found a bag for the toupee. We went into my office, and I downloaded a couple of blurry photographs.

  “Aha,” I exclaimed as the jet-black hair, pencil-thin mustache, and seamed face materialized on my laptop screen. “I knew it was too much of a coincidence.”

  “Do you know who this is?”

  “Henry Harrison.”

  “Who?”

  “Actually, that might not be his real name.”

  “I’m lost.” And he sounded lost — uncharacteristically so.

  “He came to the bookstore the morning after the first break-in. He claimed to be a tourist from Milwaukee by the name of Henry Harrison. I’d bet money that’s not his real name. And I know someone who might recognize him.”

  “Let me guess. Jake Riordan.”

  “No. Although…”

  Guy put his hand up. “I don’t care. I don’t want to know.”

  I saved the photos and turned to face him. “Thanks for doing this, Guy. I really didn’t intend for you to put yourself in harm’s way. Why don’t we go finish dinner?”

  He sighed. “Thank you, but no, thank you. I need a shower and a drink and a fuck — in that order.”

  “I can do the drink and the shower.” I wasn’t up to the other, although in a way it would have been comforting to be together one last time. Not fair to Guy, however.

  “I wouldn’t be satisfied with the drink and the shower.” He bent to kiss me. “I’ll call you.”

  I had a wistful feeling it wouldn’t be anytime soon.

  After Guy left I turned on the alarm and debated calling the police. Since the prowler was gone, was there any point in taking up the rest of my evening with making a police report? Yes, I had a photo of sorts and a toupee soaked with DNA, and I’d turn those over if Jake thought that was the way to go. I believed I had a better idea.

  I sat down to e-mail Jake and realized I didn’t have his e-mail address. E-mail had been strictly verboten. As I had heard many times, e-mail lasted
longer than Styrofoam and was ten times more deadly.

  I called him.

  “Riordan.”

  “Sorry, I know it’s late. I’ve got a photo of Henry Harrison. I want to send it to you if you’ve got e-mail.”

  “How the hell did you manage that?”

  “Guy managed it. Harrison tried to break in again tonight, and Guy ran downstairs and took a couple of photos on his cell phone. Neither is great, but the image on one of them is distinct enough that I was thinking maybe Nick Argyle might be able to ID Harrison.”

  One of the — many — things I liked best about Jake was it didn’t take him long to process information. “You’re sure now Harrison is an alias?”

  “The more I think about it, the more I have trouble believing he’d walk into my bookstore and volunteer his real name.”

  Whatever Jake thought of that, and I was sure it was plenty, he restrained himself to giving me the e-mail address.

  “Okay. I’m attaching the files to the e-mail now.”

  And then neither of us said anything.

  Into that lull where all that was unspoken seemed to lap against the silence, he spoke. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  And again neither of us seemed able to say good-bye and hang up.

  I said, “Oh, I found a couple of Dan Hales in Santa Barbara. One we can scratch off our list. The other —”

  “Right,” he said crisply, and it was a very different tone of voice. “I know you’re bored and restless, and I’ve got no problem with you coming along with me on any interviews that might develop, but you are not — let’s get this straight now — to go forging off on your own. Not three weeks after heart surgery.”

  “Four.”

  “Not on my watch. You got that?”

  “Yes, I’ve got that,” I responded testily. “If you’ll notice, I’m not forging off on my own. I let Guy take the photos, and I’m telling you exactly what I found, which is not a hell of a lot.”

  “Uh-huh.” And there was a wealth of sardonic derision in those two syllables.

  “I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean.” I was annoyed to hear that huffy note in my voice — giving away that I knew exactly what he meant.