by Josh Lanyon
“Probably, kiddo.”
She slipped her hand into mine.
* * * * *
When I got back home after dropping Em off, I found two police cars parked in the alley outside Cloak and Dagger.
One police car could mean anything, but two… Not that I have a guilty conscience or anything.
I parked next the unmarked car and got out, making sure I kept my hands where everyone could see them; they were sweating -- there’s no way this could be anything but bad news; how bad was the only unknown -- but I resisted the temptation to wipe them on my jeans.
The doors flew open on the black-and-white and two cops got out, holsters unbuttoned. The side door to the bookstore opened, and Detective Alonzo stood framed there. He was wearing that big, unpleasant smile of his.
“Mr. English! Where’ve you been all afternoon?”
The uniformed officers moved up on either side of me.
I said warily, “What part of the afternoon? I’ve been at the Paddock Riding Club down by Griffith Park for the last couple of hours.”
“Yeah? I guess you can prove that?” Alonzo inquired, walking toward me. He had his handcuffs out. “And where were you before that?”
I said, “What the hell is going on?” I think I took an instinctive step backward.
One of the cops grabbed me and shoved me against the side of the Forester. Someone kicked my feet apart, yanked my arms behind my back. Someone else was patting me down with ruthless efficiency.
Alonzo announced cheerfully, “Adrien English, you’re under arrest for the attempted murder of Al January.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The ground tilted sharply beneath me, and I rested my forehead on the Forester’s warm paint, breathing in long and slowly. I thought just about anything would be preferable to passing out at the feet of that sonofabitch Alonzo.
Attempted murder. Now that I hadn’t seen coming. Not at all.
After a few seconds the dizziness eased enough that I got a grip on myself. I turned my head to try to see Alonzo’s face. No luck. “Al’s alive?” I got out.
“That’s right,” Alonzo said behind me. “Disappointed?”
He snapped the handcuffs around my wrists -- cold metal -- and tighter than you’d expect -- and peeled me off the side of the car.
I rasped, “Al said I tried to kill him?” I couldn’t make sense of it. I felt dazed, as if someone had punched me hard where it counted.
“January’s not saying anything,” Alonzo said. “He’s in a coma. The housekeeper --” He broke off as a silver sedan drew down the alley and rolled up beside us. I recognized Jake behind the wheel and -- maybe illogically -- I felt a surge of relief. I mean, for all I knew, he had ordered them to pick me up…
“Is that Riordan?” one of the uniforms said uneasily.
“Shit,” Alonzo muttered.
Jake didn’t even turn off his car engine. The door flew open, he unfolded, and there was no mistaking the fury on his face. He said, “What the fuck is going on here, Detective? I told you not to --”
Alonzo interrupted, “I have a right to pursue any avenue of investigation that I --”
And Jake roared, “Goddamn it, that wasn’t a suggestion, I ordered you to back off. I told you I talked to English before and after the interview with January. I spoke to him at three o’clock. I’m his fucking alibi.” His eyes -- hard and flat -- met mine for a fleeting instant. He jerked his head at one of the uniforms. “Cut him loose.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Alonzo practically screamed. “This is my case. You’ve blocked me every fucking step of the way, trying to protect your rich faggot friends --”
Jake lunged forward; there was scuffling behind me and the uniforms let me go and tried to get between Jake and Alonzo.
“Lieutenant, Lieutenant!” one of the officers protested, sounding winded.
Jake had Alonzo backed up against the side of the building, massive fists bunching Alonzo’s shirt as he pinned him. Alonzo fought to free himself, hand raised like he wanted to punch Jake, but one of the uniformed officers was hanging onto his arm -- the other was shouldered between Jake and Alonzo, trying to keep his footing as the two men surged at each other. Then Jake stepped back, shrugging his shoulders, cranking his head side to side like one of the early Terminator models.
Alonzo was cursing -- practically crying with rage. I couldn’t make out what he was saying.
Jake jabbed his finger a centimeter from the detective’s nose. “You think you got a problem with me? File a grievance, asshole.”
“You think I won’t? You think I’m the only one with a complaint? You think I’m the only cop who’s noticed there’s something hinky with you?”
“Alonzo, cool it, man,” one of the officers warned.
Jake turned his back on Alonzo like he wasn’t worth the time. He nodded at me. “Get the handcuffs off him,” he told the other uniform, and the man moved to obey.
A moment later the handcuffs were off, and I was rubbing my wrists as Alonzo tore free and brushed by. He slammed into his car, screeched into reverse, and tore out of the alley, tires squealing.
The two uniforms hovered uneasily.
“Okay?” Jake asked me brusquely.
I nodded.
The message in his eyes was clear, so I turned and went inside the building.
I closed the door, leaned back against it. My heart was hopping and skipping like a rabbit that had unexpectedly been missed by a set of impending tires. I took a couple of long, slow breaths.
The phone jangled into life on the counter, and I pushed away from the door and picked it up.
“Adrien?” It was Natalie. “Is everything okay? Those cops kicked me out of the store! What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, but everything’s okay. I’ll call you in a little bit.” I hung up on her protests. Since I couldn’t see the alley from the bookstore, I went up to the flat and looked down. Jake was still there talking to the uniforms. He had turned his car engine off and everything looked calm. One of the officers was laughing, so it seemed like things were under control again.
The rush of adrenaline drained away, leaving me sick and shaky. I sat down on the sofa and rested my head in my hands. I needed to go downstairs and lock up the place, but for now I just didn’t care -- anyone who wanted to steal a book that bad was welcome to it. Hell, they were welcome to the cash register.
I tried to think. Al had been attacked. Was in a coma. It didn’t have to be connected to Porter’s death -- to the questions I had been asking -- but the timing was awfully coincidental.
According to Guy, there were no coincidences.
And Detective Alonzo probably agreed with him, which is why he was so eager to see me in stainless steel bracelets. I could sort of understand Alonzo’s position. I remembered a saying by Grace Murray Hopper: If you do something once, people will call it an accident. If you do it twice, they call it a coincidence. But do it a third time and you’ve just proven a natural law.
Four murder investigations did seem like a lot for an average citizen.
After what seemed like a long time, the door opened behind me. Jake said, “I locked up for you downstairs. Are you okay?”
I glanced around. “Fine. Fabulous. What the hell was that about?”
He’d taken his tie off and unbuttoned his collar. He looked as tired as I felt. “January’s ex-boyfriend dropped by and found January unconscious. He’d been hit over the head with a pre-Columbian stone carving. According to the housekeeper, you were still with January when she left at two forty-five, which makes you the last person to be seen with January before he was attacked.”
“That’s probably true. I left a few minutes to three -- and called you.”
We hadn’t talked, though, I’d left a message was all -- and if anyone really investigated my “alibi” it was going to be immediately apparent that Jake had lied.
“We’ve got pretty good forensic evidence that January w
as probably attacked around five o’clock -- not long before the ex-boyfriend showed up. In fact, the ex may have scared off January’s attacker. You take the kid horseback riding around that time, right?”
I nodded.
“You’ve got more than enough witnesses to support your story, and January may pull through.”
I said, “You’ve got him under guard, I hope?”
He preserved a straight face, but I could see he was amused. Grimly amused, but amused nonetheless. So okay, maybe I have read too many mystery novels, but January’s assailant was ruthless and increasingly daring.
“Why the hell is Alonzo so eager to pin this on me? He’s got his suspect in jail already.”
Jake sat down across from me. “The case against Hawthorne isn’t going to hold water. Her lawyer came up with a witness -- one of Hawthorne’s employees who swears Hawthorne was never anywhere near the bar the morning they went to Kane’s to oversee the party arrangements. She’s willing to testify that Hawthorne was never out of her sight. The DA is buying it. Hell, I buy it. This is a very credible witness.”
“What possible motive would I have for attacking Al? Or Porter, for that matter.”
Jake shook his head. “I don’t think this is about you so much as me. Alonzo and I have history. He knows I don’t want him coming after you -- which is enough to make you…of interest to him.”
“Great.”
His mouth twitched at my tone. “Don’t worry. I’ll see he leaves you alone.”
“My hero,” I said glumly.
He gave me a funny look.
My thoughts moving in another direction, I said, “Al’s got two good-sized watchdogs.”
“The dogs were outside. That could mean January’s attacker put them out -- the dogs might have known him -- or January might have let them out. There’s every indication that he knew his attacker, or at least didn’t feel threatened. He let his assailant into the house, and was in the process of pouring two drinks when he was hit from behind -- twice.”
“Is he going to make it?”
“They don’t know yet.”
I nodded, stared at my hands. I liked Al January. And if I was right in my speculations, I had brought this on him -- inadvertently -- but did that really absolve me? If I hadn’t started poking around -- if I hadn’t insisted on continuing with the investigation even after I could see where it was headed --
And why? What was it to me? Nobody had asked -- or wanted -- me to keep digging after Nina Hawthorne was arrested. I had put myself back in Alonzo’s sights and maybe got Al January murdered -- and I still didn’t have any proof as to who had really killed Porter. Nor did I have any idea of how to get it.
Jake said dryly, “Don’t tell me you’re actually second-guessing yourself, Mr. Holmes?”
“You think I never second-guess myself?”
He said a little wearily, “I think you’re a chronic buttinsky.”
I looked away from his hard gaze.
“Hell,” he muttered. To my surprise, he rose from his chair, lowered himself to the sofa beside me, and put his arm around my shoulders. He pulled me over to him -- and even more surprising -- I let myself lean against him.
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “The only person who carries the blame for murder is the murderer. So don’t put this on yourself.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, willing it to be true. And more than that, allowing myself the pleasure of being in his arms for a moment, that unexpected mix of gentleness and strength -- yeah, he was going to make some mixed-up kid a good father one of these days -- the scent of his aftershave and the light tang of his sweat after his exertions with Alonzo. I listened to the quiet pound of his heart beneath my ear.
Jake added, “And we both know I sure as hell wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. I’ve never been in favor of sleuthing as a hobby -- for anybody.”
“I know,” I said. “So why did you go along with this idea of Kane’s? Because I just don’t believe that you felt incapable of getting the truth out of a bunch of egomaniacal, pretentious Hollywood types without the help of a tactful amateur.” I sat up, and I felt the reluctance with which he let me go.
“You know why,” he said. His eyes met mine, and then he looked away. His mouth curled in something that might have been self-mockery. “One thing about you, when you make your mind up, it stays made.”
The fact that I wanted what he seemed to be saying to be true was not a good sign. I said doubtfully, “You can’t mean you wanted to work with me.”
“I don’t know if I’d put it quite like that,” he admitted. “Although you do have a knack for setting things in motion. But, yeah, I wanted a reason to see you -- to talk to you. To see if we could salvage a friendship. And I know a mystery to you is like catnip to a cat.”
I said slowly, “But you didn’t come up with the idea?”
“No.”
“It was Paul Kane’s idea.”
He said softly, “Did I ever tell you that you talk too much?” And he leaned forward, his mouth covering mine in an expert and persuasive kiss. Warm lips and the funny little click of teeth as the kiss deepened into unpredictable hunger, and his tongue was insinuating its dark and secret way into my mouth, me opening to it, wanting it -- my hand gripping his upper arm, fingers digging in, returning that kiss with single-minded hunger.
Strangely, my mind filled with the memory of our first real kiss -- the first time Jake had really kissed a man.
Deep and slow, searching… His hand cradling the back of my head, drawing me closer, tasting me. Me tasting him back, breathing in gentle unison, filling each other’s lungs with our quiet exhalations.
Except I hadn’t been the first man he kissed. How could I have been? He’d been with Paul Kane for two years before he ever met me, right? And this was all…what? Besides serving to keep me distracted? And that kiss had only meant so much to me because I had kidded myself it meant so much to Jake -- that he had trusted me with something precious. But the only precious things were my memories -- and they were precious for the wrong reason.
I made myself let go, pushed him away, and got up from the sofa -- none too gracefully.
“I don’t even know who you are,” I told him. “And I have trouble believing you were yearning for my company when you’ve spent the last five years fucking Paul Kane. Or, vice versa. We won’t even bring your wife into it.”
He stared at me with narrowed, tawny eyes. “I did what?”
“You and Paul Kane. He said you’ve been lovers for five years.”
“Lovers?” He said the word like it was repellent.
There didn’t seem to be much doubt about the genuineness of that response. Not that his distaste for the concept was exactly the stuff that dreams are made of, but I did feel a spark of relief that it hadn’t all been lies or my imagination.
But then his face changed, and I saw I had once again been trying to convince myself of something when any fool could see what was true.
Jake stood up too -- and he was watching me like I was the dangerous and incalculable one. “I’ve known Paul for five years,” he said. “That’s true. And I did keep seeing him for some of the time you and I were together.”
“I must have blinked,” I said. “I don’t remember us ever being together.”
“Don’t laugh about it,” he said very quietly.
The expression on his face dried my derision. There was a time in my life I’d have given a couple of years to see that look on Jake’s face.
He said, still quiet, still steady, “I have feelings for Paul, but you could not remotely describe the thing between me and Paul as lovers. Not the way someone like you uses the word.”
Horrifyingly, I felt that burn in the back of my eyes. “And what way would that be?” I asked.
He said simply, “The same way as me.”
I turned away. No way -- no fucking way -- was I ever shedding another tear over him. I walked to the window and stared down at the street
below, distantly noting that it was emptied, that it was getting late, that streetlamps were coming on.
Jake walked up behind me. He didn’t touch me but I could feel him all down the length of my body, feel his heat, his…urgency.
“I would give almost anything to get back what we had,” he said. “And you know why.”
Not really. Although we both certainly knew what the almost anything was that he wouldn’t give up. But I closed my eyes, not resisting when his arms slipped around me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
We left the lights on, a seasoned brightness that allowed a few unthreatening shadows. It was strange and familiar. Sweet and bitter. Frightening -- and, yes, reassuring. Because we knew each other, once past the talk when we were down to the language of hands and mouths, we knew each other. Had always known each other. Our bodies fit together just right, and we rocked together gently at first, easy and slow, taking and giving comfort.
Jake groaned, rolled onto his back, taking me with him, settling me down the length of his own long, broad body -- the press of my arousal was caught between our tightly joined bodies as he thrust powerfully into me. It felt so good -- hot and shivery and frantic. We twisted and writhed, circular pressings of belly on belly. He was all fierce muscle and sinew and bone. I put my hands on either side of his shoulders, raised myself on my palms, thrusting back, then pushing him deeper inside my body. His hands closed on my hips, urging me on.
So good.
So…good…
Jake came first, crying out, grabbing me tight, hips jerking against me, face buried in my chest. There was wetness on his cheeks. Beneath his lashes. Tears? The idea brought a grim smile to my own face. More likely perspiration. And I came a moment later, spurts of sticky moisture spilling between us, wetting our already damp bodies. I collapsed on top of him and his breath whooshed out unsteadily against my ear.
Little bright lights flashed behind my eyes and once again I had that sensation of flying…like I was floating through the air in a pirate galleon, sailing dizzily through the stars and clouds and swooping over the sparkling seas like the Peter Pan ride at Disneyland -- flying away to Never Never Land. And I probably never should have -- I could hear the too-hard thump of my heart in my ears -- too big for my chest -- but it was done now and no regrets.