Death of a Pirate King - lanyon Josh - Страница 25

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Not that I was unduly worried about Verlane. Not about him killing me, anyway. I believed that, like Angus, he had been caught up in something larger than himself, swept along by a more powerful and unscrupulous personality. That didn’t mean I had forgiven him -- or was likely to any time soon -- but I wasn’t afraid of him. Which didn’t make his showing up at the bookstore any less of a shock. Nor did it mitigate my anger at Guy -- although maybe that wasn’t fair.

I went upstairs and checked the phone machine, but there were no messages. I recalled Natalie saying that Paul Kane had called earlier, but I really didn’t have the energy to talk to Paul Kane right then.

And it’s not like I had anything to tell him. My efforts at sleuthing seemed pretty ineffectual so far, if I did say so myself.

I poured myself a glass of orange-pineapple juice -- and I realized that Natalie must have put my groceries away for me. I was grateful, but it gave me a strange feeling to think of her -- to think of anyone -- wandering through these rooms. Guy and Lisa had double-teamed me on that one, insisting after I’d developed pneumonia that my family needed access to my home in case of emergency. Guy had a key, of course, but now so did Lisa -- and Natalie.

I drank my juice and stared down at the empty street. It was a warm, dry June evening. The summer night smelled of smog and distant dinners cooked in restaurants on the other side of town. A kid with a guitar sat on the stoop of the closed boutique across the street singing -- practicing, apparently -- an old Beatles song. The bald and featureless mannequins in the brightly illuminated boutique windows modeled their finery and gestured elegantly into space.

“…of lovers and friends I still can recall, some are dead and some are living…”

I thought about the league of extraordinary gentlemen I’d dated through the years. There was a lot to be said for being single; you couldn’t go by Friday nights.

I wondered what Paul Kane did on Friday nights.

I wondered what the hell Guy was doing tonight. Had Peter managed to track him down?

I wondered what Jake and his wife did on Friday nights.

Anyway, I could always call Guy. Ask him directly what the fuck was up with him and Harry Potter. Put him on the defense for a change. Because in my humble opinion there was a significant difference between working with an ex-lover, and continuing a friendship with someone who had tried to TWEP your current lover.

Yes, I could call Guy, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear what he might have to say.

* * * * *

Nina Hawthorne was something of a celebrity. She had inherited a bundle from her father when he fell off his yacht and drowned off the coast of Catalina, but she was a successful businesswoman in her own right. Truly Scrumptious Catering boasted an impressive roster of A-list clients, but it didn’t take a lot of Googling to figure out that Nina was a woman with a past -- and it wasn’t all lemongrass chicken meatballs.

Before discovering her future was in food services, Nina -- who, from her photos, looked small and dark and rather chic despite the crew cut -- had tried acting, painting, and bounty hunting. Reading various interviews and reviews, I reflected what an excruciating thing it must be to grow up in the public eye. Every mistake was captured for posterity -- and reviewed by the pundits. And Nina had made many mistakes -- Porter Jones was the least of it.

There had been rock stars, movie stars -- and even an astronaut. There had been car accidents, drug busts, alcoholic outbursts, and a Playboy centerfold.

And there had been Paul Kane.

Yes, about six pages back in my Internet searching I found a passing reference to a court case between Nina and Paul Kane. And before long I had the whole sad and sordid tale -- and it was sad.

Not long after her father’s death, Nina -- who was about nineteen at the time -- had had a fleeting -- very fleeting -- affair with Paul Kane, which resulted in an illegitimate child: a little girl by the name of Hazel Honeybelle. The name alone proved pretty conclusively that Nina was probably not a fit parent. In any case, because of Nina’s much-publicized history of drugs, drinking, and promiscuity, Kane was able to win custody of the child -- whose name he promptly changed to Charlotte Victoria.

This was the first salvo in a series of mildly comical skirmishes -- legal and personal -- between Kane and Nina as they fought for custody and control of their child, and it probably would have gone on for years, endlessly entertaining the readers of Us magazine. But farce turned to tragedy when Hazel/Charlotte drowned at age three in Paul Kane’s swimming pool at his villa in Sardinia.

I stared at the grim photos of a black-clad Nina and an equally somber-looking Paul Kane at the child’s funeral.

Now there, in my opinion, was a motive that age could not wither nor custom stale.

I picked up the phone and dialed Jake’s cell before I remembered that it was Friday night, and he was probably off duty -- or at least not taking my calls.

The phone rang, I got ready to leave my message, and Jake said crisply, “Riordan.”

It startled me into one of my coughing fits. When I got my breath back, I said huskily, “Believe it or not, I think I have something for you.”

There was a peculiar pause. I heard the echo of my own words -- and my tone -- and considered how I might conceivably be misinterpreted. I said hastily, “I mean, I think we may be approaching this from the wrong angle.”

“What are we talking about here?” he asked neutrally.

“Porter Jones’s murder. I don’t think he was the intended victim. I think someone was trying to kill Paul Kane.”

Chapter Twelve

“Where are you?” Jake asked.

“At home.”

He hesitated. Said, “You want to meet for a drink, and you can tell me what you’ve found?”

I hesitated too. Glanced at the clock. Five after nine. But it’s not like I had anywhere to be -- nor was I apparently going to have any company that night. “Sure,” I said colorlessly. “Where?”

“Do you know where Brits Restaurant and Pub is?”

“East Colorado Boulevard?”

“I’ll see you there in about thirty minutes.”

I hung up and went to change my T-shirt and sweats for jeans and a long-sleeved shirt in a charcoal multistripe. I wasn’t about to shave for a drink with Jake, but I did drag a comb through my hair and brush my teeth.

I didn’t have as far to go and I got to the pub before Jake, and -- remembering that I hadn’t had dinner -- ordered a roast beef sandwich while I waited.

He arrived a few minutes after my food. The Veronica Mars theme song was playing as I watched him -- tall and sort of compelling in black jeans, black T-shirt, and black leather jacket -- threading his way through the tables to the beat of the music. I smiled sourly as the lyrics to “We Used to be Friends” registered.

A long time ago. Yeah. Only it didn’t feel as long ago as it probably should have.

He spotted me at the bar, pulled out a stool next to me, and sat down. “Something funny?” His eyes -- I’d forgotten how light they were: almost whiskey-colored -- met mine warily.

“Not really. I’m surprised you could make it on such short notice.”

“Why’s that?”

“Friday night.” I shrugged. “I figured you’d be home with the little woman doing whatever it is little women like to do on Friday nights.”

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