Death of a Pirate King - lanyon Josh (читаем книги онлайн бесплатно .TXT) 📗

“What if I do mind?”

He smiled a smile I’d have loved to wipe off his face.

“This way,” I said, leading him to the back and my office. I shut the door behind us and leaned against the wall. No way was I sitting down while this asshole towered over me.

He said, “So you used to…uh…date a cop?”

“No,” I said. “She got that wrong. I used to ‘uh date’ a guy who was in the police academy. He washed out.”

“With you and with the academy, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

He continued to smile that broad smile.

Lout. I glanced at my watch.

He said, “We got the toxicology report on Porter Jones back.”

“That was fast.”

“These are important people.”

Maybe in Southern California. I couldn’t see the rest of the world unduly shaken by the passing of a Hollywood financier -- although marlin everywhere might be dancing on the waves.

“Apparently the poison was administered in a special cocktail mixture Paul Kane made up.” He checked his notepad. “A Henley Skullfarquar.”

“A Skull…” I trailed off. “Right.”

Alonzo began reading, “One bottle of Smirnoff Ice, a quarter of a liter of Strongbow Cider, fifty milliliters of Pip’s Cup --”

“Pimm’s Cup,” I said.

He smiled as though I had walked right into his trap.

I said, “There’s no such thing as Pip’s Cup. My mother drinks Pimm’s in the summer. It’s some kind of gin-based liqueur.”

He was grinning that “gotcha” grin. “I think it’s very interesting you would happen to know about this particular drink.”

“It’s not that unusual. A lot of Brits like Pimm’s.”

“But you’re not British, and I’ve never heard of it.”

“My mother is English,” I said. “And I’m not surprised.”

“About what?” he asked warily.

“That you’ve never heard of Pimm’s Cup.”

He stared at me, unable to pinpoint the insult, then returned to his notes. “Maybe you’ll be surprised to hear what substance actually killed Mr. Jones.” He fastened his gaze on me again.

I waited, guessing what was coming.

“Digitoxin.” He pulled it out like he was playing his trump card.

I said more calmly than I felt, “Digitoxin is not digoxin.”

“Close enough.”

“Not really. Both require a prescription, and digitoxin isn’t used as much these days. I think it would be harder to get. It’s also not as toxic as digoxin.”

“So?”

“So why would I bother to use digitoxin which would be harder to get hold of and less lethal than my own medication?”

“Because you were hoping to avoid drawing attention to yourself.”

I laughed. Granted, it wasn’t much of a laugh. “Really? Then why did I use heart medication which would immediately bring attention to me?”

“Because it was convenient.”

“But we’ve just established that I used a heart medication that would be harder to get hold of.”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t have to make sense to me.”

I assumed it had to make sense to someone, though. I had to wonder about Jake assigning someone like Alonzo to this high-profile case. The guy was a moron. So did that mean Jake put him in charge because Alonzo would be easy to control if the evidence pointed in a direction Jake didn’t like? It was a cynical thought, but apparently I was a lot more cynical these days.

I said, “Okay, well, let me ask you why, if I didn’t want to bring attention to myself, would I break the glass I used and throw it in the trash? I can’t think of a better way to draw police attention to the fact that Jones was murdered than that.”

“You were trying to destroy evidence.”

“But if you hadn’t found the broken glass you would probably never have suspected Jones’s death wasn’t natural. Given his age and weight, you’d probably have accepted that he died of a heart attack. Wasn’t finding the broken glass the first tip-off?”

“No way. We suspected homicide right off the bat.”

I didn’t know if that was true or not. I said, trying to keep my patience, “But why wouldn’t I just wipe my fingerprints off the glass? Why go to the trouble of breaking it and throwing it outside -- and leave my fingerprints on it? It brought attention to the crime.”

His tone and expression were patronizing. “You’re thinking of all this after the fact. At the time of the murder you panicked and tried to destroy the evidence.”

“I panicked? I thought I premeditated this crime?”

He eyed me without favor.

“According to you, I’m an old pro at murder investigations.”

He said, “Yeah, and I’ll tell you straight out, I don’t care what the lieutenant says, there’s something hinky about a guy like you involved in three separate homicide cases.”

My heart was starting to lose its rhythm, that uncomfortable fluttering filling up my chest, closing off my throat. I took a deep breath. Then another. I needed Alonzo to go away.

“I didn’t know Porter Jones,” I said, sitting on the edge of my desk. “What the hell is my motive?”

“We put these other pieces together; the motive will fall into line.”

I’d heard Jake say similar things often enough, so I sort of understood where he was coming from. Taking into account that Alonzo was an idiot.

“Yeah, well, good luck with that because none of those pieces fit,” I got out. “Are you arresting me? Because I’ve said everything I have to say, and I’m calling my lawyer.”

He looked suddenly alert, and I wondered if I had been taking him a little too seriously. “It’s my experience, Mr. English, that innocent people don’t start yelling for their lawyers immediately.”

“Have you been watching The Closer again?” I inquired nastily. It was all I could do to keep my voice and hands steady. “This isn’t immediately. You obviously think I had something to do with Jones’s death, and I’ll be frank. I don’t have time or energy for this bullshit.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then snapped his notebook shut. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. English.”

After the door closed, I dialed a number I had never thought to dial again.

* * * * *

“Are you thinking of hiring someone for the bookstore?” Natalie asked me later that afternoon.

I was on my laptop finding out what I could about Porter Jones. Not that I’m an expert -- regardless of what Detective Alonzo thought -- but in my experience, the more thoroughly you understood the victim, the better the chances of narrowing down the suspects. All I knew about Porter Jones was that he had bankrolled a number of successful movies -- several of them starring Paul Kane -- and that he liked deep-sea fishing for marlin. And that going on The Newlywed Game with Ally would not have been a moneymaker for him.

I looked up from a couple of blurry photos of Porter at Hollywood functions and concentrated on Natalie. Her voice had that high, slightly shaky top note I associate with impending disaster of the feminine variety.

“Sorry?”

“I saw that postcard,” she said. Her chin was raised -- I guess at the idea she had been reading my mail -- and, yes, her voice was definitely wobbling.

“Which postcard?” I asked warily.

“The postcard from That Boy.”

Ah. That Boy was how Lisa referred to Angus. I said, “Well, we need more help, right? That’s what you’ve been telling me.”

“I’ve been telling you that you should hire Warren.”

“Nat, I’m not going to hire Warren.”

“Why not?”

I opened my mouth to tell her exactly why not, but as I stared at her too-bright blue eyes and the way her chin was quivering, I chickened out.

“Because…because I promised Angus when he left that he could have his job back.”

“Adrien, he was involved in a murder.”

“But he was very good at alphabetizing.”

“Adrien! It’s not funny.”

I bit my lip. “I know. Angus fell in with the wrong crowd, but he’s not one of the bad guys. And I think he deserves -- needs -- a second chance.”