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

I said to Alonzo, “Then you know that I understand how this works and that I have confidence in the process.”

Alonzo, who had been looking from Jake to me, put his hand to his jaw like I had sucker punched him.

Jake straightened from the wall and said, his voice unexpectedly husky, “Thanks. I think that’s about it.” He looked to Detective Alonzo who said, “Uh, yeah. I guess that’s it for now. Thanks for your time, Mr. English.”

“What was that about?” Natalie demanded as soon as the front door closed behind Jake and Alonzo. “Were they police?”

“Yeah. It’s just routine,” I told her. “Someone died at the party I was at yesterday, so they’re just checking with people to see if anyone noticed anything suspicious.”

“Oh, wow! You mean, like a murder?”

“Maybe.” I was purposely vague. Natalie is a mystery buff, and she’s often lamented that she wasn’t around to “assist” me the last few times I was involved in a homicide investigation.

“Are you going to investigate?”

“You’re joking, right?”

She seemed slightly puzzled. “No. Oh, hey, a bunch of calls came in for you. Lisa really needs you to call her.” Here she gave me the look that managed to indicate sympathy while spelling disapproval of me dodging my filial responsibilities. “Your doctor appointment is confirmed for three o’clock. And Paul Kane phoned.”

“What did Paul Kane want?”

Natalie gave a disbelieving laugh. “Adrien, you never said you knew the Paul Kane!”

“I don’t. He’s sort of interested in one of my books.”

“Interested? You mean in the film rights?” Her voice rose on the magic word “film.” I winced.

“He’s just expressed interest,” I said hastily -- and not totally truthfully. “It probably won’t go any further than this.” Her expression was disbelieving. “Did he say what he wanted?” I asked again.

“He didn’t say. But he wants you to call him right away.”

I nodded, returned to my office, and dialed Kane’s number.

I expected to have to go through at least one personal assistant, but Kane himself answered on the third ring. “Adrien, how are you?” He had a great voice. Smooth and sexy. I wondered if he had ever considered recording audiobooks. “I can’t apologize enough for yesterday.”

“Is that a confession?”

“Is that a --?” He laughed. “You’ve been chatting with the coppers. Apparently I’m their number one suspect.”

“I didn’t get that impression.”

“No? I did. Look, are you free for lunch? I’ve got something I want to discuss with you.”

All I wanted was to lie down and sleep for an hour or two. I was so damn tired all the time. But I wanted this film to be made. The bookstore expansion was costing a fair bit, and I was five years away from inheriting the balance of the money left to me by my grandmother.

“I’m free,” I said. “Where would you like to meet?”

“I’m working on the lot today. What about the Formosa Cafe? Shall we say one o’clock? I’ve a proposition I think you’ll find rather intriguing.”

Chapter Four

Walking into the Formosa Cafe is like stepping into Old Hollywood: red bricks, black and white awning, and a neon sign. It looks like the kind of place where Raymond Chandler would have knocked back a few highballs while he was writing for the studios; maybe he did. The Formosa has been around since 1939 and bills itself “where the stars dine.”

Over two hundred and fifty of those stars are plastered on the walls in black and white stills, including Humphrey Bogart, Elizabeth Taylor, James Dean, and Elvis. Even New Hollywood dines at the Formosa -- or at least stops in for drinks. The mai tais are legendary, and Paul Kane was enjoying one when I found my way through the gloom to his table.

“You made it,” he said in relief, as though there had been some doubt about my showing up. He beckoned to the waitress, indicating a mai tai for me. I quickly signaled no thanks as I slid into the red leather booth.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid I’ll poison your drink,” Kane said, pulling a rueful face.

“What would be your motive?”

He laughed delightedly. “You really are a mystery writer!”

“Tell it to the critics.” I smiled at the waitress and ordered an orange juice. “So what makes you think the police suspect you more than anyone else?”

He sighed and reshaped his mobile features into another of those charming expressions. “It’s been tactfully pointed out to me that I mixed the fatal cocktail.”

I considered him objectively -- tried to, anyway: he was distractingly good-looking, and this was the perfect setting for his old-fashioned handsomeness. I seriously doubted that Jake considered him a real suspect. Jake’s sense of self-preservation would have ensured he steered clear of Paul Kane’s sphere if he suspected Kane was really involved.

Wow. Maybe Jake was right. I was getting cynical in my old age. After all, even if Jake knew Kane was innocent, eager beaver Detective Alonzo would -- should at least -- consider the possibility that Kane was guilty. And, unless Jake had changed a lot in two years, he would allow the investigation to proceed unimpeded.

“Let’s order,” Kane said.

I had the chopped cucumber salad which offered carrots, cilantro, daikon radishes, bean sprouts, and Napa cabbage with crisp won ton strips. Kane had the rack of lamb. While we ate he chatted amusingly, cattily, about various celebrities -- including a couple seated within earshot of us.

He was on his third mai tai -- and I was seriously considering giving in and having one too -- when he said, “I assume Jake mentioned that we know each other…socially.”

I managed not to snort at the delicate pause before that “socially” comment. Because nothing said social occasion like butt plugs and paddles. I’d heard a few rumors that Kane, who was openly bisexual, was into the BDSM scene. It wasn’t a world I knew much about, but it was Jake’s playground -- or had been before his marriage.

“I gathered,” I said. I also gathered that he must know something of my own former relationship with Jake, although -- Jake being Jake -- no way would he know a lot beyond the fact that there had been a relationship.

Kane smiled as though amused by everything I wasn’t saying. “He happened to mention that in addition to writing mysteries, you’re something of an amateur sleuth -- and not a bad one.”

I choked on my orange juice -- which triggered one of my coughing spells. When I had regained my composure, and the worried-looking waiters had retreated once more, I said, “No way did Jake tell you I was an amateur sleuth -- let alone a good one.”

“He didn’t say you were a good one,” Kane admitted with a little bit of a twinkle -- yeah, a twinkle, and if that wasn’t stagecraft, I don’t know what is. “But he did say you had a real knack for it.”

Was that what he’d said? Interesting. Because I distinctly remembered…

Yeah. Whatever. Misty watercolor memories. There must have been something grim about my expression because Kane said quickly, “It wouldn’t be a formal arrangement. Nothing like that.”

“What wouldn’t?”

“I was thinking that you might -- unofficially -- ask a few questions.”

“About?” I blinked. “You’re not asking me to…what are you asking?”

He reached across and squeezed my hand in a lightly reassuring gesture. “It probably sounds mad, but I think someone like yourself would have greater luck getting to the bottom of this tragedy than Jake and his storm troopers. And I say this as someone who adores Jake, with or without his storm troopers.”