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

I was trying to make sense of the words “Jake” and “adore” in the same sentence. “I’m not sure I’m following,” I said slowly. I already knew that Jake and Kane were playmates -- but former playmates? Or was Jake back doing the club scene? And they were apparently friends? Like, did they go to each other’s birthday parties? It seemed unlikely, given how skittish Jake had been about our own friendship. I said, “I feel like I need to ask: what exactly is your relationship to Jake?”

Kane’s brows drew together. “I thought you knew. Jake and I have been lovers for about five years.”

I didn’t say a word.

Apparently I didn’t need to.

He said awkwardly, “I don’t know why I thought you realized.” His sensual mouth pulled into a little grimace. “I knew about you.”

There was a grinning Buddha statue sitting a few feet from us; I could see it peering right over Paul Kane’s shoulder, and I felt like I had been staring at that knowing stone face for years, and that years from now I would be able to close my eyes and see those crinkled laughing eyes and the wide gleeful mouth and the delicate folds of jowls frozen in sidesplitting merriment. And I thought maybe I didn’t need to worry about my heart anymore because it had stopped beating a couple of seconds earlier, and I was still sitting there living and breathing -- though admittedly I wasn’t feeling much of anything.

“No,” I said, “I didn’t know.” And I was startled to hear that level, cool voice come out of my face.

“Anyway,” Kane continued, “It occurred to me when that ape, Detective Alonzo, was grilling me for the third time that people are far more likely to talk to someone like you than the police. Someone with a little tact. A little sensitivity. A little discretion. I could ask people to cooperate with you, and they would. Of course any information you uncovered would be immediately turned over to Jake. I’m not asking you to solve a murder, just to…informally support the efforts of our boys in blue.”

I laughed -- and that was a surprise too because I didn’t really find much funny about this. “You can’t have discussed this with Jake. He would never have agreed to it.”

“Er…no,” admitted Kane. “But I don’t tell Jake everything.” His eyes met mine. “And Jake doesn’t tell me everything.”

Which I suppose was intended to restore confidence that my boyish secrets were still my own.

I said, “I don’t think you realize how badly Jake reacts to interference in a police investigation. Believe me, it wouldn’t be pleasant -- for either of us.”

I had a sudden memory of myself flat on my back blinking up at the decorative molding of my entrance hall, and Jake, his face dark with fury, looming over me.

“Let me handle Jake,” Kane said, and he spoke with easy confidence. Hey, and why not? He’d survived five years and Jake’s marriage. Safe to say he knew Jake a great deal better than I ever had.

He smiled at me, waiting for my answer. It was petty, but it was a pleasure to deny him something. I said with false regret, “I don’t think so, Paul. I don’t think it would be a wise move on my part.”

It seemed to catch him by surprise, though he recovered fast, hiding his disappointment. “Bollocks! Is there a way I can convince you to change your mind?”

I was shaking my head, regretful but firm. I sipped my orange juice, and I was pleased that my hand was perfectly steady. Maybe it was because I felt numb. Or maybe it was because it had all been a long time ago, and none of it really mattered now.

He eyed me speculatively. “You know, mate, it’s going to be very difficult for me to concentrate on getting this film of yours made while I’m under a cloud of suspicion.”

He did it beautifully -- charming and rueful and mostly joking. Not for one instant did it seem a serious threat. And it’s not like I was a stranger to the gentle art of blackmail; my mother would have put Charles Augustus Milverton to shame. And in Kane’s favor, I understood very well how it felt to be the prime suspect in a murder investigation. He had my sympathy there, even if I thought he was wrong about being the prime suspect; I happened to know that I was a popular contestant in the suspect sweepstakes too.

Which, come to think of it, did me give an incentive in seeing this investigation wrapped up as quickly and quietly as possible.

He must have caught my hesitation because he coaxed, “What about this? Suppose you simply start out by asking a few informal questions, and if you decide you don’t want to continue, then it ends right there. I won’t say another word.”

I sighed.

“Please?” he said.

He really was a very good-looking man, and he really did have an engaging smile. All the same, I’d have read his obituary without a flicker of regret. And how unfair was that? He’d done nothing to hurt me. It wasn’t Paul Kane I should be angry with -- assuming I should be angry with anyone.

So I said slowly, reluctantly, “I guess it wouldn’t kill me to ask a few questions.”

You’d think by then I’d have known better.

* * * * *

Dr. Cardigan draped the stethoscope around his neck. “Your lungs appear to be clearing nicely. How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” I said.

I know it isn’t logical, but I don’t trust a doctor who is younger than I am. Dr. Cardigan was a comfortable sixty-something with shrewd, black cherry eyes and a brisk but attentive manner. I liked him about as well as I was ever going to like a doctor, and I trusted him. Which didn’t mean I looked forward to seeing him, and if my stepsister wasn’t apparently in the employ of my mother and faithfully reporting back to HQ on my every movement, I might have blown off my appointment at Huntington Hospital.

Especially after lunching with Paul Kane. About three minutes after I agreed to ask a few informal questions on Kane’s behalf, I was having second thoughts. Anything liable to put me in Jake’s path was a bad idea. And the very thought of poking around in Porter Jones’s death was…wearying.

The black gaze met mine. “How tired?”

I shrugged. “Short of breath, coughing a lot.”

“That’s to be expected. Are you using oxygen at night?”

I shook my head.

“Adrien…”

“I’m not that short of breath. It’s okay with a couple of pillows.”

He gave me a disapproving look. “It’s very important that you get plenty of rest and that you do not push yourself.”

I nodded.

He studied me, and I tried not to shift uncomfortably. I hated this part. Actually, I hated all the parts of being a young guy with a funky heart. He said, “Because of your history it’s probably a good idea if we run a couple of tests, do another ECG.”

I kept myself from sighing again. He was liable to think I needed on-the-spot oxygenating. “Okay,” I said.

He raised his brows at my tone and started scribbling out prescriptions. “Meantime get plenty of rest, drink lots of fluids, and continue taking your antibiotics.”

“Okeydokey.”

He glanced up. “And cheer up, Adrien.”

* * * * *

It had taken some doing, but I had finally persuaded Lisa to agree to riding lessons for my youngest stepsis, Emma. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I drove Em down to Griffith Park and the Paddock Riding Club to watch her go through her paces. The kid was a natural -- even more of a horse nut than I’d been at her age -- which was why I had been determined to win that particular battle with Lisa. Next, I planned on getting Em her own horse, but I knew I’d have to wait for the right psychological opportunity to spring that one. I figured I could start small and suggest a hamster.

Usually Em and I would ride together after the lessons -- Griffith Park has something like fifty riding trails -- but a little less than one week out of hospital I didn’t feel up to it. Instead I watched her sailing over her jumps in one of the six sandy arenas -- cute as a button in her riding apparel -- and tried to think about how best to approach Porter Jones’s widow. Significant others are always the first suspects in a murder investigation -- which doesn’t say much for the course of true love.