Cards on the Table - lanyon Josh - Страница 2

«You're writing a book about a homicide that took place back in 1957?» Jack was expressionless. «And you think…what? You've got some geriatric killer stalking you?»

I felt color rise in my face. «I don't know what to think,» I said evenly. «It's kind of a weird coincidence, don't you think?»

«Maybe. Who knows you're writing this book?» He stared at the card, and then he stared at me. His eyes were just the color of the ocean when the mist starts rolling in. «My publisher. The people I've interviewed so far.»

«And this card, The Tower, that's the card that was pinned to the decedent's – this Aldrich woman's – dress?»

«No. The card pinned to her dress was the sixth card in the major arcana, The Lovers.» «Not the same card?» «No.» «I see.» «Look, I know it sounds silly. But…»

But what? I was the kind of guy who jumped at shadows? I didn't have a sense of humor? I had too much imagination? I wanted attention? The unflattering possibilities were plenty.

He studied me for a moment, then straightened, arching his back a little like he was stiff – or bored with sitting there talking to me. «Okay. Tell you what,» he said. «I'll do some checking for you. See what the unofficial word is on this cold case of yours.» He shrugged a broad shoulder. «It can't hurt.»

I nodded, tension draining from my body. Maybe he was just humoring me, but I knew enough about Jack to know that if he said he'd check, he really would. Realizing I hadn't touched my beer, I tilted the bottle to my lips. Jack watched me steadily. It made me uncomfortable. «Have you uncovered any new info on the case?» he asked. «Not that I'm aware of.» «Maybe it is a joke.» «Where's the humor?»

He shrugged and checked his watch. It wasn't pointed, just remembering that he had somewhere to be. I set the bottle down, stood up. «Can I hang on to this?» He nodded to the card lying on the tabletop once more. «If there were any prints I messed them up handling the card.» «I noticed.» He offered that half grin. «It never hurts to check.»

«Thanks, Jack.» I moved toward the door. «I know this isn't really anything for the police. Unless something else –« «No problem.» He held the front door for me.

As I stepped out onto the shady walkway he said awkwardly, «I'm glad you stopped by, Tim. Really. I – uh – I've been meaning to call.» «Oh, shit yeah.» I shrugged. Smiled. No big deal, this. «I've been busy myself.»

Back in my apartment, I circled from room to room, trying to settle enough to get back to work. I wasn't sure what had me more off-kilter, seeing Jack again or finding the tarot card.

After a few minutes, I sat down on the sofa with a copy of Roman Mayfield's The Mystery of the Tarot, thumbing through until I found the description of The Tower.

Mars' martial light shines upon The Tower, the card of war. The dark masonry of a structure built of lies crumbles beneath the lightning flash of truth. The Tower represents «false concepts and

institutions that we take for real.» In a reading, the querent is often shaken when The Tower appears, expecting to be blinded by a shocking revelation. Sometimes the catalyst of reading forces the querent to face a bitter truth or knock down beliefs rooted in the concrete of self-deception. Was someone trying to tell me I was heading for a fall?

Absently I listened to the flap of palm tree leaves outside the open window, the distant rush of traffic from the Hollywood Freeway, listened for something else too. Something that didn't belong. There was nothing to hear but the normal sounds of apartment living: splashing and laughter from the pool, someone's stereo playing too loudly, another bout in an ongoing argument between my neighbors on the left.

And if I listened very carefully I could hear Jack humoring me. Okay. Tell you what. I'll do some checking for you.

That was nice of him, seeing that he hadn't been interested in keeping up the friendship – let alone something more.

Odd to think of him watching me swim. Couldn't have been for more than a moment – just long enough to decide he didn't feel like a morning swim.

If I closed my eyes I could feel his broad hand on the small of my back guiding our bodies closer, the comfortable friction of bare skin on skin, the solid rub of our erections. I could feel the tickle of his chest hair, the unexpected softness of his mouth…

But it hadn't been perfect, by any means. We'd both had too much to drink that night, and after we'd rushed past the feverish preliminaries of getting naked and getting between the sheets, there had been the usual awkward moments of trying to get into sync with each other, fitting our bodies together, finding a rhythm. The warmth of him, the salty taste of him, the clean scent of him.

Abruptly, I sat up and started clicking away on my laptop, like I could tap and type away from memories. It was just a couple of dates. Jeez. Get over it. I remembered I still had clothes in the laundry room washer.

The bad news – besides the rent – about living in one of those atmospheric 1940s LA apartment buildings was the little inconveniences, like parking in the back with the winos and homeless folk, the lack of any kind of security, and a laundry room that any Hollywood scout would immediately peg for a horror movie location.

Buried in the jungle of hibiscus and jasmine behind the pool yard, the laundry room was down a short flight of stairs. The overhead bulb was usually burned out because no one ever remembered to turn it off. There were three washers and three dryers to service the entire complex; I'd learned to take advantage of it during the day when most of the young and not-so-young professionals were working.

Carrying my laundry basket down the steps, I automatically flipped the wall switch, and, of course, nothing happened. It didn't matter because there was enough daylight from above so that I could see to scoop soap into the battered machine.

It was warm and noisy with the sudsy washers filling up and the dryers tumbling. I put the lid down on my sodden clothes and turned to get the previous load I'd left in the dryer. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement. I glanced swiftly toward the stairs. A shadow filled the doorway. The door to the laundry room slammed shut.

Chapter Two

«Hey!» I yelled.

There was no response; granted, it was hard to tell over the rumble of the machines and flood of water. I put a hand out, fingers brushing the cool cement wall, and started toward the stairs.

My foot bumped into the bottom step. I couldn't see a damn thing; it was like a crypt in there. I swore under my breath and went up the first couple of stairs – and realized there was someone with me in the humid darkness. Someone at the top of the stairs, blocking the exit.

I could feel him – and it was definitely a him because I could smell his cheap aftershave – feel his warmth and bulk – although I couldn't see him. I stopped midcharge and teetered off balance for a second. He growled, «Eva Aldrich is ancient history. Butt out or you'll be history too.» A couple of meaty hands planted in my chest, and he shoved me hard.

I fell back, grabbing blindly at empty air, and tumbled down the stairs, landing in a painful sprawl at the bottom, my head grazing one of the vibrating washers. Dimly I was

aware of the door above me opening, a flash of afternoon sunlight, and the door banging shut again.

Shocked, I just lay there for a few moments trying to process what had happened. Luckily, it was a short flight of steps. My elbow hurt and my back felt twisted, but mostly I'd landed on my ass. Nothing broken. Nothing sprained as far as I could tell. I'd banged my head against the washer, not hard, but hard enough, and that, more than anything, was scaring the shit out of me. I stayed still in the soap-scented blackness and waited for the fireworks. Meanwhile the asshole was getting away… But I let the thought go, just as I had to let my attacker go.