Death of a Pirate King - lanyon Josh - Страница 10

I noted that she had decided I needed to leave once she was putting her clothes on. I said, “Yeah, that’s it. Is it okay if I call you if I have any other questions?”

She sighed. “I guess. I just want to make sure you understand that Porter and I were very happy. Our marriage had never been stronger.”

“Sure. And thank you for talking to me so openly,” I told her.

“I just want this all to go away,” she said, and while I sympathized, I could have told her from personal experience that murder took a long time to go away.

I found my own way downstairs through all the marble and tile and priceless art. I’d rarely seen a place that looked less lived-in, unless it was the Palace of Fontainebleau. Casa Jones had the chill feel of an after-hours museum. Maybe it was the decor or maybe it was just the domestic vibe.

Not that I was convinced Ally was a murderess. I thought she had been telling the truth right up until the end of our interview. And she might have been telling the truth when I asked her about other people with a motive for wanting Porter out of the way, but she had definitely got cagey. Of course everyone got cagey in a murder investigation -- including me.

She didn’t have any qualms about putting Al January under the bus, so it wasn’t like she was resisting the idea that Porter had been murdered. She seemed to have accepted that. So who had she suddenly realized had a motive for murder -- and why did it bother her?

I crossed the brick courtyard, climbed into my Forester and started down the long drive through what looked like a private park. Positioned outside the gates at the bottom of the driveway was a silver unmarked police car, prickling with antennae. Jake Riordan leaned against the side of the car, arms folded, clearly waiting.

I pulled through the gates and parked beside his car, rolling down my window.

“Well, well,” he said. “This can’t be a coincidence.”

“It could,” I said. “The odds aren’t high, but they do exist.”

“Uh-huh.” His face was impassive as he stared at me, and I felt a flare of nerves. I think it was nerves; certainly I knew firsthand just how unpleasant he could make himself. “So you’re trying to tell me that this is just a sympathy call, and you’re not thinking of sticking your nose into this investigation?”

I didn’t say anything. According to Paul Kane, my asking a few questions wasn’t supposed to be a problem, but here Jake was, and that generally spelled p-r-o-b-l-e-m in my book.

Into my silence, he said, “You mean like you kept your nose out of the Grimaldi investigation?”

“Sure,” I said warily.

He snorted. “You’d think with all the practice you’d be better at lying.”

“My lies?” I said, forgetting caution in an irrational surge of anger as I remembered Paul Kane admitting that Jake had been fucking him all the time he had been fucking me. He straightened up at whatever he read in my face. I hoped we weren’t in for another wrestling match because, really, what would the neighbors think? Even in Bel Air, where they say celebrities get away with murder, there were standards.

I said, “Maybe I was invited over here.”

“Maybe you were,” he agreed -- and it dawned on me that despite the hard appraisal of his eyes, he wasn’t angry. He should have been. The old Jake would have been. This Jake seemed…watchful? Guarded? The truth was, I didn’t know what he seemed. I couldn’t read him. And that, more than anything, confirmed for me how much time had passed since we were together. Together being relative.

It was painful and it was freeing at the same time.

“Maybe me and Mrs. Jones, we got a thing going on,” I said.

His mouth twitched into that reluctant, wry half smile I remembered so well. “I hope not,” he said. “That would make you a prime suspect in Mr. Jones’s murder.”

“I thought I already was.”

Astonishingly, he said, “Yeah. Well. Maybe we should talk.”

“Is that why you’re waiting here?”

“I’m waiting for Alonzo,” he said. “He’s late.” He checked his watch, and I found myself staring at his wedding ring again. Not that it was particularly flashy, but it kept catching my eye. “It’s nearly lunchtime. Let’s go grab something to eat.”

I didn’t want to have lunch with him. I didn’t want to ever see him again, but I needed to hear what he had to say, so I nodded and rolled up my window.

I followed him to the Beverly Glen Deli at the top of Beverly Glen Boulevard just below Mulholland Drive.

We got a table on the patio. The sun was already warm on this late June morning, which was fine with me; I felt like I’d been cold ever since I got out of the hospital. Jake sat back in his chair, studying me, and I studied him right back.

What was his secret? Did he get vitamin B shots? How the hell did he keep up with all the men and women and barnyard animals in his life? And if he’d intended to continue playing dangerous liaisons with Paul Kane, what about all that bullshit about breaking off with me because he wanted a real marriage? It didn’t make sense -- even from Jake’s admittedly screwy point of view.

Or maybe he hadn’t intended to continue with Kane. Maybe nine-to-five normal had just proven harder than Jake anticipated. Two years ago, desperate for a family and a “normal” life, he’d broken off his relationship with me in order to marry policewoman Kate Keegan. End of story. A few months later I’d learned from his partner, Paul Chan, a member of the writing group I ran at the bookstore, that Kate had miscarried and returned to duty. I guess there was still a chance of the family Jake always wanted, but the fact that he had resumed his old extracurricular activities -- had, apparently, never broken them completely off -- seemed to limit his chances of success.

I wondered if I’d have managed to restrain myself from outing him to Detective Alonzo if I’d known then about the five years with Paul Kane. I wanted to think I was that chivalrous, but I wasn’t sure.

The waitress appeared and handed us menus. I ordered orange juice. Jake ordered coffee. His cell phone rang. “Alonzo,” he said, and he excused himself.

I watched the locals come and go in their Mercedes and Maseratis, picking up their take-out orders of lox and cream cheese or corned beef sandwiches. Even the car exhaust smelled more expensive in Bel Air.

Jake returned a few minutes later and sat down again.

Neither of us said anything. It was the strangest moment. I thought of all the times I had longed for something as simple as going to eat with him that he didn’t spend the entire time worrying about somebody he knew seeing us together, and I thought of how we had never run out of things to say to each other until today.

The waitress brought our beverages and prepared to take our orders. Jake nodded for me to go first.

I said, “No, that’s okay. I’m not hungry.”

He scowled. “You need to eat something. You look like a goddamn skeleton.”

I sighed. “I know, I know. I look like the skeleton of that guy who was in Red River.”

It was an old joke. I didn’t think he’d remember, but his mouth tugged and he uttered a brief, harsh laugh. He shook his head like I was the nut at the table, and said to the waitress, “We’ll both have the chicken pot pie.”

She raised her eyebrows at this highhandedness, but I’ve learned to pick my battles. “Yeah, that’s fine,” I confirmed indifferently.

She went away and Jake drummed his fingers restlessly on the table. His gaze rested on the cars in the parking lot -- probably mentally running wants and warrants. He asked abruptly, “So, how did you get pneumonia?”

Dear God. We were going to make conversation.

“How does anybody get it?” I finished my orange juice. I wasn’t in the mood for chitchat -- and I didn’t remember it being Jake’s style either. At this rate he’d be asking about my mother and I’d bounce my juice glass off his head. “I caught the flu and it went into pneumonia.” Two weeks’ worth. I was relatively young and reasonably healthy, but my heart complicated things.