Death of a Pirate King - lanyon Josh - Страница 45

Alonzo was cursing -- practically crying with rage. I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

Jake jabbed his finger a centimeter from the detective’s nose. “You think you got a problem with me? File a grievance, asshole.”

“You think I won’t? You think I’m the only one with a complaint? You think I’m the only cop who’s noticed there’s something hinky with you?”

“Alonzo, cool it, man,” one of the officers warned.

Jake turned his back on Alonzo like he wasn’t worth the time. He nodded at me. “Get the handcuffs off him,” he told the other uniform, and the man moved to obey.

A moment later the handcuffs were off, and I was rubbing my wrists as Alonzo tore free and brushed by. He slammed into his car, screeched into reverse, and tore out of the alley, tires squealing.

The two uniforms hovered uneasily.

“Okay?” Jake asked me brusquely.

I nodded.

The message in his eyes was clear, so I turned and went inside the building.

I closed the door, leaned back against it. My heart was hopping and skipping like a rabbit that had unexpectedly been missed by a set of impending tires. I took a couple of long, slow breaths.

The phone jangled into life on the counter, and I pushed away from the door and picked it up.

“Adrien?” It was Natalie. “Is everything okay? Those cops kicked me out of the store! What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, but everything’s okay. I’ll call you in a little bit.” I hung up on her protests. Since I couldn’t see the alley from the bookstore, I went up to the flat and looked down. Jake was still there talking to the uniforms. He had turned his car engine off and everything looked calm. One of the officers was laughing, so it seemed like things were under control again.

The rush of adrenaline drained away, leaving me sick and shaky. I sat down on the sofa and rested my head in my hands. I needed to go downstairs and lock up the place, but for now I just didn’t care -- anyone who wanted to steal a book that bad was welcome to it. Hell, they were welcome to the cash register.

I tried to think. Al had been attacked. Was in a coma. It didn’t have to be connected to Porter’s death -- to the questions I had been asking -- but the timing was awfully coincidental.

According to Guy, there were no coincidences.

And Detective Alonzo probably agreed with him, which is why he was so eager to see me in stainless steel bracelets. I could sort of understand Alonzo’s position. I remembered a saying by Grace Murray Hopper: If you do something once, people will call it an accident. If you do it twice, they call it a coincidence. But do it a third time and you’ve just proven a natural law.

Four murder investigations did seem like a lot for an average citizen.

After what seemed like a long time, the door opened behind me. Jake said, “I locked up for you downstairs. Are you okay?”

I glanced around. “Fine. Fabulous. What the hell was that about?”

He’d taken his tie off and unbuttoned his collar. He looked as tired as I felt. “January’s ex-boyfriend dropped by and found January unconscious. He’d been hit over the head with a pre-Columbian stone carving. According to the housekeeper, you were with January when she left at two forty-five, which makes you the last person to be seen with January before he was attacked.”

“That’s probably true. I left a few minutes to three -- and called you.”

We hadn’t talked, though, I’d left a message was all -- and if anyone really investigated my “alibi” it was going to be immediately apparent that Jake had lied.

“We’ve got pretty good forensic evidence that January was probably attacked around five o’clock -- not long before the ex-boyfriend showed up. In fact, the ex may have scared off January’s attacker. You take the kid horseback riding around that time, right?”

I nodded.

“You’ve got more than enough witnesses to support your story, and January may pull through.”

I said, “You’ve got him under guard, I hope?”

He preserved a straight face, but I could see he was amused. Grimly amused, but amused nonetheless. So okay, maybe I have read too many mystery novels, but January’s assailant was ruthless and increasingly daring.

“Why the hell is Alonzo so eager to pin this on me? He’s got his suspect in jail already.”

Jake sat down across from me. “The case against Hawthorne isn’t going to hold water. Her lawyer came up with a witness -- one of Hawthorne’s employees who swears Hawthorne was never anywhere near the bar the morning they went to Kane’s to oversee the party arrangements. She’s willing to testify that Hawthorne was never out of her sight. The DA is buying it. Hell, I buy it. This is a very credible witness.”

“What possible motive would I have for attacking Al? Or Porter, for that matter.”

Jake shook his head. “I don’t think this is about you so much as me. Alonzo and I have history. He knows I don’t want him coming after you -- which is enough to make you…of interest to him.”

“Great.”

His mouth twitched at my tone. “Don’t worry. I’ll see he leaves you alone.”

“My hero,” I said glumly.

He gave me a funny look.

My thoughts moving in another direction, I said, “Al’s got two good-sized watchdogs.”

“The dogs were outside. That could mean January’s attacker put them out -- the dogs might have known him -- or January might have let them out. There’s every indication that he knew his attacker, or at least didn’t feel threatened. He let his assailant into the house, and was in the process of pouring two drinks when he was hit from behind -- twice.”

“Is he going to make it?”

“They don’t know yet.”

I nodded, stared at my hands. I liked Al January. And if I was right in my speculations, I had brought this on him -- inadvertently -- but did that really absolve me? If I hadn’t started poking around -- if I hadn’t insisted on continuing with the investigation even after I could see where it was headed --

And why? What was it to me? Nobody had asked -- or wanted -- me to keep digging after Nina Hawthorne was arrested. I had put myself back in Alonzo’s sights and maybe got Al January murdered -- and I still didn’t have any proof as to who had really killed Porter. Nor did I have any idea of how to get it.

Jake said dryly, “Don’t tell me you’re actually second-guessing yourself, Mr. Holmes?”

“You think I never second-guess myself?”

He said a little wearily, “I think you’re a chronic buttinsky.”

I looked away from his hard gaze.

“Hell,” he muttered. To my surprise, he rose from his chair, lowered himself to the sofa beside me, and put his arm around my shoulders. He pulled me over to him -- and even more surprising -- I let myself lean against him.

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “The only person who carries the blame for murder is the murderer. So don’t put this on yourself.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, willing it to be true. And more than that, allowing myself the pleasure of being in his arms for a moment, that unexpected mix of gentleness and strength -- yeah, he was going to make some mixed-up kid a good father one of these days -- the scent of his aftershave and the light tang of his sweat after his exertions with Alonzo. I listened to the quiet pound of his heart beneath my ear.

Jake added, “And we both know I sure as hell wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. I’ve never been in favor of sleuthing as a hobby -- for anybody.”

“I know,” I said. “So why did you go along with this idea of Kane’s? Because I just don’t believe that you felt incapable of getting the truth out of a bunch of egomaniacal, pretentious Hollywood types without the help of a tactful amateur.” I sat up, and I felt the reluctance with which he let me go.

“You know why,” he said. His eyes met mine, and then he looked away. His mouth curled in something that might have been self-mockery. “One thing about you, when you make your mind up, it stays made.”