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

“So Nina’s arrest took you by surprise?”

He sighed. “Yes. And no. It’s the kind of thing I can imagine Nina doing -- maybe not at this point in her life, but at another point, yes. She hated Paul very much at one time. Maybe she still does.”

So much for that angle. I said, “Those cocktails Paul Kane makes. The Henley Skullfarquars. Was that an unusual thing?”

“The skull fuckers? No. Paul makes them at most of his parties -- especially on the Pirate’s Gambit. Liquid headache, that’s what those are. Gin, grenadine, cider, Pimm’s, Smirnoff…and we’re usually drinking them in the sun on the boat.” He shuddered.

I already knew the answer, but I wanted confirmation. “They’re made by the glass or what?”

“By the jug. He mixes them up in an antique silver punch bowl.”

I couldn’t recall seeing a punch bowl anywhere, but I was pretty sure only Paul had been behind the bar that afternoon.

“That’s interesting,” I said, “because only Porter’s drink was poisoned.”

“Right. The punch bowl wasn’t poisoned, just Porter’s glass,” agreed Al.

“Do a lot of people drink that punch?”

“Not more than once,” Al said. “Like I said, it’s a headache in a glass. Porter drank it. Porter would drink anything. Paul swears by the stuff. Paul can put the booze away.”

I said, “I was standing right there at the bar -- I handed Porter his glass -- and for the life of me, I can’t think how Nina would have got poison into it. She wasn’t even there.”

Al’s eyes met mine. “That’s for the police to work out, right? They must be pretty sure or they wouldn’t have arrested her.”

I used to think that way too a few murder investigations ago.

“You don’t remember seeing anything?”

He was absently stroking the dog, which rested its big head on his thigh. “I’d have told the police if I’d seen anything.” He glanced at the untouched bottle of juice. “Did you want some ice with that?”

“I’ve got to get going,” I said. “Oh, did you know Porter had started working on his memoirs again?”

I was watching him, so I saw his hand freeze on the dog’s broad head. He looked at me. He said slowly, “Yes.”

I didn’t say anything and neither did he. Then, finally, he said, “Why?”

“I wondered what happened to the manuscript.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ally says it’s not with Porter’s papers. It’s not anywhere.”

“Marla --”

“Marla says no. She confirmed that he was working on the book again, but she didn’t know what might have happened to it after his death.”

“Maybe he lost interest,” Al said. “Maybe he decided to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Maybe he did at that,” I agreed.

* * * * *

I was not surprised that Jake didn’t pick up when I called after leaving Al January’s hillside home.

He rang me back while I was watching Emma riding around the paddock at the club that afternoon, but I didn’t pick up. He knew what he needed to know: I was still alive and annoying people.

All I really had was a string of suppositions and my instinct. And I wasn’t about to use the I word in Jake’s presence. I needed more in the way of tangible proof, but I had no idea of how to make that happen. And if I tried to go to Jake with anything less than tangible proof, I knew he’d dismiss it -- and I couldn’t say I blamed him.

I was walking back to the parking lot with Emma when her riding lesson was finished, my thoughts a million miles away, when she said suddenly, very quietly, “Adrien, are you going to have that operation?”

Was it, like, a topic of dinner conversation around the Dauten household?

“Probably, kiddo.”

She slipped her hand into mine.

* * * * *

When I got back home after dropping Em off, I found two police cars parked in the alley outside Cloak and Dagger.

One police car could mean anything, but two… Not that I have a guilty conscience.

I parked next the unmarked car and got out, making sure I kept my hands where everyone could see them; they were sweating -- there’s no way this could be anything but bad news; how bad was the only unknown -- but I resisted the temptation to wipe them on my jeans.

The doors flew open on the black-and-white and two cops got out, holsters unbuttoned. The side door to the bookstore opened, and Detective Alonzo stood framed there. He was wearing that big, unpleasant smile of his.

“Mr. English! Where’ve you been all afternoon?”

The uniformed officers moved up on either side of me.

I said warily, “What part of the afternoon? I’ve been at the Paddock Riding Club down by Griffith Park for the last couple of hours.”

“Yeah? I guess you can prove that?” Alonzo inquired, walking toward me. He had his handcuffs out. “And where were you before that?”

I said, “What the hell is going on?” I think I took an instinctive step backward.

One of the cops grabbed me and shoved me against the side of the Forester. Someone kicked my feet apart, yanked my arms behind my back. Someone else was patting me down with ruthless efficiency.

Alonzo announced cheerfully, “Adrien English, you’re under arrest for the attempted murder of Al January.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The ground tilted sharply beneath me, and I rested my forehead on the Forester’s warm paint, breathing in long and slowly. I thought just about anything would be preferable to passing out at the feet of that sonofabitch Alonzo.

Attempted murder. Now that I hadn’t seen coming. Not at all.

After a few seconds the dizziness eased enough that I got a grip on myself. I turned my head to try to see Alonzo’s face. No luck. “Al’s alive?” I got out.

“That’s right,” Alonzo said behind me. “Disappointed?”

He snapped the handcuffs around my wrists -- cold metal -- and tighter than you’d expect -- and peeled me off the side of the car.

I rasped, “Al said I tried to kill him?” I couldn’t make sense of it. I felt dazed, as if someone had punched me hard where it counted.

“January’s not saying anything,” Alonzo said. “He’s in a coma. The housekeeper --” He broke off as a silver sedan drew down the alley and rolled up beside us. I recognized Jake behind the wheel and -- maybe illogically -- I felt a surge of relief. I mean, for all I knew, he had ordered them to pick me up…

“Is that Riordan?” one of the uniforms said uneasily.

“Shit,” Alonzo muttered.

Jake didn’t even turn off his car engine. The door flew open, he unfolded, and there was no mistaking the fury on his face. He said, “What the fuck is going on here, Detective? I told you not to --”

Alonzo interrupted, “I have a right to pursue any avenue of investigation that I --”

And Jake roared, “Goddamn it, that wasn’t a suggestion, I ordered you to back off. I told you I talked to English before and after the interview with January. I spoke to him at three o’clock. I’m his fucking alibi.” His eyes -- hard and flat -- met mine for a fleeting instant. He jerked his head at one of the uniforms. “Cut him loose.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Alonzo screamed. “This is my case. You’ve blocked me every fucking step of the way, trying to protect your rich faggot friends --”

Jake lunged forward; there was scuffling behind me and the uniforms let me go and tried to get between Jake and Alonzo.

“Lieutenant, Lieutenant!” one of the officers protested, sounding winded.

Jake had Alonzo backed up against the side of the building, massive fists bunching Alonzo’s shirt as he pinned him. Alonzo fought to free himself, hand raised like he wanted to punch Jake, but one of the uniformed officers was hanging onto his arm -- the other cop shouldered between Jake and Alonzo, trying to keep his footing as the two men surged at each other. Then Jake stepped back, shrugging his shoulders, cranking his head side to side like one of the early Terminator models.