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

I chuckled without much humor. Not more beautiful than Paul Kane -- unless we were talking inner beauty. I was pretty sure I was more beautiful on the inside that Paul Kane. I hoped so anyway.

I turned my head on the pillow and he was watching me curiously. I said, “My heart’s worse. I have to have surgery.”

Jake’s face stilled. “When?” he asked. His voice came out thick and unwilling.

I shook my head. “I haven’t talked to the surgeon yet. It would be soon, I guess.”

He had sucked in a sharp breath when I said I hadn’t talked to the surgeon. He let it out carefully and said, “What the hell are you doing?”

I smiled, thinking how odd it was that he was the only person in the world I could say this to. “I’m scared.”

He was staring at me. “No way. I’ve never known anyone with more guts than you.”

“We’re just not afraid of the same things,” I told him.

His face tightened and he stared at the window. At the night beyond this room.

I brushed my knuckles against the rough velvet of his jaw. “Everybody takes chances, Jake. You take chances. You’re taking a hell of a chance right now.”

He didn’t speak.

I let my hand fall and stared up at the ceiling. Neither of us said anything for some time.

Then he bent over me and kissed my forehead, his mouth drifting down to the bridge of my nose…my mouth -- lingering -- my chin…the hollow beneath my ear…the pulse at the base of my throat…my breastbone. My heart beat quietly and steady beneath his touch. He kissed me. His lips were soft as rose petals, his breath warm on my skin. “Don’t take a chance with this, Adrien,” he whispered.

I didn’t answer, stroking his head, feeling the short silk of his hair beneath my fingers. After a time my lack of response must have communicated itself to him. He drew back, studying me.

“What?”

“You must know,” I said finally. “Even if you weren’t sure before, you must know now.”

“I don’t want to talk about that. This is what matters right now. You and me.”

“You and I are together right now because of Paul Kane.”

“No.”

“Come on, Jake. How the hell are we supposed to ignore murder? He’s manipulated us every step of the way.”

He shook his head. “You’re wrong.” His eyes glinted. “About all of it.”

“Nothing else makes sense. How would anyone else have got the poison in that glass? Having me hand the glass to Porter is exactly his sense of humor -- so was bringing me in to ask a bunch of questions that any cop could have asked.”

“Where would he get the digitoxin?” And I could tell by the ready question that he had been mulling this over -- of course he had. He had an instinct for this kind of thing. The hunter’s instinct.

I shrugged. “I don’t know, but I know it’s a lot more important to prove how the poison was introduced to Porter’s glass than where the poison came from. The digitoxin could have been acquired a lot of different ways, but realistically only two people could have poisoned Porter’s drink. Me and Paul. It wasn’t me.”

“It wasn’t Paul.”

I didn’t say anything.

Jake said in a goaded voice, “And Paul’s supposed to have killed Jones because of this autobiography Jones was writing. Is that it?”

“I’m almost positive it has to do with Langley Hawthorne’s death.”

“That is total, wild speculation on your part.”

“Jake. Who else had a motive to get rid of Porter? The man was dying.”

“If Jones knew a murder had been committed, why would he have covered it up all these years?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t know what it was that he knew. I mean, maybe he didn’t realize there was something incriminating in what he remembered about the night Hawthorne died.”

“You’re guessing, for chrissake!”

“Yes, I am, but nothing else makes any sense. You either don’t see it or…”

“Or what?” he asked evenly.

“You see it but you can’t arrest him without outing yourself. And as far as you’re concerned, that’s as good as committing suicide.”

He made an impatient sound.

I said, “You can’t even afford to antagonize him because he’s got you over a barrel. And he knows it -- and gets off on it. It’s just the kind of game he likes. He reminds me of my old friend Rob in that respect. Except he’s got a cruel streak Rob never had.”

Jake ignored the digression. “Are you suggesting Paul’s blackmailing me?”

I met his eyes -- he was very angry but I felt strangely unmoved by his anger. “I don’t think he’d be clumsy enough to put anything into words, but you both know where you stand. He knows what you’re willing to sacrifice --”

“You think I would let him get away with murder to keep him from outing me?”

“But you don’t think he committed murder,” I pointed out. “You won’t allow yourself to even consider the possibility, right? So that solves that problem.”

He rolled up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “That’s a great opinion of me you have. No wonder you wouldn’t see me for two years.”

I opened my mouth to refute this, but indirectly, he was right.

I said, “The real problem for you is what happens next. If he gets away with this, if January dies or can’t remember what happened, and Paul gets away with murder -- and you let him -- basically you’re handing him carte blanche over you. And who knows what favor he’ll ask next. Maybe he’ll ask you to get rid of me.”

“Funny,” he said thickly.

Not really.

“Even if I’m totally wrong about him killing Porter -- even if that’s completely unfair -- you’re in a dangerous position with him. I saw that -- I think you did too -- last Sunday when he staged that little tableau with the three of us. He likes yanking your chain.”

“Bullshit.” But he wouldn’t face me.

“He’s arrogant and he’s cruel.” Of course, maybe that was the attraction. What did I know?

For a time neither of us spoke. At last Jake looked over his shoulder at me. “What’s your suggestion?”

I sat up. “Come out. Remove his leverage over you.”

“Come out?” His face tightened. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“If you take away his leverage --”

He didn’t let me finish. “Do you have any idea what it’s like out there for a gay cop?”

Oh man, they were playing our song.

“Doesn’t it depend on the cop?”

He was off the bed and across the room, dragging his clothes on. “Jesus, you’re naive. It’s hard enough to do this job without turning yourself into an outcast with your fellow officers. Did you see that asshole Alonzo in action out there today? And he doesn’t even know anything. He just suspects.”

“Okay, I’m naive,” I said. “But I kind of thought that if you allowed yourself to be blackmailed you became an accessory after the fact. Or an accomplice or something. You’re not just contemplating compromising an investigation -- you’re contemplating letting a murderer go free.”

“Paul is not a killer!”

Was my jealousy of Paul and Jake blinding me to reality? Warping my view of events? Was I the one who was just seeing what he wanted to see?

“You sure as hell know that he’s a blackmailer.”

He didn’t respond.

Well, hell. We all put up with a little emotional blackmail now and then, right?

It was sort of funny that Jake, who ordinarily saw the world in black-and-white -- in every possible sense -- would suddenly develop night blindness on this. I understood his fear -- I did -- but I was disappointed all the same. And disgusted.

Swiftly buttoning his shirt -- well in flight mode now -- he jerked out, “It’s not just the job. It’s my family.”

“There I can’t help you.” I thought of all the little compromises I had made through the years, the roster of eligible ladies I’d escorted to various functions for the sake of appearances -- for the sake of my mother. But I had never tried to deny who I was -- wouldn’t have the strength or energy for the kind of deception he’d lived his entire life.