An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide (15 page)

He did care for me. I did believe that.

“Would you like another beer?”

Guy nodded.

I got up and went to the fridge. “Harp okay?”

“It doesn't matter.”

He sounded dispirited. I tried to think of something that would ease his pain. I didn't believe Guy loved me, though I knew he was pretty fond of me, and I knew he thought I was headed for disaster with Jake.

I took the beer to the sink, picked up the bottle opener, and stared out the window. My gaze fell on the lamp-lit streets and the alley below—sharpened as I caught a shadow moving along the deep shade of the tall cinder-block wall that separated the alley from the apartments across the way.

As I watched I saw it again: a figure creeping through the long shadows and squares of window light.

I stepped back and said urgently, “Guy, there's someone in the alley.”

“So?”

“He's lurking.”

70

Josh Lanyon

His expression reminded me of the looks Dr. Shearing threw my way when I resisted her helpful efforts on my behalf.

“He's
skulking
,” I clarified impatiently. “He's…furtive. Come here. See for yourself. He's up to something.”

Guy shoved his chair back at once and started to the window. I said quickly, “Don't let him see you.”

He muttered something. I caught the words
right nutter
. The rest of it escaped me.

“
There
,” I whispered. “You see?”

“I can't see a bloody thing. Are you sure—” He stopped short.

“See?”

He nodded.

“I think it's my burglar.”

Guy's profile grew forbidding.

“Can you follow him?”

He whipped around to face me. “Can I
what
?”

“Can you see where he goes? Can you follow him?”

“You're joking.”

“No.” The plan, to use the term loosely, took form instantly in my mind. “You follow him.

If he manages to break in to the building, we'll see what it is he's after. And if he doesn't break in, follow him. See where he goes. Maybe we'll get an address on him. Meantime, I'll grab my camera and see if I can get a photo of him. But in case I can't get down there fast enough—”

“Are you out of your bloody mind?” He was looking at me with something like horror.

“Sometimes I wonder if your mother isn't right. Sometimes I wonder if you
haven't
got a self-destructive streak.”

“Later, Guy. Right now just do this for me.” I added belatedly, “Please.”

I could see the internal struggle. Unfortunately we didn't have time for it. I spared a harried glance back at the alley. I couldn't see the prowler any longer. We were liable to lose this chance.

I started for the doorway, and Guy grabbed my shoulder.

“Oh no, you don't.” He gave me an exasperated shake. “Right. I'll do this. However,
you
don't leave this flat. Understand? Stay put. I'll see what the bastard is doing in your alley.”

“That almost sounds salac—” He was moving for the door, and I went after him warning,

“Be
careful
, for God's sake. And remember he can't see you, Guy. Don't confront him. If it were simply a matter of talking to him, I'd—”

He was out the door. I heard him taking the stairs quickly. I went to the window, standing well to the side as I stared down.

There.

The prowler was trying for one of the back windows, perhaps thinking—rightly—that I would delay arming the alarm system till my visitor left.

“You stubborn son of a bitch,” I murmured, watching the shadow prying at the frame. I looked for Guy but saw no sign of him. It wouldn't take him more than thirty seconds to get An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide

71

down the stairs and out the back door. Hopefully he was already getting into position. Maybe now we'd find out what this guy was after.

I left the window, heading for the bedroom. Tomkins, contently putting claw marks on the bottom drawer of an antique dresser
meowed
, and I
meowed
back louder, which shut him up. I'd received a very nice camera for my last birthday—with a terrific zoom lens. I'd never really learned to work it. Still, I thought I could fumble my way through this photo op.

The camera wasn't in my bedroom, though. I'd relegated it to the room I was supposed to use as my upstairs office. I found it at last, only to hear the alarming crash and bang of trash cans.

I ran back to the window and saw Guy struggling with a slim figure in black. “
Shit
.”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that Guy might be seriously injured. Because the prowler had fled the previous times, didn't mean he wouldn't turn violent if he thought he was in real jeopardy.

“Hey!” I yelled from the window. “You'd
better
run, you bastard.”

Guy went sprawling back into a mound of black trash bags. The intruder sprinted away, although he seemed to be limping.

“Guy, are you all right?” I shouted.

I couldn't make out his answer, although it was encouragingly vigorous.

I got down the stairs and out to the alley as Guy was getting to his feet. He brushed off the pieces of colored packing peanuts—and less-innocuous materials—clinging to his clothes.

“Are you all right?” I gasped again as I reached him.

“Yes, I'm fucking brilliant. No thanks to you.”

“What the hell happened? How did he see you?”

He wiped his face on his forearm. “He saw me when I took his picture with my cell phone.”

“You did what?” I was torn between alarm and delight. “Why did you do that? Jesus. I
told
you not to let him see you. I
told
you to be careful. He could have been armed, for all we knew.”

Guy's head snapped up. “
You
of all people have one hell of a nerve telling me off for not being careful.”

“Well, Guy.” I really didn't have an answer to that one. Shutting up seemed my best bet.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, thrusting it into my hands.

“Download whatever is on there so I can get the hell out of here.”

I started to speak, but his face, a jaundiced yellow in the waxen light from overhead, was not encouraging. I turned away, pausing at the sight of something flat and furry in the alley. For one repelled instant I thought it was a dead animal. I realized it was a toupee.

“Look at this.”

I bent to pick it up, and Guy said with savage satisfaction, “I thought so.”

I dangled the toupee. “I think you're supposed to count coup or something.”

“Ugh.”

“
This
is what I call a clue.”

72

Josh Lanyon

Guy followed me inside the bookstore. I found a bag for the toupee. We went into my office, and I downloaded a couple of blurry photographs.

“Aha,” I exclaimed as the jet-black hair, pencil-thin mustache, and seamed face materialized on my laptop screen. “I knew it was too much of a coincidence.”

“Do you know who this is?”

“Henry Harrison.”

“Who?”

“Actually, that might not be his real name.”

“I'm lost.” And he sounded lost—uncharacteristically so.

“He came to the bookstore the morning after the first break-in. He claimed to be a tourist from Milwaukee by the name of Henry Harrison. I'd bet money that's not his real name. And I know someone who might recognize him.”

“Let me guess. Jake Riordan.”

“No. Although…”

Guy put his hand up. “I don't care. I don't want to know.”

I saved the photos and turned to face him. “Thanks for doing this, Guy. I really didn't intend for you to put yourself in harm's way. Why don't we go finish dinner?”

He sighed. “Thank you, but no, thank you. I need a shower and a drink and a fuck—in that order.”

“I can do the drink and the shower.” I wasn't up to the other, although in a way it would have been comforting to be together one last time. Not fair to Guy, however.

“I wouldn't be satisfied with the drink and the shower.” He bent to kiss me. “I'll call you.”

I had a wistful feeling it wouldn't be anytime soon.

After Guy left I turned on the alarm and debated calling the police. Since the prowler was gone, was there any point in taking up the rest of my evening with making a police report? Yes, I had a photo of sorts and a toupee soaked with DNA, and I'd turn those over if Jake thought that was the way to go. I believed I had a better idea.

I sat down to e-mail Jake and realized I didn't have his e-mail address. E-mail had been strictly verboten. As I had heard many times, e-mail lasted longer than Styrofoam and was ten times more deadly.

I called him.

“Riordan.”

“Sorry, I know it's late. I've got a photo of Henry Harrison. I want to send it to you if you've got e-mail.”

“How the hell did you manage that?”

“Guy managed it. Harrison tried to break in again tonight, and Guy ran downstairs and took a couple of photos on his cell phone. Neither is great, but the image on one of them is distinct enough that I was thinking maybe Nick Argyle might be able to ID Harrison.”

One of the—many—things I liked best about Jake was it didn't take him long to process information. “You're sure now Harrison is an alias?”

An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide

73

“The more I think about it, the more I have trouble believing he'd walk into my bookstore and volunteer his real name.”

Whatever Jake thought of that, and I was sure it was plenty, he restrained himself to giving me the e-mail address.

“Okay. I'm attaching the files to the e-mail now.”

And then neither of us said anything.

Into that lull where all that was unspoken seemed to lap against the silence, he spoke. “I'll let you know what I find out.”

And again neither of us seemed able to say good-bye and hang up.

I said, “Oh, I found a couple of Dan Hales in Santa Barbara. One we can scratch off our list. The other—”

“Right,” he said crisply, and it was a very different tone of voice. “I know you're bored and restless, and I've got no problem with you coming along with me on any interviews that might develop, but you are
not
—let's get this straight now—to go forging off on your own. Not three weeks after heart surgery.”

“Four.”

“Not on my watch. You got that?”

“Yes, I've got that,” I responded testily. “If you'll notice, I'm not forging off on my own. I let Guy take the photos, and I'm telling you exactly what I found, which is not a hell of a lot.”

“Uh-huh.” And there was a wealth of sardonic derision in those two syllables.

“I'm not sure what that's supposed to mean.” I was annoyed to hear that huffy note in my voice—giving away that I knew exactly what he meant.

“It means I know you, Adrien with an
e
, and I know you get reckless when you're impatient. You're paying for this investigation, and I'll keep you apprised every step of the way, but if you even think about going rogue on this one, I'm turning in my fedora and you can hire some other dick.”

I don't want any other dick
. I closed my mouth on that one—metaphorically speaking—

and said, “I don't know why the hell everyone seems to think I'm so reckless—”

“One of life's little mysteries.”

“Guy is the one who took the risk in getting that photo of Harrison.”

“Good for Gandalf. I'm sure he only did it to keep you from doing it yourself.”

“Good night,” I said shortly.

“Talk to you tomorrow.”

I hung up and pressed Send on the computer.

74

Josh Lanyon

Chapter Eight

“You do remember that I'm not exactly an equestrian.” Mel glanced away from the Saturday-morning traffic. We were on our way to Osseo Farms in Chino to have a look at Adagio.

“Oh I remember.”

He must have seen I was struggling to keep a straight face—both of us remembering a particular weekend when we were still in college when we'd rented horses for an afternoon from a local stable. Mel's horse had quickly figured out he didn't know his stirrup from his snaffle bit.

The horse had refused to budge on a tricky bit of trail. We'd dismounted, traded horses, and I'd got Mel's horse down the trail—only to discover that my own horse had balked and was impersonating a mule. Needless to say, it was the last time we went riding.

“I can't believe I'm letting myself in for this.”

I said, “Relax. I want to see how this horse behaves with an inexperienced rider.”

“You'll certainly get that.”

It was a long drive, though it flew by as we talked—not about anything very important—

and caught up on the last few years.

“You remember when you called about three years ago?” Mel asked. “You were staying at your grandmother's ranch in Basking? You wanted information about a former colleague of mine.”

“I remember.”

“I almost called you back and asked if you wanted company for the weekend.”

I was still, remembering that trip. My relationship with Jake had altered substantially after the week we spent at Pine Shadow Ranch—had become what I believed was a genuine relationship. Or as much of a relationship as we could manage, given Jake's insistence on remaining in the closet. Nor could I be alone in thinking there had been a genuine bond, if Jake had broken off with Paul Kane afterward.

Things
had
changed between us, though not enough. That had been okay—partly because I had always warned myself not to expect much of my relationship with Jake. From the very beginning I had told myself it wasn't—couldn't—lead to anything lasting.

But I'd still hoped. I had still wanted it. It had still hurt too much when it ended.

“I wish I had,” Mel added.