An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide (30 page)

No one seemed to notice what felt like one of the most important moments of my life.

Even Jake was looking at me like he was about to ask if I was feeling all right.

The shop door bells jangled, and I looked over expecting to see Lisa. Instead I got a gander of Detective Alonzo's smiling face headed our way.

“Well, well, well,” he greeted us jovially, his gaze zeroed on Jake. “It's the Hardy Boys.

Dick and Peter.”

“Ugh,” Natalie said. It could have been her hangover talking, though it did nothing to defuse the situation.

Alonzo's broad face took on a dusky hue, and his shoulders bunched up with defensive aggression. “I got more questions for you, English.” To Jake, he said, “And you step one inch out of line, Riordan, and I'll bust your ass. You're not a cop, remember? You don't get to hide behind your shield now, and you don't get to use your authority to cover up for your little playmates anymore.”

It was like waving raw steak in front of a grizzly. Jake's head snapped up, his expression cold and dangerous. His body went relaxed and alert—the way a fighter readies himself. I could see in a flash exactly how it was going to play out. Jake was going to pulverize this asshole—

boyishly enjoying every minute of it—and then he was going to get thrown in jail for assaulting a police officer and lose his license and probably go to prison, where he would die in a massive riot because he couldn't control his goddamned temper…

I moved to meet Alonzo, smiling my best and most practiced smile. “Whoa, Detective. Did you hear what you said? And in front of all these witnesses?”

I think it was the smile that stopped him cold. You didn't expect to be greeted by smiles when you were doing your best impression of the Incredible Hulk.

“You walked in here and, without provocation, insulted me and Mr. Riordan—and then threatened us.”

Alonzo had been so focused on Jake, so intent on his goal of getting Jake to throw that crucial first punch, I didn't believe it had occurred to him that these people standing around were An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide

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technically witnesses. Recognition didn't calm him down any, and I had to wonder how he'd passed the academy psych test. Maybe his antipathy for Jake was an anomaly.

Or maybe not. I remembered something Jake had said when Alonzo was investigating Paul Kane: that Alonzo hated fags, hated intellectuals, and hated being wrong. Put it all together, and he was one boiling mess of resentment and frustration. On top of that, he was ambitious, and he believed Jake had kept him from solving the kind of homicide case that made careers.

So I guessed it was reasonable that he hated my guts—nearly as much as he hated Jake's.

Unfortunately he was the kind of guy who didn't know how to reverse when he found himself in deep shit. He kept spinning his wheels, digging in deeper. He came toward me, saying, “The hell I did. Nobody is going to give a damn what your family says.”

Jake's hand fastened around my upper arm like a vise. I expected to be tossed out of the way any second, so I kept talking. “Come on. I already know the Stevens's case is closed. I got a call from the detective in charge of the case at the CCHU. This is harassment, and we all know it.

Everybody in this room knows it. You can stand here and rant and rave, but you're not going to provoke the reaction you want.”

Alonzo stopped again. He was nearly in arm's reach of Jake now—and how they both dearly wanted me to shut up, move out of the way, and let them at it. I could feel it in the tension of their bodies. They were practically quivering with it. And yet…and yet…Jake was listening, waiting, and watching—he wasn't going to throw the first punch. He was still in control. The grip on my arm was more purposeful than punishing.

Even Alonzo was still in control enough to take a step back and say, “Oh yeah? We'll see.

We'll see if it's over.”

The first step was the hardest. Having managed it, he began to retreat toward the door, jabbing his finger at Jake as he said, “I'm not forgetting you, Riordan. Not for a minute. This is not over.”

“It is over,” I said. “I'm going in my office now to call your boss and file a complaint. It's over, and we all know it.”

He was less than complimentary as he slammed out of the store.

“My gosh,” Natalie exclaimed. “Is he
crazy
?” Over her shoulder, I could see Angus's horrified face.

“
You're
going to file a complaint?” Jake queried. He still had hold of my arm. Belatedly, it dawned that he had not been planning on throwing me aside; he'd been trying to restrain
me
.

“That's a new one.”

“Believe it. I'm sick of this juvenile male posturing. There's a reason we have laws, and there's a reason why police, more than anyone, need to be respectful of those laws.”

There was a line from
The Lady in the Lake
I could have quoted him: “Police business is a hell of a problem. It's a good deal like politics. It asks for the highest type of men, and there's nothing in it to attract the highest type of men.”

When Jake recognized that he had failed to live up to his responsibility to uphold that law, he had resigned. He had had the honor and the courage to step away. Not every man had that in him; I thought probably very few men did.

“Yeah, but you've never…” Jake said slowly, disbelievingly, “Are you trying to protect me?”

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“What if I am?” I said shortly. “What about it? Can't it go both ways?”

I couldn't tell if he was amused or offended. He seemed at a loss for words. At last he said simply, “Sure it can, Adrien. Thank you.”

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Chapter Sixteen

“Have you ever been to London, Jake?” Lisa asked.

“No,” Jake replied.

“We're thinking of spending Christmas this year in London.”

Jake's eyes met mine in the Forester's rearview mirror. We were on our way over to Truffauts and Trifles in Beverly Hills. Lisa was riding up front, while I sat in the back and recovered my equilibrium after my showdown with Detective Alonzo. Once the adrenaline had faded, I felt drained. Proof that I was still a ways from my usual self.

I said, “I haven't committed to Christmas in London. I haven't committed to Christmas anywhere.”

My mother was clearly amused. “Darling, Christmas happens whether you commit to it or not. Why not spend it in London? We had a lovely time in London when you were ten.” She confided to Jake. “He was
such
a wee imp.”

“I bet.”

What a shame Jake was an excellent driver. The likelihood of us all being wiped out by a semi anytime soon was scant, no matter how hard I wished it.

“What do you think about Christmas in London, Jake?” Something had happened to change Lisa's attitude toward Jake, and I couldn't figure out what it was. It was as though she had decided, out of the blue, to call for a cease-fire. She wasn't grilling him, exactly, though her idea of chitchat would have made an SS officer quake in his shiny boots.

“I like Christmas with the family.”

I stared out the window as a
Variety
billboard flew by. What would Christmas be like for Jake this year? Would his family have come around by the holidays? I thought of how desperately I'd wanted to spend Christmas with him two years earlier.

I wondered what I'd be doing for Christmas if Lisa took everyone overseas for the holidays. I glanced forward, and Jake was watching me in the rearview mirror again.

I smiled faintly. His mouth quirked in response.

“I can't leave the store unattended for that long.”

Lisa made a small sound of impatience. “I don't see why. You've hired that boy back.

Surely he can handle the holiday trade?”

“We're a lot busier than we used to be. That's why I'm expanding the bookstore.”

She bestowed on Jake the smile that usually turned strong men to puddles. “If you haven't noticed how
obdurate
my darling son is, let me warn you now.”

He grunted.

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“He's supposed to be developing a more healthy lifestyle. The doctors are adamant about that. I haven't seen much sign of it so far.”

“Speaking of healthy lifestyles, if you don't want me to fling myself from this speeding car, you'll stop discussing me like I'm not here.”

A muscle moved in Jake's cheek. Either he was keeping himself from saying something he'd regret, or the bastard was trying not to laugh.

“Of course, darling.” Those arched eyebrows spoke volumes. She confided to Jake,

“Naturally, like all men, he's sensitive about his health. I imagine you're strong as an ox?” She didn't actually pat his muscles or ask to check his teeth, but I did get the impression she was trying to determine his market value.

Jake seemed focused on the traffic—which, granted, was heavy.

Lisa sat up straighter in her seat. “This junket should be amusing. What's our cover story?”

“Cover story?” Jake questioned.

I said, “I can't think up a suitable cover story for asking if someone knows their father was a Nazi war criminal. I think we're going to have to wing it.”

“
Hm
.” My mother sounded very much like Emma when Emma did not approve of the vegetables on her dinner plate.

Jake's eyes found mine in the rearview mirror. “I've got interesting intel on our friend Harry Newman.”

“What's that?”

“Nick Argyle said that Louise Reynard never confirmed hiring Newman.”

“Are you serious?”

He raised one broad shoulder. “According to Argyle, there's no confirmation that Newman was ever working for anyone but himself.”

“Where does Reynard fit in?
Was
she Stevens's girlfriend?”

“That part of the story appears to be true. She did evidently convince Stevens's sister to go to the police—”

“
If
Jinx is Stevens's sister.”

“What? Where did you come up with the idea that she might not be?”

“It's probably crazy, but it occurred to me the other night that just because Jinx and Jay said they were brother and sister, doesn't prove that they were.”

“Ah,” Lisa said. “
Crime passionnel
.” She was powdering her nose.

“So you're theorizing that Jinx and Jay were married, and she killed him in a fit of jealous rage? Why would they pretend to be brother and sister?”

“Because she was underage. Because if she were his wife, he could have gone to jail for statutory rape, but if she were his sister, he was only guilty of being a lousy big brother.”

“I admit it's an interesting theory. Where does the Cross of Rouen fit in?”

“She took it, sold it, used the money to go to college, where she met and married Senator Powers.”

“Are you talking about Jane Powers?” Lisa inquired.

I nodded.

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“Darling, that's ridiculous. I've known Jane for years. She's no more capable of murder than I am.”

“I think anyone is capable of murder, given the right set of circumstances.”

Astonishingly, she said, “Killing, yes. Murder, no. I would
certainly
kill to protect my family. Could I commit cold-blooded murder? No.” She looked at Jake, smiled sweetly, and snapped shut her compact.

* * * * *

The gallery itself was the perfect background for her: stark, elegant, immaculate.

According to what I'd read on their Web site, T&T specialized in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century European antiques, art, and collectibles. Furniture, clocks, sculptures, paintings, silver, glass, chandeliers—I loved antiques, and for the first few minutes after our arrival, I was in danger of forgetting why we were at the gallery.

“A very fine Italian opaline and crystal chandelier. All original glass. Circa 1902.” Eve languidly steered us through the long and spacious showroom with white walls and floor tiles the color of old blood. “A steal at thirty-five thousand dollars.”

“Lovely,” my mother murmured.

“Or this perhaps. A French nineteenth-century belle-epoque gilt-bronze chandelier decorated with leaves.”

“That
is
nice,” I admitted.

“A mere nineteen thousand six.”

Jake made a pained sound behind me.

“It's rather small,” Lisa objected.

“We'll call it nineteen thousand,” Eve said carelessly.

We moved on to the paintings, which were upstairs. The staircase leading to the second level was wide and steep, but I experienced no distress climbing it. Granted, I didn't run up.

The gallery was another long white room, though ornamental shutters blocked out harmful sunshine. Strategically placed lights threw dramatic shadows on the paintings lining the walls.

“Ernesto Ricardi. Oil on canvas.
The Chess Game
. Signed. Sixteen thousand five hundred.”

“Is that an Atkinson Grimshaw?” I asked, moving past to a small green and gold oil of a moonlit harbor.

Eve followed. “John Atkinson Grimshaw. Yes. Eighteen seventy-nine, oil on canvas.

Moonlight at Whitby
.”

“Beautiful.” It was classic Grimshaw. Glowing window lamps, shiny, wet streets, sparkling moonlit water, luminous night skies. It looked mysterious, haunting, magical.

Eve's sherry brown eyes glinted. “Do you like it?”

“Very much.”

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