Lanyon, Josh - Adrien English 04 - Death of a Pirate King

DEATH OF A PIRATE KING

(An Adrien English Mystery)

Josh Lanyon

www.loose-id.com

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Death of a Pirate King (An Adrien English Mystery)

Josh Lanyon

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might
be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names,
characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.

Published by

Loose Id LLC

1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924

Carson City NV 89701-1215

www.loose-id.com

Copyright © September 2008 by Josh Lanyon

All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the
purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or
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faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

ISBN 978-1-59632-744-3

Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

Printed in the United States of America

Editor: Judith David

Cover Artist: Croco Designs

Coincidence, if traced far enough back, becomes inevitable.

Hineu

Chapter One

It was not my kind of party.

Sure, some people might think the dead guy made it my kind of
party, but that wouldn’t be a fair assessment of my entertainment needs -- or
my social calendar. I mean, it had been a good two years since I’d last been
involved in a murder investigation.

I sell books for a living. I write books too, but not enough
to make a living at it. I did happen to sell one book I wrote to the movies,
which is what I was doing at a Hollywood party, which, like I said, is not my
scene. Or at least, was not my scene until Porter Jones slumped over and fell
face first into his bowl of vichyssoise.

I’m sorry to say my initial reaction, as he keeled over, was
relief.

I’d been nodding politely as he’d rambled on for the past ten
minutes, trying not to wince as he gusted heavy alcoholic sighs my way during
his infrequent pauses. My real attention was on screenwriter Al January, who
was sitting on the other side of me at the long, crowded luncheon table.
January was going to be working on the screen adaptation of my first novel,
Murder Will Out
. I wanted to hear what
he had to say.

Instead I heard all about deep-sea fishing for white marlin in
St. Lucia.

I pushed back from the table as the milky tide of soup
spilled across the linen tablecloth. Someone snickered. The din of voices and
silverware on china died.

“For God’s sake, Porter!” Mrs. Jones exclaimed from across
the table.

Porter’s shoulders were twitching and I thought for a moment
that he was laughing, although what was funny about breathing soup, I’d no idea
-- having sort of been through it myself recently.

“Was it something you said, Adrien?” Paul Kane, our host,
joked to me. He rose as though to better study Jones. He had one of those
British public school accents that make insignificant comments like
Would you pass the butter
sound as
interesting as
Fire when ready!

Soup dripped off the table into my empty seat. I stared at
Porter’s now motionless form: the folds on the back of his thick tanned neck,
the rolls of brown flab peeping out beneath the indigo blue Lacoste polo, his
meaty, motionless arm with the gold Rolex watch. Maybe twenty seconds all told,
from the moment he toppled over to the moment it finally dawned on me what had
actually happened.

“Oh, hell,” I said, and hauled Porter out of his plate. He
sagged right and crashed down onto the carpet, taking my chair and his own with
him.

“
Porte
r
!” shrieked his wife, now on her feet,
bleached blonde hair spilling over her plump freckled shoulders.

“Bloody hell,” exclaimed Paul Kane staring down, his normally
unshakable poise deserting him. “Is he --?”

It was hard to say what Porter was exactly. His face was
shiny with soup; his silvery mustache glistened with it. His pale eyes bulged
as though he were outraged to find himself in this position. His fleshy lips
were open but he made no protest. He wasn’t breathing.

I knelt down, said, “Does anyone know CPR? I don’t think I
can manage it.”

“Someone ring 911!” Kane ordered, looking and sounding like
he did on the bridge of the brigantine in
The
Last Corsair
.

“We can trade off,” Al January told me, crouching on the other
side of Porter’s body. He was a slim and elegant sixty-something, despite the
cherry red trousers he wore. I liked his calm air; you don’t expect calm from a
man wearing cherry red trousers.

“I’m getting over pneumonia,” I told him. I shoved the fallen
chairs aside, making room next to Porter.

“Uh-oh,” January said and bent over Porter.

* * * * *

By the time the paramedics arrived, it was all over.

We had adjourned by then to the drawing room of the old
Laurel Canyon mansion. There were about thirty of us, everyone, with the
exception of me, involved one way or the other with movies and moviemaking.

I looked at the ormolu clock on the elegant fireplace mantel
and thought I should call Natalie. She had a date that evening and had wanted
to close the bookstore early. I needed to give Guy a call too. No way was I
going to have the energy for dinner out tonight -- even if we did get away in
the next hour or so.

Porter’s wife, who looked young enough to be his daughter,
was sitting over by the piano, crying. A couple of the other women were
absently soothing her. I wondered why she wasn’t being allowed in there with
him. If I was dying I’d sure want someone I loved with me.

Paul Kane had disappeared for a time into the dining room
where the paramedics were doing whatever there was left to do.

He came back in and said, “They’ve called the police.”

There were exclamations of alarm and dismay.

Okay, so it wasn’t a natural death. I’d been afraid of that.
Not because of any special training or because I had a particular knack for
recognizing foul play -- no, I just had really, really bad luck.

Porter’s wife -- Ally, they were calling her -- looked up and
said, “He’s
dea
d
?” I thought it was pretty clear he was a goner from the
moment he landed flat on his back like a harpooned walrus, but maybe she was
the optimistic kind. Or maybe I’d just had too much of the wrong kind of
experience.

The women with her began doing that automatic shushing thing
again.

Kane walked over to me, and said with that charming,
practiced smile, “How are you holding up?”

“Me? Fine.”

His smile informed me that I wasn’t fooling anyone, but
actually I felt all right. After nearly a week of hospital, any change of
scenery was an improvement, and, unlike most of the people there, I knew what
to expect once someone died a public and unexpected death.

Kane sat down on a giant chintz-covered ottoman -- the room
had clearly been professionally decorated because nothing about Paul Kane
suggested cabbage roses or ormolu clocks -- fastened those amazing blue eyes on
me, and said, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Well, yeah,” I said. Violent death in the dining room?
Generally not a good thing.

“Did Porter say anything to you? I couldn’t help noticing
that he had you pinned down.”

“He mostly talked about saltwater big game fishing.”

“Ah. His passion.”

“Passion is good,” I said.

Kane smiled into my eyes. “It can be.”

I smiled back tiredly. I didn’t imagine that he was coming on
to me; it was more…an actor picking up his cue.

He patted my knee and rose. “It shouldn’t take much longer,”
he said with the optimism of inexperience.

They kept us waiting for probably another forty minutes, and
then the doors to the drawing room opened silently on well-oiled hinges, and
two cops in suits walked in. One was about thirty, Hispanic, with the tightly
coiled energy of the ambitious young dick, and the other was Jake Riordan.

It was a jolt. Jake was a lieutenant now, so I didn’t see why
he’d be here at a crime scene -- except that this was a high-profile crime
scene.

As I stared it was like seeing him for the first time -- only
this time around I had insider knowledge.

He looked older. Still ruggedly good-looking in that big,
blond, take-no-prisoners way. But thinner, sharper around the edges. Harder. It
had been two years since I’d last seen him. They didn’t appear to have been a
blissful two years, but he still had that indefinable something. Like a young
Steve McQueen or a mature Russell Crowe. Hanging around the movie crowd, you
start thinking in cinema terms.

I watched his tawny eyes sweep the room and find Paul Kane. I
saw the relief on Kane’s face, and I realized that they knew each other:
something in the way their gazes met, linked, then broke -- not anything anyone
else would have caught. I just happened to be in a position to know what that
particular look of Jake’s meant.

And since I was familiar with the former Detective Riordan’s
extracurricular activities, I guessed that meant the rumors about Paul Kane
were true.

“Folks, can I have your attention?” the younger detective
said. “This is Lieutenant Riordan and I’m Detective Alonzo.” He proceeded to
explain that while the exact cause of Porter Jones’s death was as yet
undetermined, they were going to ask us a few questions, starting with whoever
had been seated next to the victim during the meal.

Paul Kane said, “That would be Valarie and Adrien.”

Jake’s gaze followed Paul Kane’s indication. His eyes lit on
me. Just for a second his face seemed to freeze. I was glad I’d had a few
seconds’ warning. I was able to look right through him, which was a small
satisfaction.

“I don’t understand,” the newly widowed Ally was protesting.
“Are you saying…what
are
you saying?
That Porter was
murdere
d
?”

“Ma’am,” Detective Alonzo said in a pained way.

Jake said something quietly to Paul Kane, who answered. Jake
interrupted Alonzo.

“Mrs. Jones, why don’t we move next door?” He guided her
toward a side door off the lounge. He nodded for Alonzo to follow him in.

Despite Detective Alonzo’s “undetermined causes” it seemed
pretty clear to me that if the police were interrogating us they had pretty
much ruled out accidental or natural death.

A uniformed officer took Alonzo’s place and asked us to
please be patient and refrain from speaking with each other -- and immediately
everyone started speaking, mostly protesting.

After a few minutes of this, the side door opened again and
everyone looked guiltily toward the doorway. Ally Porter was ushered straight
out.

“The performance of a lifetime,” Al January commented next to
me.

I glanced at him, and he smiled.

“Valarie Rose,” Detective Alonzo requested.

A trim forty-something brunette stood up. Rose was supposed
to direct
Murder Will Out
, assuming
we actually got to the filming stage -- which at the moment felt unlikely. She
wore minimal makeup and a dark pantsuit. She looked perfectly poised as she
passed Detective Alonzo and disappeared into the inner chamber.

She was in there for about fifteen minutes and then the door
opened; without speaking to anyone, she crossed into the main room. Detective
Alonzo announced, “Adrien English?”

Kind of like when your name gets called in the doctor’s
office:
That’s right, Adrien. This won’t
hurt a bit
. I felt the silent wall of eyes as I went into the side room.

It was a comfortable room, probably Paul Kane’s study. He
seemed like the kind of guy who would affect a study. Glass-fronted bookcases,
a big fireplace, and a lot of leather furniture. There was a table and chairs
to one side where they were conducting their questioning. Jake stood at a large
bay window that looked down over the back garden. I spared one look at his
stony profile before sitting down at the table across from Detective Alonzo.

“Okay…” Alonzo scratched a preliminary note on a pad.

Jake turned. “That’s Adrien with an
e
,” he informed his junior. His eyes met mine. “Mr. English and I
are previously acquainted.”

That was one way to put it. I had a sudden, uncomfortably
vivid memory of Jake whispering into my hair, “Baby, what you
do
to me…” An ill-timed recollection if
there ever was one.

“Yeah?” If Alonzo recognized there was any tension in the
air, he gave no sign of it, probably because there’s always tension in the air
around cops. “So where do you live, Mr. English?”

We got the details of where I lived and what I did for a living
out of the way fast. Then Alonzo asked, “So how well did you know Mr. Jones?”

“I met him for the first time this afternoon.”

“Ms. Beaton-Jones says you and the deceased had a long, long
talk during the meal?”

Beaton-Jones? Oh, right. This was Hollywood. Hyphens were a
fashion accessory. Ms. Beaton-Jones would be Porter’s wife, I surmised.

I replied, “He talked, I listened.” One thing I’ve learned
the hard way is not to volunteer any extra information to the police.

I glanced at Jake. He was staring back out the window. There
was a gold wedding band on his left hand. It kept catching the light. Like a
sunspot.

“What did he talk about?”

“To be honest, I don’t remember the details. It was mostly
about deep-sea fishing. For marlin. On his forty-five-foot Hatteras luxury
sport-fishing yacht.”

Jake’s lips twitched as he continued to gaze out the window.

“You’re interested in deep-sea fishing, Mr. English?”

“Not particularly.”

“So how long did you talk?”

“Maybe ten minutes.”

“Can you tell us what happened then?”

“I turned away to take a drink. He -- Porter -- just…fell
forward onto the table.”

“And what did you do?”

“When I realized he wasn’t moving, I grabbed his shoulder. He
slid out of his chair and landed on the floor. Al January started CPR.”

“Do you know CPR, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Ms. Beaton-Jones said you refused to administer CPR to her
husband.”

I blinked at him. Looked at Jake. His tawny eyes were zeroed
in on mine.

“Any reason for that, sir? Are you HIV-positive by any chance?”

“No.” I was a little surprised at how angry I was at the
question. I said shortly, “I’m getting over pneumonia. I didn’t think I could
do an adequate job of resuscitating him. If no one else had volunteered, I’d
have tried.”

“Pneumonia? That’s no fun.” This also from the firm’s junior
partner. “Were you hospitalized by any chance?”

“Yeah. Five fun-filled days and nights at Huntington
Hospital. I’ll be happy to give you the name and number of my doctor.”