Adrien English Mysteries: A Dangerous Thing & Fatal Shadows (13 page)

“It’s not published yet.” I was thinking rapidly. “Lisa --”

“Anyway, don’t worry,” she reassured. “I pointed out that you could have no possible motive for killing poor Robert Hersey.”

“Did you mention to them when I get the balance of my money?”

“When you turn forty? It’s none of their affair.”

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Josh Lanyon

I sighed. “Well, at least they provide medical coverage in prison.”

“That’s not funny,” Lisa said sharply. “It’s in extremely bad taste.”

“I know. Sorry.”

She hung up, which is her jolly way of having the last word.

* * * * *

It wouldn’t take the dynamic duo of Chan and Riordan long to establish that I was over-extended financially. Nothing too serious when you consider the average American is four paychecks from the street, but inheriting a “sizable” life insurance policy would have eased things up considerably. I knew that Chan and Riordan speculated that I had believed myself Robert’s beneficiary. That gave me a motive. A strong motive.

In Leslie Ford mysteries money is nearly always the motive. But it’s not the only motive.

Not in real life. I could think of other motives. Maybe they didn’t make sense to me, but the news is full of people killing each other for reasons that seem senseless. Senseless violence? I suppose it must make sense to the perpetrator.

It was in this mood that I went to see Max.

Max lived in a small house on the wrong side of Ventura Boulevard. Seashell wind chimes hung on the front porch and a white-muzzled German Shepherd barked at me through a wooden gate.

I walked up the steps, rang the bell, and Grania Joyce opened the door.

I think we must have looked mutually startled. She recovered first, holding the screen open for me and inviting me in.

“Max!” she yelled toward the back of the house.

“Sorry for barging in.”

“You’re not.” She was wearing an oversize sweatshirt which read, Pasadena City College, and a pair of granny glasses. If she had shorts or anything on underneath Max’s old sweatshirt, I couldn’t see them. “We were brainstorming,” she said. Then she winked at me and strolled off to vanish into the bathroom.

The front room had been done in a minimalist bachelor-pad motif. There were a couple of antique typewriters on some oak bookshelves, a couple of wide comfortable chairs and sofas, a vintage Varga poster over a fake fireplace.

A moment later Max appeared, tucking a flannel shirt into his faded jeans.

“Yo, Adrien. What’s up?”

Fatal Shadows

75

“Two things,” I said. “First off, you and Grania and the Finches are set on this newsletter.

I’ll finance it, but that’s the extent of my involvement. I don’t have time for another project.

The Finches want to contribute with reviews, but they don’t want to manage the thing.

Either you or Grania will have to play editor.”

Max scratched his chest reflectively. “Grania, huh?”

“You can always arm wrestle her for it.”

Max laughed as though I’d said something witty. “About Grania,” he said. “We’re collaborating. I’m helping her with her male point of view.”

I couldn’t help it. “Oh yeah? What’s she helping you with?”

“Sentence structure.” His grin was wry. He shifted his weight. “Sure. What the hey, I’ll edit your newsletter. Why not?”

“There’s something else.” Mentally I closed my eyes, pinched my nose and jumped. “A day or two before he died, Rob was talking to me about something that happened between you two, something he regretted.”

Max hadn’t moved. His narrowed eyes watched me closely.

“Yeah?”

“I thought you should know that.”

For a moment Max didn’t move. Then he snorted. “Bullshit. I don’t know what he told you, bud, but that asshole didn’t have any regrets. He was sick.”

“Because he was gay?”

“No, because he was sick. Okay? I’m sure he didn’t give you the whole picture. I mean fags, I just don’t get it. What is wrong with you guys?”

“Nothing that I’m aware of.”

“Yeah, well there’s a difference of opinion there, no offense. And Hersey -- that little shit follows me into a pub one night and wants to get it on in the john. He won’t take no for an answer.” Max laughed angrily. “I mean it was fucking ridiculous! The pip-squeak. And the rougher I get the more he likes it! Did he mention that?”

“No.”

He shook his shaggy curls. “It makes me want to puke to think about it. The shit he was saying. His face --” Max shuddered with revulsion. “Did he tell you I shoved his head down a toilet?”

I felt numb in the face of his naked loathing. It was like picking up a rock and glimpsing the slimy things that lived beneath. After a moment I said, “No.”

“I did. Since he liked to stick his face in assholes it seemed appropriate.” Whatever he read in my face caused him to add harshly, “I have no regrets. He was out of control.”

“Didn’t it occur to you that maybe he needed help?” Despite myself I was angry.

“He was beyond help.”

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Josh Lanyon

“He is now, isn’t he?” I pointed out bitterly.

Fatal Shadows

77

The phone rang, splitting the quiet of the back office.

For a minute I thought the whispering on the other end of the line was my stalker.

“Hello?” I asked sharply, “Who is this?”

“I’ve got to talk to you.”

“Claude? Where the hell have you been?”

“Jail, if you must know.”

“J-Jail?” I think I stammered it. “Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you let me know?”

“I wasn’t under arrest. They were holding me for questioning.”

“Technically that is an arrest.”

“Whatever! I wasn’t formally charged. Shit, Adrien, will you focus here?” No trace of the gay Parisian now. He sounded angry and accusing. “I’m not going to jail, man. Not for anyone.”

“Why would they arrest you?”

“Because they think I did it! They brought every knife in the café in for tests. Listen to me. I need money.”

“How much money?”

“Serious money. As much as you can lay your hands on.”

“Have you spoken to a lawyer yet?”

“I don’t need money for a lawyer, man, I’m splitting.”

“Wait a sec. What do you mean you’re splitting? Where are you?”

“That doesn’t matter. I’ll be at the café at 6:00.”

Bruce. I was supposed to meet him at 6:00. Shit. I thought fast.

“Claude, that’s less than an hour. It’s going to take some time to get the money together.

Why don’t we meet somewhere and talk?”

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Josh Lanyon

“I don’t have time, Adrien. I know a man with a private plane who can sneak me out of Burbank Airport, but it’s got to be tonight.”

My inner child was hugging himself and keening, “This can’t be happening!” With comparative calm, I said, “Claude, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Are you going to help me or not?”

He sounded like a stranger. Almost threatening. “Of course I’ll help you, but --”

“Good. Bring the money to the restaurant at six. Come alone.”

I tried to joke. “This sounds like one of those scenes in a slasher movie --”

Dial tone.

* * * * *

By the time I finished pulling on a pair of khakis and a V-neck sweater over my white Tshirt, it was five-thirty. I tried Bruce again. After a succession of clicks and static, while I mentally bit my nails, Bruce picked up.

I said awkwardly, “Bad news. I’ve got to take a rain check on tonight.”

Silence.

I could hear the line crackling.

“Are you there, Bruce?”

“Yes,” he said ungraciously. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Why are you canceling?”

“I can’t -- this sounds ridiculous, I know. I can’t explain why. Yet.”

Another silence. A very bad connection. In more ways than one.

“Yeah. Okay. Well, another time.” He sounded extremely cool.

“Bruce, it’s something I can’t get out of.”

“Sure. No problem.”

It obviously was a problem. I said, “I’m free Friday. Tomorrow night.”

“I’m not.”

Ouch.

“I’ll call you,” I said to the unfriendly static.

“Do that.”

Click.

Fatal Shadows

79

I broke every speed law and ran three ambers in my haste to get across town before Claude did something really dumb.

When I got to the restaurant, which should have been packed at this time of the evening, a placard in the window read CLOSED. I looked up. Tire treads of black clouds tracked ominously across the gray sky. More bad weather on the way.

I parked in the back and walked around to the rear entrance. I tried the door. It opened with a screech of hinges more suitable for a haunted house than haute cuisine. Memories of all these scenes from all those movies where the dumb heroine goes to meet the murderer in an abandoned warehouse or a park at night or the backstage of a theater flickered through my brain. Except this was Claude I was going to meet, and I knew he hadn’t killed Rob.

“Claude?” I stepped into the kitchen, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. Rows of kettles and pots gleamed dully above the counters. The smell of disinfectant hung heavily in the air mixed with the ghostly memory of garlic, basil, thyme -- and a hint of cigarette smoke.

I wandered through the counters and cutting boards, guided by the emergency lights to the dining room. A tiny red dot in the darkness pinpointed Claude’s whereabouts.

“What are you doing sitting here in the dark?”

He must have been lost in thought because at the sound of my voice he started and called out shakily, “Adrien? Shit, man. You scared me.”

I started across the black ice floor. “Who’d you think it was?”

“That cop. Riordan.”

I sat down across from Claude in the booth. He was like a phantom in the gloom, just a glimmer of eyes and teeth and the glint of the glass at his elbow.

“Did you bring the money?”

“No.”

“Jesus fucking Christ! Why not?”

“Because I don’t have it,” I explained patiently. “If I did have it I wouldn’t have brought it.”

“Why?” Claude cried. “Why?”

“Because I’m trying to keep you from self-destructing. Because I’m your friend.”

“Friend? You just signed my fucking death warrant. That cop is going to kill me. He killed Robert and he’s going to kill me.”

I ran both hands through my hair. “Would you listen to yourself? Why would you say that?”

“Because he told me.” He stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray.

“He told you he killed Robert?”

“He told me he was going to kill me.”

“When?”

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Josh Lanyon

“Right before the pigs turned me loose.”

“Those were his exact words? I’m going to kill you?”

“Yes! Yes!” Claude’s shadow moved and I saw the glitter of wet on his cheeks. “Adrien, I’ll give you the title to this place. You know what it’s worth. I can’t go back to prison.

Please.”

I covered his hand with mine. “Is it prison or Riordan you’re afraid of?”

“Both.”

“Listen to me. If you run, it’s as good as a confession.”

“I didn’t do it!”

“I know. But it won’t matter. You’ll look guilty all the same. They’ll arrest you and you will go to jail. I think they can extradite you from France.”

“They would have to find me first.” He wiped his cheeks with the back and then the palm of his hand. Picked up his glass.

“I can’t believe we’re even discussing this. Don’t you understand? They had to let you go because they don’t have enough to hold you.”

“But they’ll find it.”

“They can’t find what doesn’t exist.” I hesitated. “Right?”

Claude drank from his glass, set it down hard. Nodded. “Right. Okay.” He nodded again, sucked in his breath. “But I am begging you, Adrien ... .”

“I don’t have it.”

He stared. “You could get it. Your mother --”

“I’m not asking my mother.”

“A couple of thousand. That’s all I’m asking. I know you have that much.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said? If you run, it’s all over.”

“What did you come here for?” Claude demanded loudly. He shoved the table at me, catching me hard below the ribs.

“Damn it!” I shoved the table back and slid out of the booth. “I’m trying to keep you from wrecking your entire life. I’m trying to keep you from losing everything you’ve worked for.”

“Yeah, well with friends like you, who needs enemies?” Claude surged to his feet. Jabbed his hand toward the kitchen. “Go! Get the hell out! I don’t need you. I don’t need your kind of help.”

“Sure,” I shot back. “You’ve got it under control. I can see that.” I gestured to the sign in the shuttered windows and him skulking in the dark.

Fatal Shadows

81

“Fuck off!” he shouted. He picked up the ashtray and threw it at my head. I mean, pitched it with a force that would have knocked me cold if it had connected. But I ducked, and the ashtray hit the post so hard it shattered.

I gave Claude the universal sign for au revoir asshole and headed for the door.

“You little prick, Adrien,” he called after me. “I’d have done it for you.”

I kept hearing his words over and over as I drove away. I’d have done it for you. And I knew it was true. Were our positions reversed, Claude would have done whatever I asked.

Who the hell was I to decide what was best for him?

Halfway home I swung the Bronco around and started back for Café Noir.

It took a while to find an ATM. I pulled two hundred from the business account, another two hundred from my personal, and finally the last eighty bucks I had in my savings. It wouldn’t take him far but it was the best I could do.

By then it was dark in the empty parking lot. The sagging power lines hummed overhead as I got out of my car.