The Boy With The Painful Tattoo: Holmes & Moriarity 3 (12 page)

I laughed too, but I saw suddenly how it probably felt to him when he was trying to be serious and I made a joke. “Anyway, despite everything—including reporters skulking in the garden—things are coming along nicely.”

J.X.’s voice changed. “Are reporters skulking in the garden?”

“I just ran one off a few minutes ago. I’m trying to look at it as a promo op. Make sure you share that with Rachel when you see her.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

That made two of us. If girl reporter Sydney Nightingale could slink around the garden undetected at night, what was to keep even less appealing characters from finding their way to my back door?

“I know. Maybe we should electrify the front gate.”

J.X. chuckled, imagining I was kidding. “Speaking of Rachel, did you tell her you were working on a thriller set in Switzerland?”

“It’s a long story.”

“About 80K?”

“About, yeah. The Swiss Miss Cocoa Girl retires, buys a cat named Olaf, and with the help of a handsome Interpol agent solves a series of grisly Alpine crimes.”

He was further amused. We chatted a little more before I said, “I guess I better let you go. Have fun. But not too much fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“You mean like attend a convention?” J.X. teased.

It had been a long day. I set the alarms and headed upstairs. I took a quick shower, then crawled into bed with my laptop. From the bed I had a nice view of both the Friedlander painting over the fireplace and the balcony. Stars above and city lights below. The night breeze stirred the gauzy draperies.

I turned on my laptop and did a Web search for Sydney Nightingale. I’d seen her sitting in a news van, so I knew in all likelihood she was legitimate, but suspicion is part of the mystery writer’s makeup.

My suspicion was unfounded. Sydney was indeed a reporter for
Baywatch News
. In fact, she had covered the original robbery, looking a little green around the gills but still spunky as she stood in front of Quercus Gallery and gave out the details of the robbery and murder for the at-home viewers.

Feeling stalkerish myself, I did a little more searching. Sydney was thirty-two and a former model. She had graduated to doing the weather for
Gateway News
and then eventually landed the reporter gig at
Baywatch
.

So she was legitimate. That didn’t mean I wanted to spill out my life story to her. Okay, in fairness, she hadn’t asked for my life story. But what was there to say about finding a body? Yes, there was potential irony—at least coincidence—in a mystery writer finding a dead body in his own home, but that really wasn’t much of a story.

Still, I knew what Rachel would say and I knew I was probably going to give Ms. Nightingale a call.

On impulse I did a search for Elijah Ladas. To my surprise he popped up all over the Web. In fact, he seemed to have been some sort of underworld celebrity. Even I had to grant that he had one of the most attractive mug shots I’d ever seen. He was a big man, ruggedly handsome with pale blue eyes and silvery fair hair. Well, the silver hair had probably been gray by those later photos because Ladas had to have been at least in his forties by the time he died.

A large part of his fame seemed to originate with his co-writing credit on a series of pulpy thrillers about a gentleman thief cum adventurer by the name of Lazlo Ender. His co-writer, Richard Cortez, had passed away in the late nineties, and the series had died with him. But apparently the books had been quite popular in their day and Ladas had shamelessly worked that popularity to his own advantage. He had gained entry to the homes and art collections of San Francisco society—and then had turned around and robbed a number of his social acquaintances. Well, to be accurate, he was only suspected of robbing his wealthy friends, but there was most definitely an alarming pattern. That pattern had eventually made Ladas persona non grata with the Nob Hill set.

Even so, he still showed up at the occasional movie premiere or yacht club event, squiring some pretty young thing trying to build her street cred or bolster her edgy image in the media.

As far as I could tell, he hadn’t been arrested in recent years, though his kid brother Beck had been nicked—as Inspector Appleby might have put it—for a number of ill-conceived and mundane burglaries.

The Lazlo books were not available in digital, so I ordered a copy of an old print edition of the first title through AbeBooks.

So what had brought Ladas out of comfortable retirement? Because that’s how it seemed to me. Had he run short of funds? Had he grown bored with the straight and narrow? Was it simply the lure of Viking treasure? Or…or…had baby brother come up with a plan to rob Quercus Gallery and needed Ladas to pull it off? The gallery job was much more Ladas’ style than Beck’s, but Ladas was getting a little long in the tooth for that kind of job, surely?

It was interesting—from a purely academic standpoint.

For sure, things had not gone according to plan.

I took my glasses off, wiped my eyes. But it was no use, I couldn’t stay awake. I put my laptop aside, climbed out of bed and locked the bedroom door and then closed and locked the door to the balcony. I wondered if Izzie had managed to bring Beck in for questioning or if Ladas Jr. was still running from the law. So long as he wasn’t planning on paying me another midnight visit, I didn’t much care.

Sunday was beautiful. Yes, even I, professional, full-time curmudgeon had to award the fresh and sparkling morning full marks. It was like the week had been practicing every day to get to this perfect moment. I had my coffee and toast out on the terrace. The air was sweet and clear, the butter-soft sunshine warmed the bricks beneath my bare feet. A couple of hummingbirds duked it out over blue-eyed grass—
sisyrinchium bellum
, Miss Butterwith would have said. I sighed. I missed Miss B. and it troubled me that I seemed to have nothing else to write about.

Maybe once I was settled.

This morning that actually felt reasonable. Maybe even likely. I sipped my coffee and considered my kingdom with a benevolent eye. We’d have to see about hiring someone to mow the grass and another someone to take care of the pool. Maybe get a third someone in a couple of times a month to dust and scrub the toilets. Yes, even with all these someones running around underfoot, the place had possibilities.

When I finished my coffee, I went inside, phoned Rina, my realtor. I told her to accept the offer on my former home.

* * * * *

I decided that maybe it would be easier on my back—and I’d be better able to concentrate on J.X.—if I split up the drive and left that afternoon, stayed overnight somewhere on the way, and arrived in Los Angeles in time to sign papers for Rina.

Once I’d settled on my plan of action, I went next door to speak to Emmaline.

“On the run from the law?” she inquired sweetly, before inviting me inside for a cup of tea.

“Ha.” I declined the tea, but accepted her invitation to step inside, pausing to examine a series of watercolor botanical studies in the front hall. Her house was similar in layout to ours, minus the Corinthian porch and with the charming addition of stained-glass windows in the foyer. “These are nice.”

Emmaline’s cheeks pinked. “Thank you! I did those. Years ago.”

“They’re really good. Then you’re an artist?”

She chuckled at the idea. “No. I’m a retired teacher. I used to teach high school. Science, actually. Biology, environmental studies, botany.”

“Botany?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Why? Is there something wrong with botany?”

“No. Not at all.”

“It’s one of the oldest branches of science.”

“I know. In fact, I used to write a mystery series about a botanist.”

“Isn’t that interesting!”

“Yes. Well, she was English.”

Emmaline was still smiling, but something in her eyes changed. A look of…discomfort? fleeted across her rosy face. “As a matter of fact, I think I may have had your friend in one of my classes.”

“J.X.?”

“No, no. Your other friend. Jerry.”

“He’s more of an acquaintance,” I said.

“Then you haven’t known him long?”

“No. I met him Thursday in Lowe’s. Or actually, I guess we’d met at a conference a few years ago. But I don’t know him really.”

“Well.” She stopped right there and I felt a little prickle go down my spine.

“Was he a good student?” I asked tentatively.

“I think he was.” Her smile was almost apologetic.

“But what?”

“That’s the reason I’m hesitant to say anything. I taught so many young people. Hundreds. Thousands. To be honest, the faces blur after a time. Once in a while a student stands out, sometimes for the wrong reasons.”

“And you remember Jerry for the wrong reasons?”

“That’s just it. I’m not sure that I’m thinking of the right boy. He looks like a lot of people.”

“Supposing that Jerry is the boy you were thinking of? Was there something I should know about him?”

There was no sign of a twinkle in her blue eyes now, no hint of dimples. “That’s the second problem. I’m not sure I remember the story correctly.”

I tried to control my nervous impatience. I respected that she didn’t want to say horrible things about Jerry if he’d never been guilty of more than being the normal obnoxious teenager. I even agreed with her in theory. But I couldn’t really view my safety and well-being in theoretical terms.

“Then I’ll take whatever you tell me with a grain of salt.”

She thought it over. “
If
this is the same boy, he formed an attachment to a classmate, a girl. Well, teens do. They’re so emotional, so intense at that age. But he hounded this poor little thing until she had some kind of a breakdown. I think she tried to kill herself. Her parents threatened to sue the school, but I don’t believe anything ever came of it.”

“What happened to him?”

She made an exasperated sound. “I’m not sure. I think his parents moved him to another school.”

I weighed that information. Frankly, it sounded sort of innocuous—I’d been thinking in terms of bloody valentines—although being a mystery writer I could expand on the idea of “hounded” in all kinds of alarming ways. But then Emmaline was playing it down too. I could tell by the way her gaze kept flickering from mine.

“I’m pretty sure Jerry is gay,” I said.

“I’m probably thinking of a completely different boy.”

“Probably. But I appreciate the heads-up.” It was easy from there to segue into letting her know I would be out of town and asking her to call the police if anyone suspicious showed up at the house.

Emmaline gave a ladylike sniff. “It seems to me all you have are suspicious people showing up!”

“I think the delivery men would resent that remark. Not to mention the police.” I reached down to pet a giant gray tabby cat winding itself around my shins. It opened its pink mouth and meowed loudly, showing all its pointy teeth.

“Now Pinky,” Emmaline said.

I looked up, startled. “P-Pinky?”

“That’s his name.”

“
Pinky?
Is that short for anything?”

“Like what?”

“Mr. Pinkerton?”

Emmaline chortled. “What kind of a name is that for a cat?”

“True.” I smiled feebly and straightened. I glanced down at the cat. I could have sworn it winked at me.

I gave her my cell number and the general details of my trip, and then Emmaline saw me to the door. “You must come and see my garden another time. It was also designed by Church. I’ll have you and Mr. Moriarity to dinner one night. How does that sound?”

I said agreeable noncommittal things, she closed the door, and I headed back up the sidewalk to 321.

The warm air was slightly humid, fragrant with flowery scents. Bees hummed and somewhere nearby a radio was playing a Jack Johnson song I recognized: “Better Together.”

A shadow fell across the pavement. I looked up and felt my smile fade.

Speak of the devil. Jerry was walking toward me. He wore sunglasses and a wide smile. He carried a large box wrapped in silver paper with a large white bow.

“Surprise!”

I was getting to hate that word. Among other things.

I rummaged around for a polite smile, but I seemed to be running low. I could only come up with a strained grimace. “Jerry!”

“How’s my favorite mystery writer this beautiful morning?”

I ignored that, eyes trained on the parcel he held. I’m sure my dismay showed. “Is that—?”

“It’s for you, silly!”

“But you already brought me that picnic basket.”

“That was just a welcome to the neighborhood. This is a housewarming gift.”

“Jerry, that’s really nice of you. Really nice. But I…” my voice petered away in the face of his open disappointment. Made more unnerving by the fact that I couldn’t see his eyes. Twin reflections of my own worried expression gazed back at me.

In fairness—or unfairness—Emmaline’s story had predisposed me to view any further overtures from Jerry with dark suspicion. Although, in fairness—and unfairness—I was already headed that way.

“I just don’t think I can accept this,” I said firmly. “I’m sorry.”

At first I thought he didn’t hear me. He stood there, his face immobile behind the mask of his sunglasses. The sunlight glinted off the metallic paper. I couldn’t help thinking of tinfoil hats. Then he frowned. “Christopher, maybe you’re getting the wrong idea,” he said. “It’s not like I’m a celebrity stalker.”

“No. I don’t think that at all,” I said quickly.

“Even if you
were
a celebrity.”

“I know. But I feel uncomfortable accepting this many presents from…you.”

Jerry was still frowning. “You’re my favorite writer, yes, but I don’t think you’re perfect. Not at all. I’ve written you some really bad reviews.”

“You wrote me bad reviews?”

He shrugged. “You needed to know.”

I stared in wonder. “What did I need to know?”

“That you made a mistake.”

“What mistake?” I wasn’t arguing. Of course I made mistakes. Everyone made mistakes.