The Boy With The Painful Tattoo: Holmes & Moriarity 3 (22 page)

“Real life is frequently disappointing,” Lorenson agreed. I could feel his nearest and dearest move restively, but no one contradicted him. He turned to Kenneth and said, “Where is that fiancée of yours this evening?”

“Sydney had to work, Grandfather. I told you that.”

“Sydney?” I repeated.

“A charming girl,” Lorenson said. “She reports the weather for a local news station.”

“She hasn’t been a weather girl for three years,” Kenneth said. “She’s a reporter.”

Lorenson ignored him. “Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?”

“I did, yeah.”

“And what about you, Mr. Moriarity?”

“No,” J.X. said. “I wanted to be a cop. And that’s what I used to be.”

Ingrid knocked over her water glass. The others began mopping and moving plates and glasses. Lorenson didn’t seem to notice. He smiled delightedly and said to J.X., “I’m guessing Mr. Holmes has been your inspiration and your mentor. Am I correct?”

“You could say that.”

Yes, you could. But you’d be entirely wrong. I said, “Mr. Moriarity is being way too kind.”

“Mr. Moriarity and Mr. Holmes! I just noticed that. How very funny. Are these your real names or pen names?”

“Moriar
i
ty not Moriarty.” At Lorenson’s blank expression, I gave up. “Yes, our real names.”

“This goes to prove that truth is stranger than fiction.”

“Well…”

But Lorenson was not listening. He said quietly, though he had to realize everyone at the table was listening to his every word, “What I was thinking, Mr. Holmes, was that perhaps you might lend that clever brain of yours to this matter of ours.”

I glanced at J.X. He was watching Lorenson and his expression reminded me distinctly of the way Adrien English’s Jake had looked when Adrien showed signs of interest in matters that did not concern him. I said cautiously, “Lend my brain how?”

“I’m sure if I were to speak to the police, they would be willing to give you access to their files on this case.”

J.X. made a smothered sound. I didn’t dare look his way.

“I honestly think your case is in the best possible hands right now,” I said. “Mr. Moriarity is personally acquainted with the detective in charge of the case, and he can assure you—”

Lorenson waved this aside. “To be sure. I realize the police are doing all they can. But I’m sure they would be the first to welcome aid from such a brilliant mind.”

“Uh, actually I kind of doubt that, Mr. Lorenson.”

“Nonsense. Nonsense.”

“Father.” That was Nord.

Lorenson did not glance his way as he said, “Be silent.” And Nord was silent.

“My family believes this matter concerns them. It does not,” Lorenson told me.

I sipped my mineral water and did not look at the others.

“I spent a lifetime putting that collection together. It was my pride and joy. The money…” he shrugged. “A lot of money was tied up in my collection, I don’t deny it. But I’m a wealthy man. I have all that I need for the remainder of my life. I’m eighty-two. What do you think of that?”

“You don’t look eighty-two.” I was being honest. He looked
maybe
late sixties.

“My father lived to be one hundred and two. His father lived to be one hundred and one. So I still have a few years left. But my needs are simple.”

“You’re fortunate.”

He inclined his head. “I’m very fortunate. That’s true. But losing this collection has been a great blow. I collected my first coin when I was eleven years old. It was a Danish 10 øre coin minted in 1947. I still have—had—that coin. It was part of the collection. Of course it was only worth about one hundred and fifty dollars, but still precious to me. I knew
every single coin
in that collection.”

“I’m sorry. I understand how upsetting the loss must be. And I know that the gallery owner was a friend of yours.”

“Yes. John was an old friend.”

To me, John sort of sounded like an afterthought. I said, “But I don’t see how I can be of any help. I know it seems like a weird coincidence that the thief wound up in our basement, but—”

“It’s not a coincidence, it’s a sign,” Lorenson interrupted.

“It’s really not.”

“With your insight into human nature and your knowledge of the workings of the criminal underworld, I feel certain you might succeed where the police have failed.”

I thought of Jerry and his
your brilliant criminal mind
. I said, “But the police haven’t failed. They just haven’t found your collection yet. Honestly, I appreciate your confidence in me, but I think I would just be getting in the way of the official investigation.”

Irresistible Force meet Immovable Object. For the next five courses Lorenson continued to coax, cajole, challenge, charge and finally command me to take his case. As the dinner portions shrank, so did my patience, but I tried to stay pleasant. By the time we got to the cookie-sized mascarpone cheesecake, I was pretty sure my smile had frozen in place like a death rictus. Lorenson remained jolly and cheerful through the whole ordeal, but the other captives at the table were mostly silent and clearly uncomfortable.

Except for J.X. who kept trying to interrupt, and kept getting talked over by our host. At least Lorenson did not actually command him to silence. That was something to be grateful for.

We declined the treat of an after dinner brandy with Lorenson in his study and left as soon as the meal was officially over.

“Un-fucking-believable,” I said as the front door closed behind us. I didn’t bother to keep my voice down. I’d already had an evening of that.

“That was…interesting,” J.X. agreed as we started down the long, steep hill to where we had left our car.

Lights shone in the windows of the houses all around us as we hiked down from Asgaard. It was amazing to me how many people did not bother to pull their drapes. Interesting though, those brief shadowbox glimpses into other people’s lives. All around us people were eating dinner, watching TV, working out…happily oblivious to each other.

“You notice he didn’t even offer to pay me? I mean, not that that would have made a difference, but the arrogance of insisting that I take his case simply because
he
wants me too. Can you imagine living with him? I’m amazed nobody in that family has poisoned his Geritol by now.”

“He lives there on his own. I was listening to them talk while you were fending off Lorenson. It sounded like they all received a royal summons to show up just like us.”

“I don’t doubt it. That he lives alone, I mean. I’m guessing his wife threw herself off the roof the first chance she had. Five more minutes and I’d have been looking for a window.”

“I’ve got to say, I’m in awe. I didn’t think you’d make it through the cheese plate without using it to clobber him.”

“By then it was a test of will,” I said darkly. “Is there a Kentucky Fried Chicken anywhere around here?”

* * * * *

We dined at the Colonel’s on crispy fried chicken, wedge cut potatoes, cheese macaroni and hot biscuits and honey. The plastic chairs were uncomfortable, the décor less than inspiring, but you couldn’t beat the food—or the company.

J.X. looked rather dashing for our surroundings in black jeans and a black turtleneck. Like a John Robie-style cat burglar. Did that make me Grace Kelly? With five o’clock shadow and a truss? J.X. smiled tolerantly at me as I wiped honey from my fingers with the moist towelettes provided with our meal. “Feeling better?”

“Yes,” I conceded. “A little.”

“Did you catch that bit about Sydney the reporter who used to be a weather girl?”

I sighed. “Yes. And I agree, it’s too much of a coincidence. Clearly she’s the link between the Lorensons and Ladas. In fact, she admitted to knowing Ladas. She told me she interviewed him about a year ago.”

“I guess it’s possible she was an unwitting connection.”

I shook my head. “She’s in it up to her neck,” I said wearily. “They’re all in it. In fact, I think there’s a good chance the old man knows they’re all in it. I think he was having a little bit of fun with them tonight.”

“Fun?”

“Or maybe not. Maybe he doesn’t know. I’m not sure it would occur to him that any of them would have the nerve to defy him.”

J.X.’s brown gaze was very direct. “It’s not your business, Kit.”

“I agree.”

“I’ll talk to Izzie tomorrow. Tell him what we know. Or at least suspect.”

“I’m not arguing,” I said. “But I’m not holding out a lot of hope either.”

“Hope?” J.X.’s brows drew together.

I took a final noisy drag on the straw of my cola. “That our involvement ends here,” I said.

Chapter Fifteen

“H
ow’s your back?” J.X. asked, climbing into bed when we finally arrived home after our double dinners.

I eyed him thoughtfully. “It’s okay.”

“Good.” He smiled. It wasn’t a predatory smile, exactly, but it also wasn’t an I-just-want-to-hold-you smile. He leaned over and his mouth came down on mine, his lips warm, the Van Dyke beard soft. I murmured…not protest but not acquiescence either. I was thinking. Which, frankly, is not conducive to kissing. J.X. kissed me harder, the tip of his tongue probed delicately—but determinedly—and I opened to him.

He smiled against my mouth and his tongue flicked inside, touched mine. I can’t deny that I felt an instant and overwhelming response. I wanted him. It was that simple. But I also felt a flash of
this is getting out of control
. And that was not at all simple.

J.X.’s hand went to my cock and he handled me with a firm and expert hand.

Readying me.

Because that’s what this was. As pleasurable as it was to be brought off by J.X.—and to relax in the knowledge that this was just one of many pleasurable things he would do to me that night—there was also my awareness that he believed himself to be completely in control of this moment. And any other moments we would have.

What was there to object to in that? J.X. was using the right pressure, the right angle, even the right speed from the very second my penis hit his palm. He knew what I liked,
exactly
what I liked, and he was bound and determined to make sure I got what I wanted every single time.

And what he wanted every single time.

Why not? What was wrong with that? Nothing. Not a damn thing. It wasn’t like I didn’t want him. Not like I wasn’t in the mood. I did want it. I was already starting to shiver with the intensity of my reaction to him. There was no greater turn-on for me than thinking of J.X. taking me with that gentle but relentless strength. I wanted it so much. Too much.

Yes, this was the problem: I didn’t just want to make love. I wanted to be fucked. I
needed
to be fucked. And not only did I know it.
He
knew it.

I wrenched my mouth away from his and gasped, “Wait.”

J.X. drew back, surprised. His eyes were dark with passion and a little unfocused. “What’s wrong?”

I put my hand on his, stilled him. “I think we need to take turns.”

“Turns?” He sounded like the concept was utterly alien, which simply underscored how out of whack the dynamic between us was getting.

“Yes. Right. We need to…trade off that. If we’re always going to do
that
.”

“Always going to do what?”

“Fuck.”

He actually glanced around. “What’s wrong?”

“No, I mean if
we’re
always going to fuck.”

Wide eyes, parted lips. No mistaking that look for anything but dismay. “You don’t want to?”

I took his face in my hands. “Listen carefully to me, Costello. Yes. I want to. I like sex. I love sex. But I don’t always want to be the one being fucked. Okay?”

Something flickered in his eyes. “Okay. Of course. I didn’t—”

“We need to take turns. We need to switch off. So you had Monday night. Tonight is my night.”

His breath was warm against my face. He didn’t say anything. His erection was subsiding—along with mine. Too much talk. I knew it, but I persisted stubbornly.

“That’s fair, right?”

I watched him consider and discard a number of replies. But what was there to say? This
was
fair. And he
was
fair-minded, so I knew he couldn’t and wouldn’t object.

J.X. said finally, “But what if tonight you’d prefer it the other way? Because you do prefer it, Kit.”

I shook my head. “No. We’ve got to take turns. And I don’t prefer it. It’s too passive.”

He repeated very slowly, “It’s too…passive. And you think, what? That’s not masculine?”

“Of course not. Although, to be honest, it’s not society’s concept of masculinity.”

“Or yours.”

“Maybe,” I admitted.

He said, “I think maybe you need to be passive in this. You can’t control everything all the time. It isn’t healthy to try. I think maybe it’s a relief for you to let go sometimes.”

I shook my head.

J.X. said, “Why is it so hard to admit you enjoy sex a lot more when you’re being f—”

I shot him a fierce look and he stopped. I said, “You know, there are other ways to have sex. Nobody has to penetrate anybody.”

“That’s true.”

“We could just…do other things.”

He was silent.

“Right?”

“Right.”

“But what?”

He sounded troubled as he said, “I don’t understand why we’re setting up rules and regulations about how we’re going to have sex.”

“I’m not trying to set up rules and regulations.”

“Well, yeah. You are. You’re trying to control, to manage how we make love. To make sure nobody colors outside the lines. And that’s the last thing you need, Kit.”

I opened my mouth and he said, “And it’s the last thing I need.”

That pulled me up short. “You don’t enjoy it the other way around?”

“Kit, I enjoy everything we do together. But there is
nothing
that feels as good as when I’m buried to my balls in that sweet, hot ass of yours. Those little cries you make, the way you push back on my cock like you just can’t get enough. It’s beautiful, and it’s the only time you really let go.”