The Boy With The Painful Tattoo: Holmes & Moriarity 3 (4 page)

“If I went over there…where?
What?
Where there are you talking about?”

“To Nina’s house. To see her. To see her and Gage.”

Nina was J.X.’s ex-wife. Gage was his nephew. J.X. had married Nina, his younger brother’s pregnant girlfriend, after Alex died in Iraq. He had done this for the sake of his very conservative family and her equally conservative family and the unborn kid. It was noble in a soap-opera-ish way, but it wasn’t the kind of nobility that I understood or approved of.

Also, though the gesture had been quixotic and J.X.’s feelings for Nina were platonic, the one time I’d met her—over Christmas turkey—had convinced me that Nina’s feelings were not so clear cut. Maybe not clear cut at all. She didn’t like me. J.X.’s parents didn’t like me either. Possibly for the same reason. And the kid, Gage, disliked me with all his little heart.

“And I would do that…why?”

“Because I can’t and you’re family. And…”

“And what?”

“And this would be a good chance for you to get to know them.”

I laughed, though it came out sounding slightly hysterical. “I hope you’re kidding because there is no way in hell I’m going over there. They can’t stand me. None of your family can stand me, and the last thing Nina wants is your gay boyfriend showing up.”

J.X. made an exasperated sound. “Kit, you’re
family
now. That’s important. A lot more important than whatever it is you’re thinking at this moment. I know it’s inconvenient and maybe a little awkward, but it’s also a perfect opportunity.”

I cannot pretend this little speech of J.X.’s, particularly the phrase
a lot more important than whatever it is you’re thinking
, did not irk the living hell out of me. So much so that I actually couldn’t speak for a few seconds.

“Kit?”

I managed to choke down my anger before I expired on the spot. “Putting aside my thoughts—and feelings—for a second, I am up to my ears in boxes. Yours included. We’ve got the furniture company delivering the bedroom suite this afternoon. We’ve got the satellite dish people arriving any minute. There is no food in this fucking house. So whatever this unspecified emergency is with your ex—”

“She’s not my ex.”

“Yeah, actually she is. And if she can’t spell out what the problem is for you, it’s a good bet
I
can’t solve it for her. Even if I had the time—or inclination—which I don’t.”

There was a pause before J.X. said grimly, “That’s pretty blunt.”

“Not really. Blunt would be to point out that we’re
not
family. We’re living together. And it may or may not work out.”

I’m not sure what his response was—I’m sure he had one. I’d never known him to let me have the last word. But I got it through tactical superiority that time. I hung up.

Then I tottered over to the nearest stool—J.X.’s contribution to our kitchen furnishings were tall, bachelor pad bar stools of leather and steel—before my knees gave out. I was shaking with a crazy rush of anger and adrenaline and alarm.

Also shame. I was too old to be hanging up on people like an angry and inarticulate teenager.

Not my finest hour. Or even my finest one and a half minutes. But this was what I had been afraid of from the first. That we were going to commit to this madness and it wasn’t going to work out.

Of course it wasn’t going to work out! How could it possibly work out? We barely knew each other. And we didn’t always like the us we did know.

But it
had
to work out. There was already an offer on my former home. It was too late to turn back now.

I waited for J.X. to phone back. When he didn’t, I told myself I was relieved. I wasn’t sure. I hated arguing. I hated confrontation. But I hated cold silence worse. One thing about David, he had not been the strong, silent type. Far from it. He had been the yelling and shouting and punching and breaking things—inanimate things—type. Which had generally led to my yelling and shouting too. But I still preferred explosions to cold silence.

To keep from thinking, I began emptying the boxes in the kitchen. What was the alternative? No, J.X. and I were both tired. Short on sleep and stressed. We
had
committed to this course, and there wasn’t any retreat. That I could think of.

I dumped silverware in drawers, placed glasses on shelves, located J.X.’s toaster, and opened a box of little jars of spices I had never heard of. What was Tajin? What was Egyptian dukkah? Did we even eat the same food?

On the bright side, the mountain of boxes eventually dwindled to a molehill, speeded by my decision not to wash anything because it had all been packed in bubble wrap for less than 48 hours. The less-than-48-hours-in-bubble-wrap rule was well known in Southern California. And if it wasn’t equally well known in Northern California, J.X. could wash any mug he liked.

I came across the gin and tonic and the day looked a little less grim. And, to give J.X. his due, his refrigerator was much better at making ice than mine. The cubes in my glass crackled musically as the tonic fizzed over them.

Refreshed, I got my second wind and started stacking dishes on shelves. Plain white plates. Plain white saucers. Plain white cups, plain white bowls. I opened another box. Plain white
square
plates. Okay. That was a relief. I was beginning to think my true love was stuck in a rut. I put all the square white plates and bowls away. I opened another box.

Plain white plates.

All the dishes seemed to be J.X.’s. Where were my dishes? Down in the basement with my fridge?

Irritated all over again, I opened the door to the basement and started down the steps. I’d never lived in a house that had a basement before. This one was supposed to function as storage and laundry room. And we were certainly getting our money’s worth of storage. There were a ton of boxes down here—not to mention my sofa. And who had decided
that
?

Now thoroughly pissed off, I began to explore. On the bright side, the basement was immaculate. Not a cobweb in sight. Not even much in the way of dust. A couple of throw rugs and it could probably double as an additional room. Or a hideout. My TV was probably already down here. Possibly my stereo system.

Except…that smell. What
was
that? Whatever it was, it had to go. Backed-up plumbing? Overflowing garbage bins? Ye gods. I started looking for the source, and tracked it to a large wooden crate marked CHINA. My crate.

What the hell? Had the moving company helpfully decided to move my rotting garbage?

The lid had been hastily and none too securely hammered down, but it was anchored enough to resist my half-hearted efforts to raise it. I went back upstairs, located the fireplace hardware in the parlor, and returned to the basement with the poker. J.X.’s poker, for the record.

I levered the poker beneath the wooden lid and pried until it gave with a cracking sound.

I covered my mouth and nose with the crook of my arm as white bits of biodegradable popcorn floated up along with that ghastly odor. Sure enough I spotted a black trash bag. Instead of Oma’s vintage pale green china with gold trim, those lunatics had packed my garbage bags.

That’s what I was trying to tell myself. But I knew. Of course I knew. I was a mystery writer. No moving crew was
that
crazy. This could only be one thing. One terrible thing.

Carefully, gingerly, I reached out and pulled back the corner of the trash bag. A lifeless, dull eye gazed up at me.

Chapter Three

I’
m not afraid of death. I just don’t want to be there when it happens. To anyone.

That said, I’ve had some experience with people purchasing one-way tickets to the Great Beyond. Take it from me, it doesn’t get easier. For anybody. But fortunately there are rules and rituals which help us all. Funerals, sure, but there are others. Like the time-honored ritual for finding a dead body. It begins with calling the police.

Which is what I did, just as fast as my wobbly legs could carry me upstairs.

Unlike when you’re complaining about loud music, the cops come a lot faster when you’re reporting a dead body. In this case, the uniforms arrived first to “secure the scene,” and take my initial statement. Then came Homicide—which would have made a nice book title, if I was still writing mysteries instead of living them.

As the introductions were made, Inspector Ishwar Jones of SFPD’s Investigative Bureau—Homicide Detail—stared at me with consternation.

“
J.X.’s
Christopher Holmes?”

“J.X.’s Izzie Jones?” I returned with equal astonishment.

Once upon a time Inspector Ishwar Jones had walked the streets of San Francisco with a bright, ambitious young cop by the name of Julian Xavier Moriarity. Moriarity had quit the police force to become a bestselling writer of crime novels and thrillers, and to eventually buy a house with another crime writer who just happened to be a magnet for murder.

Me.

Anyway, that was
his
problem. My problem was the being-a-magnet-for-murder thing.

On those rare occasions when I had pictured meeting J.X.’s friends and colleagues, the introductions didn’t take place at crime scenes. To be honest, they didn’t take place at all, although I knew in my heart that J.X. was a social animal and would expect me to behave sociably when required. Which would have been bad enough.

The social awkwardness of Inspector Jones’ astonished, “
J.X.’s
Christopher Holmes?” left me blushing as guiltily as if I really was responsible for the body in our basement.

Jones was big and bald and had a very definite Kojak vibe—the Ving Rhames Kojak not the Telly Savalas Kojak. He put a courteous hand on my shoulder, steering me out of the way of the crime scene personnel trooping in and out the door leading to the basement stairs. “Is there some place we can speak privately, Christopher?”

I led the way through the kitchen and out through the French doors of the breakfast nook to the back garden. All the while, Jones spoke quietly and pleasantly, no doubt assuming that finding a dead guy would be a distressing experience for most homeowners. And it was. Certainly. But it was not a new experience for me, as J.X. could—and probably had—informed him.

“And where is J.X.?” Jones asked as we sat down on the excruciatingly uncomfortable patio chairs. It was about the only thing he’d said so far that actually sank in.

“He’s in Vegas. At a convention.”

“Ah.”
Somehow with that single syllable Jones seemed to convey an understanding of my entire relationship with J.X.—up to and including our argument a couple of hours previously. “Of course. He does a lot of book tours and signings. I saw his picture in
People
magazine.”

“Yes. They reviewed his latest book.” Gushingly.

“That conference was good timing on his part.” His brief, white smile invited me to share the small joke, but my heart wasn’t in it.

“Yes.”

“Okay, Christopher, being a crime writer, you know how this works.” He offered another reassuring flash of teeth. “I have your initial statement, but I need to ask you a few questions. Like you writers always say in your books, it’s just routine.”

“Right. I know. Fire away.”

“Did you recognize the victim?”

“No.”

“Did you get a good look at him though?”

Right there, I gave Inspector Jones credit because he was perfectly correct. I had taken one horrified peek at the grisly discovery in the packing crate and I had been out the door and up the stairs like a shot. I had no idea of hair or skin color or build or facial structure. His eyes had been blue. And filmed over. That I remembered.

I shuddered. “Enough, I think.”

Jones nodded, reserving judgment on that point.

“How do you think he got into one of your moving boxes?”

I had been thinking about that too. “The moving van broke down twice on the way here. They had to replace the water pump in Barstow. That took several hours. So unless the movers packed him up themselves—and why would they?—it must have happened then, though I don’t know how it could have. The lid was hammered down. And whoever put him in there would have had to do something with the china that was already there. And dumping a crate of dishes would be noisy. I assume the truck was in a garage with mechanics and people all around. Anyway, they didn’t arrive here until after midnight. And it took the movers a couple of hours to unload everything.”

Jones nodded thoughtfully. He took down the name and details of the moving company. “You never dealt with this company before?”

“No.”

“What made you choose…” He glanced at his notes. “Movers and Shakers Relocation Company?”

I groaned. “Pricing, mostly.” Indifference, really. I had stalled until the last possible moment and then I’d snatched at the first company available for the job.

“Sure. Makes sense. Did you follow the moving van? Did you stop in Barstow?”

“No. I drove on ahead.”

He thought it over without comment.

My nerves got the better of me, and I burst out, “You can’t think I had anything to do with this. In the first place, the movers packed everything. Almost everything. In the second place, if I had killed somebody, I wouldn’t hide his body in one of the boxes going in my own moving van.”

Jones looked interested. “No? What would you do?”

“I’d take that particular box in my own car, and somewhere along the way I’d make a detour, drive off into the desert and dump the body as far away from the main highway as I could.”

Jones raised his eyebrows. “Well, that would certainly be a more practical approach.”

“It would make no sense for me to cart that body up here. And even less sense to pretend to discover it in my own basement and go out of my way to bring in the police.”

“I agree,” he said. Two little words which went a long way to calming me down. Then he had to spoil it by saying, “Of course, someone could argue that being a mystery writer, you might be prone to coming up with convoluted plots.”