The Boy With The Painful Tattoo: Holmes & Moriarity 3 (9 page)

“But I know you must have—” She gave up as I tugged her through the doors and into the hall. “Oh my!” She stared at the obstacle course of boxes in all shapes and sizes.

“I know. But I am making progress.”

“Is your partner h—” She broke off as I shepherded her down the hall and into the kitchen where she spotted Jerry.

“This is Jerry. He was just going,” I said.

“No, no. Not on my account,” Emmaline said. “I can only stay a minute.”

Jerry smiled, shook hands and sat back down at the table. I put my hand to my eyebrow to stop the incipient tic.

“You look familiar,” Emmaline said. “Have we met?”

Jerry thought Emmaline looked familiar too and they began to bounce theories on prior acquaintanceship back and forth. I watched, mesmerized.

“Where did you go to school?” Emmaline asked finally.

But no, that wasn’t it either. I was about to drop my head on my folded arms and cry myself to sleep when Emmaline suddenly wearied of the chase and turned to me.

“I saw on the news that the dead man you found was a notorious art thief.”

“As crazy as it sounds, that seems to be the case,” I admitted.

“Elijah Ladas,” Jerry supplied. “Just that name sends a shiver down your spine.” I must have looked surprised because he added, “It sounds foreign.”

“Oh?”

“Sinister.”

I nodded noncommittally.

Emmaline asked, “Do the police consider you a suspect?”

“No.”

Jerry said grimly, “You can’t be sure about that. The police could be trying to lull you into a false sense of security. SFPD are completely corrupt.”

I resented that on J.X.’s behalf, although I had no idea if it was true or not. “What false sense of security? I had nothing to do with his death.”

To Emmaline, Jerry said, “The dead man was in the crate Christopher’s china should have been in.”

“Isn’t that something,” Emmaline said politely, having already heard this from me the day before. “Then where’s your china, Christopher?”

I shook my head. “Somewhere in the middle of the desert a coyote is probably serving brunch.”

Jerry guffawed.

“That cute little girl on KAKE was saying Mr. Ladas was a suspect in a murder,” Emmaline said.

“Certainly a victim.”

“I told Christopher he should offer to consult with the police,” Jerry said.

“Oh, I didn’t realize,” Emmaline said. “I thought you and your partner were authors.”

“We are. And no, I don’t consult with the police.” Like all honest people I preferred to avoid the police as much as possible.

“But you should,” Jerry said. “You have a brilliant criminal mind.”

I tried to hang onto my smile, but it was probably looking frayed around the edges. “I’m not even sure what that means, Jerry.”

Jerry smiled fondly and then he and Emmaline proceeded to rehash the meager facts of the case. When no solution was forthcoming, she departed.

Jerry was still sitting in the kitchen when I returned, and I prepared to become extremely inhospitable.

Whatever Jerry read in my face had him smiling cheerfully. “She’s just like Miss Butterwith. She’s exactly like her.”

“Well, she’s not
exactly
like her.”

“She’s exactly how I picture her.”

Of course, Jerry had a right to picture Miss Butterwith however he liked. That’s part of the pleasure of reading versus watching a film or TV show—the reader is free to exercise his own imagination. But he was wrong. Emmaline was not exactly like Miss Butterwith. In fact, the only thing they had in common was they were both sprightly old ladies. I ought to know. I created Miss Butterwith. She was British, so right there. Obviously not
exactly
alike.

It would have been childish to argue the point. Instead, I smiled politely. “Is she?”

“
Exactly
. Does she have a cat like Mr. Pinkerton?”

“I don’t know. I only met her yesterday morning. I don’t know about her pets yet.”

“You only met her yesterday? That is so
uncanny
.”

“Yeah, isn’t it? But yes. I never saw the woman before yesterday. Anyway, I hate to end such a pleasant afternoon, but I really do have a lot to get done.” I tried to look apologetic rather than frantic, which was how I was starting to feel.

Jerry rose at once. “Wow. Is that the time? I’ve got to get going. I can’t believe I spent my whole afternoon here!”

He didn’t sound accusatory exactly, but yet managed to give the impression my siren song had lured him from much more important matters. However, as I led the way down the hall, he observed sympathetically yet again, “Poor you. There’s so much to do.”

“True. But it’ll go fast once I get moving.”

“And you have a bad back.”

I stared at him. “How did you know that?”

“You did an interview for
Mystery Scene
a few years ago. You’d just had back surgery.”

“My back’s okay.” Actually I did have a bad back. And I’d broken my collar bone a few months earlier too. But I didn’t care if I was aching from head to toe by the time I finished the day’s unpacking, I was going to do it without Jerry’s help.

As he was going out the door, Jerry said, “If you need my help, Christopher, just give me a call. I left my number next to your phone.”

“Thank you, I will.” I closed the door firmly. Then I locked it. If I’d had nails and a hammer handy, I’d have sealed myself in.

The rest of the afternoon passed in blood, sweat and tears. Okay, mostly sweat—although I did feel like crying by the twentieth time I had to climb the stairs to deliver another armload of J.X.’s seemingly infinite wardrobe. There was no blood loss, even if I did feel pretty damned drained by the time I collapsed on the mattress in the front room with a book and a plate of the best scalloped potatoes and ham I ever ate in my life.

But I felt good too as I raised my weary head to study the room. I’d shifted some of the furniture around and I’d started filling up the book cases. I’d emptied a number of containers and found places for our junk—er—
objets d’art
. There were still an unreasonable number of boxes, but as I’d discovered, a lot of them were only partially filled.

Tomorrow our new bed would be delivered, and tomorrow night I would be sleeping on a real mattress in our own bedroom. I liked that idea.

In fact, as I ate my supper and read the next title in my Nordic noir research, I felt almost content.

Tonight’s book was
The Keeper of Lost Causes
. This one had to do with a renegade police detective and his idiosyncratic assistant, investigating the cold case disappearance of a female politician. There was a film version of it too, and I resolved to check Netflix for it. I liked Jussi Adler-Olsen’s book much better than
The Dinosaur Feather
though it had some of the same depressing themes and motifs. Were there any cozy Scandinavian mysteries or was that out of the question? Did living in one of those lands of midnight sun result in a naturally dark outlook?

At some point I put the book aside and got up to brush my teeth and turn on the security system. On my way back to the front parlor, I turned out all the lights except for the lamp on the floor beside the mattress. I settled down once more, bunching the pillows behind my head. J.X.’s pillow still carried the scent of his shampoo.

The last line I remember reading was:
“You’re aware that Uffe saw his father and
mother die, right?” she asked.

I let my eyelids fall closed.

I was having a nice dream about J.X. He was not mad at me or disappointed or hurt. We were playing some kind of a kissing game—which even in my dream seemed unlikely—and he was laughing at my objections. His dark eyes were warm and shining in that way they got when he was happy.

“Every time you say the word ‘no,’ I get to kiss you,” he was saying.

I scoffed, “No wa—”
and his lips stopped the words.

The shriek of an alarm tore through the night, the earsplitting sound ricocheting off hardwood floors and windows. I ripped off the sleep mask and sat bolt upright, heart skittering in panic inside my chest. The rush of adrenaline landed me on my feet before I was fully awake, and the first thing I did was charge into the fireplace.

The arched screen went over with a clatter, followed by the crash of the tool set—which reminded me that the poker was still downstairs in the basement. Somehow grabbing the miniature broom just didn’t seem as effective a defense.

Motion detector lights had flashed on outside the house, the harsh white glare repelling the darkness, but it was still black as pitch indoors, and an unfamiliar room crowded with unknown objects became an obstacle course as I proceeded to fall over boxes, books and pretty much everything else as I stumbled toward the kitchen and the phone.

I felt my way around the long dining room table, managed not to fall over anything else before I reached the kitchen. I had a clear view of the glassed-in breakfast nook. My heart seemed to shudder to a stop. There, illuminated in the blaze of light, stood a man, hands framing his face, as he peered through the glass, trying to see into the dark rooms. I froze in my tracks, watching him.

Could he see me? I wasn’t sure. I didn’t think so, but I didn’t know. He didn’t seem to care if anyone saw him or not. Could he be a neighbor? He wasn’t dressed like a burglar. He wore jeans and motorcycle boots. No shirt. His hair was very short and pale. It was molded to his head like a silver helmet. He looked like a bodybuilder. Or a character in anime. His muscular torso was covered in swirling dark patterns. Body hair? No. Tattoos. I couldn’t make them out without moving closer to the breakfast nook, and that was not going to happen. Nor could I see his face, cupped as it was by his hands.

The phone next to me began to ring and I jumped, my heart zapped back into frantic life. I grabbed for it and a crisp female voice said, “This is Bayshore Security. We’ve just received—”

“Hurry up and send someone,” I gulped out. “There’s an intruder.”

“The police have already been dispatched, Mr. Moriarity. Is the intruder in the house?”

“No.”

“Is he trying to break in?”

“No. Yes. I’m not sure. He’s standing right there staring through the window. He’s not running. I’m not sure what he’s doing.”

“Is the intruder known to you? Can you describe him?”

“No. I mean, no, he’s not known to me. He’s big.” That much was for sure. With my free hand, I felt around for the nearest drawer, rifled through the silverware and pulled out…a butter knife. Great. I could make toast while I waited for rescue. That flimsy utensil would probably bounce off his pecs like a rubber prop. Where the hell had I put the butcher block with the real knives? Come to think of it, somewhere in this kitchen there were
two
butcher blocks with enough stainless steel to slice and dice a whole gang of prowlers.

The security company operator was still talking and I was still answering, though I had no idea what either of us was saying. I couldn’t tear my gaze from the giant peering in through the window. I felt like a goldfish swimming in a very tiny bowl beneath the gaze of a very large cat. My fins were shaking.

As I watched, the prowler slammed the window with his enormous palm. The wall of glass seemed to ripple, but it did not shatter. In fact, the blow didn’t seem to be a serious attempt at entry so much as an expression of frustration.

The next instant the man was gone. He sprinted across the brick terrace, jumped over one of the low hedges and merged with the deep shadows.

Over the thudding in my ears I heard a siren baying in the night as it chased up the winding, climbing streets to Chestnut Lane.

“They’re here,” I told the dispatcher and hung up. I tottered over to the security pad and punched in the numbers. The electronic protest cut off mid-howl.

Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care,
Shakespeare said, and needless to say it was all unravelling and very little knitting once the police arrived at 321 Chestnut Lane. God knows I felt about as lively as a pile of yarn once they departed with a final cheery whoop of their siren.

I’d probably have done better to pull the covers over my head and stay in bed.

Well, no. That wasn’t fair. The officers gave it their best shot, wandering around the front and back gardens with flashlight beams probing every nook and cranny—and raising irate comments from resident birds.

“Long gone, whoever he was. It sounds like a kid maybe. Or a stoner,” one of the officers said when they finally reported back.

“That was no kid.”

The officer conceded this with a shrug. “This house has been empty for a while, so I’m guessing your prowler didn’t expect to find anyone home.”

Maybe. It didn’t make sense though, and I wanted it to make sense. I wanted to feel reassured that this had been a fluke. Kids fooling around. I liked that idea a lot. But no one familiar with the neighborhood would make the mistake of thinking the house was still empty. At the same time, anyone watching the house, like a burglar, would have to know that cops had been crawling all over for two days.

So maybe the officer was right. Maybe my midnight prowler had just been a drug-addled wanderer.

“He wasn’t just a drug-addled wanderer,” Izzie Jones said when he dropped by the next morning for coffee and a cup of bad news. “In fact, from the description you gave the officers last night, I think your prowler sounds a lot like Beck Ladas. Elijah’s little brother.”

“
Little
brother?”

“Younger brother. Although if you think Beck is big, you should have seen Elijah.”

Well, I had seen Elijah, but he hadn’t been at his best, granted.

“Great. Beck does know his brother isn’t still here, right?”

Izzie—we were on first-name basis now—chuckled. “He’s not the sharpest crayon in the box, but I’m sure he’s figured that much out. So he must be looking for something else.”

I stared. “Like what?”

Izzie shook his head.