Adrien English Mysteries: A Dangerous Thing & Fatal Shadows (19 page)

Not bad.

Next round I poured some Ovaltine into my brandy.

* * * * *

When I woke the lights were on, the TV was blaring commercials, and I had the echo of the phone in my ears. I lay there for a few moments blinking at the ceiling, wondering if I’d dreamed it.

The phone rang again.

I jumped off the couch and sprinted for the phone. I’m not sure who I was expecting. I picked the receiver up, croaked out something.

Dead air.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. My heart skipped a beat.

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“Hello?” I tried to sound flat and unimpressed. I should have stopped with one. The rest came out sounding like one of those woman-in-jeopardy extravaganzas on the Lifetime channel. Hello? Hello? Hello? when any rational person would have hung up and gone back to sleep.

I hung up.

The phone rang again.

I picked it up.

Heavy breathing. “Adrien....” A hoarse whisper that, despite common sense, turned my heart stammering and scared.

Up until then I guess I’d hoped the breather calls and frequent hang ups were random and unrelated.

“Adrien. I’m going to kill you.”

The caller hung up.

I’m getting some weird calls, I’d told Jean at dinner. And Jean, always practical, responded, Don’t you have Caller ID? Did you try return dialing? Dial *69.

I had Caller ID. I didn’t recognize the number. I dialed *69. The phone rang and rang and then ... noise. Yelling ... cheerful yelling, like at a bar. Or was that a TV?

“Hello?” said Bruce doubtfully.

I hung up.

* * * * *

Two minutes after the emotional supernova, the phone rang again. My hand seemed to reach for it of its own accord.

Silence.

I managed to get the word out. “Bruce?”

“Adrien?” I knew his voice so well by now, and yet it was the voice of someone I didn’t know at all.

I could sense him thinking it through, trying to read my mind. Wondering if I knew.

Wondering how the hell I couldn’t. Wondering why I didn’t say something. I took a deep breath. “I-I hoped it was you. You’re right. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

There was bewilderment in the pause. Then, “What’s happened?”

“Nothing. I just got this phone call awhile ago. I ... need you.” I didn’t have to fake the choked voice. There was a rock in my throat.

This time he didn’t hesitate. “I’m on my way.”

116

Josh Lanyon

I left a message at Hollywood Homicide. Then I dialed Riordan’s home number. A woman’s voice on the answering machine asked me to leave my important message at the beep. I sweated bullets then made my decision.

“It’s Adrien English,” I said. “My friend Bruce just called. Bruce Green, the reporter. I think he may have ... may be ... .”

Even now it felt impossible to say what I believed. I already questioned my deductions.

Bruce was jealous, possessive. Okay, maybe it was a bit adolescent, but who hasn’t, at some point, driven past an ex-lover’s house or been tempted to place an anonymous phone call? It wasn’t wise, but was it necessarily sign of a deranged mind?

Was that all my suspicions were based on? I had no proof that these calls came from the same person sending flowers, stalking me. I had no proof my caller was my stalker. I had no proof my stalker had killed Robert and Claude. Hell, I had no proof that Robert and Claude’s killer were the same.

The answering machine was recording my indecision. “I’m going over to his house.” I didn’t remember the house address, but I gave him the street and what the house looked like.

“It’s nine-thirty. If something happens to me ... .” I couldn’t finish it. If I was wrong about Bruce this was an unforgivable betrayal. I had just offered his name up as a possible murder suspect to a homophobic cop -- based on nothing more than his infatuation with me. I finished, “I’m going to try to get proof.”

* * * * *

Bruce’s house was dark but the porch light shone welcomingly as I walked up the sidewalk. I unlatched the side gate and walked around the back. Like I’d thought, a paved walkway with steps leading to a side entrance -- nice to know my instincts were occasionally right. I skirted past the doorway and the requisite potted palms. Dry bougainvillea leaves crunched under foot, scuttled across the patio. The play-set in the jungle of weeds creaked, one swing swaying in the wind.

I took out my pocket knife and started prying at the screen fastenings of Bruce’s bedroom window. I didn’t know how long Bruce would wait at my place before he started back for home, but I was dogged by a frantic sense of hurry and danger.

I was lifting the screen down when a hand clamped down on my shoulder. I let out a muffled shriek before a second hand clamped over my mouth.

I swung blindly with the screen. It banged into the bushes and against the house.

“Knock it off!” hissed a voice against my ear as we grappled clumsily.

Recognizing the voice, I dropped the screen and quit struggling. Jerked my head free.

“Are you trying to give me heart failure?” I gasped out.

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“What the hell are you doing?” Detective Riordan’s hands bit into my shoulders. “Why are you here?” His face in the moonlight was frightening and unfamiliar. When I realized what he thought I just stood there gaping.

“You don’t think I --”

He yanked my sweater up and felt around my waist. Instinctively, I grabbed at his hands; he knocked them away. “Put ’em up.” He wasn’t kidding. One look at his face was all I needed. I locked my hands behind my head. Amazement held me silent as he roughly patted down my hips. One hand hooked in my belt, he nudged my legs apart with his own, and then knelt, running his hands down my legs. I stood there like an inner-city lawn ornament, arms over my head, as though I’d been getting frisked all my life.

Riordan stood up. “Are you crazy?”

“No, I --”

It was rhetorical because he bit out, “Hasn’t your boyfriend given you a key yet?”

I took a couple of deep breaths. I was still shaky from the recent surge of adrenaline and fear. “It’s not what you think. Whatever it is you’re thinking now.”

He said bleakly, “I’m thinking I’ve caught you breaking and entering twice. I’m thinking I told you not to go anywhere without notifying me first.”

“I tried to call you. I left a message.”

“For Christ’s sake, are you ... .” Words seemed to fail him.

“Listen to me.” In my urgency I reached toward him. He looked down distractedly at my hand resting on his sleeve. “Something happened tonight. I think -- I think Bruce --”

“No shit, Sherlock,” he said grimly.

“I should have known,” I said miserably. “The first guy I get involved with in years.”

His laugh was nasty. “You sure can pick ’em. Do you know whose house this is?”

“Bruce’s.”

“This is where Grant Landis lived growing up. This is the house he supposedly died in.”

I blinked up at him. “Supposedly?”

“Landis isn’t dead. There’s no death certificate.”

“But ... .” My voice died.

“His parents spread the word he was dead. He attempted suicide after graduating high school. He was institutionalized. After his release he disappeared.”

“Why would his parents do that?”

He said acridly, “My take? They wished he was dead. I think he was kept locked up as much for being queer as for trying to off himself.”

My throat hurt. I said, “But Bruce --”

118

Josh Lanyon

“Bruce is Landis. Until six years ago Bruce Green didn’t exist. No DMV records, TRW

report -- there’s no trace of him before that.” His hand closed on my arm, steering me toward the gate. “We don’t have time to chat. I don’t know where he went but he’s liable to be back any minute.”

“He went to see me.”

“Huh?”

“I called him. Asked him to come over so I could --”

“So you could what? Jesus H. Christ! Don’t you get it? This guy kills people!”

“Yes, I get it! You said you had to have proof. I had to have proof before I could -- turn him over.”

That grip on my arm was going to leave bruises. “I asked you to stay out of it. I specifically told you. What do I have to do? Arrest you?”

“Anything to get me in handcuffs?”

I don’t know why that popped out, but police brutality seemed imminent.

I rushed on, “You’re a cop. You said yourself, your hands are tied.”

“Look ma, no hands.” Riordan showed me his empty hands. “Fine. You wanted to help.

You helped. Now get your ass out of here.”

“You’re not listening. I may be able to --” Finish a sentence? Not likely with Detective Riordan. Once again he cut over me.

“No, you’re not listening. This is a police investigation. I’m already hanging in the wind conducting an unauthorized surveillance.” He gave me a slight shove. “Vamoose.”

I shoved back. “Stop pushing me.”

For a minute I thought we were going to get into a wrestling match. The tension wasn’t all due to the uncertainty and threat.

“This is my life. I have a say in what happens to me.”

“What does that mean?”

I had no idea, but I was tired of being on the receiving end. I ignored him, started walking back to the gate.

Riordan called suddenly, “Damn. Adrien, wait. Wait. Change of plan. I want you to go swear out a complaint against Green. Will you do that?”

I stopped walking. “What? Why?”

His expression was unreadable in the moonlight. “Chan’s trying to get a search warrant, but if you swear out a complaint we can pick Green up immediately on the stalker charge.”

“You think a restraining order is going to stop him?”

“Trust me, would you?”

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He was kind of asking a lot, seeing my life was at stake. When I didn’t instantly react he ran both hands over his pale hair and exclaimed, “Adrien, would you GO?”

Until then I hadn’t realized how on edge he was. Now I could feel it, like an electrical field around him.

“I’m going.”

* * * * *

I vamoosed back to where I’d parked the Bronco a couple of blocks down.

I was crossing the street when an approaching car caught me in its headlights. It slowed.

Stopped. The window rolled down.

“Adrien?”

I froze.

“What are you doing here? I went to your place.”

Say something, I urged myself. Say something before he stomps on the accelerator and mows you down. “I’m sorry!” I called. “I was too jumpy to wait. I’m ... uh ... I’m afraid I’m being watched.”

“By the police?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Brilliant. Grace Latham herself couldn’t have done better.

“What did you park down here for?” The frown was in his voice.

“I’m not thinking clearly,” I said honestly. “I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

Of you. I wasn’t sure I could make it across the street, unlock the Bronco and get in before he overtook me. I could start yelling for Riordan, but I doubted if he’d hear me this far down the block. Proof. We needed proof.

I shivered and said, “Are we going to stand out here talking all night?”

I saw him reach across and unlock the door. “Get in.”

I got in.

In silence we drove up the street to the yellow and brown house. The garage door opened and we slipped under into the close darkness. The garage door rumbled shut.

Bruce turned off the car engine.

I’ve never been claustrophobic but I felt an overwhelming sense of danger pressing in on me as I sat next to Bruce in the dead of night.

Finally he moved and said, “Well? Coming?”

120

Josh Lanyon

Chapter Fifteen

“You’re so tense tonight.” Bruce leaned over on elbow and kissed the nape of my neck.

I lay naked on my stomach beside him, feeling vulnerable with my back exposed; but the less he read of my face the better. The screen was still off the bedroom window. Bruce hadn’t noticed in the darkness, but I had. I kept reassuring myself that Riordan was out there --

somewhere. Nothing would happen to me if I kept my head.

Then I started worrying about what might happen if the police suddenly burst in on us.

How might Bruce react? I didn’t want to be caught in the crossfire.

“I’m not feeling too hot,” I excused myself to Bruce. “My heart’s bothering me a little.”

“Yeah?”

Not completely a lie. I felt sick with nerves and dread. But my heart was holding steady despite its desire to climb into my mouth and hide.

What if Riordan had gone haring back to my place before Bruce and I drove up? What if he had no idea where I was? What if right this minute he was busy getting paperwork together so I could swear out a complaint against Bruce?

Bruce slid a hand down my spine and I gave a shudder. He chuckled.

“Cold?” He rubbed his foot up and down my calf.

I listened tautly to what sounded like a floor board creaking. Rolled onto my side and wound my arms around Bruce’s shoulders. He kissed me hungrily, his mouth wet and hot. I made some small sound. Mostly dismay.

Bruce whispered, “Hell, your heart is beating fast.” He let go of me, rolled over and off the bed. “I’ll get your pills.”

“No --” I dived, grabbing his arm before he could walk back into the living room where we’d shucked our clothes fifteen minutes earlier. Bruce gazed down at me, his face unreadable in the light from the hall.

“It’s okay,” I babbled. “I’m not sick. Just wound up. Hand me the wine.”

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I reached for the pink goblet on the bedstand and nearly knocked over the clock. The luminous numbers flipped over like game show cards ticking off the last minutes of my life.

Bruce sat down beside me once more, stroking me while I sipped.

“I love you, Adrien.”

I lowered my lashes. Not even to save my life, I thought. To lie about that seemed worse than anything anyone had done to him yet.

“Tonight I thought....”

I put the glass down, leaned back into the pillows. I reached out to him.

“I thought you didn’t want me,” he muttered. He sounded close to tears. I felt like crying myself. I stroked his back.