The Boy With The Painful Tattoo: Holmes & Moriarity 3 (21 page)

“This is Sydney Nightingale,” I said. “She works for KAKE TV.”

“
Baywatch News
,” J.X. said. “I recognize you. You did the reporting on those wildfires last year.” He offered her the smile that launched five hundred thousand bestsellers.

Sydney smiled back as she clicked her phone off. She dropped phone and notebook in her purse, and rose offering her hand to J.X.

“Such a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Moriarity,” she said to him. And to me, “See, I promised this would be painless. If you think of anything you’d like to add, you can always reach me here.” She handed me her business card again. “Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Holmes. You’ve made my producer really happy.”

“Okay. Well, thank you.” I was a little surprised at how fast she had decided to wrap up the interview.

Sydney was already headed for the front door. J.X. saw her out and returned to the parlor where I was absently swinging the tassel on the end of my robe tie.

“I guess I scared her off,” he said.

“She did scurry, didn’t she? And she didn’t bring her photographer with her, so I don’t know if her producer is going to be really happy or not.”

“She had to know you wouldn’t let a photographer in here.”

“True.”

The doorbell rang. J.X. gave me a quizzical look. “Maybe she remembered something else she wanted to ask you.”

I swallowed and said, “Maybe it’s Jerry.”

J.X.’s face hardened. “I
hope
it’s Jerry.”

It was not Jerry, it was a shipment from the Anna Hitchcock estate, and I knew at once it had to be the antique writing desk Anna had promised me back in February. I remembered our casual joking and my chest felt tight.

J.X. opened the door for the shipping company and two men in uniforms carried the heavy hand-carved ball and claw piece into the foyer.

J.X. called, “Where do you want this, Kit? In your office?”

“In the fireplace.”

“Let’s take it upstairs to the guestroom, guys.”

I reached down and picked up one of the Reading Bear bookends. I could hear J.X. and the delivery men struggling not to drop the huge antique desk down the staircase.

Footsteps overhead.

Footsteps on the stairs.

The delivery men departed. I called, “I’m going to lie down.”

J.X. didn’t answer.

I wandered into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water. I stared out the wall of windows of the breakfast nook.

The phone rang again. I groaned.

From behind me, J.X. said, “Go back to bed. Rest your back. I’ll deal with it.”

I turned and contemplated him for a long moment. “You’d better be careful, J.X.”

“What’s the matter?”

“If we’re going to live together, you should know that I will take advantage of any and all weaknesses. You have been warned.”

He grinned. “Duly noted.”

The phone rang for the third time and he winked at me and picked it up. He listened for a moment or two and then said, “He’s not available at the moment. Can I take a message?”

I gawked at him.

J.X. covered the mouthpiece and said, “Do you want to go to dinner at Alan Lorenson’s?”

“Who?”

“You don’t know him?”

I shook my head, but then I remembered. “Wait.
Lorenson?
Yes. When?”

J.X. returned to the phone. “When?” He reported back to me, “Tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“No?”

“No, yes. Yes, I mean.”

“Yes?”

I nodded.

“Yes,” J.X. said into the mouthpiece.

I listened to the half conversation while J.X. got details and directions. He hung up and said, “Who’s Alan Lorenson and why are we having dinner with him?”

I explained who Alan Lorenson was. It took longer to explain why we were having dinner with him, and I’m not sure I convinced either of us.

“Are you sure you want to get any further involved in this?” J.X. asked.

“I think we are involved whether we want to be or not.”

Depressingly, he didn’t deny it.

I said, “You were gone a while.”

“I met Izzie for a late lunch.”

I said cautiously, “Oh yes? What did Inspector Jones have to say for himself?”

“Ladas hasn’t been back to his apartment. In fact, the last time anyone saw him there was before the gallery robbery. His rent is currently two weeks past due.”

“So he’s been on the run ever since Cantrell was killed.”

“He’s been lying low, for sure. He’s got a number of lady friends, but so far he hasn’t shown up at any of their places.”

“Lady friends? Is that official police terminology? And that means what?”

“It could mean we—I mean, SFPD—don’t know all his lady friends. Or that he’s living out of his car.”

Or that one of those other unknown principals in this case was giving him shelter. But I understood why J.X. didn’t want to suggest that idea if it hadn’t yet occurred to me.

“How the hell hard can it be to catch one not very bright thug? Especially since he seems to be following me everywhere I go? He’s probably sitting out front of the house right now.”

“He’s not sitting out front of the house right now. He’s not anywhere in this neighborhood, I can tell you that much. I spent a couple of hours this morning looking for him.”

“Oh.”

“SFPD has a patrol car driving by every couple of hours. Okay? That alone furnishes a significant deterrent to Ladas trying to contact you again.”

“You would think,” I said. “I wish I was as sure.”

Chapter Fourteen

A
lan Lorenson lived in Oakland, which sounded lovely and rural, but…not so much.

I didn’t doubt that the Lorenson mansion was considered an achievement for modern architecture though. At first glance it looked a bit like someone had transported a building from an old mining town to the top of a pristine and carefully landscaped hill. Wings of tinted concrete intersected with cedar sidings stained translucent turquoise. There were a multitude of square, severe, modern windows and coppery, clay tile roofing.

It no doubt cost a fortune and was probably frequently featured in architectural magazines, but I found it ugly and artificial. It made me appreciate the little gem of a house J.X. had found for us. I had never said the words “elegant,” or “comfortable” to him. No, I had focused on things like swimming pool, fireplace in bedroom, large backyard, hardwood floors. The Lorenson house had all those things, but I’d have been distressed to find myself living there. J.X. had read between the lines and found a house I could actually love. And if that didn’t demonstrate both understanding and…well, simpatico, I didn’t know what did.

“What?” he said, meeting my gaze as we stood on the subtly tinted concrete doorstep of the Lorenson house, waiting for someone to answer our knock.

“Nothing.”

“Come on. What did you forget?”

“Nothing. I just think you’ve got good taste in houses. That’s all.”

“Oh.”
He reddened as though I’d paid him some extravagant compliment. “Thanks.”

I nodded.

The front door opened and a woman in a conservative dark dress opened the door. Clearly a housekeeper and not the lady of the house.

“Mr. Holmes. Mr. Moriarity.” There was no question. She knew who we were because only invited guests ever darkened this doorstep.

The housekeeper led the way through large rooms featuring lofty ceilings with skylights, huge windows and rough timber accents. There was what seemed to me a pretentious lack of furniture—and no books—but to each his own.

The housekeeper paused on the threshold of a spacious room and announced in modulated tones, “Mr. Holmes and Mr. Moriarity.”

Everyone in the room turned our way. I had been thinking that it would just be us and Lorenson, so I was nonplussed to find a seven-member reception committee.

I spotted Ingrid sitting on the space-age sofa next to a pair of missionaries. Well, okay, that was probably unfair, but I had never seen a couple that better illustrated the term “church-goers.” It’s not that I don’t understand that white oxfords and matching belt have their place, especially when partnering—as these were—a slim lady wearing a beige shirtwaist dress, but somehow I knew that pair had a Bible on their persons at all times. Ingrid looked different too. Her hair was slicked back in an unfrivolous ponytail and she wore a navy-blue dress that looked like the younger sister of the beige woman’s ensemble.

A tall, elegant looking older man with snowy-white hair came to meet us. He took both J.X.’s hands in his. “This is a great honor, Mr. Holmes. A great honor.”

J.X. looked as close to alarmed as I’d ever seen him. “I’m not Mr. Holmes, sir.
This
is Mr. Holmes.”

I smiled politely at Mr. Lorenson.

I had to hand it to Lorenson. He was fast on the recovery. He gave J.X. a final, dismissing squeeze and turned to me, scooping my hands up in his paws. “Mr. Holmes. You look so much younger than I imagined. I can’t tell you the joy your books give me.”

“Why, thank you.” I nobly refrained from looking at J.X.

“I’m so delighted you could accept my invitation. And on such short notice!”

“Well, there you go,” I said with my usual
savoir faire
. This is why I don’t do a lot of social events.

“Miss Butterwith is wonderful. And Mr. Pinkerton! How I laugh at his adventures.” He laughed right then and there, apparently remembering some of those delightful adventures. Then he glanced at J.X. “And do you write too, Mr. Moriarity?”

“Some,” J.X. admitted.

“Wonderful. Wonderful.” He released my hands and turned to the watchful gathering. “You must meet my family. Not readers, I’m afraid. Not one of them can read.”

A tall, blond man who looked like a younger, slimmer version of Lorenson rose. “Father, of course we can read!” He sounded exasperated. I suspected that was how he usually sounded at family gatherings. I felt an instant affinity.

“You’re right, Nord,” Lorenson said. “It’s worse. You choose
not
to read.”

Nord looked at me and rolled his eyes. “I know how to read.”

“Of course,” I said. We shook hands.

Lorenson made the rest of the introductions briskly. Nord was married to Judith, who was a petite and curvy red-head. “I know how to read too,” she said. “I just never have time.”

“It’s okay,” I assured her. “I’m not keeping track.”

Nord and Judith had two children: Kenneth and Cynthia. Cynthia was a bored-looking college-age kid in a black shift. I recognized Kenneth immediately from a national advertising campaign for peanut butter.

“Hey, you’re the ‘nutter butter better’ guy, right?” I said.

“How did you recognize me without the glob of peanut butter on my nose?” Kenneth replied. He looked like a younger and more handsome version of his father, which meant that he looked like a younger and still more handsome version of his grandfather. Willowy, blond, effortlessly elegant. At least when he wasn’t smeared in peanut butter.

I recognized him without the peanut butter because they played those idiotic commercials relentlessly, but I was too polite to say so despite the fact that J.X. thinks I have no social skills.

The churchy couple turned out to be Karla and Lloyd. Karla bore a striking resemblance to the Lorenson men, but frankly so did Lloyd. The matter was settled by Lorenson who introduced Karla as his daughter. “And you’ve met Ingrid,” he added.

Ingrid smiled pallidly and seemed to sink further into the sofa cushions.

Her parents studied her disapprovingly, but their expressions changed the minute Lorenson said, “I must say Ingrid has shown unusual initiative in this matter. In fact, if it had not been for little Ingrid, I’m not sure I’d have hit on this wonderful idea.”

“Wonderful idea?” J.X.’s tone was polite.

“Father,” Karla began.

“Be quiet, Daughter,” Lorenson returned. He said it pleasantly enough, but…seriously? Karla turned pink and fell silent.

The housekeeper materialized again to announce that dinner was ready. Lorenson took me by one arm and J.X. by the other and escorted us like a genial prison guard to the long and stark dining room. The rest of the family trooped after us. They were not speaking, but I had never heard a louder silence.

The situation did improve somewhat when dinner was served. Lorenson might have had his faults—I hated to think anyone with such fine taste in literature had faults—but he knew how to put on a good spread. Well, perhaps “spread” was not accurate. The food was excellent, really excellent, but it was all in those nouvelle cuisine portions: two bites and you’re on to the next course. I will say, the dishes kept a-coming, which helped a bit, though at the end of the eight courses I don’t think I’d eaten as much as the usual Denny’s lunch portion.

There was wine, probably very good wine, but not a lot of it. I don’t like wine, so I left my thimbleful for the others to divvy up and stuck to the sparkling water. Given the meager quantities of booze, it was no surprise that there was no visible loosening up during the meal. Every time I glanced across the table at J.X., he was looking at me, and I knew he was thinking what I was: what the hell were we doing here?

“Have any of your books been optioned for film, Mr. Holmes?” Kenneth asked, while we were waiting for the plates of the third course—which had consisted of exactly two grilled shrimps—to be removed.

“It’s been discussed,” I said. Mainly by me at the beginning of my career, when I’d somehow imagined that having someone reinterpret your work and miscast all the characters would be a welcome thing.

“What a wonderful idea!” Lorenson exclaimed. “But what cat could ever hope to play the remarkable Mr. Pinkerton?”

“Exactly,” I said. “That’s the stumbling block.”

Lorenson leaned toward me in his eagerness. “This is something I’ve often wondered. How do you come up with these amazing ideas for your stories? Do you read the newspapers and then visualize how events
should
have unfolded?”

J.X. cleared his throat. I was careful not to catch his eye. “Well, not exactly. Mostly I just make up stuff.”