New today from Loose Id.
BLURB:
Gay bookseller and reluctant amateur sleuth Adrien English's writing
career is suddenly taking off. His first novel, Murder Will Out, has
been optioned by notorious Hollywood actor Paul Kane. But when murder
makes an appearance at a dinner party, who should be called in but
Adrien's former lover, handsome closeted detective Jake Riordan, now
a Lieutenant with LAPD -- which may just drive Adrien's new
boyfriend, sexy UCLA professor Guy Snowden, to commit a murder of his
own.
I crossed the brick courtyard, climbed into my Forester and started
down the long drive through what looked like a private park.
Positioned outside the gates at the bottom of the driveway was a
silver unmarked police car, prickling with antennae. Jake Riordan
leaned against the side of the car, arms folded, clearly waiting.
I pulled through the gates and parked beside his car, rolling down my
window.
"Well, well," he said. "This can't be a coincidence."
"It could," I said. "The odds aren't high, but they do exist."
"Uh huh." His face was impassive, and I felt a flare of nerves. I
think it was nerves; certainly I knew first hand just how unpleasant
he could make himself.
"So you're trying to tell me that this is just a sympathy call and
you're not thinking of sticking your nose into this investigation?"
I didn't say anything. According to Paul Kane my asking a few
questions wasn't supposed to be a problem, but here Jake was, and
that generally spelled p-r-o-b-l-e-m in my book.
Into my silence, he said, "You mean like you kept your nose out of
the Grimaldi investigation?"
"Sure," I said warily.
He snorted. "You'd think with all the practice you'd be better at
lying."
"My lies?" I said, forgetting caution in an irrational surge of anger
as I remembered Paul Kane admitting that Jake had been fucking him
all the time he had been fucking me.
He straightened up at whatever he read in my face. I hoped we weren't
in for another wrestling match because, really, what would the
neighbors think? Even in Bel Air, where they say celebrities get away
with murder, there were standards.
I said, "Maybe I was invited over here."
"Maybe you were," he agreed, and it dawned on me that despite the
loose and ready-for-anything stance, he wasn't angry. He should have
been. The old Jake would have been. But he didn't even seem
irritated. He seemed…well, the truth was I didn't know what he
seemed. I couldn't read him. And that, more than anything, confirmed
for me how much time had passed since we were together. "Together"
being relative.
It was painful and it was freeing at the same time.
"Maybe me and Mrs. Jones, we got a thing going on," I said.
His mouth twitched into that reluctant, wry half-smile I remembered
so well. "I hope not," he said. "That would make you a prime suspect
in Mr. Jones's murder."
"I thought I already was."
Astonishingly, he said, "Yeah. Well. Maybe we should talk."
"Is that why you're waiting here?"
"I'm waiting for Alonzo," he said. "He's late." He checked his watch,
and I found myself staring at his wedding ring again. Not that it was
particularly flashy, but it kept catching my eye. "It's nearly
lunchtime. Let's go grab something to eat."
I didn't want to have lunch with him. I didn't want to ever see him
again, but I needed to hear what he had to say, so I nodded and
rolled up my window.
I followed him to the Beverly Glen Deli at the top of Beverly Glen
Boulevard just below Mulholland Drive.
We got a table on the patio. The sun was already warm on this late
June morning, which was fine with me; I felt like I'd been cold ever
since I got out of the hospital. Jake sat back in his chair, studying
me, and I studied him right back.
What was his secret? Did he get vitamin B shots? How the hell did he
keep up with all the men and women and barnyard animals in his life?
And if he'd intended to continue playing dangerous liaisons with Paul
Kane, what about all that bullshit about breaking off with me because
he wanted a real marriage? It didn't make sense -- even from Jake's
admittedly screwy point of view.
Or maybe he hadn't intended to continue with Kane. Maybe nine-to-five
normal had just proven harder than Jake anticipated. Two years ago,
desperate for a family and a "normal" life, he'd broken off his
relationship with me in order to marry policewoman Kate Keegan. End
of story. A few months later I'd learned from his partner Paul Chan,
a member of the writing group I ran at the bookstore, that Kate had
miscarried and returned to duty. I guess there was still a chance of
the family Jake always wanted, but the fact that he had resumed his
old extra-curricular activities -- had, apparently never broken them
completely off -- seemed to limit his chances of success.
I wondered if I'd have still managed to restrain myself from outing
him to Detective Alonzo if I'd known then about the five years with
Paul Kane. I wanted to think I was that chivalrous, but I wasn't sure.
The waitress appeared and handed us menus. I ordered orange juice.
Jake ordered coffee, then his cell phone rang. "Alonzo," he said, and
he excused himself.
I watched the locals come and go in their Mercedes and Maseratis
picking up their take out orders of lox and cream cheese or corned
beef sandwiches. Even the car exhaust smelled more expensive in Bel
Air.
Jake returned a few minutes later and sat down again.
Neither of us said anything. It was the strangest moment. I thought
of all the times I had longed for something as simple as going to eat
with him that he didn't spend the entire time worrying about somebody
he knew seeing us together; and I thought of how we had never run out
of things to say to each other until today.
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