Chapter Seven

Despite the adventures of the night, I was up at the crack of dawn, prowling restlessly around my flat and finally going downstairs to the empty bookstore. The silence was almost eerie, especially on the side of the building under construction. I went to the wall of plastic — refastened with crime-scene tape — and stared through at the empty rooms. I could see the broken window from where I stood.

There had been occasional break-ins on that side of the premises through the years; there had even been the occasional attempt at burglary on this side. But this was plain weird, wasn’t it? Either I had been targeted by the dumbest burglar on the planet, or someone was desperate to get into this place. Why? We did a decent business, though Cloak and Dagger Books hardly made the irresistible target a 7-Eleven did. Construction equipment couldn’t be that hard to steal. And if it had something to do with Jay Stevens, well, surely the burglar was aware Mr. Stevens had left the building?

Sipping my coffee — a gourmet flavor known as “decaf swill” — I noted that there was no sign of Detective Alonzo or any kind of police investigation this bright and sunny a.m.

I turned away as the bookshop phone began to ring. Natalie had recorded a message informing customers that we were temporarily closed. I listened to her unreasonably cheerful recorded voice followed by the incensed voice of one of our regular customers asking how she was supposed to pick up a book we were holding for her.

Terrific.

The next three phone calls were local media outlets requesting tours of the building.

Uh-huh.

I wondered how long Alonzo’s vindictive streak was going to last. Even a week of this was liable to put a serious dent in my finances. If Lisa hadn’t chosen to shell out an ungodly amount of money, my hospital bills would have already left me in serious fiscal jeopardy.

I trailed up and down the aisles of books, facing a title out here, reshelving a book there…

The building creaked emptily as I took another turn around the floor. Outside, the street was busy with traffic; people strolled along the sidewalk. It was sort of like being walled up inside the building, and I thought of Jay Stevens — if that’s whom the skeleton belonged to — waiting to be found all these years.

That started me thinking. I went into my office and, shrugging off the illogical feeling of guilt, turned on my laptop. I wasn’t going to work, merely glance at my e-mail and maybe check our Website orders. No harm in that.

However, as I watched an alarming amount of e-mail loading into my inbox — sure enough Mel’s e-mail address flashed by — a better thought occurred to me, and I clicked onto the Internet and Googled “Jay Stevens.”

I was quickly reminded of why I hadn’t pursued the puzzle of Stevens’ disappearance when I’d first taken possession of Cloak and Dagger Books. Not only had I had my hands full trying to get a new business up and running, but “Jay Stevens” was a popular name. A lot more popular than, for example, “Adrien English.” Not that I wasn’t happy about that.

Never mind all the Facebook, MySpace, and LinkedIn Jay Stevenses. There was the hair-salon Jay Stevens, the big-and-tall Jay Stevens, and the assorted writer, historian, photographer, and other business-owner Jay Stevenses.

Mama, don’t let your babies grow up to be Jay Stevenses.

Four pages in, there was still nothing on a missing 1950s clarinet-player Jay Stevens. I remembered what the elderly shutterbug had said about a jazz band called the Moonglows, so I plugged that into Google.

To my surprise, I scored. My search brought up a small and now-defunct record label by the name of Vibe. Vibe as in vibraphone, not good vibrations. Vibe had been based in Los Angeles and had only managed to stay afloat three years, but in its stable of talent was a jazz ensemble called Jay Stevens and the Moonglows, featuring Jay Stevens on clarinet, Jinx Stevens on vocals, Orrie New Orleans on trombone, Paulie St. Cyr on piano and guitar, and Todd Thomas on drums.

The Moonglows had made one recording, titled Kaleidoscope. There was a miniature black-and-white photo of the record cover, which I was totally unable to make out.

I jotted down the names of the other members of the Moonglows. Next I tried a search for “The Moonglows” and “Kaleidoscope” and got a couple of hits. One was a passing reference on a jazz discussion board to Paulie St. Cyr’s “locked hands” style of playing, but the other was for an eBay sale long passed. I was able to zoom in on the record cover, which featured an enraptured-looking lady in a slinky cocktail dress, lying on what appeared to be a red carpet. She was spying through a kaleidoscope. The back of the record cover offered a small black-and-white photo of the uncomfortable-looking Moonglows (probably thinking about that kaleidoscope) grouped around a piano. I was able to pick out who was whom based on the instruments they held. The man holding the clarinet was tall and thin and fair. His suit looked too big for him. He had an engaging grin. The chick singer, Jinx Stevens, leaned with easy familiarity against his shoulder. She wore a ponytail and a cocktail dress. She looked too much like Jay to be anyone other than his sister.

Surprise. I’d automatically assumed wife.

I tried another search for the Moonglows and their sole album. All that came up were references made in passing to other members. Paulie St. Cyr had gone on to become quite well-known before his early death in 1967. Todd Thomas had given up music for selling ski boats. He’d apparently retired in the eighties and moved to Canada. His wife kept a family website which offered “news” updates and lots of photos of spectacularly plain children. Orrie New Orleans had a long, if unspectacular, career as a backup player. He had passed away last year. I couldn’t find any information on Jinx Stevens. The only time her name popped up was in reference to the Moonglows and Kaleidoscope.

She seemed to have vanished as effectively as her brother, though it seemed there was no mystery about it.

But then, there wasn’t a lot made of Jay Stevens’ disappearance either. Maybe it had only been news in Los Angeles. The Moonglows were strictly famous (and that was relative) for having been Paulie St. Cyr’s first band. For that reason, and that reason alone, a copy of Kaleidoscope was worth a small fortune.

I plugged it into my eBay searches. I was curious. Plus, listening to music was on my doctor-approved list of activities.

I spent the next hour scanning through jazz discussion boards and coming up with not so much in the way of information. The next time I surfaced, I realized that it was nearly ten o’clock, and Lauren would be showing up to drag me to cardiac rehab.

I signed out, turned off the laptop, and went upstairs to change into sweats and a T-shirt.

* * * * *

“Depression is perfectly normal after a cardiac event, Adrien.” Dr. Shearing studied me over the top of her spectacles.

Dr. Shearing was my therapist, yet another member of my rehabilitation team, which included my cardiologist, physical therapist, exercise therapist, dietitian, and…shrink. I didn’t care for her. I didn’t care for any part of cardiac rehab. Not that I didn’t know how lucky I was to be in such a program, but I’d never been much for team sports, and that was increasingly what my recovery felt like. All this fucking attention on everything I did. It was close to unbearable. And most unbearable was Dr. Shearing’s poking and probing into my emotional state.

“I’m not depressed.” I gave her a smile perfected through years of dealing with my mother’s nosy cronies at interminable high-society shindigs.

Dr. Shearing smiled politely in return. She was, as they say in legend, small but terrible. Barely five feet tall and built like a pixie. She had one of those pixie haircuts too. The kind of thing that looks best on elderly women or kindergarteners. The walls of her office were plastered in a disturbing mix of angel pictures and diplomas.

“What about stress? Are you using your stress-management techniques when things seem to be getting on top of you?”

“Nothing is getting on top of me.” As I said it, a totally inappropriate picture popped into my mind.

“What are you feeling?” Jake’s breath warm against my face, my bruised lips tingling from his kisses. “Tell me what it feels like with me inside you.”

I felt my face warm. I think Dr. Shearing mistook it for guilt. She said rather impatiently, “You’re an intelligent, educated man, Adrien. You must realize we can’t treat the heart without treating the entire mind and body. Did you know that depressed cardiac patients have at least twice the risk of repeat events in the two years following their first heart attack?”

“Yep,” I said shortly. “Depressed patients are less likely to take their meds, stick to their diets and exercise regimes, and continue cardiac-rehab sessions. I’m not depressed, and I’m doing everything I’m supposed to do.” Including this waste of time, thrice-weekly, for twelve weeks. That was how long my rehab was scheduled for. Twelve weeks of closely supervised…everything.

I added, “So can I please go do my workout?”

She shook her head as though she didn’t get it — or more likely, that I didn’t. “We talked about you bringing a support partner to rehab today.”

“No, we didn’t. You did.” And now I was losing my temper. “Even if I wanted to put someone else through this, there isn’t anyone.”

“I know that’s not true. Your mother —”

“Jesus. You don’t give up, do you? I’m thirty-five years old. I don’t want to go through cardiac rehab with my mom, although I sincerely appreciate the fact that she’s paying for all this. I can get through it on my own. I prefer to do it on my own.”

Mother, please, Mother, I’d rather do it myself!

Dr. Shearing gave me a long, unsmiling look. “There’s not a lot I can do with that attitude.”

Fortunately.

* * * * *

“How’d it go?” Lauren asked when I climbed into her BMW about thirty minutes later.

“It’s going fine.” I relaxed against the headrest.

She glanced at me. “That was a heavy sigh.”

Lauren was the eldest of my stepsisters. Like Natalie, she was a tall, leggy blonde; classic California girl. She possessed a much more serious temperament, though. Her days were spent working for a nonprofit organization, and her evenings went to charity work. She was in the middle of an ugly divorce and had moved back home, which right there meant she already had her own problems and didn’t need mine.

I smiled wearily. “Everything’s fine. It’s only that I’m tired of being tired.”

“I know,” she commiserated, starting the car.

She didn’t know, of course. That didn’t change the fact that she wanted to help — genuinely wanted to help, wasn’t simply offering lip service. That was one of the strangest parts of having acquired an extended family this late in life. Having all these people who genuinely cared, were genuinely interested, were not only willing but eager to help. It took getting used to. Even after two years, it caught me off guard.

Even more surprising to me was that, despite what everyone seemed to think, I sort of reciprocated. I was mildly fond of gruff Bill Dauten, and I was, well, very fond of the girls. In fact, when Natalie had hurled herself sobbing into my arms yesterday, I’d experienced the completely unfamiliar urge to break someone’s face in her defense. I couldn’t remember a time when anyone had relied on me, really relied on me, let alone turned to me for protection and comfort.

It had felt…good.

We drove out of the crowded lot — another sore spot: I wasn’t allowed to drive yet and probably had to put up with another two or more weeks of being a passenger in my own life.

“Why don’t we go by the house?” Lauren said out of the blue. “I mean, the bookstore is closed today anyway. Emma is dying to show you pictures of ponies. And it would do wonders for Lisa’s nerves.”

I studied her profile. “I guess she’s still upset about the…er…”

“The skeleton in the floor? You could say that.” She spared me a quick, wry smile. “It was all over the local news last night. She tried to send Daddy out to bring you home.”

I raised my head and stared. At last I managed, “I guess I owe Bill one.”

Lauren nodded. Her lips quivered, and I could see she was working not to laugh. “Don’t tell Lisa. I thought your skeleton sounded kind of interesting.”

“It is, kind of,” I admitted. I considered telling her that someone had tried to break into the bookstore for two nights running, but no way would she be able to refrain from passing that intel on to Lisa. It’s like these women had signed a blood oath to put loyalty to their sub rosa sisterhood above all else.

“She’s afraid you’re going to get involved in another murder investigation.”

“No.”

Lauren didn’t reply.

“Even if I did look into it…most of the principals would be long gone. It’s a cold case. I mean, I’m not considering getting involved, but…”

Lauren shrugged. “Fifty years ago. If someone was in their twenties back then, they could still be around.”

“Even Lisa can’t think I’m at risk from the seventy-and-up demographic.”

She bit her lip, still clearly amused at my woes. “Shall we drop by the house and reassure her that you’re still alive?”

“Home, Jane,” I ordered languidly.

* * * * *

“I like him best,” Emma confided, handing me a photo of a five-year-old black gelding. “Adagio.”

We were sitting on the wide sofa in the Dautens’ family room, which opened into the large kitchen, where Natalie stood quietly arguing on the phone with her boyfriend and Lisa pretended not to listen as she dished out lunch.

“He’s a beauty,” I agreed, studying the graceful tail, arched neck, wide eyes, and classic dish face of an Arabian horse.

“We’ve been through this, Emma. A pony is much more suitable.” Lisa set a plate of eggplant cannelloni on the coffee table in front of me.

Emma’s face took on a mutinous expression. She was the youngest of my stepsisters, and if I were going to be honest, she was my favorite. I’d never been remotely interested in children, but Emma — somehow she was different. She even sort of looked like me. Well, she had dark hair and blue eyes. At fourteen, she still had to grow into her lanky height, and she seemed to be all knees and elbows.

I said, “A pony isn’t necessarily the best choice for a child.” Emma opened her mouth, and I amended, “Or a teenybopper.”

Torn between indignation and gratification, she volunteered, “Adagio is fourteen and a half hands.”

I picked up the plate, saying, “That’s relatively small. Cutoff for a pony is fourteen point two.”

“Tall enough for someone to break her little neck falling off.”

“I won’t,” Emma protested.

“She could break her little neck falling off a Shetland pony,” I said. “Or tripping over her little feet.” I added to Emma, “Try to avoid that.”

She smothered a giggle. I actually liked her giggle. Sue me. I sampled the cannelloni. It was good: olives, shallots, goat cheese. But it was hard to make myself eat now. I surreptitiously set the plate aside.

Lisa wore the expression I recognized only too well from many thwarted attempts to coerce her into letting me have something besides tropical fish during my formative years. “I think it would be better to start with a pony. I’m not wild about that idea, let alone buying a horse.”

“Ponies can be stubborn and spoiled. A lot of it’s going to depend on the previous owner. Arabians are smart, alert, gentle. So much so that they’re about the only breed of which the United States Equestrian Federation will permit kids younger than eighteen to show stallions.”

My grandmother had raised Arabians. In fact, my childhood ambition had been to raise Arabians. I’d probably have outgrown that even if I hadn’t gotten sick in my teens. I still enjoyed riding — and hopefully would be well enough to start again soon.

“She’s not going to have a stallion,” Lisa exclaimed.

“Adagio’s not a stallion,” Emma said. “He’s a gelding.”

At that unconsciously possessive tone, Lisa gave me a long look. I intervened before she could.

“Don’t set your heart on Adagio, kiddo. You’re going by a photo. We haven’t seen him in the flesh, let alone ridden him. And you’d want to ride him a couple of times, not make a decision based on seeing him once.”

“But I know. If I ride him once and I think he’s the right one, why can’t I have him?”

“Arabians aren’t much good as jumpers,” I reminded her. “They jump flat. You still want to show jump, right? Show me the other ponies.”

It was clear that I had let her down big-time. She fought to keep her mouth from quivering as she handed me the next photos. I tried not to notice, though it was hard to ignore, when she was shaking with the effort not to cry. It reminded me of something I hadn’t thought of in a very long time: a cardboard box with an old pillow and a cheap dog collar for an unknown dog to be named Scout that I had confidently believed would one day be mine. I had held on to that box for two years, believing that I could wear my mother down.

In the end, the cardboard box, pillow, and collar had gone in the trash, along with my dreams of dog ownership. And I’d gotten over it just fine. So would she. I picked up my plate, ate a bite of cannelloni.

“This chestnut is nice-looking.”

Nothing from Emma.

“The Welsh pony?”

She nodded. Pressed her lips still more firmly when they would have betrayed her.

“Or what about the Welara?” For Lisa’s benefit, I said, “That’s an Arabian and Welsh pony mix. They’re supposed to be very gentle.”

Emma nodded bravely, her fingers clutching the photo of Adagio so tightly, it was starting to crinkle.

Appetite gone, I set my plate on the table. “I’m not saying Adagio’s not the right horse.”

She gave another of those tight nods, wiped her nose with her hand, sniffed fiercely.

“Emma, you’re being a goose,” Lisa said sharply. “You’re lucky that your father and I are willing to consider a pony.”

Emma jumped up and ran from the room, ignoring Lisa’s exasperated “Emma!”

In the wake of a distant bedroom door slamming, Lisa turned to me. “I do not understand that child. You were never like this. Girls are so…so unreasonable.”

“It’s not going to hurt if I go take a look at this horse, right?”

She paled. “Adrien, you are not well enough to ride. You know that.”

“Yes, I know that.” I clamped down on my own impatience. “I’ll have a look at Adagio and see if it’s worth taking her out there for a test drive.”

“She’s had her heart set on that bloody nag from the minute she saw his picture. It’s ridiculous.”

“Yes. Probably. What’s the harm in letting me vet him? Osseo Farms is a reputable breeder, and I like Arabians. If I were in the market for a horse, I’d be looking at Arabians.”

“Are you sure you’re not in the market?” my mother asked drily.

I grinned at her, and after a moment she smiled reluctantly.

Despite the flare-up with Emma, it was a pleasant visit. We sat in the large, shady backyard and drank lemonade and talked. Or they talked. Mostly I listened. And admittedly, I dozed off a couple of times as Lauren and Natalie discussed their romantic woes.

Fortunately no one asked my opinion, because I believed Lauren couldn’t unload her cheating, corporate-clone spouse fast enough, and Natalie’s on-and-off boyfriend, Warren, was a waste of space. Not that my track record was enviable, though with the exception of Mel, I didn’t think I had ever kidded myself that my relationships were going to last forever.

“Guy called here last night,” Lisa said, jolting me out of a somnolent contemplation of bees buzzing the purple clematis climbing up the redwood pergola. “Did he get hold of you?”

“Yes.”

Three pairs of eyes watched and waited.

“What?”

Natalie said to the others, “I told you.”

I asked shortly, “What did you tell them?”

“That it’s over with Guy.”

I closed my eyes, raised my face to the sun. “You worry about your own love life,” I said finally.

Not exactly a crushing rejoinder. Surprisingly, they left it alone.

After a time, Emma came out to join us on the patio, and everyone carefully ignored the fact that her eyes and nose were pink. Bill arrived home, and cocktails were served — though none for me. I was looking forward to the following week, when I’d finally be allowed a glass of wine again. Not that I needed to be drunk to be around my family, but it didn’t hurt to take the edge off.

The only awkward time was when Lisa popped out with, “Darling, the house in Porter Ranch is still sitting empty.”

“I thought you were putting it on the market?” I said.

“This is a dreadful time to try and sell a house.”

“Okay.”

My bemusement must have been clear. She pushed a fraction harder. “Have you given any more thought to what we discussed?”

“What did we discuss?” I asked cautiously.

“You moving into the Porter Ranch house.”

I peered more closely at her. “That was like…two years ago.”

She said brightly, “Then you’ve had plenty of time to think about it. The house is perfect for you. It’s quiet and private, and it has the swimming pool, which would be so good for you now. The doc —”

“It’s sort of big for one, don’t you think?”

“It won’t always be one.” She was giving me that maternal look that always raised the hair on the back of my neck.

“That’s true. I do have a cat now.”

She laughed her silvery laugh, and I knew I’d better not encourage her.

“I appreciate the thought. I can’t afford a new house and a bookstore renovation.”

To my horror, Bill looked up out of his paper and said, “You can have the house, Adrien. Your mother and I already discussed it. It would put Lisa’s mind at ease.”

I made a sound that generally precedes having a doctor inspect your tonsils and managed feebly, “It’s too far from the bookstore.”

“Darling, you don’t need to live over the bookstore.”

“No, but I like living over the bookstore.”

“But living over the bookstore is hardly conducive to developing a healthier lifestyle and more-sensible work habits, which is what the doctors warned you has to happen, or you’re going to be right back where you were.”

I said to the others, “Is this better than reality TV or what?”

Emma made a squeaky sound that was probably a laugh swallowed in the nick of time.

“Adrien, you need to take this seriously.”

“Serious as a heart attack,” I assured her.

Her face tightened. “That’s hardly amusing, under the circumstances.”

“If it has a pool, why can’t we move there?” Emma inquired.

“There,” I said, pointing at her. “Excellent idea.”

“Oh, Adrien.” Lisa abandoned the discussion.

Another round of cocktails was served, and plans for dinner got under way. I felt that peculiar, inevitable restlessness again.

To Lisa’s displeasure — and my surprise — Lauren asked if I wanted to go home. I hardened my heart against Lisa’s and Emma’s obvious disappointment and admitted I did. It wasn’t merely the fatigue, although it continued to worry me how tired I was all the time. I had a strange sense of missing something, of being in the wrong place — no matter where I was.

I said my good-byes, and Lauren drove me back to Pasadena. “Thanks for the intervention,” I said when we were on our way.

She brushed it off. “I know how it is when you need quiet to think things out.”

I remembered her impending divorce. She probably did know. For all that Lauren seemed to agree with the other womenfolk that she was doing the right thing, I got the feeling she was in a lot of pain.

We reached the bookstore. I thanked Lauren again, lifted a hand in farewell, and let myself into the big, empty building.

It was warm and very still inside. The heady scent of old books floated with the dust motes in the fading light. Old and used books have a particular scent — very different from new books. That evening it was a mix of old leather, worn cloth, crumbling paper, and wood polish. It smelled like home. I couldn’t imagine willingly leaving Cloak and Dagger ever. Maybe they could stick me under the floorboards when I was done.

I walked over to the plastic wall dividing the bookstore from the other half of the building. There was no sign that the cops had been there during the day. No sign anyone had. Perhaps that was good news.

I went upstairs and unlocked my flat. It was too warm and stuffy upstairs, a bit too redolent of cat. I opened the windows to catch whatever evening breeze there was.

What had been the rush to get here again? Everything was exactly as I’d left it. As it would always be.

I sat down on the sofa, and Tomkins leaped onto the cushion beside me, rubbing his face against my arm.

“Miss me?”

Apparently so. Well, there was no accounting for taste; I’d be the first to admit that.

I dealt with the litter box, fed the cat, decided I’d opt for a snack later, considered having a drink, reconsidered, and returned to the sofa, where I stared at the ceiling for a time.

What the hell was my problem?

If I’d wanted company, why hadn’t I stayed at Lisa’s?

I listened to the distant street sounds as this part of town began to roll up the sidewalks for the evening. I listened to the building settling in for the long evening, stretching out wooden joints, cracking its knuckles.

“Oh, what the hell,” I said.

Tomkins briefly abandoned his pursuit of an ailing fly to throw me a curious look as I rose and went to the phone.

“He’s probably not even home,” I told him.

Tomkins offered no opinion. He sat down to watch, as though my dialing a phone was one of the most fascinating things he’d ever witnessed in his brief life.

The phone rang on the other end.

Once.

Twice.

I closed my eyes, trying to decide if I was going to leave a message.

“Riordan.”

I opened my eyes. Funny how the sound of his voice could still make my heart speed up. You’d have thought I’d be over it by now. You’d have thought wrong.

“Hi.”

“Hey.” One syllable, but his voice warmed perceptibly. “How are you doing?”

“Okay.” I wondered how long it would be before that statement was true.

“Yeah?”

I didn’t think there was any telltale note in my voice, yet his single questioning word held instant and complete discernment. Sometimes I thought Jake, ironically, knew me better than about anyone on the planet.

“Not really,” I admitted. “Did you hear about yesterday?”

“The skeleton in the floor? I heard.”

You could take the boy out of the police force, but you couldn’t take the police force out of the boy.

“We had another break-in, too. That’s why I’m calling.”

His voice didn’t cool exactly, though it lost warmth. “Yes?”

“How’s the PI biz?”

He said colorlessly, “I got my first case yesterday. A woman wants me to follow her ex.”

“He’s already her ex?”

“Yeah.”

No wonder his voice sounded flat. “Are you going to take it?”

“Yes.” And clearly it was not up for discussion.

“Do you think you’d have time for another case?”

He sounded almost wary as he asked, “What case? Who’s the client?”

“Me,” I said. “I want to hire you.”