Murder for breakfast.
Hard to remember there had been a time when a crime scene like the one they’d left would have kept his stomach roiling for hours. Now… Well, the day a hacked-up corpse in an alleyway didn’t bother him was the day he’d turn in his badge, so thank Christ for strong coffee.
Their prime suspect—no, keep an open mind—their person of interest was a Pasadena bookseller by the name of Adrien English. Medium height, slim, and smooth-skinned as a boy, despite the black stubble and heavy-lidded eyes. Blue eyes. The bluest eyes Jake had seen on a human. More confused than concerned as he unlocked the glass doors and pushed back the security gate.
“Hey. What’s this about?” He looked from Jake to Chan, then back to Jake. He licked his lips nervously, and Jake felt that old, uneasy stirring.
Christ. Not even his type. Not remotely his type.
Queer, though.
They showed their badges, and Chan began to explain what it was about, while their suspect—person of interest—murmured something vague about talking in his office.
Why? The store was closed.
Maybe he had a weapon in his office?
Unlikely. But you could take nothing for granted. Not in their line of work. People could surprise you, and rarely in good ways.
The waifish—was that the word? Maybe not. He was slight but not exactly boyish—and what did it matter anyway? English led the way through a forest-worth of bookshelves while Chan talked to his retreating back.
Was he trying to lose them in the maze? Jake’s mouth curled sardonically.
In fact, looking at it with fresh eyes, I wonder, nowadays, would Jake Riordan be too real to be acceptable as a romantic hero? In some ways, of course, Jake is an archetypal love interest—handsome and chisel-jawed; strong, brave, and honourable. He’s the resourceful and smart romantic hero who repeatedly helps save Adrien’s life. But in other ways, he’s the complete opposite of how many of us now want to see a romantic hero – Dal Maclean
“…concerning an employee of yours. A Mr. Robert Hersey.”
The soles of English’s bare feet flashed a well-scrubbed pink as he stumbled to a stop, and finally turned to face them.
“What about Robert?”
Did he know? Hard to tell. His tone was guarded. His gaze was guarded.
“He’s dead.”
Jake was deliberately blunt, hoping for a real reaction. He wasn’t sure if he got it or not. English went perfectly still.
“Dead,” he said at last.
They waited for the questions innocent people asked. How? When? Where?
English said nothing.
Jake said, “You don’t seem surprised.”
Twin splotches of pink appeared on English’s elegant cheekbones. “Of course I’m surprised.”
Yeah, except he just didn’t seem all that surprised.
Belatedly, English began to ask the obvious questions. “What happened? How did he die?”
“He was murdered,” Chan said.
They’d been doing this a long time. They didn’t even have to look at each other to know what the other was thinking. And what they were both thinking was guilty.
But maybe not. Because English lost color as he seemed to absorb the words. He wavered, ghost-like. The little blue hammer of his pulse began to bang at his collarbone. His eyelashes fluttered like his eyes were about to roll back in his head. Christ, was he going to faint? Jake glanced at Chan. Chan looked uneasy but suspicious.
They were in the suspicious business.
But maybe, maybe they had this wrong.
English murmured, “I need to sit down,” wheeled, and continued to his office. The fingertips of his right hand unobtrusively brushed the edges of the bookshelves like he was feeling his way—and like he didn’t want them to notice. That caught Jake’s unwilling…well, no, not sympathy. But he understood. No one likes to show his weakness to an enemy.
Nah. Call it adversary. Nothing personal.
English pushed open the office door—more bookshelves crowded with more books, a desk covered with books, chairs covered with books—and dropped down heavily into the chair behind the desk. He fumbled opened a drawer, feeling inside. The phone rang—loudly—then again. English found a small vial, thumbed the cap off, and tossed back a couple of pills. He shuddered, picked up a can of Tab—now there was something to shudder about—and washed the pills down.
All the while, the phone kept ringing.
Jake felt Chan’s stare. He shrugged.
“Sorry,” English muttered. “Go ahead.”
His lowered lashes cast black fans on his bloodless cheeks.
There was something about him. Something that troubled Jake. He couldn’t figure out why. He forced his stare away and studied the cluttered office. His lip curled. English probably had a “system” that only he understood.
Jake’s reluctant gaze was drawn back to the man sitting quietly beneath their gazes.
That crime scene had been pretty horrific. A lot of rage-fueled effort had gone into slaughtering Robert Hersey. Jake was not thinking something stupid like, This guy’s not the type, because everyone was the type, but he did wonder if English would have the sheer physical force necessary to subdue Hersey, who had been shorter, but muscular and very fit. The assailant’s hands would surely have a few nicks and scrapes, and English’s were unblemished.
(Also, English didn’t seem like the type. Though Jake would never have admitted that aloud.)
