The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh - Страница 68

“Is this official?” I asked. “I thought you were on suspension?”

“It’s inevitable,” Guy said, tying string around a stack of books. “I prefer the dignity of

walking away as opposed to being put out to pasture.” He pointed to a stack of photos. “There

are several snaps of Peter in there.”

I sorted through the photos quickly. Most of them were of Guy and people I’d never

seen in places I did not recognize. But toward the bottom of the stack were a couple of

photos of a tall, thin, dark-haired boy of about Angus’s age. I recognized the flyaway dark

hair and round spectacles.

“This kid who looks like Harry Potter, is he Peter?”

“Yes,” Guy said without pausing to glance at a photograph of himself, his arm around

Peter’s slim shoulders. They were both laughing. I peered closer. There was a glint of silver

on Peter’s chest – a star on a silver chain?

“He was at Hell’s Kitchen that night.”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t think he was involved?”

The green eyes held mine. “That club was packed with kids interested in the occult

who have absolutely nothing to do with this. Why would I instantly assume that Peter was

part of this…this madness?”

“He sent us there!”

“The girl – Betty Sansone – that you wanted to talk to was there. He didn’t lie.”

“He set us up.”

“No one could have known you were going to walk out into that alley. They just seized

the opportunity.”

Yeah, safe to say Guy’s feelings on the subject of Peter Verlane were mixed.

I said, “Guy, I’ve seen Peter with Betty Sansone a couple of times. He may not be

involved in murder, but I’m sure he took part in the abduction of Gabriel Savant.”

“Gabriel Savant!” Guy looked disgusted. “Please tell me you’re not a fan of that hack. If

Savant was kidnapped, it was by socially conscious literary critics.”

Literary snobbery, alive and well on the astral plane.

“Fine,” I said. “Why don’t we go ask Peter?”

He stared at me. “All right. Why don’t we.”

Neither of us moved. Guy reached out and touched my jaw. I blinked.

“Shaving cream,” he explained.

“Thanks.”

He looked past me. I glanced around. Detectives Rossini and Riordan stood in the

doorway of Guy’s office.

“Can I help you, detectives?” Guy asked frostily.

Rossini eyed me with open curiosity. Jake never looked my way. I could have been

invisible.

“Well, Mr. English, we meet again,” Rossini said cordially.

“Always a pleasure,” I said.

His smile was caustic. “We wanted to ask you a couple more questions, professor,” he

said, turning to Guy.

I said, “Why don’t I carry this out to my car?”

Guy nodded.

I lifted the nearest box, squeezed through the doorway past Rossini and Jake, who

barely moved out of my way.

* * * * *

Half an hour later, I watched Jake and Rossini walking through UCLA’s Sculpture

Garden, engrossed in animated discussion. They never noticed me sitting on the grassy hill.

When they were out of sight, I got up and returned to Guy’s office. He had made a lot

of progress in the last minutes. Practically everything was boxed or tied, ready to be moved.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“More of the same. I think their plan is to bore me into a confession.”

We carried the rest of Guy’s stuff to my car, which was better suited to hauling boxes

and a potted palm. I followed Guy over to his place. He suggested that we wait to unload the

Forester until after we’d seen Peter, which suited me, and we climbed into the Miata to drive

to Peter’s.

* * * * *

According to his roommate, Peter Verlane was not at home.

Guy and I returned to the car.

“We could wait?” I said doubtfully.

Guy considered this. “We could have a long wait.”

No lie, considering Peter’s active social life.

We waited.

A Miata is not the best vehicle for stakeout.

We talked.

“Are you hungry?” Guy inquired at last.

I looked at the clock in the dashboard. Three. Yeah, I was sort of hungry. As hungry as

I could get with that perpetual knot in my stomach.

I said, “We’re liable to miss him.”

“He may not come home this evening. He often doesn’t.”

I glanced at him. Guy shrugged. “I’m fond of Peter, but there’s nothing serious between

us.”

“That’s good, because if I’m right, and you’re wrong, Peter is going to jail for a long

time.”

He stared out the windshield at the apartment house. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

“I don’t know.”

His mouth curved wryly. “That’s honest – if indecisive.”

I said, “I want to trust you, Guy, because I like you. But I’ve been wrong about people

before. I don’t want to end up with my heart carved out.” Literally or figuratively.

We sat in silence for minutes more before Guy said abruptly, “We’re wasting our time.

Did you want to grab dinner?” He started the Miata’s engine.

Stakeout Rule #1. Bring your own car or rent your own car. Do not rely on other

people and their dwindling patience for your ride.

“Thanks, no,” I said. “I’ve got to get back.”

There was another way to do this, I realized.

* * * * *

Bam! Bam! Bam!

I nearly dropped the can of salmon I was opening for my supper.

The shop was locked for the evening. That meant my visitor was probably one of two

people – and that didn’t sound like Velvet’s knock.

I set the can on the counter, wiped the fish oil off my hands. I opened the door. Sure

enough, Jake stood there. Clearly this wasn’t a social call.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” he said, brushing past me.

I was pretty sure he was not referring to the missing food groups in my evening repast.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Guy was just helping me –”

“Yeah, I know what that faggot Snowden is helping you with. What part of stay the

fuck out of it don’t you understand?”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with your investigation,” I said angrily. Which was

not true, although as far as I knew, Peter Verlane had not materialized on the cops’ radar so