I took my antibiotics and stretched out on the couch. Fifteen minutes and I’d call Lisa, and then if I had strength left, I’d call Guy and tell him about the party and Porter Jones and Jake. Guy wouldn’t be happy about any of it, especially the part about Jake. Not that I’d ever really gone much into my relationship with Jake; but Guy, who taught history and occult studies at UCLA, had been a suspect in one of Jake’s murder investigations, and it had left him with not very friendly feelings toward cops in general and Jake in particular.

I thought about the party at Paul Kane’s. Not that party was exactly the word for the afternoon’s events. I tried to pinpoint exactly when I’d met Porter Jones. Paul Kane, who had been mixing cocktails behind the bar, had introduced us. He’d handed me a glass that had been sitting on the bar for a few minutes, and said, “This is for Porter. My secret recipe.”

I’d handed the glass to Porter.

Of course Porter had had a lot of drinks that afternoon. A lot of glasses had passed his way…

* * * * *

When I woke, the buzzer was ringing downstairs.

I sat up, groggy and a little confused by a series of weird dreams. The corners in the room were deep in shadow. Just for a moment it looked like someplace else, someplace strange, someone else’s house. It looked like the home of whoever would live here years after I was gone.

The clock in the VCR informed me that it was nine o’clock. Shit. I’d stood Guy up for dinner.

The buzzer downstairs rang again, loud and impatient.

Not Guy, because he had a key.

No way, I thought. I started coughing like I’d inhaled a mouthful of dust. Dusty memories maybe.

I got up, adrenaline zinging through my system like someone had flipped a switch. Heading downstairs, I turned on the ground level lights. I crossed the silent floor of towering shelves and strategically placed chairs, my eyes on the tall silhouette lurking behind the bars of the security gate.

Somehow I knew -- even before he moved into the unhealthy yellow glow of the porch light. I swore under my breath and unlocked the front door. Pushed the security gate aside.

“Can I come in?”

I hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure.” I moved out of the way. “More questions?”

“That’s right.” Jake stepped inside the store and stared around himself.

The previous spring I’d bought the building space next door, and between the bookstore and the gutted rooms was a dividing wall of clear, heavy plastic. Otherwise it didn’t look too different: same comfortable chairs, fake fireplace, tall walnut shelves of books, same enigmatic smiles of the kabuki masks on the wall. Everything as it was. Me excluded. I had certainly changed.

I remembered when I’d first met Jake, when he’d been investigating Robert Hersey’s murder. He’d scared the hell out of me, and I wondered now why I hadn’t paid attention to that first healthy instinct.

His stare came at last to rest on me. He didn’t say anything.

“Deja vu,” I said, and was relieved that my tone was just about right.

It seemed to annoy Jake, though. Or maybe he was annoyed at being forced to remember there had ever been anything between us besides criminal investigation.

He said flatly, “I want to know what you were holding back when we interviewed you this afternoon.”

That caught me off guard. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit. I know you. You were hiding something.”

Now that really was ironic. “You think?”

He just stared, immovable, implacable, impossible. “Yeah.”

“I guess some things never change.”

“Yeah,” he drawled. “Two years later I find you smack in the middle of another homicide investigation. Coincidence?”

“You think not?” I started coughing again, which was aggravating as hell.

He just stood there watching.

When I’d got my breath again, I rasped, “If I were hiding something I guess it was the realization that you and Paul Kane are also already…acquainted.”

He didn’t say a word.

“Same club, old chap?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sound jealous, Adrien. And bitter.”

Did I? The thought startled me.

“Nah. Just curious.”

“About?”

I shrugged. “Not really my business.”

“You’ve got that right.” He was curt. After a moment he said slowly, “So that’s all it was? You guessed that Paul and I…knew each other.”

“In the Biblical sense?” I mocked. “Yeah.”

Silence.

After we’d parted company he’d called twice when I hadn’t been there to take his call. Or maybe I had been there, but just hadn’t picked up. Anyway, I knew from caller ID who the hang-up calls were from.

And then, eleven months after the whole thing was over, he’d called and actually left a message.

It’s Jake.

Like, did he think I’d forgotten his voice along with his number?

Silence.

It’d be nice to talk to you sometime.

As he himself would have said: Uh-huh.

Silence.

Dial tone.

What did he think we’d talk about? His marriage? Work? The weather?

“So are we done?” I heard the tension crackle in my voice and knew he heard it too. I didn’t have the strength to keep fencing with him. I didn’t have the energy to keep standing there pretending this wasn’t getting to me, that it wasn’t opening up a lot of wounds that weren’t as well healed as I’d believed.

He said flatly, “Yeah, we’re done.”

Chapter Three

“I don’t believe it,” Guy said. “There’s something wrong with my karma.”

“Check the expiration date,” I suggested.

He paused in setting out little white cartons of rice and shrimp in lobster sauce to give me the British two-finger salute.

“Two words,” I said. “Sounds like duck flu.”

His smile was reluctant. His eyes, green as the curl of a wave, studied my face and narrowed. “You overdid it today, lover.”

“I’m out of shape. I find murder tiring.”

This reminded him of the thing I kept hoping he’d forget. “And of all the cops in all the world, why the hell would that asshole Riordan show up today at Paul Kane’s? It’s fucking unbelievable. I thought he was a lieutenant or something?”

“He is. I think he knows Paul Kane. It’s a high-profile case. There’s liable to be a lot of media attention.”

“You don’t honestly think they -- he -- thinks you’re involved?”

“No.”

Guy poured wine for himself and mineral water for me. He sat down at the kitchen table and began to eat, scowling. “You don’t plan on…”

“No. I don’t.”

He relaxed a little.

I said, referring to the murder case where Guy and I first met, “When you talked to the cops about Grimaldi, you kept me out of it, right?”

“As much as was possible.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means that Detective Riordan had a pretty good idea of where I got my information.” He studied me. “He didn’t push it, and neither did I since you’d asked me to keep you out of it. I couldn’t help noticing…”

“What?”

“He has this little muscle in his jaw.” Guy gestured to his own lean, tanned jaw. “And every time your name came up, the muscle moved.”

“It was pretty much a permanent twitch by then.”

Guy didn’t laugh.

I reached my hand across the table. “Hey. Guy, I’m sorry this is bringing back bad memories for you. I’m not involved. I have no intention of getting involved.”

He took my hand, but he was not smiling.