I tried to remember the details of my conversation with Angus. “He was terrified.”

“That fits.”

Did it? Maybe it did. Angus knew about the Eaton Canyon murder. I didn’t want to

believe he had been involved in that, but it was hard to explain his knowing, yet not being

incriminated. Why wouldn’t he have gone to the cops? What excuse was there?

It was over anyway. He had Angus’s phone number. In a matter of hours, Angus would

be arrested for murder. At the least, he would be brought back and questioned. Maybe that

was just as well, because this had to end.

I became aware that a long silence had fallen between Jake and me. I glanced at him.

“Have you called it in?”

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know what to do about you.”

“Say again?”

His expression was bleak. “How do we explain your presence here?”

I shrugged tiredly. “Angus asked me to swing by and pick up his mail.” I wondered if

Angus would be willing to back that story once he was officially under suspicion for murder.

“And I called you because I knew –”

I got it at last. How did I know of Jake’s interest in the case? How did I happen to have

his cell phone number? And why had Jake come sneaking over here at my offer of an

unofficial peek into Angus’s home? The answers to these and other obvious questions

inferred a personal and intimate acquaintanceship between me and Jake.

He said slowly, as though he were thinking aloud, “It’s reasonable that you could have

called me. I could have come to the bookstore following up a lead.”

“What lead?”

“Okay, scratch that. You called me when the kid disappeared. We met during the

Slasher investigation, and when this happened you gave me a call. You were concerned

about the kid, and I gave you my cell phone number and told you to call me if you heard

from him.”

It was fascinating, in a painful and weird way, to watch him try to rationalize away any

reason for a personal link between us. To cover the fact that he had been friends – and

occasionally more – with a gay man.

“Then what?” I asked with a strange detachment. “You came over here and found

the…her?”

“Why not?”

“What about my fingerprints?”

“What did you touch?”

I told him. He shook his head dismissingly. “It’s hard to lift latent prints from rough

surfaces like terra cotta and unfinished wood. Even getting them off a curved surface like a

door knob is tricky.”

“They can do it with chemical processing.”

“Yeah.” I spotted the tinker-toy wheels turning. “But I don’t want to risk destroying

the perp’s prints. Anyway, your fingerprints aren’t on file, and there’s no reason for you to be

printed now.”

He spoke confidently, working it out as he went along. Contemplating him from what

seemed like miles away, I felt kind of hollow.

“Is it worth the risk? We’ll have a shitload of trouble trying to explain why we lied, if

your story doesn’t hold up.”

His eyes flicked to mine. “Or even seriously interviewed,” he said as though I hadn’t

spoken. “There’s a good chance I’ll catch the case. I’m part of the occult-killing task force.”

Oh, good. Promotion ops for Jake.

I planted my hands on my thighs, pushed myself to my feet. “Sounds like you’ve got it

all worked out,” I said politely. “Is there any reason for me to hang around?”

He shook his head. I’m not sure my words actually registered.

“Can I leave by the front, or do I need to climb over the back wall?”

“Hang on.” Pulling a hanky out of his pocket, he went to the front door and gingerly

opened it, touching the knob as little as possible. Opening the screen door, he stepped out,

studied the street, and then turned back to me. “It’s clear.”

“I gripped the front knob.”

Without a word, he wiped the door handle. So much for not destroying evidence.

My eyes met his for an instant before I turned to slip past him.

He grabbed my shoulder. “You’re wrong,” he said roughly. “I wouldn’t compromise an

investigation to protect myself. Not even to protect you.”

I couldn’t help a bitter laugh. “This isn’t for me.”

“Jesus, Adrien. Neither of us needs this complication right now. We both know you

didn’t do her, that it went down just as you said. What the fuck would be gained by going

through the formality of questioning you? Why would I want to waste department time and

resources checking your story out? Christ, do you want your picture in the papers again?”

I sure didn’t, but it troubled me that he was destroying possible evidence. The harder

he tried to convince me that this was all in the interests of the investigation, the more I

knew it was to protect himself.

He must have read my thoughts. Abruptly, he let me go. “Think what you want,” he

said curtly.

I stepped out, the screen door springing shut behind me with a little bang.

* * * * *

Angus had left three frantic messages on my machine. I listened to them, stomach

curdling with irrational guilt, then I erased them. I wondered how long it would be before

the cops audited the phone records of wherever he was staying and came to interview me.

But then, we weren’t trying to hide the fact that I had called Jake, we were concealing

how well I knew him.

I poured myself a snifter of brandy. Actually, it was more like a soup bowl. I downed it

in a couple of gulps, then refilled my glass.

I was going to have to lie for Jake, and I wasn’t sure I would be able to. I wasn’t sure I

wanted to. Through the warm haze of the brandy, I listened to that whisper of rebellion,

then turned down the volume.

Guy Snowden had also left a message: crisp and to the point.

“I had a visit from LAPD today. I’d like to meet with you again. I’d like to introduce

you to a friend of mine.”

When I finished the brandy – and I do mean all the brandy – I gave Guy a call.

Predictably, his answering machine picked up.

I hesitated, wondering if he was awake, maybe listening in the darkness for one

particular voice.

I quietly replaced the receiver in its cradle.

Chapter Eleven

Over a bowl of oatmeal and a bottle of aspirin, I watched Angus and Wanda being