The women with her began doing that automatic shushing thing again.

Kane walked over to me, and said with that charming, practiced smile, “How are you holding up?”

“Me? Fine.”

His smile informed me that I wasn’t fooling anyone, but actually I felt all right. After nearly a week of hospital, any change of scenery was an improvement, and, unlike most of the people there, I knew what to expect once someone died a public and unexpected death.

Kane sat down on a giant chintz-covered ottoman -- the room had clearly been professionally decorated because nothing about Paul Kane suggested cabbage roses or ormolu clocks -- fastened those amazing blue eyes on me, and said, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Well, yeah,” I said. Violent death in the dining room? Generally not a good thing.

“Did Porter say anything to you? I couldn’t help noticing that he had you pinned down.”

“He mostly talked about saltwater big game fishing.”

“Ah. His passion.”

“Passion is good,” I said.

Kane smiled into my eyes. “It can be.”

I smiled back tiredly. I didn’t imagine that he was coming on to me; it was more…an actor picking up his cue.

He patted my knee and rose. “It shouldn’t take much longer,” he said with the optimism of inexperience.

They kept us waiting for probably another forty minutes, and then the doors to the drawing room opened silently on well-oiled hinges, and two cops in suits walked in. One was about thirty, Hispanic, with the tightly coiled energy of the ambitious young dick, and the other was Jake Riordan.

It was a jolt. Jake was a lieutenant now, so I didn’t see why he’d be here at a crime scene -- except that this was a high-profile crime scene.

As I stared it was like seeing him for the first time -- only this time around I had insider knowledge.

He looked older. Still ruggedly good-looking in that big, blond, take-no-prisoners way. But thinner, sharper around the edges. Harder. It had been two years since I’d last seen him. They didn’t appear to have been a blissful two years, but he still had that indefinable something. Like a young Steve McQueen or a mature Russell Crowe. Hanging around the movie crowd, you start thinking in cinema terms.

I watched his tawny eyes sweep the room and find Paul Kane. I saw the relief on Kane’s face, and I realized that they knew each other: something in the way their gazes met, linked, then broke -- not anything anyone else would have caught. I just happened to be in a position to know what that particular look of Jake’s meant.

And since I was familiar with the former Detective Riordan’s extracurricular activities, I guessed that meant the rumors about Paul Kane were true.

“Folks, can I have your attention?” the younger detective said. “This is Lieutenant Riordan and I’m Detective Alonzo.” He proceeded to explain that while the exact cause of Porter Jones’s death was as yet undetermined, they were going to ask us a few questions, starting with whoever had been seated next to the victim during the meal.

Paul Kane said, “That would be Valarie and Adrien.”

Jake’s gaze followed Paul Kane’s indication. His eyes lit on me. Just for a second his face seemed to freeze. I was glad I’d had a few seconds’ warning. I was able to look right through him, which was a small satisfaction.

“I don’t understand,” the newly widowed Ally was protesting. “Are you saying…what are you saying? That Porter was murdered?”

“Ma’am,” Detective Alonzo said in a pained way.

Jake said something quietly to Paul Kane, who answered. Jake interrupted Alonzo.

“Mrs. Jones, why don’t we move next door?” He guided her toward a side door off the lounge. He nodded for Alonzo to follow him in.

Despite Detective Alonzo’s “undetermined causes” it seemed pretty clear to me that if the police were interrogating us they had pretty much ruled out accidental or natural death.

A uniformed officer took Alonzo’s place and asked us to please be patient and refrain from speaking with each other -- and immediately everyone started speaking, mostly protesting.

After a few minutes of this, the side door opened again and everyone looked guiltily toward the doorway. Ally Porter was ushered straight out.

“The performance of a lifetime,” Al January commented next to me.

I glanced at him, and he smiled.

“Valarie Rose,” Detective Alonzo requested.

A trim forty-something brunette stood up. Rose was supposed to direct Murder Will Out, assuming we actually got to the filming stage -- which at the moment felt unlikely. She wore minimal makeup and a dark pantsuit. She looked perfectly poised as she passed Detective Alonzo and disappeared into the inner chamber.

She was in there for about fifteen minutes and then the door opened; without speaking to anyone, she crossed into the main room. Detective Alonzo announced, “Adrien English?”

Kind of like when your name gets called in the doctor’s office: That’s right, Adrien. This won’t hurt a bit. I felt the silent wall of eyes as I went into the side room.

It was a comfortable room, probably Paul Kane’s study. He seemed like the kind of guy who would affect a study. Glass-fronted bookcases, a big fireplace, and a lot of leather furniture. There was a table and chairs to one side where they were conducting their questioning. Jake stood at a large bay window that looked down over the back garden. I spared one look at his stony profile before sitting down at the table across from Detective Alonzo.

“Okay…” Alonzo scratched a preliminary note on a pad.

Jake turned. “That’s Adrien with an e,” he informed his junior. His eyes met mine. “Mr. English and I are previously acquainted.”

That was one way to put it. I had a sudden, uncomfortably vivid memory of Jake whispering into my hair, “Baby, what you do to me…” An ill-timed recollection if there ever was one.

“Yeah?” If Alonzo recognized there was any tension in the air, he gave no sign of it, probably because there’s always tension in the air around cops. “So where do you live, Mr. English?”

We got the details of where I lived and what I did for a living out of the way fast. Then Alonzo asked, “So how well did you know Mr. Jones?”

“I met him for the first time this afternoon.”

“Ms. Beaton-Jones says you and the deceased had a long, long talk during the meal?”

Beaton-Jones? Oh, right. This was Hollywood. Hyphens were a fashion accessory. Ms. Beaton-Jones would be Porter’s wife, I surmised.

I replied, “He talked, I listened.” One thing I’ve learned the hard way is not to volunteer any extra information to the police.

I glanced at Jake. He was staring back out the window. There was a gold wedding band on his left hand. It kept catching the light. Like a sunspot.

“What did he talk about?”

“To be honest, I don’t remember the details. It was mostly about deep-sea fishing. For marlin. On his forty-five-foot Hatteras luxury sport-fishing yacht.”

Jake’s lips twitched as he continued to gaze out the window.

“You’re interested in deep-sea fishing, Mr. English?”

“Not particularly.”

“So how long did you talk?”

“Maybe ten minutes.”

“Can you tell us what happened then?”

“I turned away to take a drink. He -- Porter -- just…fell forward onto the table.”

“And what did you do?”

“When I realized he wasn’t moving, I grabbed his shoulder. He slid out of his chair and landed on the floor. Al January started CPR.”

“Do you know CPR, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Ms. Beaton-Jones said you refused to administer CPR to her husband.”

I blinked at him. Looked at Jake. His tawny eyes were zeroed in on mine.

“Any reason for that, sir? Are you HIV-positive by any chance?”

“No.” I was a little surprised at how angry I was at the question. I said shortly, “I’m getting over pneumonia. I didn’t think I could do an adequate job of resuscitating him. If no one else had volunteered, I’d have tried.”