“Yes.” He said it promptly, like awarding points in a contest.
“But why kill him?”
“Because he knew why I destroyed the manuscript. That was a mistake on my part. I should have stalled longer.”
“He knew you murdered Langley Hawthorne?”
“Just for the record” -- he raised his eyebrows as though making sure we both understood this -- “I didn’t murder Langley. His death was an accident.”
“Then why wasn’t it reported as an accident?”
“Because we had been arguing, and I suppose I felt guilty. I knew I would be a suspect in his death. He had told me about his will -- he was very set on Nina and me marrying. And of course neither Nina nor I had any desire to marry each other. We were young but we weren’t stupid.”
“So what happened?”
“We were rowing. Langley turned away and fell against the rail gate. He went into the water and he must have hit his head. By the time I got him out, he was dead. Porter came along as I was trying to resuscitate him. I was panicking -- badly. It was Porter’s idea to…put Langley back and recreate discovering the body. Then he provided me with an alibi for the time that Langley died.”
He made it sound so simple, so plausible, it took me a moment to think of the obvious. “Why would he?”
Paul said irritably, “Because he was my friend and because he knew exactly how it would look to the authorities. He did it to help me -- nothing could be done for poor old Langley. And it was an accident.”
“And in these memoirs Porter described what had really happened?”
Paul nodded. “He wanted to set the record straight. Clear his conscience. Not that his conscience wasn’t perfectly clear. ”
Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. But I thought the story of Langley Hawthorne falling through the rail gate and conveniently drowning before help could reach him was a little pat. How the hell long had it taken Kane to drag him out of the drink? Why hadn’t he yelled immediately for help? Maybe Porter had begun to think Kane’s story was a little pat too as he reexamined his past.
Paul said, “Porter couldn’t -- or refused to -- understand that there was as much danger to me now as there ever had been should the truth of Langley’s death come out.”
I said, “So you poisoned the friend who had helped you when you needed it most --”
He interrupted, “Porter was dying. He had pancreatic cancer. Have you any idea of how painful a death that is?”
“Oh,” I said. “You did him a favor.”
His eyes narrowed. “I did, actually. It was fast, relatively painless, and he had no idea it was coming. Not a bad death, frankly. Believe me, losing Porter as a friend and a business partner gained me nothing.”
I could pretty well see the way this was going to play out. I just hoped Kane was speaking loudly enough for the tiny recording device taped beneath my shirt.
“So why drag me into it?” I asked. “Optioning my book -- what was that about?”
He lowered his lashes and then suddenly opened his eyes and smiled at me. The beauty of that smile took me slightly aback. “I’ve always been curious about you: my unknown rival for Jake’s affections.” His smile was self-mocking. “But then he married and broke it off with you.”
“But not with you?”
“Not for long.” He watched my face. “After he married we grew closer. Much closer. One night he had a few drinks and he started talking about you. And I decided I would arrange a meeting with you by optioning your book. I do like the book, by the way, but I don’t think it’s particularly commercial.”
The unkindest cut of all.
“So why the hell drag me into the murder investigation?”
“Didn’t you enjoy it?”
I opened my mouth -- and then closed it. He chuckled. “Of course you did. And I enjoyed watching you enormously -- and watching Jake.”
If I’d had any doubts before, that cleared them up. He could talk about accidents and panic and doing favors for old friends, but he was cold and calculating and cruel. A sociopath. No conscience, no remorse, no empathy. In fact, I thought it possible he might have drowned his own kid. I wondered if anyone had looked into that accident.
“And Al January?” I asked carefully.
“You can take responsibility for that one,” he said. “Why the fuck you had to drag Al into it, I don’t know. What did you think would happen when you started asking him about Langley and Porter’s memoirs?”
He had me there. I hated thinking I might be responsible for Al’s death. If I managed to get out of this alive, I was going to make damned sure I never got involved in another criminal investigation. I said, “So Al called you and told you I’d been asking questions about Porter’s memoirs, which started him thinking -- because the truth is only one person could have easily poisoned Porter’s drink, and that was you. That was a nice little touch having me hand Porter his glass.”
“I thought so. I didn’t plan it, though,” he admitted. “It just happened. I thought you might drink it, actually. It stood beside your own glass for what felt like an eternity.” He smiled. “But you were quite careful not to touch it, and I really couldn’t afford to let Porter go on bitching about his lost masterpiece.”
A funny little chill went down my spine as I realized how close I’d been to dying that afternoon. It could have all ended right there -- and Jake would have shown up and found me as his homicide case.
And Kane would have got away with it.
I said, “So you raced over to Al’s, bashed him over the head --”
“Not hard enough apparently, but even if Al makes it, after traumatic head injuries the victim often doesn’t remember the hours previous -- he might lose the whole day.”
“Well, we can only hope!” I said, unable to stop myself from copying his cheerful tone. His smile was odd.
“Any other questions? You’re probably dying to know where I came up with the digitoxin, aren’t you?”
“Nina left an old bottle around after the last party she catered for you?”
He looked pained. “Of course not. What a strange idea. No. A former lover left them. As a matter of fact, I hung onto those pills for nearly three years. I had a feeling they would come in useful at some point.” And the look in his eyes sent another of those slithers down my spine. “Any other questions?” he asked gently.
“Just wondering where we go from here.”
He drawled, “You mean you’ve no notion at all? Not a one? You’re not wearing a wire under that sweater of yours? You’re not carrying your grandmother’s Webley tucked in the back band of your jeans?”
I didn’t move a muscle.
High above us a gull swooped low, squawking. I thought that I would never forget the bright heat of the sun and the smell of salt in the air: the sound and the taste of betrayal.
Kane laughed. “Of course you are. Well, that narrows our options a bit. If you were willing to play…but you’re not. You’re bound and determined to see me brought to justice, aren’t you? Regardless of the cost to…anyone. Yourself included.”
I don’t think I could have moved if my life had depended on it -- and it probably did.
“So let me tell you what I have planned for you. I’m going to settle one final curiosity, the curiosity of what the attraction is between men like myself and Jake. You’ve always wondered about that, haven’t you?”
He raised his brows at my lack of response.
“Of course you are. Anyone would be. It’s another mystery, and you love mysteries. You’ve wondered about this secret world, the world of exquisite pain shared between men who trust each other -- trust each other beyond what any outsider can possibly understand. Men who share…everything.”
“Including consecutive prison terms,” I managed.
He smiled and, oddly enough, that suave smile reminded me of the illustration of Foxy Loxy in my childhood copy of Chicken Little -- and why the hell that thought was in my mind, beat me. I was probably in shock.