Adrien English Mysteries: A Dangerous Thing & Fatal Shadows by Missy J Cat

to understate the case.
    “Did you talk to Kelly Abrahms, the managing editor? Or did you just talk to the switchboard?” His eyes were dark and sincere.
    I shrugged. “I talked to a couple of people. I don’t remember their names.”
    Green smiled. The smile was surprisingly attractive in his plain face. “Want me to show you my bylines?” His tone grew teasing. “Or better yet, my etchings?”
    I found myself responding to the smile, although my suspicions were not completely allayed. I don’t trust the media. Not even the gay media.
    “No. But thanks.”
    “Listen, I’m serious,” coaxed Green. “Give me a chance to explain over a cup of java.” He checked his watch. “Or better yet, how about a real drink? I know this pub a few blocks from here. You’ll like it. It’s comfy. Cozy. We can talk.”

    52
    Josh Lanyon

    Although he had removed his hand I still felt the warmth of his skin against mine.
    Maybe I did need to talk to someone -- anyone -- even a reporter. Or maybe I just found the guy attractive. It had been so long I hardly recognized the signals.

    * * * * *
The pub was called Doc and Doris’s. It was decorated in a Scottish motif: red and black tartan carpet, blackened beams. And it was indeed comfy cozy with giant leather booths for privacy and a roaring fire at the end of the room. I ordered a Drambuie, and Green (“Call me Bruce”) had a Rob Roy. Bruce touched his glass to mine.
    “From bad beginnings great friendships have sprung,” he quoted.
    “Cheers.”
    Bruce took a long swallow, set down his glass and leaned forward on his elbows. “I have a confession.”
    “Another one?”
    He met my eyes. “I didn’t lie to you, Adrien. I wanted to write your story for Boytimes.
    You may not like it, but I think I have a responsibility to our community. You’re not the first gay man to be railroaded by the cops. Besides, think of the publicity for your bookstore.”
    “Is this supposed to be convincing me?”
    He flicked me a look under his eyelashes. He had very long lashes. “Past tense. It turns out you’re not the only gay man to attract the fascist eye of LAPD. Besides,” he offered another of those engaging smiles, “in theory I respect the right to privacy for non-celebrities.”
    In theory but not in practice? I said, “There wasn’t any story, Bruce.”
    “I wouldn’t say that.” He sipped his drink. “Don’t misunderstand me; I did dig up everything I could about you. Everything the cops know, I know.”
    “What’s to know? My life is an open book. No pun intended.” I sat back, swirling the Drambuie, watching it catch the firelight. It had a soothing, near hypnotic effect. My nerves uncurled.
    “Let’s see. You’re thirty-two years old. A Virgo. Unmarried. No children.”
    He paused. I had nothing to say.
    “No priors. No convictions. Even your video rentals go back on time. Affluent, white and well-educated, you fit the old gay stereotype to a ‘T’.”
    “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
    Bruce chuckled. “See, that’s a turn-on for someone like me.”
    What was someone like Bruce, I wondered?

    Fatal Shadows
    53

    I took in the expensive haircut, the just-right clothes, the manicured hands; I recognized the scent he wore. “The world’s only patented fragrance,” so the department store displays read. And if I wasn’t mistaken he’d had his nose fixed a while back. He was a man who paid attention to details. A good trait in a journalist.
    “Father deceased. Mummy is English. Formerly a dancer with the Royal Ballet. She never remarried. Question mark by Mummy. You graduated from Stanford University with a degree in literature, which is civilized but useless, but then you don’t have to work for a living.”
    “You don’t think so?”
    Bruce studied me speculatively. “Orange groves and horse ranches on Daddy’s side.
    Going by your TRW, no, I don’t think so.” He straightened his immaculate cuffs. “You