It was just after nine o’clock in the morning, and we were sailing in open water. The fog was beginning to burn off. It was going to be a beautiful day, but it was chilly, the ocean smelling of salt and rain and things down deep below the restless green water. Paul and I sat on the open deck of the Pirate’s Gambit. A brunch tray sat on the table between us and it was enticingly arranged with plates. There was something called baked omelet roll -- ham and cheese and mushroom -- fresh fruit, muffins. I was more tempted by the pot of hot coffee.

“I’ll probably have something later,” I said.

He smiled. “I would have to be pretty stupid to poison you aboard my own boat.”

“Yes, you would,” I agreed, and he chuckled.

We were by ourselves. When I had arrived at the marina Paul told me he had canceled the party.

“You obviously have something on your mind,” he’d said. “This way we can chat undisturbed.”

But we hadn’t chatted. We’d put out to sea -- and I was not particularly reassured by the sight of Paul’s captain taking the helm. I’d taken what precautions I could. I’d talked to Guy -- and if possible he was even more disgusted and furious with me than Jake. I’d written down my detailed theory on why I believed Porter Jones had been killed -- heck, I’d written down everything I could think of that might help prosecute Kane if things went wrong -- and I’d mailed it off that morning to Mr. Gracen to be opened in the event of my death.

Of course just receiving a communication like that was liable to result in dear old Mr. Gracen popping off this earthly plane, but that couldn’t be helped. If I wasn’t successful, if Kane was stupid enough -- desperate enough -- to try to kill me after I explained these precautions, then at least I wanted to know that LAPD would have sufficient cause to reinvestigate Langley Hawthorne’s death. Not to mention my own.

But I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

And certainly Paul had been easy and charming for the half hour or so we had been together, chatting pleasantly while he enjoyed his breakfast.

But at last he finished eating, brushed the crumbs from his muffin fastidiously from his hands, shoved the plate aside, and studied me with those bright, amused eyes.

“You know, I really don’t believe that you’re out here planning to try a spot of blackmail.” His mouth twitched. “I have to say, though, you’d be quite good at acting yourself. That bit in the café last night was brilliant.” He mimicked, “I can write my own screenplay!” He shook his head. “What a turn for comedy you have.”

I have to admit I wasn’t quite expecting this relaxed frankness. I said cautiously, “If you don’t think I’m trying to blackmail you, what do you think I’m doing out here?”

“Besides having seen one too many detective films? I think you want answers. I think you’re insatiably curious. And I don’t mind answering your questions. You won’t be able to prove any of this. There is no proof. Now. And I like you, Adrien.” He arched an elegant eyebrow. “I like you a good deal.”

Oddly enough, that was the first scary thing he’d said. It was like finding a cobra curled up in the foot of your sleeping bag. I said, and it wasn’t even a guess, “You destroyed Porter’s memoirs.”

“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.”