The Gentlemen's Hour (Boone Daniels #2)

“I think I’m done here,” Boone says.

“Please,” Harrington breaks in. He steps up to the table, sets his hands on it, and leans across at Boone. “Please keep stonewalling, Daniels. I’m begging you. Keep it up. We’ve put you at the scene, and we’ll put you in the house. We have ‘opportunity’ and we’ll have ‘means.’ That just leaves ‘motive,’ and we’ll get that, too. So you just keep your mouth shut all the way through the trial and really piss the jury off. Please.”

Just like Harrington, Boone thinks, to way overplay his hand. He might have “opportunity”—he can put Boone at Schering’s place. But “means,” no. He doesn’t have a murder weapon, and even if he does, he can’t possibly tie it to me. As for “motive,” there is no motive, so he can kiss that good-bye, too. No, Harrington really jumped the gun, and Boone can read annoyance even on Johnny B’s poker face. They’re nowhere near having me as a suspect, and they know it.

Johnny plays the best card he has.

“If you’re covering for somebody,” he says, “you’re impeding a homicide investigation, which will at least get your PI card pulled even if it doesn’t result in a felony charge. Keep it up, Boone, and you’re edging toward ‘accessory.’”

“Accessory, my ass,” Harrington says.

“If you have enough to hold me,” Boone replies, “hold me. In that case, I want a lawyer. If not, I’m leaving now.”

Johnny shakes his head.

“Late,” Boone says.



84

Boone walks out into the street, then over to the U. S. Grant Hotel to get a taxi.

Boone gets in, leans his head back, and takes a deep breath. It was one thing to eavesdrop and tape people having sex, that was bad enough, but to set someone up for murder? Completely different deal, something he never thought he’d be involved with. It makes him sad and furious at the same time.

It only takes him a few minutes to drive to Nichols’s house that time of night. Boone pays the driver, gets out, and rings the doorbell. Dan comes to the door looking sleepy in a T-shirt and sweatpants.

“Boone, it’s a little—”

Boone grabs him by the front of the shirt and pushes him inside, kicking the door shut behind him. He backs Dan into the huge living room, pushes him over the arm of a sofa, and asks, “Where were you tonight, Dan?”

“What the—”

“Where were you tonight, Dan?”

“Here,” Dan says. “I was here.”

“Can you prove that?”

“Let me up, Boone.”

Boone releases his grip. Dan sits up on the couch, rubs his chest, and looks at Boone with a little anger in his eyes. “Who the f*ck do you think you are?”

“I’m the guy the cops just rousted,” Boone says, “because they think I had something to do with killing Phil Schering.”

“What?”

Boone watches him closely, looking for legitimate surprise in his eyes. But he can’t tell whether Dan is shocked that Schering is dead or that Boone knows about it. But the guy is shook, no question about that.

“Somebody murdered Schering,” Boone says. “Was it you?”

“No!”

“You used me to find your wife’s lover so you could kill him,” Boone says.

“I wouldn’t do that, Boone.”

“Which?”

“Neither.”

Right, Boone thinks. On the same day that he confirms Schering is Donna’s lover, Schering gets murdered and Dan had nothing to do with it?

“Bullshit,” Boone says. “I called you, you went off your nut, you drove over there, and you shot him. Where’s the gun, Dan? What did you do with it?”

“Nothing!” Dan yells. “I’ve never even owned a f*cking gun!”

“Get some shoes on.”

“What for?”

“I’m taking you in,” Boone says. “You can tell the cops you’ve never even owned a f*cking gun.”

Dan tells Boone his story.

After Boone called him, Dan went out and had a couple of drinks. Brooded and thought things over. Then he went home. Donna was there. He confronted her with what he knew. She admitted everything.

She met Schering at a lunch she was having with her friend Renee at Jake’s on the Beach in Del Mar. He was sitting at another table with some business associates and they noticed each other. At first it was just a look, then she returned his smile. Before the lunch was over it seemed as if they were always stealing glances. As she was waiting for the valet to bring her car, he came up to her and gave her his card.

She never intended to call him, she never did. She just stuck the card into her purse and forgot about it. Until Dan canceled their third “date” in a row. They were supposed to go out to dinner. She had dressed special and gone out and bought a new perfume. She was sitting in the house, ready and waiting for him to come home, but then he called and said he was tied up in a meeting he couldn’t get out of.

Donna was pissed. They had planned this evening because they had already talked about not having enough time together lately. It had been weeks and weeks since they’d been out just on their own—not some business-social or charity event—a couple of weeks since they’d made love, and lately even that hadn’t been so good. It was like they were becoming disconnected, so each had set aside this evening to . . . well . . . reconnect.

So she was hurt and angry, and she remembered the guy at the restaurant, and she dug into her purse and found his card. She was only going to meet him for a drink . . . okay, maybe dinner. Meet him and apologize and tell him exactly what she was doing. She even sort of hoped he wouldn’t answer when she called, but he did.

Of course he remembered her, he said, who wouldn’t remember her? And, yes, he had plans for that evening but he would cheerfully cancel them. They met at Jake’s because, obviously, they both knew where it was and he was a regular and could always get a table. He lived just up the hill. Phil made a point of saying that and, of course, she knew why.

She didn’t intend to go to bed with him. Just dinner, drinks, and maybe a few laughs with a man who wanted to give her some attention. But one thing led to another, and she ended up at his place, in his bed, in his arms.

Donna felt horrible the next morning. Horrible. But then Dan didn’t even ask her where she’d been. He was on the phone all morning, sealing some deal, and when Phil called, she answered. They’d been seeing each other ever since, for the past few months.

She told Dan the whole story.

They fought, they yelled, they talked, for the first real time in years. He told her how angry he was, how hurt. She told him she was sorry for what she had done, but he spent so much time with his work, his business, she felt bored and lonely.

He apologized for neglecting her, and asked her if she loved Schering. She said she didn’t, she loved him.

“We cried together, Boone,” Dan says. “We held each other and cried.”

Yeah, that’s beautiful, Boone thinks.

“It was beautiful, Boone.”

There you go.

Dan left only one thing out of the story, Boone thinks. Between drinking and brooding and coming home, he swung by Schering’s house and blew him up. The only question is, where did a citizen like Dan Nichols get a gun, and what did he do with it?

Don’t know, don’t want to know. It’s Johnny B’s problem.

“Get your shoes, Dan.”

“What’s going on?”

The woman’s voice comes from the stairs.



85

Boone looks up to see Donna Nichols, in a blue nightgown, her hair tousled, her eyes dull with sleep. Even so, she’s intensely beautiful, and Boone feels like a creepy voyeur, seeing her in person after he’s listened in on her having sex.

“Honey,” Dan says, “this is Boone Daniels. The private investigator I was telling you about.”

“Oh.” She walks across the living room and extends her hand. “I’m Donna Nichols. I don’t think we’ve met. Formally, that is. Apparently, you know a lot more about me than I know about you.”

“I’m not here on a social call, Mrs. Nichols.”

“Please—Donna.”

“Donna.”