Darren Shan - Hell's Horizon

He stressed the importance of keeping things simple. “Don’t weave webs of intrigue. Murder’s not a complicated business. If you start building up networks of suspects and theories, you’ll chase your tail into madness. Take people at their word. Turn a blind eye to conspiracies. Look to narrow your options. Jump to no conclusions, especially dire ones.”

I listened intently, filing his words away.

We parted with a handshake and a smile. If Bill had grave misgivings about my getting involved, he kept them to himself. Told me to call if I needed help or ran into a blank wall. I promised to let him know if I discovered anything.

I cycled back to Party Central and flicked through the file one more time. The moment had come to take my first step. I probably should have heeded Bill’s advice and waited a few days before interviewing those close to Nic. But, keeping Frank’s motto in mind, I decided to strike fast, figuring people in mourning might reveal more than they would when composed. I grabbed my bike, tucked my pen and notebook away and set off for the twisting maze of city streets beyond the gate. As I cycled into the wind, a cliché whistled through my thoughts, and I grinned — Al Jeery was on the case!

I called on her brother first. Nic had never told me much about him, apart from his name, Nick, which was confusingly similar to her own. Nicholas and Nicola, but both had used the abbreviations since childhood, prompted by their father, who had a peculiar sense of humor. I’d asked why they let the arrangement stand now that he was dead. She said neither wanted to change. She liked Nic and he liked Nick. Besides, they didn’t see a lot of each other, so it wasn’t that big an issue.

He was twenty-nine, three years older than Nic. He had inherited the bulk of the estate when their parents died and was to have been Nic’s financial guardian until she turned thirty, whereupon she could have drawn from her share of the funds as she pleased. He had no head for business but he spent conservatively — he hadn’t frittered the family fortune away and there was a sizable amount left in the kitty.

The two weren’t close, but there didn’t seem to be any bad blood between them. They just didn’t have much in common. Or, to put it another way, they had too much in common — as well as sharing names, they also shared a taste in men. Nick Hornyak was, as the file succinctly phrased it, “bent as a eunuch.”

Nick lived in the family mansion in the suburbs. An architectural monstrosity, oozing old money. It had been Nic’s home too, though she’d hardly spent more than a few months there in the last several years of her life.

The butler wasn’t impressed when he saw my bike leaning against one of the pillars. “Deliveries to the rear,” he said snootily, and I had to jam my foot in the door to buy the time necessary to explain who I was and why I was there.

Master Nick, he informed me, was not at home and not expected back any time soon. He didn’t answer when I asked where I could find the absent master, so I said I had some personal belongings of Nic’s I wanted to pass on. He deliberated for a couple of grudging seconds, then told me I’d probably find Nick at a club called the Red Throat.

I’d meant to ask the butler about Nic — household staff are supposed to know all the secrets of their lords and ladies — but his cool manner threw me. I’d felt like a fish out of water to begin with — the last thing I needed was to be taken down a peg by a gentleman’s gentleman.

The Red Throat used to be called the Nag’s Ass. It had been a real dive until a decade ago. I’d come here a couple of times during my early tenure with the Troops, hunting scum. The neighborhood had improved since then and the Nag’s Ass had come up in the world. The name wasn’t the only change — it had undergone a complete renovation, an extra floor had been added, the front had been adorned with blushing red bricks, stained-glass windows of various designs dotted the walls. I wouldn’t have recognized the place if I’d been passing.

Bouncers guarded the door, even though it was early in the day and there was no obvious call for them. They stared neutrally at me as I passed, eyes sloppily scanning my body for revealing bulges. Real amateurs. They wouldn’t be joining the Troops any time soon.

The red walls inside were draped with pink banners and sensuous photos of James Dean, Brad Pitt, Leonardo DiCaprio and hordes more pinup boys. Low, throbbing music spilled from the many speakers. A “wet jockstrap” DVD played on the TV sets.

I wandered to the bar and waited patiently while the barkeep — female in appearance, though I had my doubts — polished glasses. I was casing the joint (I had the detective lingo down pat!) when the barman — his voice ruined the illusion — cut in. “Hi. New in town?”

“What makes you ask?”

“Don’t recall seeing you before.”

“You’ve got a memory for faces?”

“No. We’re packed wall-to-wall most nights and I don’t even notice the regulars in the crush. But days are quieter. The usual crowd. You get to know them.” He went on polishing.

“Do you know a guy called Nick Hornyak?” I asked.

“Maybe.” He grew wary. The hand polishing the glass slowed. He was getting ready to call a bouncer.

“A friend of mine told me to look him up,” I lied, upping my voice an octave. “Said he might show me around the city and set me up with a place to stay.”

The barman resumed polishing, doubts vanishing with the smudges on the glass. “He’s shooting pool.” He nodded toward one of the tables in an alcove to the left. “Alone. Likes to work on his technique.” Eyes twinkling, he took my order — lemon juice — and put one of the spotless glasses to use.

I walked over slowly, studying Nic’s brother. He looked younger than his years, tall, handsome, expensive silk shirt, a gold St. Christopher medallion dangling from his neck, long hair gelled back. He’d have to watch that hair — dangerously thin. By the time he was thirty-five he’d be sticking chunks back on with glue. I knew about hair. Used to date a hairdresser.

He strolled around to my side of the table and I saw he was wearing a miniskirt. He flicked me the eye, grinned, bent to make his shot. I traced the hem of his blue tights up his long, shapely legs. From this angle he would have excited any guy who didn’t know better. He even had the roll of the hips pegged.

He sank a ball, turned, leaned against the table and smiled. “I love playing with balls and forcing my way down dark, tight holes. How about you?” I’d watched a lot of noir flicks in my time, but I’d never seen Bogey come out with an innuendo as blatant as that!

“I’m more into chess,” I replied drily. When he pouted, I added, “But I like your dress.”

“Silly, isn’t it?” he simpered, lighting a cigarette. He offered one but I shook my head. “I only wear it when I’m hanging around. I would have made more of an effort if I’d been expecting company.”

“My name’s Al Jeery,” I said. “You may have heard of me?”

“Should I have?”

“I was a friend of your sister’s.”

His guard came up instantly. “She had a lot of friends. They’ve been coming in droves to share their condolences. You’d be amazed how many are reporters.”

“I’m not a reporter, Mr. Hornyak. I’d been seeing Nic for a month before she died. We were close.”

“Lots of people were close to Nicola. How do I know you’re telling the truth? I had one esteemed member of the press pretend to be a long-lost cousin last night.”

“I met her at AA. We were—”