Malfoy, P.I.

I got into the office an hour late the next morning. Jennifer took one look at me and brought me a cup of coffee heavily laced with brandy, walking as quietly as she could on her high heels. I sipped it thankfully. Hair of the dog. Old trick, yes, but nothing better for a hangover. I swore to myself I'd never drink again.

Such declarations usually lasted about half a day.

I finished my coffee and sat back, lighting a cigarette. Where to start on the Potter case? Everything I'd found out so far pointed to what a "nice guy" he was. Idly I wondered if he were Catholic. Maybe they'd canonize him or something after he died. He seemed to be the type that volunteered at soup kitchens. The type that would carry groceries for old ladies. The type that fed stray cats. Those green eyes surfaced in my memory, watching me with a mute appeal in them. He wasn't a murderer. I knew it, the way you know a car dealer is pissing on your leg and telling you it's raining.

Jennifer stuck her head in my office. "More coffee, Draco?"

"Yeah, that'd be good. Leaded, please."

She flashed her dimples at me and disappeared, returning shortly with another cup. I sipped it and made a face.

"Did you put any coffee in with this brandy?"

She shrugged, making even that movement seem graceful. "You looked pretty bad off this morning. Worse than usual. Rough night?"

"Not exactly. Just couldn't get to sleep."

"I don't suppose this has anything to do with your newest client?"

I bristled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Put your fur down. I just meant that his is a rather high-profile case. Thought maybe you were feeling some pressure."

Yeah, I felt pressure when I thought of Potter and his green eyes, but the pressure I felt came from below my belt. I felt the first stirrings of arousal and glanced at Jennifer with new interest. She walked over and took the empty cup from my desk, but I caught her wrist and pulled her into my lap. Her dark eyes met mine in surprise, then understanding. She purred at me, and began to pull off my tie just the way she knew I liked it.

The couch in my office often comes in handy.

But I never did forget those green eyes.

*****

Later that morning, I drove down to the Hall of Records. With any case, I start with the obvious, checking out the client's background, seeing if anything seems out of place. I walked into the dusty office, with its usual smell of stale coffee and too many bodies working in too small a space, and smiled at Betty, the clerk who always helped me. She sauntered up to me in a cloud of cheap perfume.

"It's been a while, Draco. I've missed you." She looked down at the floor, then up at me through her eyelashes. It was a move designed to make me roll over on my back and beg to have my belly scratched. In her case, the move was about as tantalizing as the dancing hippos in Fantasia. She was pretty enough, but I like smarts too. Betty was about as smart as a bag of hammers, but useful to me in her own way.

"I've been busy. You know how it is. How's Ray?" Ray was her on-again, off-again boyfriend. He worked as a bailiff for one of the county judges and used his position to score smack off of all the dealers that came through his courtroom. He also fucked around with just about anything that walked on two legs. Heartbreak was speeding towards her with its high beams on.

"Ray? I hate him. Do you know what he did this time?" I tuned her out as she launched into a litany of Ray's latest sins, mentally running through the list of documents I was looking for. I waited while she went on, putting on my sympathetic face. I use that one a lot.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Betty. I'm sure you'll work things out." I scribbled a list on a piece of paper. "I'm looking for these documents. Can you get them for me?" I smiled at her and she melted.

"Of course. Anything for you, Draco." She glanced at the list and frowned. "Harry Potter? Is he the--?"

"Yes. But I know I can trust you to keep it quiet, Betty." She loved to think of herself as my partner of sorts, and sure enough, her eyes grew round and she nodded solemnly. "Oh, of course. I'll take it to my grave. Some of these may take me a while to find."

I smiled again, my mind elsewhere. "Take all the time you need, Betty. I'll wait."

While Betty was gone, I sat and watched the people that passed by in the hall outside. Since the Hall of Records was in the basement of one of the courthouses, the traffic passing by was pretty steady. I was eyeing a dark-haired lawyer in an Armani suit that fit him extremely well, imagining him in a rather compromising position, when Betty returned.

"I got almost all of the documents you asked for, Draco, but I can't find a birth certificate on file for him. Are you sure he was born in California? I looked in the computer but didn't have any luck."

"Oh. He might not have been. Must've been an oversight on my part. I'll check it out with him." I took the pile of papers from her and leafed through them at an empty table.

Nothing interesting, really. There was no lien on Potter's house, meaning he owned it free and clear. I whistled when I saw for how much the tax assessor appraised his house. He paid his taxes on time. His car was paid off. Betty had illegally run a police report on him as well--she used to date a cop who taught her how to gain access to the software the courts used--and there was nothing there either, besides the capital murder charges. Not even a speeding ticket.

Potter was too good to be true. He had to be hiding something. No one's that good, or that nice. Everybody wants something, and everyone's out for themselves. I knew this from years of experience.

I thought of him in my office yesterday, sitting in the chair, alert, polite, and scared, eyes on mine.

No. Maybe he was just a "nice guy". Kept to himself and 'didn't cause no problems', as the bartender had said. Nice guys are rare, but I suppose they must be out there. I haven't ever met any. But, as the saying goes, they do finish last.

Of course, in Potter's case, finishing last meant the gas chamber. I'd do my job, and this was just a job, after all. I'd do what I could to help. But if I couldn't help, they'd send him over.

And for some reason, that bothered me. It bothered me more than it should have.

*****

It was a typical Southern California day outside. Sunny and hot. I blinked and pulled on a pair of sunglasses as I emerged from the basement offices of the courthouse. My stomach grumbled and I remembered that I hadn't had any breakfast, other than the coffee with brandy. It was almost lunchtime anyway, so I walked to a little hole in the wall restaurant that had the best hamburgers I'd ever eaten. It was a little early for the lunch crowd, so I found a table easily, ordering a cheeseburger, fries, and a beer. The food arrived and I ate quickly, savoring the sound of my arteries snapping shut. Once finished, I wiped my greasy fingers on a napkin, paid the bill and stepped back outside, heading toward my car.

I stopped. Someone was following me. I'm not the world's best detective, but I have good instincts. I've learned to listen to them. They've kept me alive so far. They were singing. I was being followed. I strolled past a window, and stopped, seeming to peer into it, scanning the area behind me in its reflection. Nothing. I fumbled a cigarette out of my pocket and dropped it on the ground, looking around as I rose. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. No one out of the ordinary. I narrowed my eyes and headed for my car, mindful of the tail.

Once in my car, I scanned the traffic behind me, memorizing all of the cars. Again, nothing leapt out at me. I headed for Potter's office. Might as well clear up the confusion about the birth certificate.

The building housing Potter's office was one of those chrome and glass phallic constructions, jutting up arrogantly from the surrounding landscape. Inside, the lobby was cool gray marble. The elevators were just beyond a lone security desk, which appeared to be unmanned. I strolled past, looked up Potter's name on the directory, and got in the elevator, listening to Van Halen's "Jump", Muzac-style. I'm not sure, but I think that Muzac in general is one of the Seven Signs.

Thankfully the ride was short and I stepped out. I made my way down the hall and opened a heavy oak door.

The first impression I had of Potter's office was that of a very old, well-established law firm. The reception area had Oriental rugs over hardwood floors, brass lamps, red leather chairs, and lush green plants. The receptionist herself was seated at a small cherrywood desk off to the side. I walked up to her.

"Good afternoon," she said, with a dazzling smile. She was young, pretty, and had a great set of funbags. This being California, they were fake, of course. I have an eye for that sort of thing.

"Good afternoon. Is Mr. Potter available?"

"Let me check. Did you have an appointment?"

"Actually, no. I just stopped by."

"Whom shall I say is here to see him?"

"Draco Malfoy."

She smiled and picked up the phone. I amused myself with trying to look down her dress. She spoke into it, then hung up and dazzled me again.

"Mr. Potter will be with you shortly, Mr. Malfoy. May I offer you a cup of coffee?"

"That'd be great, sure."

"How do you take it, Mr. Malfoy?" Her blue eyes looked right into mine. I grinned and lobbed the ball back into her court.

"Hot. With lots of cream."

"How much cream?"

"As much as you care to give me, honey."

She smiled again, rose, and swayed out of the room on very high heels. I sat down in one of the leather chairs, wondering just how much this outfit cost Potter. I glanced at the magazines on the table beside me. Forbes, Newsweek, Money, Time, and US News and World Report. The receptionist appeared again with a cup. She held it out to me.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" Her eyes swept me from head to foot.

"I'll let you know if I need anything."

"Anything at all?" She tilted her head.

"Anything at all."

She swayed back to her desk and I sipped my coffee. It was very good, and she had indeed put a lot of cream into it. I thought about spicing it up with a hit from my flask but decided against it.

"Mr. Malfoy?" It was Potter, standing beside the receptionist's desk.

I got up and walked over to him. He had on a charcoal gray suit, with a green tie that brought out his eyes. He might have messy hair, but he certainly knew how to dress. He smelled good, too. I followed him through the door. It led to a hallway, carpeted in a medium blue, with cream-colored walls. A few offices opened up off the hallway, and through the open doors I saw people bent industriously over their desks. We passed a break room, with refrigerator, microwave, and tables with the chairs on top of them as a woman mopped the floor, on the right. Potter's office was at the end of the hall. A desk stood in front of his office, which I guessed must be his secretary's, although no one was sitting there.

Potter smiled and ushered me into his office. It was a corner office, with banks of windows looking out on the city. Up high like this, looking out, I could almost forget about the gritty realities of life that faced those forced to live life at street level. The haze of a thousand crushed dreams seemed to shimmer in the air below.

Potter's desk was cherry-wood, with matching credenza and file cabinets. The surface of the desk was scattered with papers, not in a messy way, but in the manner of a busy man. Somehow he seemed the type that straightened up his desk before he left the office at night. There were pictures on the walls and a diploma from USC. Potter seemed to be a Jackson Pollock fan. There were a few personal photos on the credenza behind him, but they all appeared to be large groups of people. No evidence, here at least, of a significant other.

Not, of course, that I was looking. Just gathering information.

Potter sat down behind his desk and indicated one of the chairs in front of it. I sat.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Well, actually, I wanted to clear up something. Where were you born?"

Those green eyes blinked at me, but he answered. "Merced. Why?"

"You said that you were born here in California on the forms you filled out in my office, but there's no record of a birth certificate on file in this state for Harry James Potter."

"Really? Maybe it's a glitch. I have a copy of it at home. It states clearly that I was born right here in the state of California. In Merced. July 31, 2:42 a.m. Methodist Hospital."

"Right. Could you bring me a copy?"

"Um, sure, but why do you need it?"

Uhoh. How to tell him this. "I have a hunch about something." He looked mystified, so I filled him in on the activities of yesterday and today, just so he'd know his money was going toward good solid detective work.

I refrained from asking him what kind of cologne he was wearing.

*****

The L.A. heat was all over me like a cheap suit as soon as I walked outside the cool haven of Potter's office building. I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, then headed for my car. Yet again, I felt the sensation of being followed. I stood still, lighting a cigarette, looking around.

I was the only one on the sidewalk.

I felt the first faint stirrings of real unease, and I had a feeling this case was going to be more complicated than the Sunday New York Times crossword.

For the first time, but certainly not the last, I wondered what I'd gotten myself into.

*****

On the way back to the office, I detoured past Potter's house again. Rising above the smoggy streets, with their complement of junkies, homeless, and hookers, I let my mind wander. Nothing was fitting together. I was right where I was when I took this case yesterday. Nowhere.

I drove past Potter's house, sitting alone and empty in the bright California light. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Potter's next-door neighbor was walking out to her mailbox. I straightened my tie and got out of my car, approaching her. I smiled. She looked up warily. She was one of those suburban housewives with striped blonde hair who drove a minivan full of soccer equipment and used up an awful lot of ice when her husband was away on one of his many business trips. The blessings of matrimony.

I held out a business card. "I'm Draco Malfoy. I've been hired by Harry Potter. I'm looking into the charges against him."

She took it cautiously. I put on my best "I'm not a homicidal axe murderer" face. It seemed to work a bit and she relaxed.

"I'm Mallory Northam."

"What year is your minivan, Mrs. Northam?" This was what I liked to call private-eye foreplay. Ask a series of innocuous questions to get them in the mood to answer.

"We just got it last month. Latest model." Bless her heart, she was proud of the fact that she drove a bimbo box.

"It's really nice. My wife and I have been looking into them. Going to be adding to the family soon."

That did the trick. I was a family man in her eyes and therefore could be trusted. She smiled. "Can I offer you a cup of coffee, Mr. Malfoy?"

We went into her house, which smelled vaguely of peanut butter, in sharp contrast to her very expensive perfume. She led me through a short foyer and into a large family room, decorated in a southwestern theme, complete with howling wooden coyotes by the fireplace. Several yard apes were gaping at cartoons on the TV, which was set at a volume just below that of a jet engine. She glanced at them and led me into the kitchen, which adjoined the family room. It was quieter in there, and she motioned me to a breakfast nook. I sat at the table, despite its being sticky with what appeared to be strawberry jam. Bustling about importantly, she finally set a cup of coffee in front of me.

"Thank you. I appreciate this. You've got a lovely home. How long have you lived here?"

"We've been here ten years. Daryl and I saved for years to be able to move up here, away from the city. We wanted our kids to grow up away from all of that." She waved vaguely in the direction of the valley below and its attendant unpleasantries.

"I agree. My wife and I are looking at homes up here too, but they are so expensive. However, now that we're expecting, things like good schools and the like are important. This seems like a pretty quiet neighborhood."

"Oh, it is. Nothing much happens, really. I'm the chair of the Neighborhood Watch committee, so I know these things. Other than that...business...with Mr. Potter, that is."

I sipped my coffee and refrained from choking on it. Horse piss would probably taste better. I itched to spice it up from the flask but refrained. "The murder charges, you mean?"

"Yes! I just...well, he seemed so nice. Always kept to himself. Seemed so normal. Well, for a bachelor, that is. You know, I'd heard that he--that he, er, you know, doesn't bat for our team."

I feigned surprise. "Really? You heard he was gay?"

She at least had the good grace to blush. "Well. Not that that has anything to do with...murder. Of course not."

"Do you remember where he was the night the murder was committed?"

Mrs. Northam looked at me balefully. "I told all of this to the police."

I gave her a slow smile and she finally smiled back. "Just humor me, okay?"

"Well, all I know is that he came home from work at the usual time--he usually gets home around seven and I take Scott to soccer practice around that time, so that's how I know--and his car was in the garage all night. At least, I think it was. The garage door was closed, so I couldn't tell."

"Does he close his garage every night?"

Soccer Mom cocked her head. "See, that's the funny thing. He never does that. Just that one night. I thought it was odd, but then, I mind my own business, so I really didn't give it much thought."

"Is he a good neighbor?"

She brightened. Now I was asking her opinion and she was more than happy to offer it. "Oh, yes. He's hosted the neighborhood watch meetings at his home before. It's beautiful inside, but of course, he would have good taste, being the way he is. He isn't seeing anyone that I can tell--comes home every night. Goes out on Saturday during the day but is home most nights. I don't think he goes to church, because he's home on Sunday mornings. He brings me lemons from his tree. Daryl and I were so shocked when he was arrested. He certainly doesn't seem the type. So quiet. But Daryl says that it's the quiet ones you have to watch. He's a lawyer. He knows these things."

Yeah, still waters run deep, right? I was soon to learn just how deep they ran in Potter's case.

Time to move in for the kill. This woman was a gold mine. I leaned forward, touching her hand. "Mallory--may I call you Mallory?"

Flustered, she nodded.

"Do you have any idea why the police think Mr. Potter committed that murder?"

Her tone changed. Rather than simply offering information, she was now eager to spill what she knew. "Well, Daryl heard from a friend in the district attorney's office that the state has a star witness. Apparently this man shared a cell with Harry the night he was arrested and Harry confessed the crime to him. As for any other evidence, no one seems to know much. The District Attorney is holding his cards very close to his chest, as Daryl likes to say."

I stood up. "Thank you, Mallory. I appreciate your help. Remind me to buy you a drink some rainy night."

She stood up also and smiled faintly. "Do let me know if you have any more questions."

"I'll remember that." And with that, I took my leave. I got back in the car and headed back to the office in silence, the thought of Potter's green eyes clinging to me like Mallory's perfume.

*****

Jennifer was seated at her desk when I came back to the office. She smiled at me and held out two packages. One was a flat envelope, the other one bulkier. "These came for you a while ago, Draco. One is the videotape of Jessica's dance recital that Molly wanted you to have. The other was messengered over."

I sat on her desk and opened the flat envelope. It was a copy of Potter's birth certificate. I carried it into my office and studied it.

Name: Harry James Potter. Date of birth: July 31, same year as mine. Funny how life exerts its toll on people in different ways. Potter certainly didn't look thirty-five, but the years had been unkind to him in a different way.

Parents: Lily Evans Potter and James Edward Potter. I got up and pulled Potter's file. Parents: deceased. I wondered if Potter had much family. I wondered what he did for Christmas.

I turned on my computer and logged on, instructing Jennifer to do the same. We spent the rest of the day searching the Internet. Neither of us had much luck. I pulled out the office bottle as I worked, and the taste of the whiskey reminded me of my visit to Callahan's yesterday.

This time, it was a pair of blue eyes that drifted into my memory. Blue eyes and a British accent.

Something nagged at the back of my mind, but the more I tried to grasp it, the more elusive it got, like trying to remember a fragment of a dream.

I jumped as I was startled out of my reverie by a hand on my shoulder. It was Jennifer.

"Sorry, Draco, didn't mean to startle you. I just wanted to let you know that I'm going home. I haven't come across anything, but I'll get back to it first thing in the morning. Do you need anything before I leave?"

"No, I'm fine."

She regarded me. "Try to get a decent meal tonight. And get some sleep. You need it." She squeezed my shoulder, but I didn't respond. After a minute, she left.

I got up and paced, replaying every conversation I'd had with Potter so far. His posture, his gestures, his voice, his inflections...

And something clicked. It was as if a light had been turned on. I looked at my watch and estimated the time difference. Too early. But I knew just what my next step in the Potter case would be.

I turned off the light, locked up the office, and headed home. Marlowe, my cat, greeted me at the door. I fed him, and opened the other package I'd gotten that day. Inside was the videotape. I put the tape in the machine, and started at the music I heard.

The distinctive trumpet solo could only be a recording of Harry James, and then a smooth contralto began to sing. "Haven't felt like this, my friend, since can't remember when... It's been a long, long, time..." I closed my eyes, remembering a soft tenor voice crooning those same words into my ear as we danced so many years ago. For a moment I was safe inside a pair of phantom arms.

On the screen my nine-year-old daughter danced as I watched, alone but for my old friend purring contentedly beside me on the couch.

I was very hung over the next morning as I picked up the phone and made a Transatlantic phone call.