Malfoy, P.I.

I woke up full of whiskey and frustration. I slapped some cold water on my face and made a phone call to a friend across the pond. After we talked, I hung up the phone and sat back in my chair, thinking. Nothing about the Potter case was what it appeared to be. If my suspicions were correct, the results of the conversation I just had would prove that point even more.

I fixed myself some coffee with brandy, then showered, shaved, and dressed. The air was heavy, still, and expectant as I stepped out of my apartment. The traffic was light as I headed to the office, sipping yet more coffee from my travel mug. Coffee. Liquid salvation, if you ask me. Seems like everything is bad for you these days, coffee among them; I figure I'm going to die anyway so I might as well smoke and drink all I want. They may kill me. But they keep the shadows away.

Jennifer was bright-eyed and perky, both of which should be illegal before noon. Idly I wondered if she'd had a date the night before. She had that look. I'd seen it before. She smiled at me as I did my best not to stagger into the office.

"You've got a visitor, Draco."

I glared at her. "A visitor? Why did you schedule an appointment for first thing in the morning? You know I hate that."

"I didn't. He stopped by. He smells good, too." She grinned at me. Yeah, she got some last night. Dropped her linens and did some sinnin', as Molly used to say.

I sighed, resigned. "Who is it?"

"Your newest client, of course. Harry Potter himself," she replied, straightening my tie.

I blinked at her. "What does he want?"

"Why don't you go ask him? You're the detective here."

"Right." I headed for my office, turning back to Jennifer. "Jen, do I--?"

"You look fine, Draco," she said, smirking.

I took a deep breath and opened my office door. Green Eyes turned from the window. He was wearing a dark blue suit with a very light blue shirt and a red-and-blue striped tie. And, for the record, he did smell good. He held out his hand. We shook, and I walked around to sit behind my desk, trying to forget the feel of his hand in mine.

"What can I do for you, Potter?"

"Oh. Well, I just thought... my secretary put together all the newspaper and magazine articles pertaining to my case. Thought it might help you." He moved to a chair in front of my desk and sat, then picked a large binder up off the floor and handed it to me.

"Thank you. I usually do read everything pertaining to a case, so you've saved me some time and trouble. I appreciate this." Privately, I decided I'd appreciate it even more if he'd take his jacket off, maybe roll up his sleeves, let me really mess up his hair... but he didn't. Not that time.

He handed me a container of coffee. "I also brought you a latte. I usually get one in the morning, so since I was there..." He flushed slightly, then went on. "I just... I feel so... have you talked to my attorney yet?"

I took the coffee from him, electing not to remind him that I had a perfectly adequate coffee maker in the outer office. The thought that he brought me coffee made me edgy. And I don't like being edgy. "No, I haven't. I plan to, however."

Potter smiled, a bit shyly. "I've told him to expect a call from you, and to tell you everything. I don't have anything to hide."

I decided it would be churlish to ask him to prove it to me right then and there.

"I'll keep you posted. Is there anything else I can do for you?" I asked, trying to derail my mind from its current track. Didn't work. In my mind's eye, I was, indeed, doing something for him. And he wasn't minding a bit.

"No, thanks," he said. "I have to get to the office. I just wanted to drop this by."

"Well, again, thanks. I'll keep you posted, all right?" I must have been bad off. I was repeating myself.

Potter nodded and stood, murmuring a good-bye. As the office door shut behind him, I let out a deep breath and turned to the window. I sat there and poisoned myself with cigarette smoke, watching the gathering clouds in the distance, thinking of everything but those green eyes.

I may be an okay detective, but matters of the heart have always eluded me.

*****

Reading the articles proved to be interesting, but so far I wasn't coming across anything new. Mike LaMorte had indeed died a horrific death. Someone had come into his home, played a little slap-and-tickle with him, tortured him, and raped him, several of those times with an undetermined object, then left him to die. I shook my head. I'd be willing to bet Mike LaMorte never intended to end up splashed all over the tabloids. I'll bet most junkies never intended to spend the rest of their days cooking smack. I'm pretty sure most hookers didn't aspire to that profession as young girls. The seamy side of life, captured on newsprint. They carry you out in a body bag, and pretty soon you're forgotten. And the world keeps turning. I kept reading, looking at the pictures, and then suddenly one caught my eye. It was a color photo, showing the morticians removing the body bag from LaMorte's home. That wasn't what caught my eye. Just on the edge of the photo, standing with the other bystanders and smiling the kind of smile you have to practice in front of a mirror, stood a man with dark hair and blue eyes, watching the proceedings. Those eyes were something out of my memories.

That froze me.

I sat up, and something ghosted across the back of my neck. I jumped instinctively, and reached behind me. Nothing there. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. Down on the street, a woman's voice rose in fear, and was cut off sharply. My office was silent and still, but it was a waiting silence.

Looking back, I realize that what I felt on the back of my neck was someone's breath.

Only the fact that Potter was going to be strapped to a chair over a bucket of acid kept me from dropping the case then and there.

*****

Emily Wood was an assistant D.A. for the city of Los Angeles. She had strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes, and a riveting smile. I'd known her since we were at Harvard together. I'd moved to Baltimore from Boston, to take a job as a reporter for the Sun, while she stayed and went on to Harvard Law. After the divorce, we remained friends, though she had originally been Molly's friend. She was smart, funny, and jaded. She'd been a lawyer long enough to have left her starry-eyed idealism behind long ago. Never had married, and claimed she never would. I gave her a call and she agreed to meet me for drinks after work.

We met at Joe Miller's, a dark bar well known among local businessmen who needed a place to take their mistresses during the day. I let my eyes adjust to the light, then walked over to her table.

"Hey, Drake. How's it hanging?" She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.

"Just fine. And you?"

She laughed. "Oh, the usual. I think that as time goes on, I'll no longer need a bra, though. I'll be able to tuck my boobs into my waistband."

Well. She always did have a way with words. I signaled the waitress and ordered a vodka martini. Straight up, dirty, no olive.

"So tell me about Harry Potter," she said slyly. "What's he like?"

"He's... he seems pretty decent."

"Ohhh. Really. Do tell. Just how decent is he?" Her eyes gleamed with mischief.

"He's just a client. This is just a job."

I figured if I kept saying it, it would become true.

"Right," she said, with a mocking note in her voice. "Hey, how's the shoulder?" A few years ago, a case had gone south on me. I'd had to get used to the idea since then that I wasn't bulletproof. It had taken some getting used to.

"Bothers me when it rains. So what'd you find out?"

Emily sighed. "Just like a man. No foreplay. Want to get right down to business. I have to tell you, it was nuts today at the office. I felt like forty-seven tits with someone sucking on every one, but I got a look at the file."

"And? How's it look for Potter?"

"Dead man walking."

Funny how three words can completely change your life. My relationship with my client was growing increasingly... cordial, and, though I knew it didn't look good for him, to hear it from a representative of the District Attorney's office made me realize just how serious this all was.

"Tell me."

"Okay, first off, we never had this conversation, right?" She crossed her legs and I admired the long line of her thighs. "Drake?"

I looked up hastily. "What? Oh, right."

"All right." She leaned forward, and her eyes became as hard as a loan officer's negotiating interest rates. "We've got Potter's fingerprints all over the house. No sign of forced entry, so LaMorte let his killer in the house."

"He knew his killer."

She nodded and took a sip of her drink. "We've got Potter's hair in LaMorte's bedroom, which is where he was killed. Not good."

People often have strangers and acquaintances coming in and out of their homes, but the bedroom is, for most people, a relatively private place. Only those that we know fairly intimately are invited into the bedroom. Potter's hair in the bedroom was pretty significant.

"What else?"

"Potter's DNA inside of LaMorte. LaMorte's blood, as well as Potter's hair, in the shower. Thinking is that Potter took a shower after he was done with his little crime spree."

"Any evidence in Potter's house? His car?"

"Carpet fibers from LaMorte's house on the floor of Potter's car, on the driver's side. Couple of drops of blood on a pair of Potter's jeans."

"What was the cause of death?"

"Internal bleeding. Whatever was used to rape him, it did a lot of damage. Sad thing is, he could have been saved had he gotten to the hospital."

I drained my drink. "Papers said he was tortured?"

"Yeah. The usual. Cigarettes, electrical shocks to his bits, stuff like that. Torture plus murder equals the gas chamber."

I winced in sympathy, crossing my legs. Emily noticed and laughed. "Hits a little close to home, huh? How's Jessica doing, anyway?"

I ignored her. I'm good at that. "What's Potter's motive?" When looking for a suspect, cops focus on three things: motive, means, and opportunity. Find the person that has all three, and someone's going down. Call in the TV cameras for the perp walk.

"Oh, the usual. Jealousy. LaMorte was turning his life around, according to his family, none of whom bothered to make it to his funeral. He was trying to get back on the straight and narrow. Got him some Jee-sus, wanted to be a productive member of society, had a new relationship." There was a vaguely sinister note in her voice.

"Do you think he did it?"

She shrugged and took one of my cigarettes. "I go with the evidence. It seems pretty conclusive to me. Doesn't matter what I think. Doesn't matter what any of us think. It matters what we can prove. Me, I think LaMorte's was more of a misdemeanor murder. He was a leech. He donated regularly to the cause of equine genetics. Lost all the time, too. Bad luck at the track. He'd fuck men, then rob 'em when they were asleep. He was a loser. To me, he'll always be a loser. But I have to say, to look at the autopsy photos... let's just say he looked a lot more like a dead man than most dead men look. If you ask me, I'd call it murder. I can't think of any reason all of that evidence would be there if Potter didn't do it, and hadn't seen LaMorte in years as he claims."

"Who's the prosecutor?"

"Scott Jordan. He's new, untarnished, eager to show off what he can do. Still thinks the justice system works. Still thinks guys will respect him in the morning. I'm surprised they gave him this case, but I guess it's time he learned to run with the big dogs. Guess he's been fetching coffee and doughnuts long enough, so they threw him a bone. The case is pretty open-and-shut."

"Think he'll bargain?"

"He might, but I get the impression that Potter isn't the type to admit to something he claims he didn't do."

I ordered another drink. "I heard the state has a star witness."

Emily's eyebrows rose. "You do get around, don't you? Yes. A guy who shared the cell with Potter the night Potter was booked. Claims that Potter confessed the crime to him."

I snapped to attention with that one. "Really? What's his name?"

"It was... Tom... Tom... Tom something. Shit. I can't recall."

"What does he look like?"

"Oh, tall, dark hair, blue eyes and a--"

I finished it for her. "British accent."

Finishing her drink, she smiled. "You are good. Who else are you fucking from the D.A.'s office?"

"Well, there was that guy that you used to share an office with a few years ago..." I grinned at her to let her know I was teasing.

"Did you hear? After you guys broke up he moved to Washington. He retired from the bar, saying he wanted to be closer to nature. Now he's a park ranger at Mount St. Helens."

"He always was the Birkenstock type. Kept after me to eat granola, go organic. Said I'd taste better if I did."

Emily smiled a predatory smile. "Seems to me, if I recall correctly, you taste just fine."

I ignored that.

She regarded me evenly, blue eyes grave. "You think Potter did it?"

"If I did, I'd hardly be trying to find proof to the contrary, would I?"

"Good point." She stood up. "Finish your drink. You need some dinner. I'll grill you a steak."

"Emily, I..."

"Draco. It's just dinner. Relax. I won't jump you, okay? Besides, even if I do, I know your rule about kissing. Free food. No strings. What do you say? Return the favor? For old time's sake?"

I hesitated, but her skirt was short and her legs were long. Only the floor kept them from going on forever. Women like her should come with a warranty. I looked up at her and nodded.

*****

The next morning, sated, I detoured past my apartment to change clothes and feed Marlowe, who meowed at me reproachfully.

"I know, I've been ignoring you, but it's hard to pass up a free meal, you know?" Marlowe purred and arched his back, then followed me around, talking, as I changed.

"You're certainly attentive. Talkative, too," I remarked as I knotted my tie. "I'll be home later, okay? Try not to shred the couch."

Marlowe meowed, as if in reply, as I left.

Curiouser and curiouser.

*****

I didn't do much that morning in the office, my mind filled with images of Potter and a few executions I'd witnessed. The end of life is never pretty, no matter who you are. In the end, death renders us all equal. Riches and fame won't save you from the coroner's slab. I left a message at his attorney's office, and had decided to go talk to Potter's secretary, when my phone rang. Jennifer answered it at her desk. Outside, lightning flashed, followed by thunder, but though the clouds were low, dark, and menacing, there was no rain.

Jennifer's voice floated into my office. "Draco. It's Edward. You need to talk to him." I hate it when she reads my mind like that. I worry what she'll find out one of these days.

I sat down, pushed the button for line one. "Malfoy."

"Ah, Draco. Good to talk to you again." Edward's voice sounded as if he were calling me from the lobby, rather than all the way from Merry Olde England. He was cheerful, in the manner of a man who had slept well and didn't owe too much money. "I have to say, I've found some rather interesting things. Your theory was right. I've found some documents and am sending them to you by express post."

"Did you have any trouble finding anything?"

"Oh, not a spot. It's just a matter of knowing whom to ask. I'm sure you know that. I hope this helps. Is there anything else you need? I've included everything you asked for, plus I got hold of his mother's medical records. Just to shore up your case, you know."

"Let me see what we've got and then I'll let you know if I need anything else."

"Ah. Excellent. It is good to talk to you. Remember, anything else I can do, just ring me."

"Will do, Edward. And again, thanks."

"Think nothing of it, dear boy." The 'dear boy' was a holdover from our bright college days.

I hung up the phone. I'd gone to college with Edward Cauley, who was a Brit. He was now the Earl of Leicester. We'd gotten to be good friends while on the rowing team together. I didn't get to see him often, but we made it a point to stay in touch. I had figured that he, being a member of the House of Lords, would be able to get his hands on the information I needed. Sounded like he had. I've learned a few things as a detective. Among them, I've found that it isn't always what you know that will smooth your path to riches and fame, or the closest thing to it that a private dick like me can expect. It's who you know.

I lit a cigarette and headed to Potter's office to talk to his secretary. I had found that talking to people in person was important. You can see their reactions and facial expressions. It's easy to lie over the phone. Ask any bill collector. More than likely, of course, I'd also run into Potter. Not that I was looking to run into him. I took a few sips from my flask as I drove, and smoothed my hair in the rear-view mirror. I hate having messy hair.

The outside air was as still as a packed courtroom waiting for the jury's verdict as I parked my car and walked into the cool sanctuary of Potter's office lobby. I took the elevator up, flirted with the receptionist again, and waited for his secretary. I wondered what kind of woman he had for a secretary. I wondered what his house looked like on the inside. I wondered what he did on weekends.

"Mr. Malfoy?" A stern voice broke into my reverie. I looked up. The woman standing before me was in her fifties, with gray hair scraped back into a bun. She wore a gray skirt and a plain white blouse. Her glasses, on a chain, rested on the broad flat shelf of her bosom. She wore no wedding ring. She looked as virgin as the Antarctic Ice Shelf. Seemed to be about as friendly, too. I filed her face away in my mind, to be used in the case of an unwanted hard-on.

"I'm Anne Oshlo. Mr. Potter's secretary. You wanted to speak to me?"

I stood up, flashing back to second grade and my teacher then, Mrs. Richards. She'd been a drill sergeant in the Army. Her classes were always perfectly behaved. No wonder. We were all scared to death of her. Rumor had it she'd shoved the school principal up against a bank of lockers when she didn't get a raise. I had no doubt Ms. Oshlo could do the same.

"Um. Right. I'm Draco Malfoy." I gave her my card. She glanced at it, then at the cigarette in my hand, with distaste. I hastily stubbed it out.

"Follow me," she intoned, and I followed her down the same hallway as before. The door to Potter's office was shut. She sat behind her desk and looked at me expectantly.

I sank into a chair. "I wanted to ask you a few questions about Mr. Potter."

"Yes, I presumed that was the reason for your visit. What would you like to know?"

"First of all, know that anything you tell me is confidential, okay?"

She looked as if she didn't believe me, but nodded. I resisted the urge to quote Scripture.

"How long have you worked for Mr. Potter?"

"Twelve years, three months, and eighteen days." I mentally added Math Whiz to my description of Scary Single Cat Lady in my mind.

"He a good boss?"

"Very much so. Very considerate, very thoughtful. He sends me flowers on my birthday, gives me the day off, knows all the names of my cats, he's fair, smart, and honest." Cats. Plural. Knew it.

"Honest? I assume you wouldn't be working for someone who was dishonest."

She looked down at her desk. If it was possible for a desk to have hospital corners, hers had them. "I used to be the executive secretary to the CEO of Enron."

I thought. "Enron..."

"Energy firm in Houston. Went bankrupt. Most employees lost all of their retirement when the company's stock became worthless."

"I remember that, yes. It was a while ago."

"Fourteen years. Mr. Potter was the only one who would hire me."

"What do his other employees think of him?"

"They all like him very much. He is very charismatic. He has a way with people."

Yeah, I'd kind of guessed that. Figured I could take that one to Vegas and come back a rich man.

"Have you noticed, or did you notice, anything unusual around the time of the murder?"

She looked down again. Her smile was hanging on by its claws and wondering what it would hit when it dropped. "Mr. Potter has instructed me to be completely open with you. Yes, about two months ago, he started coming to the office late."

"Late? How late?"

"Usually about an hour late. That's most unusual for him. He's always here when I get here in the morning. However, that changed. He also looked terrible. He looked as though he wasn't sleeping. He became jumpy, nervous, easily startled."

"Hmm. How long did this go on?"

"Well, to some extent, it still is going on."

"Really. Anything else unusual?"

"A couple of times a week, he'd leave during the afternoon. He'd be gone for a few hours, and then come back. No explanation as to where he was going."

"Is he still doing that?"

"No. He still comes into the office late on occasion, but it's fairly rare."

"What do you think caused all this?"

She looked at me as if I was something she'd found on the bottom of her shoe. "I have no idea. I do not pry into Mr. Potter's affairs. I am his assistant, not his confidante."

I felt like I'd just been sent to the principal. "Do you think he is capable of murder?"

Ms. Oshlo straightened in her chair. I decided that the Los Angeles Independent School District needed teachers like her. One day with her, and your discipline problems would disappear. "Mr. Potter is the kindest, gentlest man I know. He would no more hurt someone than I would-- well, he's just not capable of it."

I was very thankful that she didn't finish her sentence.

"People are capable of a lot of things."

"Not Harry."

I stood up. "Well, thank you for your time. Please call me if you think of anything that might help. Don't worry about whether or not it's important. I'll decide that."

She stood too, eyes frosty. "Certainly. I'll walk you out." She came around the desk, then hesitated, looking at me closely. "Didn't you... you solved that cat-smuggling ring four years ago, didn't you?"

Only my exquisite self-control kept me from blushing. "Yes, ma'am, that was my case."

Her eyes, the eyes of a biologist studying a virus under the microscope, swept over me. "Cat-smuggling to murder. You're moving up in the world, Mr. Malfoy."

I looked at her to see if she was teasing me.

She wasn't.

*****

I'll tell you what I did for the rest of the day, but it won't get you any further than it got me. I typed up everything I'd done so far, including accounts of conversations I'd had, and gave it to Jennifer to mail to Potter.

A thick, heavy fog had settled over the valley by the time I left the office. The fog was playing tricks with my senses. Sounds were distorted. Walking to my car, I could have sworn I heard two sets of footsteps. My instincts were singing, too, but fog has always had that effect on me. I needed a drink and was in a hurry to get one. I headed home, threw a frozen dinner in the microwave, and sat on the couch with Marlowe, drinking and staring at the TV. I gave it up about midnight and crawled into bed.

If I dreamed that night, I don't recall any of it.

*****

A FedEx package was waiting for me when I walked into the office the next morning. I sat on Jennifer's desk and opened it, handing the documents to her silently after I'd perused them.

"Draco... this says that Harry... He's not..."

"I know. You'd better call him and set up an appointment." I wasn't looking forward to this. Best to get it over with as soon as possible.

"Do... do you think he was lying to you?"

"I don't think so. Not about this."

She cocked her head. "So you think he's got nothing to lie about?"

"Everyone has something to lie about," I stated flatly. One of the great truths of life I'd stumbled across.

She started to say something to me, eyes dark with what I would later realize was concern, but picked up the phone. I walked into my office and poured a strong one.

I have no idea how long I sat there, looking out the window at the threatening skies. They were so dark it was almost like nighttime out there. Wild light danced in the distance, and the streetlights cast wasted light on the deserted streets. Even the hookers were inside, taking shelter from the upcoming storm.

"Mr. Malfoy?" It was Green Eyes. There was an undercurrent in his voice that matched the dark orgy of the coming storm.

I tossed back my drink and turned. "Have a seat."

He did, sitting carefully back against the battered chair in an impeccably tailored dove-gray suit. Savile Row, by the looks of it. He wore a white shirt, and a burgundy tie with a small gray pattern in it. I watched him for a moment, choosing my words carefully. I don't know what happens to people after they die. I used to believe in an afterlife. Now I am convinced that each man's hell is on this earth. I was about to open the door to Potter's.

"I've got some documents you should see." I handed him an official-looking piece of paper. He took it, read it, and lifted green eyes to me.

"What is this, Malfoy?"

"That is your real birth certificate. You were born in England. Surrey, to be exact. Not California."

Potter's hands shook and he went so pale I was afraid he'd faint.

"I don't understand," he said in a small voice, eyes very dark with some emotion I couldn't quite identify. Then it struck me. They were the eyes of someone who was watching their world crumble around them while they stood, helpless to prevent it from happening. I knew how he felt.

"For the record, Potter, neither do I."

The wind outside began to scream as rain started lashing the windows, unnatural in its intensity. Both of us jumped as lightning flashed, the lights in the office flickering with it, and thunder shook the building.

Looked like the storm had finally arrived.