Malfoy, P.I.

"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.

"I... I don't understand," Potter said again, slowly. "I... I was born in California. I grew up here."

"You didn't go to elementary or middle school here. There are no records on file for a 'Harry James Potter' attending school in this state."

Green Eyes didn't like that one. His hands shook, and he stood up and began pacing. "Look, I know what I remember and this... this is all just a huge mistake. Where did you get that birth certificate, anyway?"

I took a deep breath, unsure of Potter's reaction to this news. "I have a friend who is a member of the House of Lords. He got the information."

Potter stared at me, face pale except for two bright spots of color high on his cheeks. Outside, the wind howled and the rain lashed the windows and the thunder sounded the death knell of whatever peace he had left in his life. "This is all a mistake. I don't know what you think you're playing at, and I don't know what motivated you to call England of all places, but you're wrong."

I was silent. Hunches don't make any sense when you try to explain them, anyway. Most people believe in what they can see and smell and touch. Being a detective, I followed my hunches--they'd kept me off ice many times--but, before Potter's case came along, I didn't think there was much beyond the physical world around. I know better now.

"Well? What gave you the idea to call a friend in the House of Lords? How do you know this particular 'Harry James Potter' is me, anyway?" He lifted his chin, a steely look in his eyes. Stubborn was right at home with Green Eyes.

He wanted to duel, did he? Fine. I took a swallow of my drink. "My mother was British. You have the same ways of speaking as she did. Certain inflections on certain words. Certain mannerisms. As for this being your birth certificate, it is." I threw a sheaf of papers on the desk. They made a flat sound as they hit the desk top, a sharp contrast to the swirling emotions in the room. "Here are your mother's medical records, from when she had you. Here's her death certificate. Here's your father's. If you'll look, the names 'Lily Evans Potter' and 'James Edward Potter' are the same ones listed on your birth certificate, the only one issued for a 'Harry James Potter' in 1980."

"These records... how did you get them? Aren't these confidential?"

"Look, Potter, you hired me to do a job. You hired me to gather information. I'm doing that. Along the way, I'm doing what I can to make sure that the information I gather is correct. I work for you. Once in a while I have to bend the rules, but I always bend them in the client's favor. In your favor. I'll go to the end of the platform with you."

Only difference here was that no one would be waiting on the platform for me.

"I know who I am, Mr. Malfoy. I remember my childhood. Don't you think that if I had gone to school in the United Kingdom, I would remember that? So far the only thing you've gotten right is that I'm an orphan. The rest of it... I know who I am. I don't need some drunken detective to tell me who I am."

That one stung, but I put on my impassive face. When someone jabs at you, the last thing you want is to let them know they've scored a hit. Gives them ammunition for next time.

He was silent for a long time. In this line of work, you're dealing with people who are often at their worst. Private investigators earn their living off the pain and suffering of others. It's hard to face pain and suffering on a daily basis. All who engage in it pay a price. When people are upset, you gotta handle 'em with care. Despite what many think, we're all capable of some pretty horrendous acts, if pushed.

Potter was a man on the edge. I started to offer him a drink but he began to speak. His voice was flat and still, contrasting the storm's rage.

"I know who I am. I know what I remember." He repeated it yet again, this time with a tinge of desperation outlining each word. Then he was silent. Finally he looked up at me again, eyes glittering. His voice had the cool hardness of a man who knows something that you don't.

"You're fired."

*****

Potter left my office. Outside my door, I could hear Jennifer talking to him, and his low reply. I couldn't make out the words but an air of quiet desperation seemed to hang over his every syllable. I poured another drink and looked out the window. The outer door shut with the finality of a coffin lid. Just beyond my office, the radio on Jennifer's desk was on, and a low note, like the catch in a torch singer's voice, drifted in.

Potter had made his choice. I'd tried to help him. I'd found out what I could, and I couldn't help but feel there was much, much more beneath the surface. I didn't need a medium to tell me that this case was trouble. It was my job to gather information. Not to assess the value of that information. I'd given it to Potter, and let him decide what to do with it.

I wondered what he'd do next. I wondered if he was okay. I wondered if anyone would visit him on Death Row.

*****

I left the office not long after Potter. The storm was making me restless, so I headed out to Callahan's. I don't know why I went there. Just an urge to drink my lunch, I suppose. The inside was cool and dim and I shivered as I stepped in out of the rain. It had been so dark outside that it only took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the interior. To my surprise, Gary was there. Spotting me, he motioned me over to a table.

"Hey, Malfoy. You look like you got ridden hard and put away wet. Potter case?"

I nodded and signaled the waitress for a drink. Potter's words resounded in my mind and I took a long swallow.

He regarded me with eyes that missed nothing. "Everything okay?" he quietly asked.

I answered him in the same low voice. "Oh yeah, everything's just jake." He was silent and I sighed. "Case got a bit complicated."

"So I hear. Still think he didn't do it?"

"I don't know what to think anymore. Nothing with this case is what it seems. I've never run across a case like it."

Gary studied his drink. "What's his supposed motive for murder?"

"I can't really tell. The papers say jealousy--same old story, you know--but Potter says he hasn't seen Mike LaMorte in fifteen years."

Gary smiled like a man meeting the illegitimate son of royalty. "There's a motive out there, you know."

I cocked my head. Gary's eyes were gleaming with suppressed triumph.

"What do you know, Gary?"

"Me? I'm not a snitch. I'd say checking out Mike LaMorte might be a good idea, though."

"Well, it isn't my case anymore. It's someone else's problem now."

Gary studied me. "What do you mean, it isn't your case? He fired you?"

"Just a little while ago."

"Oh. Things look bad for him?"

"Let's just say he'll be working on his San Quentin tan unless his lawyer manages to turn water into wine," I replied bitterly.

"That's rough. Decent guy... just can't seem to catch a break, can he? I'm sorry to hear it," Gary said thoughtfully. "Too bad he fired you. Were you making some progress?"

I hunched over my drink like a vulture over its prey. "More than I wanted to."

I'd never felt so powerless in my life.

*****

The storm had abated a bit by the time I got back to the office. The air had a heavy fullness to it, and the clouds were pendulous, like an aging stripper's tits. On the radio, the announcer was making noises about landslides up in the hills. Potter lived in the hills, I thought to myself, but dismissed it and made my way inside.

Jennifer was gone, presumably to lunch, but the machine was blinking. I pushed the play button. A cool voice flowed out.

"Mr. Malfoy, this is Anne Oshlo, Mr. Potter's secretary. I know he had an appointment with you this morning, but I haven't seen him since. There's a matter here at the office that requires his prompt attention. Would you please call me back? I'd appreciate it." She listed her phone number twice, just in case I didn't catch it the first time. I sat on the edge of Jennifer's desk and dialed. She answered on the first ring.

"Anne Oshlo." Guess I'd called her private line. She didn't seem the type to have a cell.

"Malfoy here. You called?"

She sounded flustered, or as flustered as a woman like her ever got. "I'm looking for Mr. Potter. Is he there with you?"

"No. He left my office about three hours ago. I don't know where he went."

"Oh. Well, I'm just worried about him. There's something here that needs his attention, and it's not like him to be out of touch. I've tried him at home and on his cell, and I can't find him."

"I'm sure he'll turn up. Maybe he took the day off and went to the track."

Her tone became frostier. "Mr. Potter does not go to the race track."

"Relax. It was a joke. Look, I don't know where he is. I wish I could help."

"If you do happen to make contact with him, will you have him notify me immediately?"

"Will do." I fought a mad urge to salute.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Malfoy." She hung up.

I wondered what had happened to her in her life that had made her so hard and cold.

I turned on my office light and sat down. I typed up the final report of my investigation, and then put it on Jennifer's desk for her to include with his final bill. Then I sat, looking out the window, surrounding myself with a gray haze of cigarette smoke. The air was still. Below, cars passed, spraying white light over the empty sidewalks. The clouds seemed to chase all hope from the air.

I wondered where Potter was. The end of my foot itched, and my bank account was still trying to crawl under a duck. I needed the money, but I was off the case. Nothing I could do for him. It was out of my hands.

However, just checking on him... making sure he was okay... that was just simple human kindness, wasn't it?

I've always been very good at self-deception.

*****

I drove up the slick streets, winding my way into the hills. It still wasn't raining, but everything was gray and green in the feeble half-light. Driving past Potter's house, I didn't see a car in the garage.

I circled back, parked in the driveway, and climbed the steps to his front door. A wooden gate was to my right, and, peering through the slats, I could see a pool. I rang the bell. Inside, a dog barked, the deep tones of a big dog, but no one answered the door. No one shut the dog up, either, so I checked the mailbox. The mail was still there. No lights on in the interior of the house; at least, not any that I could see.

I got back in my car, leaving the hills behind, curving down towards the mean streets that were my world. Where was Potter? I pondered the possibilities, wondering where I'd go to escape from bad news. The hunch I had was as vague as the heat waves that rose from the California streets on a hot day.

For the second time that day, I ended up at Callahan's. Walking in, I looked around, and sure enough, in the back, facing away from the door and sitting alone in a booth, I could see Potter. I hesitated for a moment, then walked past the other tables to slide in across from him.

He looked terrible. His sleeves were rolled up, tie askew, hands shaking. He blinked at me blearily.

"Malfoy?"

"Your secretary is looking for you."

"Oh."

Clearly, he wasn't a talkative drunk.

"You okay, Potter?"

He laughed. I'd heard that laugh before. It was the laugh of a man with very little left to lose. "I'm great. Wonderful."

His British accent was evident, now that I knew to listen for it. Just a hint, but there. I refrained from licking my lips, settling instead for a nice inward moan.

"How long have you been here?"

"I don't know... I drove around for a while... ended up here. Just thinking. Remembering." His words were slurred. He was very drunk.

"Remembering what?"

"Oh... lots of things... my cousin... my aunt and uncle... I keep remembering someone with red hair but can't think of his name right offhand... going to college... Tom... Mike..." He trailed off and knocked back the rest of his drink.

"Tom?"

His eyes got wary. He'd said too much and he knew it, drunk as he was. He started to signal for another drink but I stopped him.

"Come on. I'm taking you home. You can drink all you like there."

He protested. "But... my car... I'm fine... I just need to sober up..."

"Potter, by the time you sober up, the birds will be singing and it will be another day. Get up." He did so with difficulty. I came around to his side of the table and he put his arm around me. Once again I was reminded that we were almost the same height. He was just a bit shorter, and, underneath the alcohol, I could smell his desperation. He fumbled out his wallet and threw some money on the table. I poured him into my car.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat on the way home. He wasn't asleep, though, because I could hear him talking to himself. It seemed to be a litany of names, and it had a practiced sound, like a man reciting the Rosary by rote. None of it made any sense.

I pulled up in his driveway. The outside house lights were on, outlining everything in silver. "Okay, Potter. You're home."

He opened his eyes. In the light, they were so dark they seemed almost black. "Home. Um. Pull into the garage. There's a door there." I did as requested, and came around to his side of the car, helping him out. Once out, he stumbled and threw his arms around me for balance.

It felt good.

"Okay, got your keys?" He pulled them out of his pocket, holding them out to me. I tried the one that looked most like a house key, and that opened the door. We were standing at the bottom of a short flight of stairs. At the top, I could see a kitchen. An alarm was beeping and the same dog I'd heard earlier was barking, approaching the stairs.

"Alarm. Shit. Alarm. Um. Turn it off," he mumbled, indicating a control panel to our right.

"I don't know the alarm code, Potter."

"Ten fifty-six."

I punched the numbers in and the beeping stopped. A golden retriever mix stood at the top of the stairs, barking joyously. Potter's face lit up.

"That's Ginger," he said, and made his way carefully up the stairs to her, leaning on the rail. I followed him. He bent down to pet her and she licked him all over. I made a face. They say dogs have cleaner mouths than humans, but I don't know about that. I do know that I don't drink out of the toilet. However, she seemed very friendly. Her tail was wagging, a graceful plume of golden fur fanning the air. She sat down in front of me and offered a paw. I took it.

"Nice to meet you, Ginger." I looked around the kitchen. The cabinets were oak and the counters a black granite. There was an island in the center, with a stove, and copper pans hanging above it. To my right was a utility room, and just beyond that, another door. In front of me was the kitchen, a breakfast nook, and a door that presumably led to a dining room.

"Come on, I'll give you the tour," Potter mumbled. I followed him as he lurched out of the kitchen, Ginger at his heels. The doorway did indeed lead to a dining room, with two walls made of glass that looked out onto a terrace. The floors were parquet. The dining room was open to the rest of the house so that I could see that a short, curving stairway led down to the sunken living room, which was done in dark, rich colors. A raised walkway to my left ran the length of the living room, and it seemed that almost all of the walls of the back of Potter's house, or at least all the ones that I could see, were glass, looking out over the same terrace. Stairs at the end of the walkway led up, presumably to the bedrooms. To my right, the walkway led to a darkened room. It looked like the room in which I'd watched Potter, the night I'd first taken the case. I could just make out a computer and some filing cabinets.

Potter made his way carefully down the stairs, flopping on a sofa. He waved a hand. "Living room." The living room had more floor-to-ceiling windows, these looking out on the swimming pool I'd seen earlier that day, plus a stone fireplace that was open on both sides. He gestured to the left. "Den's on the other side of the fireplace." I walked over to the den. Bookcases covered two walls and the wood floor was covered in Oriental rugs, adding warmth to the room. An entertainment center dominated the third wall, with two leather recliners, both in a rich red, facing it.

"Pool," he announced. I looked through the windows. It was a square pool, with lemon and palm trees on three sides serving as a privacy fence, one row of trees terminating in the gate I'd seen earlier that day. A few chairs and chaises were scattered about.

"Very nice house. Stay here." I left him on the sofa, heading up the stairs for the kitchen. I opened cabinets at random until I found one with glasses in it. Taking one, I filled it with ice and water, then headed back downstairs. It was getting dark, so I lit a few lamps. The house was warm, not temperature-wise, but feeling-wise. It felt like a home. I could live in a house like this. My apartment seemed very small and shabby in comparison.

I handed Potter the glass of water. "Drink this. Then I'm putting you to bed."

He patted the couch beside him. I sat, carefully. He drained the glass, then looked at me. "I was just thinking. You know all these things about me and I don't know a thing about you."

No client had ever asked me about myself. None had ever wanted to know. To them, I was a just a confidential guy, paid to keep his mouth shut and uncover their woes.

"Oh. Well, I've been a detective for a long time. No siblings, mother deceased. I haven't seen my father since I was five. I think he's still alive, but I'm not sure. Divorced. Live alone, one cat. When I die, as guys in my line of work often do, no one will feel that his or her world will stop turning."

He pulled his tie off. I did my very best not to notice. "Divorced? Any children?"

I contented myself with the fact that he wouldn't remember any of this in the morning. "One daughter. Jessica. She lives with her mother."

"Where's that?"

"Baltimore."

"You're a long way from home, you know," he commented, watching me with parted lips.

I wasn't sure I had a place that I'd call home. But I certainly wasn't about to tell him that.

"I know how it feels," he said, sitting up.

I started to answer him. "How what--" but I was cut off by his mouth on mine. He ran his hands through my hair, and his lips on mine were hot and insistent despite the ice water, and I couldn't help it, or maybe I didn't really want to... I kissed him back. His tongue met mine and I was filled with green fire. I moaned, lost, and my hands found his hair and it was much softer than I'd expected, and his mouth was so sweet and he knew just how to kiss me and his hands were moving to pull off my tie.

I pulled back.

"Potter..."

"Hmmm?" he breathed, moving his mouth to my ear.

"Bed."

He smiled at me, a real smile. His eyes were dark with desire, and both of us were out of breath.

I swallowed. "You need to get some sleep. You've got to sleep this off. You're going to feel like shit in the morning. Coffee with brandy will help." I got up and pulled him off the couch. "Where's the bedroom?"

"Mmm, I was hoping you'd ask," he said, nuzzling my neck. "Just along the hallway." We made our way up the stairs, and along the walkway, where steps to the left led up to a landing, with what looked like a guest room, and the master bedroom at the top of the stairs. In the dim glow from the outside lights, I could see a king-sized bed, another entertainment center, yet another glass wall that looked out onto the terrace, and a dressing room. I led him to the bed and pulled the covers back. He sat down on the bed, pulling his shoes off. I stopped him before he pulled anything else off.

"Go to sleep."

He pouted up at me. "You won't join me?"

Christ, how I wanted to.

"No. You aren't going to remember any of this in the morning, anyway. Call me if you need anything."

He nodded and lay down on the bed, closing his eyes. His face was peaceful in repose, and he looked very young. I bent over him, tucking the covers around him, and noticed the scar on his forehead. He rubbed it, mumbling. Ginger curled up on the bed beside her master. He drifted off to sleep.

I watched him sleep for a long time.

*****

Potter called me just after nine the next morning. He sounded like a schoolboy who'd gotten in trouble.

"Mr. Malfoy? Um, I hate to bother you, and if you're busy I understand, but, um, could you take me to get my car?"

Potter's house was way out of my way. He wasn't my client. I wasn't getting paid for this.

"Sure. I'll be there in a bit."

I turned on the radio very loudly as I drove to his house. There was a radio program I often listened to in the mornings. The DJ picked the music of a certain decade or genre, a different one for each show. She'd done the music of Vietnam, the 50's, 30's, roaring 20's, cocktail lounge music... today's show seemed to be the music of World War II. A baritone began singing. I recognized Jimmy Dorsey's orchestra in the background.

"...those cool and limpid green eyes... a pool wherein my love lies... so deep that in my searching for happiness I fear that they will ever taunt me... all through my life they'll haunt me...but will they ever want me? Green eyes, make my dreams come true..."

I snapped the radio off and drove the rest of the way in silence. Potter must have been waiting for me, for he came out of the garage door as soon as I pulled in the driveway. He was wearing a black suit with a white shirt that had thin blue and black stripes, and a paisley tie with blue, black, and gray in it. He smelled delicious. He must have been hung over, but on him, it looked good.

"I really appreciate this," he said, getting in the car and handing me a latte. I handed him a coffee with brandy.

"No problem. How do you feel?"

He looked at me. "Like utter shit."

I had to smile. "You don't look it. Remember anything about last night?"

"I remember going to Callahan's. I remember, um, firing you, yesterday."

I kept my eyes on the road. "Yes, you did. You should get your final bill in a few days."

He stumbled over his words, at odds with the confident entrepreneur persona the rest of the world usually saw. "Well, um, I wanted to talk to you about that. I, um, I was upset, and I, well, I didn't mean it. I... just... you know, kind of... lost it. I would like to hire you back, if, um, you're still available."

Eyes on the road. "If I keep digging, I'm likely to find out more things that you may not like."

He nodded. "I know. But... I... I have to know. What you've shown me... I don't understand it but if I don't find out the answer, it'll just eat at me. Do you know what I mean?"

I had to laugh at that one. "I'm a private detective. I make my living by being nosy. I'm the guy that checks out what's in your medicine cabinet. Always have been. I understand. If you're sure, then yes, I'll keep working."

He sighed with relief. Outside, a huge streak of lightning hit the ground, seemingly twenty feet from us, and the roll of thunder shook my car.

*****

I dropped Potter off at Callahan's and drove to the office, finishing the latte he'd made for me. It was good, too. Idly I wondered if he was a good cook. I wondered how he slept last night. I wondered what he slept in.

It wasn't until I reached my office that I realized I'd been running my fingers over my mouth, remembering his lips on mine. I don't kiss on the mouth. Not Jennifer, not Emily, no one. It's too personal. Too intimate. Speaks to me of feelings that aren't there. Feelings I'd rather not be reminded of. Feelings that I had once, a long time ago.

Green Eyes had kissed me on the mouth. I'd let him kiss me.

I'd kissed him back.

*****

For a man who'd fallen on hard times, as Potter had said, Mike LaMorte had been living very well indeed. He had lived in a condominium just on the edge of Culver City. One of those regentrification deals. The outside of the building was done in a cheap attempt at art deco. I walked into the building and up to the third floor. The hallway was done in plaster and red clay tiles, and was clean. The whole building seemed to be well-maintained. Knocking on the door, I listened but all was quiet in the building. No answer. I knocked again.

"Coming, coming, just hold on to your dick, I'll get there..." The door opened.

A man stood there, wearing only a pair of green shorts. He was shorter than I, well-built, with dark hair and dark eyes that regarded me suspiciously. He looked to be a good thirty, or a poor twenty.

"Yes?"

I handed him my card. "Draco Malfoy. I'm investigating the murder of Mike LaMorte."

"Still? They caught the guy who did it, in case you didn't know."

"I'm aware of that. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

He looked at the card and sighed. "What the fuck. Sure, come on in."

The room was bright and spacious, done in all white, a la Marilyn Monroe. On a table, a vase of bright red silk tulips lent the only note of color in the room. Boxes lay scattered about.

"You're moving?"

The man turned to me. "I'm Sam Pirelli. Yeah, I'm moving. Now that Mike's gone, I can't afford this joint no more."

"Mike brought in the income?"

Pirelli waved me to a couch. "No, Mike was a lazy slut who never worked a day in his life. He got money every month. I don't know where it came from." Thick cunning played on his face, had no fun there, and left.

"Really? Perhaps it came from his family."

"Ten grand a month? Hardly. He was as blue collar as you can get."

"No idea where this money came from?"

"Nope. Came in every month, though. So yeah, we lived nice. Now that he's been offed, I gotta find another place to live."

I doubted that Sam here had been one of the four mourners at Mike's funeral.

"What can you tell me about the day Mike died?"

"Just a regular day. I went to work, came home, found him dead. In the bedroom... in there." He pointed.

"What did you do?"

"I went for a walk on the beach. What do you think I did? I called the cops. I... Mike... you know, all this white carpet..."

I could imagine. "Do you think Harry Potter murdered Mike?"

"I don't know. I never saw Potter myself but Mike saw him every now and then."

"Oh? How often?"

"Every couple of months. They'd meet, but it was all private."

"Any idea what the purpose of the meeting was?"

"No idea. Mike would always gloat about it, though. Said that thanks to Potter, we were set for life. Other than that, he treated me like a mushroom. Kept me in the dark and fed me shit."

Ten grand a month. Meeting Potter regularly. Mike set for life. No matter which way I looked at it, it looked like blackmail.

"Was Mike blackmailing Potter?"

Pirelli gave this one some thought. I could see the effort it cost him to do so. "I... I wonder. See, because whenever Mike went to meet Potter, he'd be all smug and stuff. And why on earth would Potter have anything to do with Mike? Mike was a scum. Lowlife. Great blowjobs, though. None better."

"So you were his roommate?"

He shook his head. "No, he was just a place to bunk and a guy to fuck."

You have to love the irony here. Looked like Mike was using Potter, and Sam was using Mike. The circle of life.

"Have you run across anything of Mike's that seemed suspicious?"

"Just one thing. Mike's a lowlife, right? Doesn't have a bank account, 'cause if he did, he'd have to report the ten grand as income, see. But I come across this key... tiny little key. Dunno what it is. So I ask around. It's a for a safe deposit box. Now what would Mike have in one of those? I'm thinking it had something to do with the ten grand that came in every month. I find out he's rented a safe deposit box in my name. Ran across the rental contract."

"Did you go open it?"

His dark eyes regarded me warily. "Yeah."

"And what was in it?"

"A lifetime supply of condoms. What's it to you?"

"I'm just a guy trying to figure things out. Wouldn't you like to see Mike's killer brought to justice?"

Pirelli looked around the room, taking it in. Upon closer inspection, I could see that the couches were as threadbare as a bookkeeper's coat. The carpet was stained in places. Dust covered every surface. I stayed quiet. Questioning people is a form of verbal seduction. You have to make them want to talk to you, and often people will leap in to fill a silence.

"Mike was a mean bastard. Liked to hurt people. Physically."

I wondered if Mike was a convert to the teachings of the Marquis de Sade.

"He hurt me. Thought it was funny."

Nothing I could say to that. Somehow the chorus of the "Masochism Tango" didn't seem appropriate.

He got up finally, walking slowly to the bedroom. He returned with a file folder, which he held out to me. "This was in the box. It's files of some kind. Files of Potter's clients, far as I can tell. Dunno what's so special about 'em. Names mean nothing to me. The rest's all a buncha numbers. Beyond that, don't know what it is, other than... insurance."

I flipped through the folder, then looked up at Pirelli, heart pounding. "Can I make a copy of this?" I took out a fifty and laid it on the table. "For copying costs."

Pirelli regarded me, and finally nodded. "You got access to things I don't got, and you got smarts that I don't got. Mike did me wrong. Mike did everyone wrong. Well, he loved his mother. No one deserved to die the way he did, but no one lost any sleep or shed any tears over it, neither."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pirelli's form... ripple.

It was too easy. It was much too easy.

*****

Settling myself in my office chair, I looked at the copies I'd made. I jumped as lightning seared the afternoon and thunder shook the landscape. I read the contents of Pirelli's folder carefully, noting the dates. Most dated from thirteen to fourteen years ago. They were some of Potter's client files. Then a name caught my eye. I looked at all of the names more carefully, and I recognized most of them. Underworld figures. The situation called for profanity. I used some.

Harry Potter was a financial consultant, yes. He was helping the Mob launder money.

Mike LaMorte had been blackmailing Potter.

Blackmail. One of the oldest motives for murder around.

Life can be so sweet on the shady side of the street.