Malfoy, P.I.

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.

Feeble twilight fought to make itself seen through the rain. I got up, poured myself another drink, and noticed that Jennifer had left me a sandwich. Chicken salad--my favorite--and she'd even cut the crusts off, just the way I liked it. She'd also left me some potato chips and homemade cookies. I took one and munched it lazily, sitting back down at my desk. I put my feet up, reading the file more carefully this time. We all have our price. Potter clearly had his. He was just like everyone else.

I'd been hoping he wasn't.

The rain still fell steadily as I pondered the case. The weather forecast came on the radio, and they were making noises about how unusual the constant thunderstorms were. Seemed to me that ever since I'd met Green Eyes, nothing was normal any more. Nothing was as it appeared in this case.

Had I continued in that train of thought, I could have saved myself a lot of grief and pain.

*****

I crawled out of bed the next morning with my head ringing like my neighbor's car alarm. In the movies, someone always slips the detective a Mickey Finn. I'd done a pretty good job of doing it to myself the night before. They say there's truth in wine--I could only hope that applied to vodka, too.

I took a very long and very hot shower, shaved, dressed, fed Marlowe, and headed for the office. Marlowe meowed urgently at me as I left, arching and purring around my legs. He never used to do that. He hadn't chewed up a sock in days. He hadn't spit up a hairball in the middle of the bed in quite a while, either.

Even the cat was getting into the abnormal act.

Jennifer looked up as I walked into the office. She was wearing a red dress and red lipstick. I sat on the edge of her desk.

"Shake it up and pour it, Jen. Who's the new guy?"

She blinked at me. "What new guy?"

"The one that's got you all dolled up and who's put that gleam in your eye."

She blushed faintly. It looked good on her. "Well, we're just dating."

"Oh? Is that what they call it these days?"

"He's... I've never met anyone like him. We met by accident. The mailman had given him my mail and he brought me my bills. We sat and talked for two hours. Then we went out and... I don't know. It just all... it was so easy. He's... magical."

"Yeah, you're smitten. Keep me posted, okay? Why don't you invite him up to the office? I'd like to meet him." Not that he was any competition. Just wanted to make sure he was worthy of her.

She flushed again. "I'll do that." Standing up, she walked over to the file cabinet. I looked at her knees. No rug burns.

"New shoes, too. This is getting serious."

She looked at me with a strange expression on her face. The closest word I can use to describe it is grateful. "Oh. Yes. These are new. Didn't think you'd notice."

Hard not to notice with legs like hers. I got up from the desk. "Call Potter and set up an appointment. I need to talk to him."

"Shall I say what it's about?"

"Just tell him it's important." Something in my face must have given me away because she narrowed her eyes and looked at me more closely.

"What is it, Draco?"

I sighed. "Potter was being blackmailed by Mike LaMorte. It looks like he was laundering money for the Mob. The Zambinis, to be exact. They gave him money and he opened accounts for them. Invested it. Then moved money from account to account."

Her eyes got wide. "Harry? I don't believe it. He seemed so... so... I don't know."

Yeah. He did.

*****

I wasn't looking forward to this meeting as I drove to Potter's office. The traffic wasn't too heavy on the freeways--freeways; there's an oxymoron for you--but I cut through town. I like seeing all the neighborhoods you pass through. Prostitutes, junkies, pimps, dealers... yeah, L.A. has plenty of local color. They're mean streets, as a writer once said, but they're part of my world. I'm a surface streets guy. Going through town is always faster for me anyway. I'm one of those guys that hits all the green lights. Get great parking places, too. Just lucky that way, I suppose. If only that luck extended to other parts of my life. My shirt clung uncomfortably to my back as I stepped out of my car and into an elevator that smelled vaguely of piss. I walked into the cool marble of Potter's office building. Nodding to the security guard, I made my way upstairs. The same receptionist dazzled me with a smile. Potter appeared almost immediately, dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a French blue shirt, white collar and cuffs, and a blue-and-gray silk tie. I got up.

"We need to talk, Potter." He nodded and led me down the hall to his office. Anne Oshlo was away from her desk. We went into his office and I shut the door. He sat down behind his desk and looked at me expectantly. I sat down across from him.

Might as well jump in with both feet.

"Why didn't you tell me Mike LaMorte was blackmailing you?"

Potter's smile faded faster than a stripper's innocence. He sat up.

"Wh-what? How did you...?"

"I told you that if I kept digging I'd find things out. This is what I do for a living."

"Did you... do the police know? Did you tell them?"

"No. I find out information. I give it to the client. You get to decide what to do with it. Anything I find out is between you and me." Maybe not the most sterling code of ethics but it lets me sleep at night. Sure, I break the law now and then--if I didn't, I'd never get the job done--but I try to keep it minor. What I do is my business. Besides, I'm allergic to cops. More trouble than they're worth.

Potter turned in his chair to look at the leaden skies. They were a dark gray, and for a moment I was reminded of my father's cold gray eyes as he advanced on me, intent upon punishing me for some transgression when I was young. A line from an old Cat Stevens song popped into my head. "From the moment I could talk, I was ordered to listen..."

Potter broke my reverie. His voice was soft. "I was pretty naïve when I left college. I've always had a knack for this sort of thing... setting up financial portfolios for people. It isn't that I'm that good with numbers. I'm not. But I seem to have a talent for knowing which investments will do well. I don't know why. I was young, just out of college, trying to make it on my own. M-my first client was a guy named Giorgio Zambini. He came to me, wanting financial advice. Tax shelters. I helped him out. It was all perfectly legal. He liked what I did for him, and I, um, needed the money. So he told some relatives of his, and they came to see me. Honestly, Malfoy, I had no idea that they were, you know, organized crime. I helped them out. Then they started asking about, um, offshore accounts. Next thing I knew, I was setting up bank accounts in the Cayman Islands. I, um, didn't know what it all meant. I did know I was able to put food on the table. It was all so gradual."

Potter as an innocent. Surprisingly, I had no trouble imagining him that way. And equally surprisingly, I believed his story. He pulled a flask out of his desk and took a long swig.

"What are you drinking?"

He looked at me with dark green eyes. "Scotch. 'That brown liquor, which not women, nor boys and children, but only hunters drank'. Faulkner."

I nodded. "I know."

He got up, pacing as he continued. His eyes were flat with self-recrimination. I've seen that look many times before.

"By the time I realized what was going on... who they were... I was in so deep there wasn't much I could do to extricate myself. Once you're in bed with the Zambinis, they don't let you out."

No, they don't. The only guys that are free of their clutches are currently serving time as fish food at the bottom of the Pacific, after downing a few beers with a Drano chaser.

"They still clients now?"

Potter shook his head. "No. They've moved on to someone else. Someone who's able to, um, better serve their needs. But the fact remains that I got started and built this business with help from the Mob. It doesn't look good, you know? And Mike... I don't know how he found out about it. He was smart. Cunning. He knew I couldn't afford to let it be known that I was involved with organized crime at one point. So he, um, put the information to use." Potter looked directly at me. "I'm not proud of what I did. I'm not proud of my relationship with Mike. I lied to you. I underestimated you. I'm sorry."

Just what exactly he was sorry for was unclear. And, for some reason, that bothered me.

"So the Zambinis just let you go your merry way, knowing what you know. They just cut you loose."

"Well, I don't know that for a fact. But they haven't required my services in, oh, ten years now."

"You are aware that blackmail is one of the oldest motives for murder around?"

"Malfoy, think about it. Why would I kill him? It's not like I couldn't afford the money--I could--and even if I did kill Mike, do you think I'd leave so much evidence behind? Don't you think I'd cover my tracks a little better than that?" He held his breath, waiting for my answer.

I didn't answer that. I know better than to comment on the motivations of others. That'll put you on ice real quick. I took a breath. "What did you see in Mike?" The question was out before I realized I'd asked it. But I wondered what a man like Potter saw in Mike, a lowlife by all accounts.

"Mike. When I met him, he was... I don't know. He was smart. Funny. Very charming. We had fun together. After we broke up, he changed. I don't know why. My guess is he got into drugs, but I don't know for sure. But the man who was murdered... that was not the man I fell in love with." He sat very still, lost in memory.

"Why'd you break up?"

Potter swallowed. "I, um, came home early one night, and he was--"

"In bed with someone else." Same old story.

"Not exactly. More like on the dining room table with someone else."

I tried not to laugh. I really did. I bit my lip. I thought about nuns. I thought of Anne Oshlo naked. None of it worked.

I laughed. Potter looked at me as if I'd suddenly grown another head, but laughed as well. However, the laugh was on him, and he knew it. He held the flask out to me.

"Drink? Or perhaps some coffee?"

I started to answer in the affirmative, but the phone on his desk buzzed. He picked it up. "Yes?" He listened and nodded. "Thank you. I'll be with him in a few minutes." He hung up and looked at me, his business face back on. "My next appointment."

"Right. Well, thank you for your time. I just needed to clear this up." I got up, watching him. "Oh, and one more question."

"Hmmm?"

"Who's Tom?"

Just as I'd hoped, that caught Potter off guard. His face grew very pale and, behind him, a vase of flowers exploded, sounding very much like a gunshot in the still room. We both jumped. Water, glass, and flowers landed on the carpet.

"I... I'm sorry... I don't know what happened..." He was on his knees, picking up glass with shaking hands. Several shards caught the light from his desk lamp and glittered with the false brightness of fool's gold. He muttered something.

"What'd you say? Didn't catch that."

He looked up at me. "That's happened to me before. Th--things exploding. I don't know why. I... thought I was imagining it. I wondered if I was going mad... but you saw it, didn't you? Didn't you?"

I nodded. I saw it. I didn't understand it. I couldn't explain it.

I didn't tell him that the same thing had happened to me, and more than once.

*****

I drove back to the office in silence. I needed to get my hands on Tom. The air was hazy with stagnant hope as I walked up to my office, ignoring the offers of blowjobs from the hookers that worked that street corner. I pictured Potter on his knees in his office, then on his knees in front of me, eyes looking into mine, dark green with desire as he did the most talented things with his mouth...

I was slightly out of breath as I walked into the office. Jennifer had gone to lunch, but a vase of gorgeous red roses was on her desk. I admired them, then looked for a card. Didn't find one. I shrugged and sat down at my desk. I debated with myself for half a second, then called Emily. She wasn't in, so I left a message.

This case was more complicated than a bookie's checking account. The city is full of mysteries. The secret is to figure out which mysteries you can solve and which ones to leave alone. Guys that don't figure that out end up taking a long siesta. I poured a drink and opened a pack of index cards. I wrote down the facts of the case, one per card. I laid them out on my desk and paced, thinking.

England. It all seemed to start in England. Potter didn't know it, but I'd been born in the United Kingdom myself. My mother left my father and moved with me to the States when I was about five. I never knew why. I put the card saying "England" in the center of the desk.

Lost in thought, I jumped when the phone rang. I answered it, still distracted.

"Malfoy."

"How's it hanging, Drake?"

"Emily. How are you?"

"I'm good. Be better if you were with me. Dinner tonight?"

"I can't. I have plans. I was calling to ask a favor."

"Aren't you always. Okay. Shoot. What do you want?"

"I need to talk to your star witness in the case against Potter."

I could hear her hesitation. "Tom?"

"Yes. Tom. Can you put me wise as to where I can find him?"

There was a pause, and she sighed. "All right. I'd get in trouble for this if anyone knew but for you... but you owe me one. And, rest assured, I'll collect on this debt."

"Of course."

"Hold on." She was gone for about ten minutes, then came back on the line. "You there, Drake?"

"Still here. Sadder and wiser, but still here."

"Okay. Tom Riddle. He listed his address as 1701 Beverly Boulevard. No phone number listed. Says he's unemployed."

Tom Riddle. Shorthand for trouble.

*****

Beverly Boulevard was in Hollywood. Hollywood had long since lost its glamour from the days of Douglas Fairbanks and Bette Davis. It was seedy, rundown, and garish, like a former beauty queen wearing a disillusionment crown. I drove slowly down Beverly, finally finding the 1700 block.

The block was full of homes that had once been palatial, but were now run-down, most divided into apartments. I pulled behind a Ford of indiscriminate age, quietly rusting in front of the house. A cracked sidewalk led up to the sagging concrete stoop of 1701. Tall hedges hid the entrance of the house from the street, and in the grassless front yard, a palm tree reached dying fronds to the airless sky. It was the sort of house you'd find Boo Radley living in. I walked up to the front door. A striped cat hissed at me and scuttled under the porch. In the distance, a child was sobbing. I thought of Jessica and wondered how she was doing.

I knocked, shifting my weight from foot to foot, sliding a hand into the pocket of my raincoat, where my Glock 27 lent a comforting presence. I don't keep a round chambered, as I don't relish the idea of maybe blowing my dick off everytime I pull it, but I'm pretty fast with it if need be. For a long time, I didn't pack, but something an LAPD officer said stuck with me: "I'd rather have twelve (in the clip) than six (pallbearers)." Made sense. In the gathering shadows, I was glad I had it.

No one answered. I knocked again and peered in the window next to the door. No light that I could see. Couldn't hear any movement. I walked around to the side of the house, but all of the shades were drawn. After tucking my card into the door frame, I went over to the house next door. A Hog was parked in the driveway. A faded couch sat on the porch with a collection of dead soldiers in front of it. I knocked. This time, a light clicked on, and I could hear movement.

The door opened and the sweet smell of pot drifted out. A big man stood there, towering over me. And I'm fairly tall. He looked down at me with mild interest.

"Draco Malfoy. I'm looking for Tom Riddle." I held out my card. He took it and studied it.

"What do you want to talk to Riddle for?" he asked in a growling bass.

"I want to ask him some questions regarding a case I'm working on."

"Confidential lay?"

I nodded.

"Huh. Well, he's home. That's his car." He pointed toward the Ford. "He works nights, pretty much. Should be leaving soon as it gets dark." He reached for something beside him and I tensed, but it was just a doobie. He toked and held it out to me. I shook my head, but I was tempted.

"Where does he work?"

"Good question. I've no idea. I know better than to ask. Not the most friendly of guys." He leaned in. "Tell you the truth, he creeps me out. I don't do much more than nod at him. Something strange about him."

"Well, thank you for your time." He nodded and shut the door. I walked back to my car, enjoying the contact high. I got in the car and drove around the block, then parked under some overhanging trees a few doors down. I pulled a baseball cap out of the trunk and put it on, sliding down in the seat. I settled in to wait.

It grew dark. People began arriving home from work, while others left. I looked at my watch. Time for the night shift to begin. I sighed, shifting my weight. My butt was falling asleep, and it'd been three hours. No sign of Riddle. I lit a cigarette, watching the smoke rise.

Two more ass-numbing hours. Guess Riddle wasn't going to work tonight. I shifted again. Usually, on a stakeout, I come prepared with an empty jar, some trail mix, and a thermos full of ice chips. I wasn't prepared this time. I sighed, glancing around the neighborhood. At least I hadn't been made yet.

Another hour. All of the dogs in the neighborhood began howling at once and the hair rose on the back of my neck. The wind rose, and wafted in the window. I shivered. No lights in the Riddle house. No movement. I stretched and reached into my glove compartment. I pulled out a cheap watch and a roll of duct tape. I tiger-striped tape over the face of the watch, and got out. Stealthily, I crept towards Riddle's car and placed the watch under the right front tire. If I couldn't stay all night, at least I'd know if he'd left and what time he'd done so.

A cold breath ghosted across the back of my neck, and I could have sworn I heard soft, mocking laughter on the wild night wind.

*****

I dreamed that night. The images were fragmentary and sharp, more of a combination of individual pictures that, when merged together, create a moving picture. In the first image, Green Eyes was on his knees in his office, picking up glass. He put the shards in a trash can, and moved towards me, still on his knees. His eyes were dark with desire, as they'd been when he kissed me, and he reached for my pants. Pulling off my belt, he slid deft hands into the waistband of my pants, and then pulled the zipper of my pants down. I arched my back, aching for him. He grinned up at me and, with a sudden movement, pulled down my pants and boxers. I gasped as he leaned forward. Moaning, I ran my hands through his dark hair. His mouth was talented, and his tongue did the most amazing things and I shuddered. I looked down into his eyes and the image changed. His eyes had changed color now, from green to blue. His hair was sandy, and the eyes were those of the man I'd loved so long ago, his mouth covering me with kisses and lies. I couldn't look away from his gaze and then the image shifted again. The hair was now crisp black curls. The blue eyes hardened into the blue sky of a prisoner's last look at the outside world as he walks his last mile. They became darker and darker, becoming almost black and they were my world. I looked into those eyes still, unable to look away, and soft, mocking laughter rang in my head. The mouth on me was cold.

The blackness spread and I fell.

*****

I detoured past Tom Riddle's house on the way to the office the next morning. The car seemed to be in the same place. I knocked on the front door, but again, there was no answer. I checked the watch under the tire. The glass was cracked, and it had stopped at 5:36. I stood in the street, irresolute, tapping it on my hand. Something was nagging at me but I couldn't pin it down. I was edgy. I don't like being edgy.

Without any warning, the skies opened up and I ran to my car. I don't like being wet.

I don't like playing cat and mouse, either.

*****

There's a coffee shop down the street from my office. I meet clients there a lot. Often, they're reluctant to be seen entering the office of a private detective. For many, the private guy is the end of the line. The one you turn to when you've exhausted all other avenues. People don't go to a guy like me unless they have problems. And they don't particularly want others nosing around into their problems. But meeting at a coffee shop, we're just two friends having coffee. Plus, I get free refills.

I walked inside. It was mid-morning, the lull between the breakfast crowd and the lunch crowd. Tom himself had called me first thing that morning. The place was nearly empty. I spotted Tom Riddle right away, sitting with his back to the door. I walked over to the booth and sat down on the orange vinyl seat, facing him.

He looked up and smiled. Black, crisp curls. Dimples. Blue eyes that would make a priest forget to pray. He was dressed casually in jeans and a gray sweater. He had a pen in his hand and had been working on the crossword puzzle. For a moment I was lost in my dream of the night before. I slapped myself mentally and held out my hand. "Draco Malfoy."

He took it. His hand in mine was cool. "Tom Riddle." The accent was the same I'd heard that first night at Callahan's. It also had the same effect on me it did the first time. I hastily thought of Anne Oshlo.

The waitress came by and I ordered coffee. Riddle already had a cup in front of him.

"I understand you were looking for me. I'm glad we were able to meet so quickly."

"Yes. I've been hired by Harry Potter. I wanted to ask you a few questions. I understand you're the state's star witness."

He looked down at his cup. "Yes."

"You don't sound very happy about it."

His blue eyes met mine. "I'm not. I just can't believe that Harry... that he's capable of something like that."

First-name basis. "How long have you known Potter?"

"Several years. We went to the same school, but I was a few years ahead of him. However, our paths crossed a few times."

He sipped his coffee, utterly relaxed. His eyes met mine without reservation. One of the great truths of detective work is this: Everybody lies. Teachers lie. Rock stars lie. Presidents lie. Riddle, though... if he was lying, he was better at it than anyone I'd ever met.

"Understand Potter confessed the crime to you while in jail."

Riddle looked out the window for a moment, seeming to gather his thoughts. "Yes. I had been picked up that night for theft and we were in the same holding cell. We were the only ones there and I guess that since he knew me, he thought he could talk to me. It really seemed to be eating away at him, what he'd done, and I suppose he wanted me to grant him some sort of absolution."

"What did he tell you?"

"Well, he and Mike had been lovers a long time ago. They'd broken up and Mike had become a real bastard. There was now a charge for what he used to give for free, and Harry didn't like that. But Mike was pulling himself together. Got off the drugs. Had a steady boyfriend. However, he was blackmailing Harry. Harry went to talk to him. To try to reason with him. Mike wouldn't back down. Harry told me that he just snapped. It wasn't until he was in the shower washing the blood off himself that he even realized what he'd done."

I put on what I'd been told was my "detective face". The one that shut out emotion. The one with hard eyes that gave nothing away. The one that kept me sane.

Riddle went on, one finger tracing the rim of his cup as he spoke. His voice was dropping by degrees, so I found myself having to lean forward to hear him. "I just can't believe that Harry did that. I mean, kill the bloke, but don't just leave him to, you know, bleed to death. Harry told me that he grabbed his clothes, put on some old pants of Mike's, and drove home. He was arrested not long after that."

"Why do you suppose he did nothing to try to cover his tracks?"

"Well, he did wash the blood off. But the rest..." Riddle took a sip of coffee, then went on. His fingers on the cup were long and slender. The fingers of a classical musician.

"Harry's clever with numbers, but he doesn't have real cunning. He isn't sly. He doesn't have wiles. He's brave. Noble. Heart of a lion and all that." Riddle's eyes glinted in the manner of a man who knew that the joke was on me.

"What do you do for a living?"

Riddle blinked at me. "I do odd jobs."

"Odd jobs?"

He shrugged elegantly. "This and that. I get by." His tone indicated that I'd best not pursue the matter any further.

I nodded and drank my cup of joe. He studied me and it wasn't a comfortable experience. "You're working for Harry?"

I nodded again.

"How did you end up as a private detective? Were you a policeman at one point?"

I squirmed. "No. The LAPD and I disagree on several, shall we say, fundamental issues."

He ran a light finger down my hand. His touch made me shiver. "Do you own a fedora?"

I leaned back, wary. Outside, the clouds were low, and Riddle's blue eyes were the only color in the room. Everything else was in shades of gray. We eyed each other, the tension in the room hotter than a streetwalker's first kiss.

"I've been known to wear one on occasion. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. So. Being a private dick, do you find that the competition's stiff?"

I lobbed the ball back into his court. "It can be. But I find that I can rise to the occasion quite nicely if sufficiently motivated."

"Well, if there's anything I can do to give this case a shove, do let me know, won't you?" His eyes raked me. I nodded, suddenly unable to find my voice.

I drained my coffee and stood up. He stood as well, walking to my side of the table. He put a hand on my shoulder and leaned in a bit closer. "You know where to find me, Mr. Malfoy. Any time," he murmured. He looked down at the crossword puzzle, then back at me. "Forty-seven across. Murderous Mailer book. What do you think it is? I'm stuck."

I took a breath. "The Executioner's Song."

He smiled. "Very good."

His breath on my neck was cold.

*****

I took a deep breath once I was outside, feeling the effects of Riddle's encounter slowly wearing off. My hands were shaking and I reached for the flask in my pocket. Taking a few shots of the liquid cure, I felt like myself again. My stomach growled and I realized it was lunchtime. In the distance, lightning flickered, followed by the low mutter of thunder. The streetlights were on and thick smog was slowly rolling in on the requisite little cat's feet, drawing blurry outlines around everything. Pinkish halos surrounded the streetlights and everything seemed to be muffled in cotton. The world seemed to be holding its breath. I climbed the stairs slowly, puzzling out my conversation with the aptly named Tom Riddle.

The office was dark as I stepped in from the hallway. Funny. Jennifer always leaves the lights on during the day, whether she's there or not. The hair rose on the back of my neck and my hand tightened around the Glock. The door sighed shut behind me.

Silence.

Darkness.

Waiting.

I stood still, letting my eyes adjust to the shadows in the room. I took a step forward.

I felt a rush of air behind me. White light exploded behind my eyes, and I fell, once again, into blackness.

This time I wasn't dreaming.