Malfoy, P.I.

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.

*****

I woke up by degrees. The pain in my head was just short of apocalyptic and I smelled blood. I reached around to the back of my head. My fingers came back wet and sticky. The blood was my own.

I was on the floor of my office. The room was still dark. I sat up with difficulty and leaned against the wall, trying to remember what had just happened. I'd come back to the office from meeting Tom....

"Draco!"

I looked up painfully. Jennifer ran over to me, still in her raincoat. "What happened?"

"Got sapped."

"But... why?"

We both glanced around the office. Nothing seemed to be missing or out of order.

"I don't know. Help me up, will you?"

She nodded, eyes dark with concern, and helped me to my feet. The room spun and somehow she got me to the couch. I sank down on it. Instead of hitting the sack, it felt like the sack had hit me.

"What time is it?"

She blinked but answered. "Half past two."

"So I've been out about ten minutes."

"Stay here. I'm going to call the police."

My voice, when I found it, was more forceful than I'd intended. "No! No. No cops. There's nothing they can do. Just... get me some water, will you?"

She gave me a careful glance. Concern mixed with resignation and something else I couldn't place. "At least let me take you to the emergency room."

"I'll be fine. Just got a crash course in bleeding, is all. And I've got one fuck of a headache."

"Stubborn." She left the room and came back with a glass of cold water. I drank it gratefully. She sat beside me. "At least let me look at the damage." I sat up and she peered into my eyes. "Looks okay." She looked at the back of my head and made a frowning sort of sound.

"Bad?"

"You need to go home and wash your hair. You've got blood in it and it's a mess. Do you want me to take you home?"

Our reflections in the window caught my eye. Jennifer's dark hair contrasted with my blond, darker than the silver-blond of my youth, her brown eyes locked on my gray. Her face was rounded, in contrast to the angular lines of mine. Molly told me once that I had cheekbones that would cut paper. Years ago, those cheekbones had been much in demand, and I'd worked my way through Harvard as a male model. Mostly clothed. I hadn't changed much since then, in the looks department at least, but where her face was animated, mine was closed. I wondered idly if it always looked that way.

"Yeah. Home would be good. I need some chewable morphine tablets or something."

She nodded and hoisted me to my feet with the ease of long experience. "You don't have any idea who did this?" It was a shot in the dark on her part, and it didn't hit anything.

"I told you I didn't." My voice sounded harsh in the still office. It was the voice of a master barking out orders to a servant.

She looked away. "Well, you're the detective. You'll figure it out, I'm sure." Her voice was cold.

She didn't look at me once on the way home. Later, however, she did stay when I asked her to. I didn't want to be alone. I wondered if Green Eyes was alone.

Later that night, Jennifer lay in my arms, sleeping. I sipped coffee--I knew I couldn't go to sleep and I wasn't going to ask her to wake me every two hours--and glanced at her. Seems like I always woke up with him, no matter who I went to sleep with. The love that I thought would save me. The alarm next to my bed went off, scaring the shit out of me. I turned it off quickly and peered at the settings. Jennifer. She'd set it to go off every two hours in case she fell asleep. She was always doing things like that for me. She stirred in my arms but I hushed her and she fell back asleep.

I pushed my mind back to the events of the day, trying to figure out who'd sapped me and why.

I could think of quite a few people who might have done this. But a motive was harder to grasp. Something tugged at the back of my mind, but trying to bring it to the forefront was like trying to pick up mercury. The only thing I could think of was the scent of those red roses on her desk.

And my file cabinet.

*****

I woke up to dim light and a gray reality. My headache had dulled to a tolerable level but touching the lump on the back of my head still brought tears to my eyes. Aspirin dulled the pain in my head so that it was at least manageable. Jennifer left and I poured myself a stiff drink before leaving for the office. I was relieved to see her go. One advantage to living alone is that you never have to lie to anyone when you tell them that nothing is wrong. Then I heard a thump in the living room and went out to investigate.

Marlowe was sitting on top of a book that had apparently fallen off the bookshelf. He made a chirruping sound and I went over to him. He arched his back. I stroked him absently as I glanced at the page the book had fallen open to. It was a poetry anthology from my bright college days.

"Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend

Above the rolling ball in cloud part screen'd,

Where sinners hugg'd their spectre of repose.

Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those."

"Okay, Marlowe, why are you sitting on top of 'Lucifer in Starlight'?"

I didn't get an answer, of course. I didn't expect one. But Marlowe's eyes caught the lamplight and glowed, making him seem prescient, like cats sometimes can. Cats can be pretty fucking creepy sometimes.

*****

The conversation I'd had the day before with Tom Riddle nagged at me. I decided to check Tom out. He'd said he and Harry went to school, so I headed to the alumni association's office at USC. Classes were just letting out, and I watched as long-legged girls in shorts and tight t-shirts walked with carefree grace alongside tanned boys with six-packs and youthful smiles. Thirty-five has a way of forgetting what twenty was like.

I felt every one of those thirty-five years today. I still had a headache and my senses seemed dulled, somehow. I imagined Potter walking across campus, laughing with friends, green eyes bright with amusement, dark hair in disarray.

I shut the car door firmly and walked into the office. A long counter ran the length of the room and a cute little blonde with long straight hair blinked brown eyes at me. "Can I help you?"

I took a gamble. "Hi. I'm Harry Potter and I'm looking for a friend of mine that I went to school with. I've fallen out of touch with him, and I was wondering if you had his address on file."

"Sure, I can look that up for you. How long has it been since you last saw him?"

I tried to look chagrined. "Ten years. It... ended badly... and I want to make amends." I kept my eyes on the counter, not trusting my face. For some reason, it struck me as funny and I was afraid I'd laugh. Sounded like something I'd hear on a TV talk show. I hate TV talk shows. Life would be much simpler if people would learn to solve their own problems. Contrary to popular belief, private guys like me don't solve problems. We just get paid to point them out.

She touched my hand. "Oh, you poor thing. I know just what you mean. I broke up with my girlfriend last year and there are so many things I'd like to say to her."

Her girlfriend. Great. Just the mental picture I needed. I shifted my weight and did not think about two young, tanned women entwined on the bed, moaning in the twilight of a summer's night.

Then I did not think about Potter entwined on the same bed with his hands tangled in another's dark curls, murmuring as Tom moved over him. I blinked mentally. That came out of blue fuck nowhere.

An older woman came in the room. She looked as if she might have a Polaroid in her office of a time when she was smiling.

"Darla?"

Darla smiled at me and spoke to the older woman. She twisted her long hair into a knot as she did so, revealing a pierced belly button as her shirt rode up. I tried to keep my eyes where they belonged. "Just let me take care of this guy here and I'll be right there."

The other seemed satisfied with that. Darla went to a computer. Her hair was up now and so was I. "The name?"

In my mind, I lay on the bed. Potter was leaning over me, green eyes dark, as they'd been when he kissed me, and he was sliding warm hands down to my--

I shook my head. "Oh, right. Tom. Tom Riddle." I was a bit distracted. I sternly banished all thoughts of Green Eyes from my mind.

She typed the name into the computer. Her nails were painted neon pink. She frowned and typed some more.

"Does he go by another name? I don't find anyone with that name in the database."

"Did you try Thomas?"

"I did. Only one record with that surname, and it's a George Riddle. Graduated in 1997."

Too young. "That's strange. How far back do these records go?"

Darla patted the monitor. "This is the same database the records office uses. It should be everyone who's attended USC."

"Well, I appreciate your looking. Must be a glitch in the system."

Her brown eyes were thoughtful. "Must be. Saturn is in retrograde for me, and I've just had the most awful luck with technology lately. I was putting batteries in my--"

I really didn't want to know what she was putting batteries in. I put on my grateful face. "Thank you anyway."

She patted my hand in a patronizing manner. "I understand how hard it is for men these days. I hope you find your boyfriend. It isn't easy being gay, I know."

I looked at her. "You have no idea how hard it is, sweetheart."

*****

Once in my car, I sat and thought for a moment, lighting a cigarette. Green Eyes and Tom didn't go to USC together. I didn't know where else Potter had gone to school. I was sure that he and Tom knew one another, though, judging from Potter's reaction whenever the subject of Mr. Riddle came up.

Potter. I wasn't sure what to make of him anymore. I still thought he was innocent, of murder at least, and in my mind, those green eyes made a mute appeal.

It was a job. Just another job. Nothing personal. I'd help Potter if I could. If I couldn't, they'd ice him. Nothing I could do about it. Tough luck. I took a deep swallow from my flask.

This case was a mass of lies, twisting about and covering up the truth at the center. But what was the truth here and what were the lies? Potter had lied to me. I was sure Tom had.

Lies hidden in truth are the hardest to uncover. I had a feeling Tom knew that.

I thought of Tom's eyes, and the faintly amused look they had. He looked like the type that would enjoy pointing out the bars of a cage to someone who knew they'd never escape.

I remembered his long fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup. Long fingers, perfect for taunting. Trailing. Teasing.

But his smile was the emotionless smile of a carnivore.

*****

The sun was struggling to make itself seen through the leaden clouds, like an aging prizefighter trying to rise up off the mat just one more time. The humidity was all over me like cheap polyester and I could tell that my hair was a mess. I was getting sick of the constant rain and unnatural weather. I hate being wet. I turned on the radio as I drove to Potter's lawyer's office. Looking at the time, I tuned to my favorite radio show. The DJ seemed to be playing classic rock today and I sang along to an old Blue Oyster Cult song.

"Then the door was open and the wind appeared
The candles blew, then disappeared
The curtains flew, then he appeared... saying 'don't be afraid'..."

Tom Riddle wasn't the Grim Reaper. But I remembered his patrician features, beautiful in a way. That elegant profile and those eyes that knew things the rest of us could only imagine. Disarmingly handsome. I could easily see him as the Angel of Death. I wasn't afraid of him--I agreed with Thomas Aquinas when he said that sorrow regarded present evil and fear regarded future evil--but there was something hinky about him. About this case.

I thought about Green Eyes. I wondered if he ever thought about me. I wondered who he inherited his green eyes from. I wondered who comforted him on the long, sleepless nights.

*****

Potter had hired Davis Evans to represent him. Evans was a very well-known and respected criminal attorney. He was tall, taller even than myself, with silver hair that looked as if it had once been black and a rather large hooked nose. His reception area was much like Potter's, with oak floors, leather furniture, and a dazzling receptionist. She led me back to Evans' office, decorated in the same deep tones. He was seated behind his desk, wearing a blue pinstriped suit, white shirt, and a blue-and-yellow paisley tie. He looked at me sternly and I felt like I'd been sent to the principal. I sat up straight in the red leather club chair facing his desk. Evans was the type of guy that could put his hands all over everything and not leave a fingerprint.

"Mr. Potter has instructed me to be completely candid with you. It is my understanding that you've done some work for other attorneys in town?"

"Yes. Steve Ruebel and Robert Cecil."

"You have a reputation for hard work and for getting to the bottom of things. Is this the first murder case you've ever worked on?"

"Yes. Murder isn't exactly my beat." My headache got worse.

"I understand you were the one who solved the disappearance of Jessica Ryan?"

I nodded and tried not to fidget. His gaze seemed to sear deep into the recesses of my mind, into places even I didn't go. His eyes were cold and remote, the eyes of a professional assassin. I didn't trust him. "I did."

"And this case." He quoted Gibran. "'The righteous is not innocent of the deeds of the wicked, and the white-handed is not clean in the doings of the felon.' Do you think Harry did it?"

I looked at him. "I'd hardly be trying to find evidence to the contrary if I did, would I?"

He smiled and an almost paternal pride flashed in his black eyes for a moment. He made his next move. "What have you uncovered?"

"So far, nothing that would help Potter."

"Hedging your bets, aren't you, Mr. Malfoy?"

"I'm afraid I don't catch your meaning."

He watched me. "We're on the same side here. You don't need to withhold anything from me."

"It's my understanding that Ha--Mr. Potter won't take a plea." I thought of those determined green eyes and the stubborn little lift of his chin.

"That is correct."

"What do you plan to do about that?"

His eyes glinted and, for a moment, he reminded me of a very large bat. I pictured him sleeping, hanging from the rafters of an attic somewhere. "I intend to use the information that you uncover on Harry's behalf and defend him to the best of my ability. Some of the physical evidence can be thrown out. For starters, the clothes that Harry supposedly wore that night--the ones stained with LaMorte's blood--were packaged in plastic bags."

I nodded. "And they rotted. You'd think the L.A.P.D. would know by now to use good old paper bags. What else?"

"I am going to try to have Tom's statement rendered inadmissible. Hearsay."

"Do you believe him? Tom? Do you believe that Harry confessed to him?"

Evans leaned back in his chair and, in so doing, knocked his coffee cup on the floor. He swore elegantly and buzzed for his secretary. She came in--a tall, willowy redhead--and helped him clean up the mess. While they worked, I walked around his office. A magnificent chess set sat on a table in the corner of the room. It was made of malachite and white marble. The white marble seemed to shimmer and appeared almost silver. The malachite reminded me of Green Eyes.

"Do you play?" I jumped. Evans was standing behind me, hands clasped behind his back, face inscrutable. The man never made a sound when he moved.

"No. I never did learn."

"Fascinating game, chess. So subtle, yet so complex. More of an art than a mere game. You have to not only strategize, you must anticipate your opponent's next move using only the tools you're given. You must be aware of what your opponent is capable of, and, if possible, act accordingly." His long fingers picked up a beautifully carved malachite piece, nearly caressing it. "The pawn. Easily the most expendable piece. Yet, if it makes its way across the board, it can become the most powerful piece in the game."

"The queen, right?"

"Yes. I thought you said you weren't familiar with it?"

"I said I didn't learn to play. My father played it."

"So you know that a pawn is used whenever there's a struggle between two opposing forces."

I looked at him. "What are you saying? We're not talking about chess any more, are we?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Life imitates art quite often. Sometimes we, in our daily lives, play the role of a pawn, albeit unknowingly." He looked at me appraisingly. It was a look I'd seen before. It was the same look I'd seen on Tom Riddle's face when he touched me in the coffee shop. For whatever reason, Evans was sizing me up. And it felt slightly uncomfortable, like a suit that's just a shade too small in the shoulders. This was beyond weird. My life was starting to resemble an acid trip.

I needed a drink. I needed a cigarette. I settled for both.

*****

I went back to the office. The rain had stopped and the air was cool. I saw that Jennifer had opened the windows to the perpetual gray clouds. As I parked, sudden movement in the sky caught my eye. I looked up to see a large owl flying away. Looked like it was flying away from my office building but unless the working girls had introduced some new techniques I wasn't aware of, I couldn't imagine why. I always thought owls were nocturnal, and somehow, I didn't think they'd thrive too well in the L.A. smog.

Jennifer looked up as I walked into the office. Another vase of red roses was on her desk, this time red with black tips. We had gone through my file cabinet several times, as well as the rest of the office, and nothing was missing or out of place. I still didn't know why I'd been sapped, and not knowing why was starting to piss me off.

"Hot date with Mr. Magic?"

She flushed prettily. "He likes to spoil me."

I watched her for a moment. "Well, you deserve it. Anyone call or come by while I was gone?"

"No. It's been quiet. I'm just finishing up the monthly bills."

"Right." I walked into my office and sat down at my desk, pulling out the office bottle and pouring a healthy shot. I swallowed some aspirin and something caught my eye. In the middle of my desk was an envelope. It was blank. I picked it up and turned it over. It was sealed the old-fashioned way, with sealing wax, but there was no insignia. Just a blob of red wax. I opened the envelope and drew out the card. Both the card and the envelope were made of heavy, cream-colored parchment. The card had only one thing written on it:

31-10-81

"Jennifer!"

She ran in. "What are you yelling for?"

"I thought you said no one came by while I was gone."

"No one has. It's just been me here all day. Why? What's that?"

I showed her the card. "This was on my desk."

"Well, I don't know how it got there. No one came in, and I had all the locks changed yesterday." She looked at the card closely. "What's this mean?"

"It's a date, only written the way they write it in Europe."

She looked at me. "Europe?" She glanced over her shoulder at her desk, then at me. Her eyes flickered and something akin to resignation flitted across her face. "Or the United Kingdom?"

I looked at her. I could see the wheels turning. It's very rare to find a pretty dame that's also smart, but Jennifer was the exception to a lot of rules. She handed me the card.

"Does this date mean anything to you?"

I frowned. "It's ringing a bell, yes, but I can't place it. I know I've seen it. I just can't remember where."

"It'll come to you. And speaking of dates..." She left the room and came back with a single red rose. She laid it on the desk.

"What's this?"

"A rose. To put on her grave."

"Jennifer..."

"You need to go, Draco. I'll be here if you need me."

She was right. I nodded. "Thank you."

Her eyes were sad but her face was blank. "Any time, Draco. Any time."

*****

I always thought cemeteries would be creepy places, hazy with grief and old memories. However, the one my mother is buried in is very peaceful, with lots of old trees and a duck pond and an aviary. She's up on a hill, and I like to think she'd enjoy the view of the valley below. I stopped and knelt beside her tombstone, clearing away a few leaves and laying the rose down. She'd always loved roses.

It felt silly to talk to her, but it was the closest I'd ever get to her again. I poured my heart out, there in the failing day. The cemetery was deserted and the world was still, all green and gray light.

I remembered the day she died. The medical examiner could find no cause of death. I'd just found her dead, seemingly sleeping but she was on a night train to the big adios. Five years had dulled the pain somewhat but I still found myself thinking of her at odd moments. I'd often wondered if my father knew of her death. That is, if he was alive. I had no idea and no desire to find out.

I don't know how long I sat there. The light began to fade and I stood up. I rested my hand on her tombstone.

"I miss you, mummy. I wish... I wish you were here. I'll do this, mum, as best as I can, but I'm in over my head this time. I hope I'm good enough. But I have a promise to keep. And miles to go before I sleep."

No one answered. In the hazy twilight, I thought I heard a nightingale sing.

*****

Joe Miller's is an old piano bar I sometimes stop at on the way home. I was restless and the thought of my empty bed wasn't very appealing. I needed a distraction from the vague longing I'd been feeling the past few days. Jennifer had another date with Mr. Magic and had shown up that morning wearing a tight black dress and black fuck-me pumps. I wondered if Mr. Magic liked for her to keep them on. Still hadn't seen any rug burns on her knees. And I'd been looking.

The interior of Joe's was dark and smoky, even though smoking wasn't allowed. It was early yet, and the place was fairly empty. In the corner, standing beside a piano up on a small stage, was a dark-haired woman with a plumeria blossom in her hair. It was Debbie. She'd been singing here for years and we went back a long time. She'd grown up in Alamogordo, New Mexico, where the air was radioactive. Her voice, husky with regret for some long lost love, drifted across the room like the motes of dust.

"I'm wild again... beguiled again... a simpering, whimpering child again... bewitched, bothered, and bewildered am I..."

I turned to the bartender and ordered a stiff drink. I sat down at the bar, eyes on Debbie like a dog's eyes on the grill at a summer barbecue. She sang to me, and, when the song was over, sauntered over to me. Her dark eyes saw everything but gave away nothing.

"Drake. Been a while."

"It has. How have you been? Can I buy you a drink?"

She nodded and the bartender brought her some kind of fruity drink. It had a green umbrella in it. She eased onto the stool beside me and gave me a smile I could feel in my hip pocket. "I hear you've got yourself an interesting case."

"Hear anything else?"

She shrugged. "There were a couple of homicide dicks in here the other night. They were drunk and talking about Harry Potter. They said Potter confessed the crime to someone."

"And?"

She shrugged. "They were full of it. Big hats, but no cattle."

I laughed. "Anything you can put me wise to?"

"Oh, Drake, that will cost you, darling." She turned to face me, eyes heavy-lidded. She put her hands on her knees and, in a perfect Mae West voice, said "This leg's winter, and this leg's summer. Why don't you come see me between seasons sometime?" In the dim light, her eyes sparkled along with her dress. "Maybe I can persuade you to give me a kiss, even."

I smiled at her. "You can try." I looked at her eyes, and her smile that promised unspoken delights. I sized her up and all the measurements fit. I wondered if she ever took that blossom out of her hair.

Turns out, she did.

Later that night, as I lay in the blue neon of her bedroom, she trailed dark hair down my body and I closed my eyes and wondered what Green Eyes was doing.

*****

It was very smoggy the next morning and I drove slowly to the office. I was pretty foggy myself, sipping my failsafe hangover cure as I inched along in traffic. I kept the radio off and my thoughts on the case.

Something Debbie had told me the night before nagged at me.

No one knew anything about Tom Riddle. No one knew where he worked, or where he was from, or anything about his past. Debbie had told me that it was as if he'd just appeared out of the blue five or so years ago. A phantom.

Everyone has a past. Everyone leaves a trail. Even those in the underground. You just have to know where to look. But Riddle... I remembered Green Eyes' reaction to my questions about Tom.

Then I realized that, while Green Eyes hadn't answered my questions about Tom, neither had Davis Evans.

Tom Riddle, indeed. Something about him was just a bit... off. Like watching a movie where the audio and video are ever so slightly out of sync. I thought of a line from the Bhagavad Gita, made famous in the early morning hours of a hot July day in 1945. "I am become Death, destroyer of worlds."

I came to a red light and stopped.

Suddenly it hit me. The date on the card I'd received the day before. I knew where I'd seen that date.

It was the date of James and Lily Potter's deaths.

The wind picked up and howled as it hit my car windows. It was as if Pandora's box had just been opened.

Up in the hills, the rainsoaked earth finally gave way, and the landslides began. For some people, the life they'd known was about to be rudely yanked out from under them.