"How can I help you, Mr. Toller?"
"You could pack your things and move out," he said. "I'd be happy to tear up your lease."
He smiled without showing any teeth.
It struck me that he had no idea about the relationship between me and Aura.
"I couldn't give up this view," I confessed.
"Eight rooms and only one employee? Mr. McGill, this is a waste of space."
We hated each other without having ever met. What was interesting to me was that our reasons were so far apart. His sense of propriety was bent out of shape by my shadowy dealings with his masters' property. College had taught him contempt for me. Conversely, my abhorrence for him had a genetic basis. This man had stolen my woman. I wanted to cut out his heart right there on my African-wood table.
I wondered if there were wars between nations that had begun like this, if whole peoples slaughtered each other without even being able to agree on what they were fighting about.
"Is that all?" I asked pleasantly.
"I've taken an office on the forty-second floor," he replied. "My primary purpose here is to negate your contract and to have you evicted, maybe even incarcerated."
Toller was not a day over forty-five but he carried himself like a man of seventy. He was one of those men who came into the world with the weight of years on his shoulders. I could tell by the timbre of his voice and the cast of his eye that he felt he was being threatening. I expected that he could imagine the fear I felt at his words.
I smiled.
"Do they pay you well, Mr. Toller?"
"I do all right."
" 'All right'? That's a lot of money to try and nullify a good-faith contract. Listen to me, man, these empty rooms are mine, just like the little place thirty floors down is yours. I'm not leaving, and you're not taking or sending me anywhere. Okay?"
Finally--a frown.
"I'm very good at my job, Mr. McGill. I have a background in forensic accounting."
And I have a pistol in my top drawer.
The image of Toller kissing Aura came back to me. I could feel the fingernails digging into my palms.
"I haven't broken any laws, Mr. Toller," I lied. "So you can take your red case and your blue suit and do whatever it is a CFO forensic bookkeeper does. I'm staying right here."
"I don't think you understand the seriousness of your situation," he replied.
"What a man don't know," I quoted, "he just don't know."
Something about the phrase inflamed the prig's aesthetic. His left nostril flared and he rose to his feet, hugging the briefcase under his arm like a pet piglet.
"You'll be hearing from me" were his last words before leaving.
THE IDEA OF TOLLER'S investigation didn't intimidate me. I was vulnerable, of course--all people are. Innocent or not, anyone can be made to look bad. And I had enough skeletons in my closet to make a death row inmate seem angelic. But I wasn't worried--not about Toller--just overwhelmed by the circumstances of my life.
Any good boxer can tell you that if you have a sound strategy, and stick to it, you always have a shot at winning the fight. And even if you don't win, you can make it through to the final bell, throwing at least some doubt on your opponent's claim to victory.
What beats a fighter with a good plan isn't power or a lucky punch, not usually; no, what beats a journeyman pugilist is the onslaught of an implacable attack. If your opponent throws so much at you that you get confused, you will necessarily be drawn away from your game plan and defeated by the complexity of your own (mis)perceptions.
I had a lot on my mind: everything from murder to the unexpected bouquet of wildflowers that Katrina had placed in our dining room.
I resolved to ignore any new information until I had answered at least one question.
At that moment the buzzer sounded again. I decided to have that wire disconnected.
"Yes, Mardi?"
"A Mr. Alphonse Rinaldo to see you, Mr. McGill."
11
Show him in," I said, stunned by the impact of the soft words. Alphonse Rinaldo.
I had never seen him outside his downtown offices. The Big Man didn't come to you; he never went anywhere, as far as I knew.
When the door came open I stood up. Mardi entered with a smile for me and the view. She moved a little awkwardly but that was okay--I was off balance myself. Alphonse Rinaldo was the most powerful man I had ever met. Seeing him follow the child into the room was unreal. His dark-brown silk suit cost more than most cars. He was five- nine, with a perfect complexion and black, well-managed hair. He nodded and then moved gracefully to the visitor's chair.
It seemed like a travesty that such an important man should sit in the same seat that was occupied by George Toller just a while before.
"Can I get you anything, Mr. Rinaldo?" Mardi asked.
"Coffee?" he said.
"There's a Coffee Exchange in the lobby," I said. "Get me one, too, will ya, Mardi?"
I handed her a ten-dollar bill and the key ring for the front door, adding, "The silver key works on the top lock."
She smiled and backed out of the room.
"Nice place," Rinaldo said. His voice was smooth and deep like a placid lake on just the right day.
"Thank you."
I sat down and frowned again. It was becoming less and less likely that I'd make it to the final round.
Like Toller, Rinaldo was carrying a briefcase. But unlike the so-called CFO, the Special Assistant to the City of New York wasn't bringing tuna sandwiches and condoms to work.
For a moment there I imagined Toller going to the eighty-first floor and rutting with Aura on her big metal desk.
"What's wrong, Leonid?" Alphonse asked.
"You came here all by yourself?"
"Yes."
"Then you must know why I look like there's something wrong."
Instead of smiling he took a small photograph from his breast pocket and leaned across the desk, handing it to me.
It was a snapshot of a raven-haired girl, no older than twenty-five, whose look was somehow both reserved and wild. She was facing the lens but not looking into it. The shot was taken when she was unaware.
"Is this the girl you saw last night?"
"I don't get it, Mr. Rinaldo, you could get any of a hundred people to show you the crime-scene photographs. As far as I know, the NYPD is an open book to you."
"I cannot be involved." His eyebrows furrowed one-sixteenth of an inch. It wasn't much, but a man that close to being royalty didn't have to do much.
"The face on the dead girl was pretty destroyed, but she had blond hair and one blue eye."
I could tell by the waver over his lips and the slight puffing of his cheek that he sighed in relief. I couldn't actually hear the exhalation, but it was there.
"What happened to Strange?" I asked.
"I pulled him off the job," Rinaldo said. "Told him that it was over."
"But it's not."
"I need you to find this girl, Leonid. It is very important to me."
In that fight--the one where you had a plan and stuck to it--you could be thrown off balance by any change in your opponent; for instance, if he were to switch from a normal right-handed stance to southpaw. I never expected to see vulnerability in this man who, for all intents and purposes, was beyond the reaches of pain.
"Did Strange tell you my caveats?" I asked, pretending that this was a meeting between equals.
"He records every conversation he has on my behalf."
"So what do you have to say?"
"If you hadn't voiced those restrictions I wouldn't be here."
Our eyes met. Rinaldo's gaze was unwavering. Even in obvious pain and defenseless he wouldn't look away.
"Excuse me," Mardi Bitterman said.
She was carrying a cardboard box that they use for large orders at the Coffee Exchange.
"That was quick," I said.
"I called down. They have a building delivery service," she said. "I didn't a
sk how you wanted your coffees, so I had them bring a cup of half-and-half, some sugars, and sugar substitutes."
She put the box down in front of Rinaldo, also placing my key ring and change in the center of the desk.
"Thank you," Rinaldo said, and then he touched her elbow.
She flinched, pulling her arm away.
"Excuse me," he said.
"It's okay. I, I just don't like being touched. I'm sorry."
Mardi backed out of the room again, half-smiling and looking as if she were about to cry.
Rinaldo took his coffee black, as I did mine.
"Whatever it costs," he said. "I need to find her and make sure she's safe."
"From who?"
"I don't know. Obviously someone is trying to hurt her. She's been hiding for a few weeks now and I have no idea why."
"That's not much to go on, Mr. Rinaldo."
He brought the briefcase to the desktop and pushed it in my direction, careful not to disturb our coffee cups.
"The information in here was gathered before all the problems started. Some of it might be out of date but a lot will be helpful. There's some money for expenses and special contact information for me. You are not to contact me through regular channels, Leonid. Do not talk to Christian or Sam, and know from me that I will not have them, or anyone else, call you. I will pay you personally."
He reached for his pocket again and I held up a hand.
"That won't be necessary," I said.
"No?"
"This is like any other transaction between us. A favor, that's all."
"That's it, then," he said.
"You don't have anything else to say?"
"I don't want you talking to her, Leonid. Whatever you do should happen in the background of her life. Find out what's wrong and fix it. If that proves too difficult, come to me."
"You wanted me to make contact with her last night. Why the change?"
"I didn't want her to know what you did or that you worked for me. And . . . and this murder makes things even more difficult. I want her to experience as little trauma as possible."
I didn't like it but his tone left no room for complaints.
"Anything you'll need is in here," he said, tapping the briefcase with the middle finger of his left hand.
"Was the man who killed Wanda Soa after Tara?"
"I honestly don't know. As I said, Tara disappeared three weeks ago--she only showed up at this Soa's apartment yesterday . . . maybe the day before."
"What's your relationship with the girl?"
"There is none."
I tried to come up with some kind of question that would have opened up a further dialogue but there were no words I could think of.
"So that's all?" I asked.
He nodded.
We both stood. I came around the desk to see him to the door and received my fourth or fifth shock of the day: Alphonse Rinaldo held out a hand to me.
"Thank you," he said.
I had to bite my lower lip not to repeat the words.
I WATCHED HIM WALK down the long aisle of empty cubicles, waiting until he exited through the brown metal door. At least he didn't hesitate and turn to see if I was there--at least that.
12
When a boxer's game plan is shot he has to come up with something new on the fly. The classic boxer turns into a brawler, the habitually offensive fighter goes into his shell.
I'm not a passive man by nature. Don't get me wrong--I have been devious and underhanded from time to time. Often, when I was still working for what seemed like half of the New York underworld, I'd taken down people who never even saw my face. But as a rule I'm usually more than willing to take on any job, or opponent, head-to-head.
I gave up my dirty tricks with the intention of doing the right thing in my business and my life. But that never changed my brawling style--a style that I knew instinctively would not see me to the end of this period in my life.
So I refrained from opening Rinaldo's briefcase right away. Instead I sat there, allowing the details of the past twenty-four hours to filter through my mind without feeling pressed by the need to impose my will on them.
I had learned a thing or two. For instance, I now knew for a rock-solid fact that I loved Aura Antoinette Ullman. Seeing her kissing George Toller made me lose control--something I never did.
That was a detail I could put to bed. It didn't matter if she came back to me or not--I'd still have that wild love inside me.
I smiled a real smile and then laughed a little. Small victories are sometimes the hardest earned.
I turned the briefcase around so that the front latches were facing me. But still I held back.
Twill, my excellent son, had put Dimitri on the phone and then left so that I couldn't question him further. That meant he was hiding something. Twill didn't have the little secrets of most adolescents. He wasn't smoking marijuana in the basement laundry room or worried about a girlfriend's missed period. Whatever he was concealing needed to be exposed before the two young men who shared my name, if not my blood, got too deeply into whatever mess they'd created.
And so another detail fell into place.
I called Gordo's cell phone but a voicemail recording in his raspy words just said, "Leave a message," and provided a span to do that in.
"I hear you got the sniffles, G-man," I said. "Call me if you need some chicken soup."
I turned my attention back to the briefcase.
And then, for no reason, I wondered what kind of flowers I'd get for my office if I were to buy flowers. Now that I had an assistant, I could send her to the florist downstairs and order orchids or roses . . . or wildflowers.
"Mr. McGill?"
She was standing at the doorway in her fifties business suit, smiling painfully.
"Yes, Mardi. Come on in and sit down."
Putting off the job at hand was becoming pleasurable.
The child moved quickly to the chair as if she were afraid I might rescind the invitation.
"I got online and went through all the drawers and stuff," she said. "I put all your take-out and delivery menus in order."
"Thank you."
"That's okay," she said, pushing her ash-blond hair over the left shoulder.
"How long have you been back in town?" I asked.
"Five weeks."
"Twill never told me. Did you just call him lately?"
"No. He came down to the airport and picked us up."
I remembered him borrowing my car.
"So you've seen a lot of him," I said.
"Yeah. Him and D helped us move into Mrs. Alexander's place."
"You see much of Dimitri?"
"Sometimes he comes around with Twill. At first I thought he liked me. I mean, he's a nice guy, but I don't like him like that. But now he has a girlfriend and I can see that he's just shy around girls and acts like that."
"Is the girlfriend nice?"
"I guess. I've only seen her a couple'a times. I think her name's Tanya--something like that. She's Russian or something."
"You met her yesterday?"
"No. She came over with D a few weeks ago."
Mardi squirmed a bit in her chair. I leaned back, raising my hands.
"So," I said. "What can I do for you?"
"I've never had a job like this before."
"And I've never had a receptionist," I said.
"But Twill was always saying how you had this big empty office and the only thing you ever wanted was somebody at the front desk."
"Dimitri won't talk to me, and Shelly never shuts up long enough for me to get a word in," I said. "But Twill, if nothing else, pays attention."
"What do you want me to do?" she asked.
I took out the reddish-brown leather wallet that I bought at Macy's in 1976. It was old, nearly shapeless, and falling apart. But I loved that billfold. I took out the credit card that I had gotten for my little corporation.
"Take this and start an account with one of the onli
ne office-supply stores. Get what you need to do anything secretarial that I might ask. Spend the next few days going through the files and putting them in order.
"There's a number for Zephyra Ximenez in the Rolodex. You spell her last name with an X instead of a J. She's been my girl Friday from her office for a while now. You two should get to know each other. You'll also find a card for Tiny Bateman. He's my software expert. Trouble with the computer or anything electronic and he'll set you straight. If anything doesn't make sense, just ask me."
A true smile from Mardi Bitterman was like the kiss from any other young woman. I could see in her pale eyes that she was going to be perfect as my assistant--the wounded leading the wounded, as it were.
MARDI LEFT THE OFFICE with an extra set of keys for the front door. I had no more distractions to keep me from opening Rinaldo's briefcase. I tapped the coal-gray leather and winced, placed my thumbs on the latches, and was about to flip them when my cell phone made the sound of migrating geese.
"Have you spoken to them?" was Katrina's response to my hello.
"No," I lied, "but Twill left a message on my voicemail half an hour ago. He said that he was up at school with D and that they were going to some kind of party tonight. I think he's afraid to talk to either one of us."
"But he sounded okay?"
"Oh yeah. They're just boys on the prowl, honey."
The ensuing silence was her relief.
"I got some business I have to take care of, Katrina."
"Tell me when you've spoken to either one of them," she said. "And tell Dimitri to call me."
I PHONED THE ATTENDANCE office at Twill's school to report that he had an intestinal flu. After that I told his social worker the same lie.
"How is he doing?" I asked Melinda Tarris, assistant subagent in the Juvenile Offenders office.
"I've never met anyone like your son, Mr. McGill. He could become the president of the United States if we got his record expunged."
13
Her full name was Angelique Tara Lear. She'd turned twenty-seven on October 7th. The address Rinaldo's briefcase had for her was different from the one where the murders occurred. Tara lived on Twelfth Street, on the East Side, at the edge of the Alphabet Jungle. There was a photograph of her sitting at an outdoor cafe. It was probably taken with a telephoto lens without her knowledge. I say this because she seemed to be in the middle of a conversation.
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