Walter Mosley - Known to Evil

Another guard appeared-stage left.

"A woman may have been threatened by Mr. Shell. And we believe that he is known to Ms. Sanderson. I came here to investigate along that line of inquiry."

" 'We'?"

"I represent a consortium that reports to a central body interested in the welfare of this woman and the actions of those connected with said Mr. Shell."

Highbrow language usually gets under the skin of the underlings of power.

One of the guards spoke into his left cuff. I wondered if their earphones were somehow connected to a transmitter at the clear green reception desk.

"But you say that there is no Mr. Shell here?" I said.

"No," the first receptionist I spoke to said.

"Then we've been misinformed." I turned to go.

"Sir?" the black receptionist said. She was holding a small green wireless phone against the left side of her face.

"Yes?"

"Take the elevator through the door behind our desk."

I glanced at the portal and wondered.

"To what floor?" I asked.

"It only goes to one floor."

"Will Oscar Shell be there?"

"I can only tell you what I've been told."

I hesitated a moment more. I hadn't actually expected admission to Regents' inner sanctum. I only wanted to shake things up a bit. But there I was, flanked by two mortal descendants of Cerberus and faced with three modern- day sirens.

Knowing the mythology, I should have walked out.

"Okay," I said.

The Latina raised a section of the round desk as the Asian used an electronic card to open the door.

I walked through into a small cylindrical room that was colored dark red from ceiling to floor. Before me stood an onyx elevator door that slid open, seemingly at my approach.

The black car had two buttons: a green disc over a cream-colored one. I pressed the upper button, and, after a moment, the car began a speedy ascent.

Maybe eighty seconds later, the car came to a stop and the door opened onto a large space that was more like a living room than an office. The floors were white marble and the distant windows looked eastward, toward Long Island. There was a rainstorm passing in the distance.

"Forgive me, sir," a well-built white man in an olive-green suit said.

"For what?"

"I'm going to search you."

He was tall enough, in his forties, I guessed, and bald. Probably pretty strong.

"No," I said.

Mild surprise rippled across his handsome features.

"I'm afraid I'll have to insist."

"You should be-afraid, that is. Because I'm mad as a mothahfuckah and I don't believe you can take me. At the very least you have to prove it before you can see what's in my pockets."

The bodyguard's face had a tan complexion. His intelligent eyes gave the impression of education-both formal and from the street. He had seen a lot of struggle in his life but did not expect it in this rarefied atmosphere.

I noticed a jet in the distant sky, taking off from Kennedy, no doubt.

The bodyguard took a step in my direction.

I smiled invitingly.

"Mr. Corman," a deep feminine voice intoned.

From somewhere to the left a tall and slender woman approached.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Let's forgo the routine this time. I'm sure that Mr. McGill isn't here to make trouble."

"But Ms. Sanderson-"

"Stand aside," she said. She had a voice that was used to being obeyed.

Mr. Corman backed away as the woman strode forward.

At first I couldn't make out her features because of the light from behind. But then, suddenly, the light of the entryway revealed her face.

It was the mask of a forty-year-old woman perfectly molded to a skull that sat atop a fit seventy-year-old body. She had done her Pilates and eaten acres of broccoli but that hadn't stopped the clock, not completely.

"You'll have to forgive Mr. Corman," she said. "He's a new employee and hasn't yet mastered the subtleties of his position."

"Is another one of your employees an Oscar Shell?" I asked.

"Thousands of people work for me. You can't expect that I would know them all by name."

Twelve feet behind her sat two black sofas on a bright pine floor.

"What do you want with this Mr. Shell?" she asked.

Her steel-gray pants suit and lilac blouse were designed for the forty-year-old she was impersonating. But the backs of her hands were discolored and wrinkled.

I glanced to the left to see what Corman was up to. He watched me with the same purpose.

"Mr. McGill?" Sandra Sanderson III prodded.

"I wanted to ask him a question."

"What's that?"

"Who hired him to frighten and harass my client?"

"You're a lawyer?"

"A dick."

"I see. And who is your client?"

"My business."

"And how much is this client paying?"

"She's paying the going rate. The only rate I ever charge."

"I see."

"You don't know him?"

"No."

"Then why am I here?" I asked.

"I wanted to get a look at you." Her words accomplished their sinister intent.

"May I ask you something?"

"If you wish."

"I never heard of a woman, outside of royalty and cruise ships, called 'the Third.' Did your mother go by 'Junior'?"

"I come from a long line of strong women, Mr. McGill. I believe you will discover that fact at some point in your misguided investigation."

"Are you telling me that you don't own the Leontine Building over on Park?" I said.

That did something to the old woman's eyes.

"Come sit with me for a moment, Mr. McGill," she commanded.

We strode into the block-long living room-Sandra in the lead, me in close pursuit, and Corman bringing up the rear.

She gestured toward one of the black sofas and I sat at the end nearest me. Sandra perched in the middle of her ebony divan and brought her hands together, as if in symbolic, passionless prayer.

"Do you have children, Mr. McGill?"

"I have friends with guns," I said in answer to a perceived threat.

"I have wealth beyond the everyday citizen's ability to comprehend," she said, "and still I could not save my son's life."

"I read about that. I'm sorry."

"I would do anything to make my son's memory a part of the fabric of this city that he loved."

"New York's like a boiling cauldron," I said, only dimly understanding why. "We are all consumed therein."

"That's down in the street you're talking about," Sanderson told me with a dismissive wave of her liver-spotted hand. "Up here it's different. Up here we can make a difference."

I stared out the window, wondering at the nature of the combination of folly and wealth.

"Do you know a man named… Alphonse Rinaldo?" she asked.

"No. Who is he?"

Despite my usual sangfroid, sweat sprouted on my head.

"I could make you a rich man," she offered.

"I'm sure."

"Where can I find Angelique Lear?"

There were no planes in the sky, no rain.

"I don't know."

"Are you a fool, Mr. McGill?"

"That I am."

"I will have my memorial or that child will die, as my son died."

"Not while I'm here."

"You are nothing," she said.

There was a finality to her sentence. I felt as if a high court had just pronounced judgment on my soul.

"Grant," she said then, speaking to Mr. Corman. "See our guest out."

"I can push the button myself," I said.

I stood up on boxer's pins. I might have been wobbled, but I was going to end that round on my feet.

I had made it past the green desk and more than half the way across Regents Bank's broad entrance hall.

"Excuse me, sir," one of the burly business-suited guards from earlier said.

I kept walking.

"Excuse me."

Moving at a pretty good clip, I was less than fifteen feet from the revolving door when one of the men got in front of me. His partner was there at my side a moment later.