Walter Mosley: Known to Evil

WHERE'S THAT OTHER SUIT? Lucy had asked when she was pulling down the zipper of my pants.

I hate it, I'd said, holding my breath after.

I thought it was kinda cool.

So I donned the ochre suit before leaving the house. I got my car out of the garage and headed for Long Island City at six the next morning.

She was on a lower floor of a Best Western, number sixteen. One of the many benefits of Bug's expertise was my being able to hack into almost any database-including the occupancy floor plans for almost any chain hotel.

I knocked and waited, knocked again. I was just getting nervous when she opened the door. Her dress was a fluid mixture of cranberry and blueberry hues. Her feet were bare.

"Mr. McGill?"

"Hi."

"What happened to your face?"

"It's a special interrogation technique. I beat myself until my prisoner can't take it anymore and has to tell me what I want to know."

I walked in, pushing the door only enough to make room for my bulk.

"How did you know where I was?" she asked.

I sat on the bed heavily. My face and left arm ached, and I hadn't been to sleep in well over twenty-four hours.

"The reason you did well to hire me," I said. "All I had to do was trace the expenditures on the card and I found this place."

"But how did you find my room?"

"Trade secret."

"Do you have news?"

"Yeah."

"What is it?"

"I found a guy who has all the answers. We just have to go see him and everything will be cleared up."

"I don't know if I should go with you," she said. "I called John last night and he said that you can't just trust somebody that you meet in a coffee shop."

"You shouldn't have called your boyfriend. Call could have been traced. And not just somebody-a private detective, like me, who's good enough to know that your real name is Angelique Tara Lear and that you, against all odds, stabbed and killed an armed assassin in your friend Wanda Soa's apartment."

Angie backed away from me, toward the door.

"Look, kid," I said. "If I wanted to grab you or hurt you I wouldn't be sitting here. I told you that I'd figure out what happened, and I have. But in order to explain it to you, and to get you out of trouble, I have to bring you to an office in lower Manhattan. Come with me and you can go back to your old life."

"I'm afraid."

"Nothing wrong with fear. It keeps the eyes open and your feet ready to run."

For some reason this made her smile.

"WE NEED TO GET a few things straight before we talk to this guy," I said when we were headed east on the BQE.

"What?"

"The man who killed Wanda was named Adolph Pressman."

Angie turned from me and looked out on Brooklyn.

"I know how he found you. I figure that he knocked at Wanda's door with some pretext. You hid and he came in with a gun. Somehow he didn't see you and you went at him with the kitchen knife you were holding for self-defense."

When she turned to me the tears were flowing from her eyes.

"And I murdered my best friend," she cried.

"You have to hear me on this one, Miss Lear," I said in the calmest of deep tones. "That man came to your house with the express intention of killing you. He would have killed Wanda too. You tried to save your life and hers. You did your best. The murderer, the man who killed your friend, is dead."

"But why?" she moaned.

I couldn't help but think that this utterance was the bedrock foundation of all philosophical inquiry.

I gave no answer and she expected none.

"What did you do with the gun?" I asked after the proper interval.

She turned back to the window and fiddled with her hair.

"Come on, now," I said. "If I can figure it out you know the cops can, too."

"I left it at John's. He said that he'd get rid of it the next time he goes out to Long Island."

"Why didn't you toss it into a river?"

"I was afraid that somebody'd see me."

I thought that we should drop by Prince's apartment and pick up the weapon. That was a loose end that needed to be tied. But I was very tired. So much so that any detour seemed beyond comprehension.

WE TOOK THE STAIRS to the seventh floor of the nondescript downtown office building. I walked her down the dowdy green corridor to a door with no signage on it.

"Where are we?" she said.

"The man in this office," I replied, "is a very powerful person who likes his privacy… maybe a little bit too much."

I knocked and waited.

The door clicked open on a bare reception room. There, behind a maroon metal desk, sat a slender, posture-perfect, middle-aged black man wearing silver-rimmed glasses and a thin aqua tie. The lapels of his suit jacket were almost nonexistent. His sensual lips had never smiled, would never do so, for me.

This was Christian Latour, the Important Man's first lines of defense and offence.

"You don't have an appointment, Mr. McGill."

"I bet you that tie he'll see us."

"I see that you've brought Miss Lear," Christian said without even looking at Angie.

"Push the button, Chris."

It wasn't a good idea to bait Latour but I was tired and he was a prig. I liked the guy, but sometimes he had too much attitude.

There was a small black box on left side of Christian's desk. The hole in the top suddenly shone a brilliant blue.

"He will see you," the exasperated receptionist said.

A door behind him opened automatically and I ushered my client through.

THE WALLS WERE ROYAL BLUE and the carpet burgundy. An ever-changing gallery of Renaissance masterpieces on loan from the Met hung along the walls on our way to the Big Man's desk.

Rinaldo was standing in front of the desk (something he had never done for me alone) when we got to him.

"Mr. Brown?" Angie said hesitantly. "Is that you?"

"Hi, Tara." There was an unfamiliar smile on his lips.

"What, what are you doing here?"

"This is my office."

"Are those paintings for real?"

"Why don't we all have a seat?" he offered.

ANGIE WAS LOOKING AROUND the office, seated on a seventeenth- century French chair, while I watched her from my favorite perch: a chair of carved lava stone that was once a pre-Columbian sacrificial altar.

"Mr. McGill?" Alphonse Rinaldo said. If you didn't know him you might not have perceived the threat.

"Sandra Sanderson the Third," I replied.

"Oh."

"Who?" Angie asked.

"Mr. McGill has informed me about your situation," Rinaldo said in a soft and very understanding voice. "He's brought the problem to me and I have resolved to straighten it out. You'll have to excuse us for a few minutes if you don't mind, Tara."

"I don't understand, Mr. Brown. What do you have to do with any of this?"

"I'll explain after Mr. McGill and I confer. Can I get you something to drink or eat while you wait?"

"I haven't had breakfast yet."

Rinaldo picked up the phone and waited a beat. Then, "Mr. Latour, the young lady in my office needs breakfast. Come in and get her order. Mr. McGill and I will be in the library.

"Come with me, Mr. McGill."

He stood and so did I. I followed him to a shadowy corner on the north side of the office. There we passed through a door into a good-sized room that was lined with bookshelves and books. There was a round ash table in the center of the room surrounded by four red-velvet padded chairs.

"Have a seat."

I did so. It felt really good to sit down, like I'd been extremely tired and up to that point unaware of the extent of my exhaustion.

"Nice suit," he said.

"Yeah. My wife bought it for me. I hated it at first. But now it's kind of growing on me."

"I specifically instructed you not to speak to Tara."

"Sometimes a good agent has to make decisions on his own."

"You should have called and asked me before taking such action."