Choice of Evil

“Then I could find him,” Xyla said, flashing a quick smile. “And you know what? I don’t think he’d mind.”

“Huh?”

“Look, he writes to the newspapers, doesn’t he? It’s not as if he’s being quiet about the whole thing. But he hasn’t posted to Cyberville yet. How come?”

“I can answer that one for you,” I told her. “The newspapers are turning over everything to the cops before they print it. This many murders, even the tabloids wouldn’t screw around.”

“So what?”

“So he has to be authenticating his communications somehow. Telling them some detail about the crime that wasn’t in the papers, enclosing something from the crime scene. . . like that. No way he could get that done over the Internet.”

“That’s true,” she said. “Cyberville is nothing but Impostor City. So I’d need something myself. . . some, what did you call it, authentication, right?”

“Right.”

“Can you get that for me?”

“I’ll see,” I told her.

But she wasn’t done. “You’re not trying to. . . catch this guy, are you?”

“Why?”

“Because, if you were, I wouldn’t help you.”

“I thought you said—”

“I said I was with the network. But I don’t know if anyone asked you that question.”

“If I was trying to. . . You like this guy or something?”

“I don’t know if I like him,” Xyla said calmly, dark eyes steady on mine. “I haven’t met him. But I wouldn’t be part of trying to stop him.”

“You like what he’s doing, then?”

“Not even. But I sure don’t like the people he’s doing it to,” she said, standing up to leave.

“Hi.” A woman’s voice answered the phone, soft and sexy. But the disguise wasn’t even a good try.

“You know who this is, Nadine?” I asked her.

“Sure,” she replied, shifting texture. “You change your mind about wanting a partner?”

“Maybe. Depends on what you can bring to the table.”

“I told you. I—”

“Not now. Not on the phone. Not ever,” I told her. “You got a car?”

“No.”

“Want a ride in a nice one?”

“Is she going to be along?” Like Pansy was the other woman.

“Yep.”

“Why? You scared to be alone with me?”

“Yep.”

“Ah. Okay. You know where I—?”

“No,” I told her. “I’ll pick you up in front of the same place we met last time, okay?”

“Sure. What time?”

“Say. . . midnight?”

“Ooh. It’s dark then.”

I hung up on her.

I was there at a little past eleven, parked across the highway, the Plymouth lost in the shadows, watching the front of the joint through the night-vision spotting scope I’d held out of an order I’d middle-manned. A little inventory shrinkage is something you have to expect when you deal with crooks.

The scope worked even better than the seller had promised—kind of a greenish wash over the whole scene, but bright and clear enough to pick out individual faces. Nadine showed way early, around eleven-forty-five, the skinny blonde girl with her, Nadine holding her wrist as if she expected the other girl to bolt. Or maybe just making a status statement. Ten minutes later, she said something to the blonde and let go of her wrist. The blonde went inside the joint. Nadine stood there, arms folded under her breasts, shoulders squared, waiting.

I wheeled around and came from the downtown direction, pulled up just before midnight. Nadine walked over to the passenger side of the car boldly, stuck her face inside as the window slid down.

“You’re on time,” she said.

“Just get in,” I told her.

“Where’s the seat belt?” she asked me as I pulled away.

“It doesn’t have shoulder straps. There’s a lap belt right on the seat next to you.”

“Geez. How old is this thing, anyway?”

“About your age,” I told her.

“You’re sure not,” she shot back.

“Damn! You don’t miss much, huh?”

“Why are you so nasty to me?” she asked as we passed the Meat Market and forked left for the West Side Highway.

“I play them the way they’re dealt,” I said.

“So if I was sweet to you. . .”

“I’d take it for sarcasm.”

“So, I’m. . . stuck, right?”

“What’s your beef?” I asked. “This is what you want, isn’t it? You made your point, first time I met you. You want to keep making it over and over, get your kicks that way, it’s all right with me.”

“You don’t know anything about the way I get my kicks.”

“And I don’t have to, right?” We were into the Thirties by then, in the sleaze zone that surrounds the Port Authority Terminal. You don’t see much hooker traffic there anymore, although it’s still around, but it’s a good place to buy whatever they don’t sell in stores. “You got a friend on the force,” I said, setting her up for what I was going to pitch later. “You got some info, heard some rumors. . . and you made all your decisions. One of those decisions was that I was judging you. . . and you started out with an attitude just for that. Now you want to do. . . what? Flirt with me? Do your little Mae West thing? You don’t like men. Straight men, anyway. That’s your privilege. Me, I don’t give a good goddamn what you are. All I care about is what you do. You’re not pro enough to play it the same, sit there and pout. Or snarl if that makes you feel more top. You said you could do something. Now I want to find out if you can. That’s all this is about. . . all it’s ever gonna be about.”

“Wow! That’s the most I ever heard you talk.”

“Don’t get used to it.” We were on the upper roadway by then, Riverside Drive on the right, the Hudson on the left.

“Where are we going?”

“Someplace where we can talk. Privately.”

“I know better places. And why can’t we just talk now?”

“We can, if you want. I can just cruise around while we talk. Or I can go where I was headed and park. Pick one. But we’re not going anyplace I haven’t been before, case closed.”

“Oh, go ahead,” she said.

We drove in silence until the Cloisters loomed ahead. I pulled over. It’s a kind of Lovers Lane up there. Cops wouldn’t pay much attention to a couple talking outside a car. A sex-sniper would. Or any of the wolfpacks that roam occasionally. But I docked the Plymouth back end in first, and I had something else to even the odds.

“Come on, girl,” I told Pansy, opening the back door. She took off at her usual slow amble, circling, mildly interested in the new turf, but not about to go running off into the woods. Pansy’s a tight-perimeter beast, more comfortable in small circles.

Nadine let herself out, stood next to me as I leaned against the Plymouth’s flank and lit a smoke.

“Those make me sick,” she said. “I don’t see how you could poison your body like that.”

“The doctor prescribed them,” I told her. “There’s a chemical—lecithin—in cigarettes. Improves concentration. My mind kind of wanders sometimes. These help.”