Choice of Evil

“Maybe I want to fuck you,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Maybe you do. But I’m not interested in being one of your trophies.”

“Oh, I get it. A real Alan Alda you are. You only want commitment, huh? Won’t settle for anything less than true love.”

“I had true love,” I told her softly. “It died. And the killers are from the same tribe this ‘Homo Erectus’ guy is hunting.”

“How could—?”

“She was bi,” I said. “And she was one of the people who got done in that drive-by in Central Park.”

“You mean you have your own—?”

“I had my own,” I cut her off. “I never minded sex with a woman who wanted sex. . . just for that. Truth is, that’s mostly what I did. . . do. But people with agendas scare me.”

“Agendas?”

“Yeah. I’m a good man to have sex with if you’re married. I’m not going to fall in love with you, I promise. So when you decide to break it off, I won’t beef. I won’t stalk you, and I won’t blackmail you either. I’m nice and safe, see what I’m saying?”

“I see—”

“Shut up and listen, okay? Give it a chance, you might like it. I’m a good man for some things. Like I said. But if you’re married, I’m not going to kill your husband for you just ’cause I want some more of your pussy either. You get it now?”

“Yes. All right. But I don’t—”

“You don’t. . . what? You been preaching about what a liar I am all along, haven’t you? But you say you’re in love with a serial killer you never met, and I’m supposed to buy that, make you partners with me on this deal?”

“I didn’t say I was in love with him. I told you—”

“No, I told you. I don’t know why you’re all dressed up tonight, but whatever’s in that case you’re carrying better be a present from your girlfriend on the force. You know, the one you bragged about? So here’s one you must have heard when you were just sprouting those things you’re so proud of now: Put out or get out.”

“I don’t put out in cars,” she said, giving her lips a quick little lick. “But if you want to take me home and try your luck. . .”

“I don’t have a home,” I told her.

“You mean you’re married.”

“I guess your friend on the force really knows nothing, huh?”

“Fine. You don’t have a home. I do. Want to see it?”

“I want to see what’s in that briefcase.”

“Then take me home,” she said.

She lived right at the edge of Turtle Bay. And even if she’d scored a rent-controlled deal, it was still a pricey neighborhood. I aimed the Plymouth at the Triborough, planning to loop back on the FDR on the off-chance anyone else was interested in where I was going. That’s why I’d really pulled that highway stunt—if the cops had been tagging me, it would have smoked them out. The rearview mirror had been empty of anything suspicious. That didn’t cover everything—the federales are pretty good at box-tags. But I still didn’t think they were involved in this. And NYPD wouldn’t spare the numbers, not with the whole city screaming for an arrest.

I slapped a new cassette into the player. The car was wrapped in the blues. KoKo’s version of Howlin’ Wolf’s “Evil,” backed up by Jimmy Cotton on harp. You know how artists “cover” a record? Michael Bolton imitating Percy Sledge, Pat Boone white-breading Little Richard. . . ultra-lite fluff. Plenty buy it, though. Probably the same people who watch Hard Copy and think the emphasis is on the first word.

But KoKo didn’t cover the Wolf, she twitched her hips and bumped him right off the stage. Then the tape moved on to Albert Collins and Johnny Copeland teaming on “Something to Remember You By,” and I thought of Crystal Beth. . . and what she’d left me with. I was still thinking about that as the tape started to travel through hardcore Chicago, with Son Seals at the wheel, his Bad Blood Blues searing the truth out of that branding iron some fools call a slide guitar. Nadine sat silently through it. Didn’t say one word until I took the Thirty-fourth Street exit from the Drive. “Who was that?” she finally asked.

“Another mix,” I said, thinking she was talking about the stuff at the very end of the tape. “Mostly harp men: Butterfield, Musselwhite, Wilson—”

“Oh, I know him. Kim Wilson, right? From the Fabulous Thunderbirds. But I never heard him play anything like. . .”

“No,” I told her, flat-voiced. “That was Blind Owl Wilson. From Canned Heat. It’s a different planet.”

“Judy Henske’s planet?”

“Yeah.”

“Surprised I remembered?”

“No,” I told her truthfully. “It’s not hard to see you’re a real smart girl.”

“And that’s good, right?”

“No. It just. . . is. A good mind’s like any piece of technology. Neutral. Like a gun or a knife. It’s not what you have, it’s what you use it for.”

“That’s another way of saying you don’t trust me?”

“How many more ways would you like?”

“There’s a spot,” she said, pointing with a transparent-lacquered fingernail at a Mercedes pulling away from the curb. I parallel-parked, thinking of what Wolfe’s Audi would have done to the pristine BMW behind me, and we got out. Once I saw her building, I could see rent control wasn’t an issue—it was a major-league high-rise, built within the past few years.

Nadine smiled at the doorman’s “Good evening,” but didn’t say anything back. We got on the elevator.

“Go ahead,” she said, nodding toward the row of push-buttons. “I’m sure you know which floor’s mine.”

“Nope.”

She snorted. Tapped the 44 button.

When the elevator stopped, she stepped out ahead of me. I followed her down the heavy-carpeted hall. The plain pumps had enough heel to keep her mass in motion, so I couldn’t tell if it was inertia or she was putting on another show.

When she got to 44J, she inserted the key she must have palmed when I was watching the mass in motion, and then we were inside.

“Careful,” she said, showing me what she meant by moving slowly down a couple of steps into a sunken living room. She hit a wall switch and a soft rosy light suffused the entire room. It was long and narrow, with the far wall almost floor-to-ceiling glass, flanked on each side by a black acoustical tower. On the right, an audiophile extravaganza spread across a single shelf that flowed out of the wall so smoothly it must have been a custom job. Along the left, the major focal point was one of those giant-screen TV units with a trio of leather recliners and matching ottomans—one black, one white, and one red—arranged with their backs to the right-hand wall.

“I’m not out at work,” she said, as if that explained the decor. “Have a seat.”

The window glass looked fixed in place—they don’t have balconies that high up—so I took the chair closest to it, the white one, spun it so it was facing the door.

Nadine walked over to where I was sitting, pulled the ottoman away, and perched on it, crossing her legs again. “Open it yourself,” she said, indicating the briefcase on the floor. “It’s not locked.”

I popped the small brass latches at each end. Inside, nothing but paper. Photocopies. Crime-scene reports. Even down to the photographs. Maybe a couple of hundred pages in all. I started to leaf through them, asking, “Is this—?”

“Just one case,” she interrupted. “My. . . friend says she didn’t know what the. . . I mean, she did know what you meant—the ‘polygraph-key’ thing—but she didn’t know which ones they would use. She said ninety percent of this stuff never made the papers, so they had a lot to choose from. And it isn’t her case, so. . .”

“Ssshh,” I said, reading.