When the Thrill Is Gone

47

I wasn’t really surprised to find Mardi working at her desk. She was devoted to me, but not particularly obedient. She smiled, and I did, too.

“Mardi,” Carson Kitteridge said. “You weren’t here when I came in.”

“Mr. McGill sent me out for something.”

“You’re working late.”

“He pays overtime.” That was true.

“You know, if you ever want an honest job I could probably get you an assistant’s position in my office. I’m due for a promotion.”

“Since that last job you did with Mr. McGill,” she said, oh so innocently. “Right?”

“This isn’t the kind of place for you,” the eternal cop said.

“It’s a thousand times better than where I came from.”

With a little help from me, Kitteridge had broken the case of her child-molester guardian. He knew what she was talking about. He had a whole file on the indictment, replete with home movies and firsthand journal accounts penned by Leslie Bitterman himself.

“I don’t know how you dazzle them, LT,” he said.

“Cult of personality,” I admitted.

He shook his head and walked out of the suite. He was leaving, but as with all cops he’d be back for more.

When Kit was gone I pulled a chair up to Mardi’s desk and stared at her. For maybe half a minute she concentrated on the keyboard, though we both knew that she was a touch-typist.

“Can I do something for you, Mr. McGill?”

“Carson’s right.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You shouldn’t be working for me. The city gives benefits, and they’re able to protect their employees.”

“I don’t need protection,” she said. “I have you.”

“You don’t understand what I’m sayin’, girl. The kind of people who come here, around me, they’re dangerous. Killers, some of ’em.”

“A killer isn’t the worst thing out there.”

“Maybe not,” I agreed, “but if you got hurt on my account it would break my heart. That’s a fact.”

Her response was a beatific smile.

“What if I put you in a different office on another floor?” I asked.

“You need me here,” she stated as an indisputable fact. “I file your papers, get your coffee.”

“In a few years you could run a whole office if you went somewhere else.”

“But I don’t want that life. I like it here. I like it a lot.”

“That guy,” I said, “the one who called himself Peters. He came in here with the intention of beating me until I gave him what he wanted.”

“But you didn’t let him.”

“What if he overpowered me?”

“Then I’d call the police.”

“What if he came after you?”

“Get me a gun and teach me how to shoot.”

The first time I had ever been aware of Mardi Bitterman she’d asked Twill for a gun so that she could kill the man masquerading as her father.

“Remember the woman who came in here a few days ago?” I asked.

“The one who said she was Mrs. Tyler but was really her sister.”

“She’s dead.”

“What?”

“Murdered.”

“What happened?”

I told her everything, even Hush’s suspicions about the identity of the assassin. I didn’t need to ask her to keep it quiet; Mardi was a soundproof room unto herself. Her secrets were deeper and darker than anything I had ever known.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I guess I’ve been hoping for something to fall into place, a detail or a mistake on Cyril’s part. But there’s been nothing. So I think I’m going to have to try and set a trap.”

“Will that be dangerous?”

“Extremely. And that’s why I can’t spend my time being worried about you.”

“But, boss...” She had never called me boss before, “what you don’t understand is that being in this office with you is the best thing in the world for me. It makes me feel safe.”

“What does?”

“It’s the way you look at me, Mr. McGill,” she said. “That’s the way I want to be seen.”

That was the last of our discussion about Mardi leaving my employ. She was going to work for me and I was going to have to protect her. I shook my head and we both grinned.

“Okay,” I said, “but will you do me a favor?”

“What’s that?”

“Go home now. Go home and leave me here to think.”

I turned off most of the lights in the suite and wandered around the rooms in stockinged feet — plotting. At eight-thirty the sun was still illuminating the city from the farther corner of the western sky. I felt like a foot soldier waiting for the command to go out and die for an idea that I barely comprehended.

I sat down in one of the vacant cubicles in the hallway leading from Mardi’s desk to mine. I put my big feet up on the Formica desktop, wondering about toes, claws, paws, and genetic history.

I sat there, speculating, until the phone rang.

It was as if I were waiting for that call, even though I had no reason to expect it.

“Hello.”

“Leonid,” said my wife of too many years.

“Yeah, Katrina. Why you callin’ the office at this time’a night?”

“I tried your cell phone but you didn’t answer.”

“Oh. Yeah. The phone’s in my office and I got my big feet out here in the hall.”

“What are you doing there?”

“Looking at my toes,” I said. “In the dark.”

“What’s wrong, Leonid?”

“I don’t know. Tell me why you’re calling.”

“Gordo.”

“Something happen?” I sat up straight, suddenly unconcerned with the mystery of evolution.

“Yes and it’s wonderful. He walked down the hall without his walker.”

“No.”

“Yes,” she said through laughter. “Elsa was right behind him, but he made it on his own. It’s been weeks since he’s been able to do that.”

“Yeah.”

“Leonid.”

“What, honey?”

“Come home.”

“Not tonight, baby. I have a serious problem to solve. More than one.”

“Does it have to do with Dimitri?”

I knew she would pick up on her baby’s predicament before long.

“Actually, no,” I said. “He’s in Paris with Tatyana.”

“Paris?”

“Our boy’s growin’ up.”

“That Tatyana Baranovich is nothing but trouble,” Katrina said.

“Just the way the McGill men like ’em, huh, baby?”

“When will he be back?”

“Few days.”

“With her?”

“No doubt.”

“I have to go,” Katrina said.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Give Gordo my best.”

“This is Mr. Cyril Tyler’s private line,” prissy Phil said on an answering-machine recording. “No one is here right now to answer your call. If you care to leave a message, wait for the beep.”

No promise to call back. No thank you for calling. I was sure that Phil’s dreams were filled with the desire for unlimited power.

“This is Leonid McGill calling,” I said. “I’ve tried to get to you every way I know, Mr. Tyler, but you’ve snubbed me over and over again. So let’s try this: either you come to my office tomorrow morning or I go to the police tomorrow afternoon.”

I felt satisfied for the first time in many days.

Going down to the utility closet, I pulled out a folding cot, set it up in the aisle and stretched out. I was asleep before my eyes were fully closed.