"Who was your favorite?"
"Well, that would have to be Miles, young lady. Not necessarily as a human being, if you know what I'm sayin', but as a musician, my my! That was not a trumpet in his hands, that was a horn he got straight from God. Oh no, that weren't no mortal thing. He didn't make music, he made magic. When I played with him, I thought the heavens was going to open up and angels was going to pour on out. You want me to put on some Miles right now so I can show you what I mean?"
"I'd rather hear some of your music," she replied.
"You are trying to charm me, young Miss FBI! And you are being successful." He said to Will, "You know your colleague here is a charmer?"
"This is our first day together."
"She's got a personality. You can go far with that." He pushed himself up from the chair and made his way to the piano, sat on the stool and made a few fists to loosen his joints. "I got to play soft now, on account of the neighbors, you see." He began to play. Slow, cool music, obliquely tender, with haunting hints of melodies that disappeared into the mist to return anew down the line. He played for a good long time with his eyes closed, occasionally humming a few bars of accompaniment. Nancy was mesmerized but Will kept up his guard, checking his watch, listening through the notes for taps or scratches or thumps in the night.
When Clive finished, when the last note faded to nothingness, Nancy said, "Oh my God, that was beautiful. Thank you so much."
"No, thank you for listening and for watching over me tonight." He sank back into his easy chair. "Thanks to both of you. You're making me feel real safe and I appreciate that. Say, chief," he said to Will, "am I allowed to have a nightcap?"
"What do you want? I'll get it for you."
"Over in the kitchen cupboard to the right of the sink, I got a nice bottle of Jack. Don't you go puttin' no ice in it."
Will found the bottle, half full. He unscrewed the top and sniffed. Could someone have poisoned it? Is that how this was supposed to go down? Then, an inspired thought: I need to protect this man and I could use a drink. He poured himself two fingers and downed it fast. Tasted like bourbon. A nice little buzz started. I'll wait for half a minute to see if I die, if not, the man gets his nightcap, he thought, impressed with his own logic.
"Find it, chief?" Clive called out from the other room.
"Yeah. Be right there."
Since he'd survived, he brought out a glass and handed it to Clive, who sniffed his breath and remarked, "Glad to see you helped yourself, my man."
Nancy glared at him.
"Quality control, like a Roman food taster," Will said, but Nancy looked horrified.
Clive started sipping and talking. "You know what, Miss FBI, I'm going to send you some CDs of my group, the Clive Robertson Five. We're just a bunch of old-timers but we still got our thing going on, if you know what I'm sayin'. We still cookin' with gas, though my man, Harry Smiley, on drums, he passes plenty of gas too."
Almost an hour later he was still talking about life on the road, keyboard styles, the music business. His drink was finished. His voice trailed off, his eyes fluttered closed, and he began to softly snore.
"What should we do?" Nancy asked quietly.
"We've got an hour till midnight. Let's have him stay right there and wait this out." He got up.
"Where're you going?"
"To the bathroom. You okay with that?"
She nodded sullenly.
He hissed at her. "What? Did you think I was going to get another drink? For Christ's sake, I needed to make sure it wasn't poisoned."
"Self-sacrifice," she observed. "Admirable."
He took a leak and came back angry.
He strained to control his volume. "You know, partner, you need to get off your high horse if you want to work with me." He demanded, "How old are you?"
"Thirty."
"Well, sweetheart, when I got into this game, you were in junior high, okay?"
"Don't call me sweetheart!" she hissed.
"You're right, that was inappropriate. In a million fucking years you'd never be my sweetheart."
She responded with a full blast of whispered fury. "Well that's good news because the last time you dated someone in the office you almost got fired. Way to go, Will. Remind me never to take career advice from you."
Clive snorted and half stirred. They both went mute and glared at each other.
Will wasn't surprised she knew about his checkered past; it wasn't exactly a state secret. But he was impressed she had brought it up so quickly. It usually took him longer to push a woman to her boiling point. She had balls, he'd give her that.
He had taken the transfer to New York six years earlier, when Hal Sheridan finally kicked him out of the nest after convincing the H.R. group in Washington that he could handle a managerial assignment. The New York office thought he was an acceptable candidate for Supervisor of Major Thefts and Violent Crimes. He was sent back to Quantico for a management course, where they crammed his head with everything a modern FBI supervisor needed. Sure he knew he wasn't supposed to screw the admins, even the ones in another department, but Quantico never put a picture of Rita Mather in their training manuals.
Rita was so perfectly luscious, so fragrant, so inviting, and so allegedly spectacular in bed that essentially he had no choice. They hid their affair for months, until her boss in White Collar Crimes didn't ante up the raise she was expecting and she asked Will to intervene. When he demurred, she blew up and outed him. A huge mess ensued: disciplinary hearings, lawyers up the wazoo, H.R. into overdrive. He came within a hairsbreadth of termination but Hal Sheridan intervened and brokered a quiet demotion to let him finish out his twenty. On a Friday, Sue Sanchez reported to him; on the Monday, he reported to her.
Of course he considered resigning but, oh, that pension-so near and dear. He accepted his fate, took his mandatory sexual harassment training, did his job adequately, and kicked up his drinking a notch.
Before he could retort to Nancy, Clive stirred, his eyes blinking open. He was lost for a few moments then remembered where he was. He smacked at his dry lips and nervously checked the fine old Cartier on his wrist. "Well, I ain't dead yet. Okay if I go pee on my own without federal assistance, chief?"
"Not a problem."
Clive saw that Nancy was upset. "You all right, Miss FBI? You look mad. You're not mad at me, are you?"
"Of course not."
"Must be mad at the chief then."
Clive rocked himself upright and painfully straightened his arthritic knees.
He took two steps and abruptly stopped. His face was a mixture of puzzlement and alarm.
"Oh, my!"
Will whipped his head around, scanning the room. What was happening?
In a fraction of a second he ruled out a gunshot.
No shattered glass, no impact thud, no crimson spray.
Nancy cried out, "Will!" when she saw Clive tipping past his balance point and nose-diving the floor.
He fell so hard his nasal bones pulverized on impact and splattered the carpet with an abstract pattern of blood resembling a Jackson Pollock painting. If it had been captured on canvas, Clive would have been pleased to add it to his collection.
SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER
P eter Benedict saw his reflection and marveled at the way his image was chopped up and scrambled by the optics of the glass. The front of the building was a deeply concave surface, soaring ten stories over Wilshire Boulevard, almost sucking you in off the sidewalk toward the two-story disc of a lobby. There was an austere slate courtyard, cool and empty except for a Henry Moore bronze, a lobulated and vaguely human conception off to one side. The building glass was flawlessly mirrorlike, capturing the mood and color of the environs, and this being Beverly Hills, the mood was usually bright and the color a rich sky blue. Because the concavity was so severe, the glass also caught the images from other panes, tossing them like a salad-clouds, buildings, the Moore, pedestrians, and cars jumbled together.