Rough Justice by Andrew Klavan Page A

over to Forty-first. There, at the foot of the hill leading up to the River City complex, was Cooper House. Chiseled dragons and wisps on its limestone face. A castellated peak fading gray into the gray sky.
    The front doors were dark brown wood laced with iron. They arched up to a peak like a castle’s doors. They were closed, but unlocked, and I pushed in through them. Came into a spacious hall. Walls lined with bulletin boards and notices, children’s drawings and public-service ads. The only traces of the foyer’s former elegance were the immense chandelier hanging from its high ceiling and the tiled floor that reflected its light.
    â€œThe drop-in center’s through the doors to your right.”
    I turned toward the voice. A woman leaned out of a doorway to my left. An attractive young black woman with a nice smile.
    â€œThere’re no meals until six and we don’t register for rooms until five.”
    â€œI’m looking for Celia Cooper,” I told her.
    â€œAnd your name is?”
    â€œJohn …” I paused, then said it: “Wells.”
    Her smile vanished. Her large brown eyes seemed to go dark. Leaning in toward me, with her hands braced on the doorjamb like a visiting neighbor, she looked me up and down one long time. Not with anger or disgust. With sadness, it seemed like. I almost felt myself stoop under the weight of that glance.
    Then the woman said quietly: “Just a moment. I’ll see if she’s in.” And she turned and disappeared from the door.
    I stood alone in the hall, under the chandelier. I lit a cigarette. I tapped my foot against the tiles. I wondered who dusted all those crystal prisms. I cleared my throat loudly against the silence. After a while I craned my neck, peeked in through the door that still remained open. I saw part of a front office with a desk just inside. Yellow walls. Another bulletin board. I could not see the woman. I studied my feet. I smoked.
    â€œSo what was it?”
    I pivoted. Turned full around to face a man standing in the doorway behind me. He was a small guy. White, thin, maybe twenty, maybe less. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt, his sinewy arms bare. He had a sharp, heroic chin and a high brow. Blond hair that fell in a shock on his forehead. Thick, sensual lips curled in a sneer. Blue eyes narrowed in disgust.
    My nerves were shot. The second I saw him—the second I heard his voice—I felt sweat start under my hairline. I cursed it, tried to keep my voice steady.
    â€œYou talking to me, kid?”
    He snorted, nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m talking to you. Old man.” He came forward a step, then another. There was an arrogant bounce in his walk. Chin leading, chest out. “I want to know what it was.”
    I took another drag of my cigarette, watching him come on through the wisp of smoke. He started to circle me. I turned slowly on my heel to follow him.
    â€œWas it money?” he said. The bounce of his walk became more exaggerated. He got nearer as he circled. “Can’t have been money. Thad never had much money on him.” He grinned maliciously, almost dancing as he walked. “Was it sex? That it? He wouldn’t give you what you wanted? Or maybe it was just fun. You like watching people die, maybe. What was it, man? Why’d you kill him? Huh?”
    My heel squeaked as I turned and turned on it. He continued his circle, inching closer. Smiling that twisted smile.
    And then he screamed: “What was it?”
    The smile gone, the eyes flaring like torches, he darted at me. Pulled up only a foot away. He stuck his chin out at me, bared his teeth. His arms were out from his side, bent, ready. My throat tightened with rage as I felt his hot breath wash over me.
    â€œTalk, you asshole. What did you do it for?”
    â€œBack off me, kid. I’ve had a rough couple of days.”
    â€œOh yeah? Oh yeah?” He smiled again. “You gonna get mad? You gonna