The Amazing Harvey

by Don Passman

  She threw the papers on the desk, picked up her purse, and whispered to me, “Stay off my computer.”

  As she walked off with her father, I heard him say, “You were a little stiff on the news show. Memorize what you’re going to say beforehand. When you read something, the audience can tell.”

  Jeez. Welcome to the Self-Esteem-Squashing Theater.

  After the door closed, I waited a few minutes to make sure they weren’t coming back, then sat down at the computer keyboard and hit the space bar to knock off the screen saver.

  Shit! She passworded the damn thing.

  What, she doesn’t trust me?

  I took a guess at her password and hit ENTER.

  Guess BITCH isn’t it.

  I let out a sigh.

  Thanks, Hannah. Daddy waltzes in, makes Dumbo fat jokes, eviscerates your work, and you take off with him like a teenage girl running to the football captain’s convertible. Leaving me and my murder case hanging.

  Maybe those e-mails have something time-sensitive in them.

  It’s my neck that might get stretched here. Seriously stretched.

  * * *

  Hannah got back at her usual two fifteen, looking glum. I said, “Does your father always treat you like that?”

  She took a half step back. “What do you mean?”

  Ooops. “I, well, you know … criticizing your work.”

  “He’s a brilliant lawyer. I couldn’t achieve half of what I’ve done if he didn’t push me to do my best.”

  From the look on her face, she meant maybe half of that.

  Hannah said, “Did anyone call?”

  “Yeah. A slug of press people.” I handed her the yellow pad on which I’d written the names. “Also, some guy named Terence Lund. He said he’s a corporate lawyer and he’s got an emergency for one of his clients. I tried your cell, but you didn’t answer.”

  Hannah grabbed the phone and dialed. “Terence? Hannah Fisher.” She started pacing.

  After a few back-and-forths, she stopped at her desk, leaned over, and wrote on a yellow pad. Hannah scowled; then her mouth formed a little smile.

  She said, “Okay, I’ll take care of it. Listen, why don’t you just do a memo to all your male clients. Tell them if they go down to Whoreville on Sunset, there is no such thing as a gorgeous young blond woman who’s down on her luck and trying to make a few bucks. Those are all undercover cops.”

  She hung up, shaking her head, then dialed a reporter and repeated what she’d said about Desmond on television.

  I started filing.

  The phone rang and Hannah picked it up. After listening a moment, she said, “Yes, this is the Hannah Fisher on television.”

  Guess her dad was right about getting business from the publicity. I punched the stapler on a stack of papers, then clipped them into a file.

  Hannah hung up and called another reporter.

  I kept punching papers, looking over at her. When do we get back to those e-mails?

  After the last call, she picked up some papers and started reading.

  I cleared my throat.

  She didn’t look over.

  “Hannah?”

  She answered without looking up. “Yes?”

  “When do you think we can get to Sherry’s e-mails?”

  Hannah looked surprised. Her face said, Oh, I forgot, but I can’t admit that, and if I drop what I’m reading, that’s admitting it, so how do I gracefully handle this?

  She looked at me, then looked at the papers in her hand. Hannah slowly moved her hand up and down, like she was judging the weight of the papers, then dropped them on the desk. “C’mon over.”

  I hurried over and stood behind her as she started to type in her screen-saver password. Can I steal it by watching her fingers?

  Nope.

  She opened the file on the thumb drive and went back to the e-mails from KL186, the guy who Sherry told to buzz off or else she’d call the cops.

  In the very first e-mail, KL186 wrote her, “Amazing running in to you today. Thank God for our three cheese and pepperoni pizza. Let’s hook up. Kev.”

  Sherry wrote back. “How’s Tuesday?” She gave him her phone number.

  I said, “Too bad he didn’t give her his info.”

  “Maybe he does later on. Looks like he works in a pizza place.”

  “Or met her in one.”

  In the next few exchanges, they talked about the movies, nightclubs, music, and the like. In one e-mail, he said, “Come this way tonite. We’ll do the boardwalk.”

  I said, “Boardwalk probably means Venice Beach. They have a lot of pizza places there.”

  Hannah nodded, pulled up the next e-mail.

  More idle chitchat.

  We came to an e-mail written a few weeks before Sherry died. She wrote, “We can’t do Wednesday. My father may come by.”

  Kev answered, “I totally get it. Don’t need to live that scene again.”

  I said, “Kevin obviously knows her father. Maybe we can find him through the dad.”

  Hannah looked up at me. “Doesn’t sound like they’re real close.”

  The next note was dated a few days later. Sherry wrote, “Kev, we gotta cool it a little.”

  After a few “Why?” e-mails and “Just because” responses, she said, “I think we should see other people for a while.”

  Kev kept begging for an explanation. Did he do something? Did her father find out about them?

  She finally admitted she was seeing someone else. She owed it to herself to see if this other man was “the one,” even though there were “some issues.”

  Kev wrote back, “If this is the old guy you were talking about, I can’t compete with money. But he can’t love you any more than me. Please. See me one last time. Then I’ll never bother you again.”

  Kevin resent that last e-mail six times, pleading for her to see him.

  Sherry didn’t answer for two weeks. Finally, she wrote the one we’d seen before, dated two days before her death. “You’re making me nuts. Stop hassling me. Do I have to call the cops?”

  Hannah looked up at me. “So Kevin maybe works in a pizza place. It’s possible he just ran into her there, but he said ‘our’ when he mentioned the pizza, which sounds like he works in a restaurant. Maybe this place is on the boardwalk, maybe not.”

  I nodded. “Well, it’s more than we had an hour ago.”

  Hannah rolled her chair back from her desk and rubbed her eyes. “We’ve got to give this to the cops.”

  “I want to see Kevin first.”

  She stopped rubbing her eyes and blinked at me. “What? You’re Rambo now? Gonna bring in the bad guys yourself?”

  “Shouldn’t we know what he has to say before the cops do?”

  “The cops probably have his name already. I’ll bet her dad gave it to them.”

  “Looks like dad didn’t know they’d gotten back together.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “No, but I’m the one volunteering to walk up and down the Venice boardwalk, asking if they’ve got any three-cheese pepperonis with a side of Kevin.”

  Hannah stood. “Did it occur to you that this could be dangerous? If this kid’s a killer, he might not appreciate your snooping around.”

  “Then I’ll have to rely on my charm.”

  She gave an exaggerated headshake. “May I remind you that you have a commitment here? It would take your entire lunch hour just to drive there and back.”

  “Which is why I’ll be going on the weekend.”

  The phone rang.

  Hannah snatched the handset, jerked it up to her ear, and said, “Hannah Fisher.” She listened for a moment, then glared at me.

  I cocked my head in a “What is it?”

  She turned her back to me and finished the call. All I could make out was a few uh-huhs.

  Hannah swung around and slammed down the phone. Her eyes burned into me. “Is there something you forgot to tell me about your visit to Sherry’s apartment?�
��

  “What do you mean?” Did my voice crack?

  “Something like ‘being questioned by a cop for breaking and entering.’ What the hell do you think I mean?”

  “Hey. No big deal. I handled it.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “You handled it?”

  “Yeah. He asked a coupla questions and went away. Let me tell you how I hid the thumb drive when I emptied my pockets. See—”

  Hannah’s face flushed. “Did you think the cop wouldn’t mention your little visit to the detective working your case?”

  “Well…”

  She stabbed her finger at me. “That was Sergeant Morton on the phone. He wanted to thank you for stopping by. The apartment manager said you looked familiar. Morton said he’d never have known that if you hadn’t shown up. Why the hell would the manager think you look familiar?”

  I shook my head, turned my palms up. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen the guy before in my life.”

  “Yeah. And you never knew that dead girl with your sperm in her vagina.”

  I stepped toward Hannah. “Look. I didn’t do this. I don’t care how it looks. If you don’t believe me, you can bail.” I’m not even close to meaning that.

  She stood there, seething.

  I held her gaze. Don’t break eye contact. I felt the corner of my mouth twitch.

  Hannah spoke evenly, though her tone was laced with storm warnings. “The evidence says you’re a killer.”

  I shrugged and raised my eyebrows in a “Guess I can’t argue with that one.”

  She said, “Whether you’re guilty or not—”

  “I’m not.”

  “—you’re entitled to a defense.” She tightened her jaw. “What was the first thing I told you when we started?”

  “That criminal lawyers get paid in advance?”

  “No, smart-ass. I told you that I can’t afford to be surprised. If you expect me to continue, I need you to tell me everything. I mean everything.”

  I nodded. “Sorry. It’s an occupational hazard of magicians to hide things.”

  “Stop with the cutesy bullshit. You could lose twenty years of your life, if not more, and you’re acting like this is some high-school prank.”

  “Look. I’m sorry. I told you I deal with stress—”

  “Yeah, by turning into an adolescent. I don’t have time for your crap. If you’re not serious about this, then I can’t be.”

  “Listen!” My voice rose, surprising me and, from her face, her as well. “Of course I take it seriously. If I don’t act like it, I’m sorry. I’m scared shitless, okay? That what you want to hear?” I felt my hands shaking.

  She said, “I don’t want to hear anything except that you are being one hundred percent straight with me. Now is there anything else? If there is, spill it. This is your last warning.”

  I bit my cuticle. “No. Nothing.”

  Hannah narrowed her eyes. “If you aren’t straight with me from here on, we’re done.”

  I raised my hand like in court. “I swear.”

  She turned away.

  I went back to filing, but my stomach kept churning. Hannah tapped away at her computer keyboard. Every clack spiked a drumbeat headache into the back of my eyeballs.

  * * *

  Around four in the afternoon, I said, “Say, Hannah…”

  She kept typing and spoke without looking up. “Yeah?”

  “I need to leave a little early.”

  She stopped typing and looked over. “You’re not going to look for this Kevin, are you?”

  “No. I’ll do that tomorrow. On my weekend time. There’s a better chance he’ll be there on a Saturday anyway.”

  She tightened her mouth. “Why do you want to leave early?”

  Let’s see … the truth or a more appealing story? “I’m meeting someone from the lab who’s working on my DNA testing. She offered to educate me about the process, so I thought it’d be a good idea.”

  “Great idea for your own time. Not mine.”

  I tightened my mouth in an expression that said, Well, maybe there’s one other little thing.… “And, uh, okay, well she’s kind of attractive.”

  Did Hannah stiffen a little?

  I said, “I’ll make the time up Monday. Or on the weekend.”

  Hannah sighed. “All right. It’s a slow day, so go ahead, but don’t make this a habit. And I expect you to make it up.”

  I stood up. “Thanks.”

  She went back to her computer. “Good luck with Little Miss Double Helix.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  After work, I parked near the Starbucks in Westwood just before six thirty. I was actually early! It was only because I miscalculated the traffic on Coldwater Canyon, but I’d take it any way I could get it.

  As I walked into the store, I thought about coffee shops being the perfect spot to meet someone new. Cheap enough that you won’t blow more than a few bucks before you know where you stand. Enough people around that no one can throw a scene. Easy to beat a retreat if your date shows up with a drool cup.

  I took a seat at one of the tables and watched the glass door.

  Where the hell is Carly? She’s late.

  I looked around at the people typing on laptops. Glanced at my watch.

  This is rude. How could she be late?

  Ah. There she is.

  As she came through the glass door, I stood up and waved. She squinted, ticked her head, and started toward me.

  I went over to meet her, then we got our coffees and sat down.

  Carly took a sip through the hole in the white plastic cup lid, set down the cup, and smiled with her overbite. I love that overbite.

  I said, “So. I’ve lived up to my end of the bargain and bought you coffee. Tell me how you came to feel so strongly about abortion that it cost you your career.”

  She settled back in her chair. “Don’t you have a cause you’re so passionate about that you’d sacrifice your job?”

  “Of course.” Not really.

  “What is it for you?”

  “You first.” While I try to think of something, hoping you’ll forget about that question.

  Her eyes twinkled. “In other words, you’ll show me yours if I show you mine?”

  I pulled my chair closer. “I like the way you think.”

  Carly leaned in. “I grew up as a liberal. Still am, in most areas. I always felt women had the right to decide about abortion for themselves. Though I have to admit I never gave it much thought. I also believed the goal of stem-cell research outweighed any ethical questions about using the aftermath of abortions.”

  I nodded.

  She clasped her hands on the table, interlacing her fingers. “Then my sister got pregnant.”

  Carly told me about her older sister Lynn, a trim woman with high cheekbones, who had been a track star in high school. Lynn was working in an upscale dress shop when she met Ted, a chef in the French restaurant next door who rode his bicycle ten miles to work each day. Lynn was thirty-six when they got married. She was also two months pregnant, which she laughingly blamed on her biological clock.

  A few months later, Carly threw a baby shower at their parents’ house. The ladies sat in the living room, which was filled with sweet-smelling flowers. Lynn started to untie the pink ribbon on her first present, then suddenly dropped the gift and ran out of the room.

  Carly ran after her. She found her in the bathroom, throwing up. Quietly, Carly ran water on a linen towel and handed it to her sister. Lynn, still bent over, patted her face with the wet towel and said she was so embarrassed. It was the heavy smell of flowers that made her sick. Carly said it was just part of being pregnant.

  Lynn sat on the closed toilet, taking deep breaths. They could hear the women chattering in the next room. After a few minutes, Lynn stood, checked herself in the mirror, and gave Carly a quick nod that said everything was okay. As she turned to leave, she wrenched around and threw up on the floor. Her chest heaved in spasms. Carly saw bl
ood in her mouth.

  Carly took her to the doctor, who said it was an inflammation of the stomach lining. Probably stress-related. He said the baby was showing signs of distress. The doctor told Lynn to go to bed for at least two weeks. Possibly for the rest of her pregnancy.

  Lynn took a leave from her job and stayed in bed. Ted took good care of her for the first few days, but within a week, he was getting agitated. He said he was exhausted. Working all day, taking care of her all night. How would they get by without her income? They had a mortgage on the condo. Credit card loans. No cushion for the baby expenses.

  A few weeks later, around six in the morning, Carly got a phone call from her mother. “Get to the hospital. Lynn went into premature labor.”

  Carly sat in the waiting room with her parents, their eyes jittery.

  The baby was so early. How far along was she? Not even thirty weeks?

  Ted came out in a yellow paper gown, a surgical face mask pulled down around his neck. He wasn’t smiling.

  He said it was a girl. She was very small. Under two pounds.

  He left them and went back inside.

  Carly and her parents went to the nursery window. Through the plate glass, they saw tiny Brenda lying in a Plexiglas box. She was not much bigger than the nurse’s hand. The baby had wires taped to her body, an IV in her umbilical cord, and an oxygen mask covering her pink face. Brenda’s eyes were squinted shut. Her mouth opened and closed like a tiny fish.

  As they watched, Brenda’s body began to shake so violently that one of the wires came loose. A monitor buzzed loudly. Carly’s mother shrieked. An attendant ran to Brenda, shouted something they couldn’t hear through the glass, then wheeled the baby into the next room.

  Carly ran to a nurses’ station. She demanded to see a doctor. The man behind the desk made a phone call, then politely said he couldn’t tell her anything.

  They went to Lynn’s room. Lynn was lying there alone. Ted had gone back to work. Not wanting to upset Lynn, they chitchatted, trying to act like nothing had happened. From Lynn’s eyes, she knew better. She didn’t ask.

  Carly kept going to the nurses’ station. They said Lynn’s doctor would be in shortly.

  Over an hour later, a somber woman in a white coat opened Lynn’s door. The doctor asked the family to leave. Lynn looked panicked. She said she wanted them to stay.