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In his black Dodge Charger, Harrison attached a red clip-on tie to his plain white shirt. He removed the Hopkins file from his briefcase, tucked a pen into the shirt’s breast pocket, and clutched a digital recorder. As he stepped out of the Dodge, he set the file and digital recorder on the seat and put on a charcoal, wool-blend suit coat. He cleared his throat, checked the jacket’s inner pocket, brushed dog hair off one sleeve, grabbed the file and digital recorder, and then shut the door.
Walking toward Hopkins’s small, aging home, he tried to hide the limp. Even on this day, November 11, the midmorning air retained enough warmth to make his movement easy and smooth.
He knocked firmly on the wooden door. A few flakes of faded and cracked maroon paint dropped to the ground. On the right side of the front porch, a mustard-colored love seat, front legs broken, showed years of rot and decay.
A disheveled, middle-aged man answered Harrison’s knocks. “Yes, what is it?” he said, yanking at the front of a dingy white bathrobe. His thin, greasy black hair was compressed on the sides, but stood at attention on the crown of his head.
“Hello, my name is William Harrison. I’m calling on Jerry Hopkins regarding his insurance claim. I believe he’s expecting me.”
“Oh, that’s me,” Hopkins said, now smiling. “Please come in.” Hopkins closed the door behind Harrison and then collected scattered newspapers and other household debris, clearing a spot on a brown vinyl sofa in the living room.
Instinctively, Harrison examined the unfamiliar surroundings. Within his view, he could see the kitchen, bathroom, and a hallway leading to the bedrooms. He focused more closely on the living room. It stood sparsely furnished with a sofa, brick-and-plywood coffee table, and several metal chairs. Its worn green carpeting, frayed and matted, had seen better days long ago. There was a television set on top of a bookcase filled with magazines and old newspapers. A “Perot for President” bumper sticker, placed diagonally across the side of the bookcase, was yellowing and beginning to peel off. Hopkins had the television tuned to CNN Headline News. A news anchor delivered report on increasing tensions between China and Taiwan.
“Have a seat.”
“Thank you.” Harrison stepped over a pair of work boots and sat down, the vinyl cushions slowly deflating underneath him. “You live alone, Mr. Hopkins?”
“Just me and my cat.”
The fat, lazy creature sprawled itself in the middle of the hallway floor. It was mostly black, but with white fur on its stomach, paws, and face.
“Nice cat.” Harrison sighed. “What’s its name?”
“Sylvester. Don’t you think he looks like Sylvester?”
“Yeah, like the cartoon.”
“Exactly. ‘Thufferin’ thuccotash!’”
It was a good impersonation, even including spittle.
“Sylvester’s about the best company I could ask for, outside of a good woman. Far less maintenance than a woman though, don’t you think?”
The initial stage of these interviews was rarely interesting for Harrison. He wanted to make Hopkins twitch, not talk to him about Sylvester or his relationship experiences.
“Yes, well, there’s a lot to be said for cats, but I need to discuss your insurance claim for the stolen computer.”
“Aren’t you here to pay me for it? You didn’t bring a check?”
“I was asked by your adjuster, Susan Jacobs, to follow up on a few things because she’s awfully busy right now. One of those things is to get another statement from you regarding the loss.”
“Christ, you people are more difficult to deal with than I expected.” Hopkins unfolded a metal chair and sat down. “Why do you need another statement when I’ve already told you everything? The police report should have everything you need for your adjusting, or paper pushing, or whatever you guys do. When will I get paid?”
Harrison fought back a yawn.
“I apologize, Mr. Hopkins. Believe me, I want nothing more than to see this claim come to a quick resolution. But please understand, when I take on a claim that I know nothing about, I like to make sure that I completely grasp the facts. That usually means interviewing the claimant myself. I know this may seem like the runaround to you, but the sooner I can get this interview done, the sooner this claim will be ready for settlement.”
“Well, it seems like a lot of bull, but I want to get paid for my stolen computer.”
“Thank you. And thanks for being patient.” Harrison set his digital recorder on the coffee table. “Do you mind if I use this? It helps with accuracy and makes the interview go faster.”
“If it will speed things up, sure.”
After starting the recorder, Harrison proceeded to ask Hopkins a series of questions about the alleged loss. He did not expect to learn anything new. In fact, it was Hopkins whom Harrison planned to educate.
“So, if I understand correctly, you bought the computer for personal use, for financial record keeping, entertainment, and learning purposes?” As he finished the question, Harrison glanced around the room again.
“That’s right. I figured it was time for me to catch up with the modern world. If people don’t get computer literate, they lose out, don’t you think? If I don’t improve my computer skills, I’ll never get promoted at the warehouse where I work.”
“I agree with you. Tell me, since you didn’t know much about computers, how did you go about buying the one that was later stolen from your home?”
“I pretty much relied on the salesman to help me pick one out. I told him why I wanted it, and he made a couple of suggestions.”
“Did you shop around much, or did you just go to the one store, the Bits and Bytes on Craycroft?”
“Just to Bits and Bytes. I’m busy, the store was close, the salesman was helpful, so I decided to buy it from him.”
“I see.” Harrison’s eyes scanned the living room, ceiling to floor, wall to wall. “Were there any signs of forced entry to the house that you or the police found?”
“No. I have a tendency to leave without locking the front door sometimes. It’s a bad habit, but I grew up in different times. They must have just walked right in. Can’t trust anyone these days. My neighbors never saw nothing either. They were all at work. I was at work myself. And Sylvester here isn’t much of a watch cat. Hey, kitty, kitty.”
Down the hallway, Harrison saw that Sylvester walked slowly into the bathroom. Then, turning his head back toward Hopkins, he noticed that CNN had a photograph of Harold Groom on the screen.
“Harold Groom, known more for his claims about government conspiracies than his crime, was found dead in his isolated cell today.”
“Do you mind if we turn that up?” Harrison asked, pointing at the television.
“Are we done for the day?”
Harrison ignored the question and listened closely to the report.
“A prison spokesman said that determination of the cause of death will be pending an official inquiry, however, authorities suspect that Groom experienced a heart attack, as he was complaining of chest pains for several days. Awaiting execution on Florida’s death row, a jury convicted Groom eighteen months ago for the triple murder of a computer software executive, his wife, and young daughter. In other news, Taiwanese shore guns fired on a Chinese navy patrol vessel.”
“Do I get my money now?”
Hearing the news about Groom made Harrison wish he were back in his office. Where did I put that postcard?
“Huh? Oh, no, you don’t,” Harrison said.
“Well it better not take too much longer. I sure learned my lesson though. You can’t trust anyone these days.”
Harrison straightened his posture. “You’re right, but I guess you would know that better than most people. This claim is fraudulent. You know it, I know it, and soon the police department will know it.”
“What? What are you talking about?” Hopkins’s face twitched.
Reaching into his inner coat pocket, Harrison withdrew and unfol
ded a document. “This is the receipt, and I use that term loosely, which you submitted in support of your claim. Please note that it is a photocopy. Do you have the original?”
“Not handy.”
“I’m certain you don’t. If you did, I know that I would find correction fluid all over it.” After setting the receipt on the coffee table, Harrison opened the Hopkins file, revealing another document. “You see what that is?”
“Well, it looks like my receipt. I can expla—”
“No, let me. That is the store’s copy of an estimate, your estimate, for a computer system which you had expressed an interest in purchasing. You altered the estimate, making it look like an actual receipt. The claim is fraudulent, Mr. Hopkins.”
“I don’t understand. Susan Jacobs handled the other ones.” The perplexed expression on Hopkins’s face suddenly brightened. “The claim can still be settled, can’t it? Maybe you’d be willing to—”
“The recorder is still on, and I’d advise against further complicating your situation.”
Hopkins sneered and shook his head. “The claim was only for a small amount. This can’t be, it just can’t.”
“So, you thought it would be overlooked? It may very well have slipped through the system unnoticed, unsuspected, but you miscalculated. You’ve had multiple reported losses in recent months. Quite a paper trail. This made your last claim a red flag. Looks like your past has caught up with you.”
“Go to hell!”
“Instead, I think I’ll go see a detective I know in Tucson PD’s fraud section. He enjoys it when I bring him cases that are all wrapped up. All he does is carry my documentation over to the DA’s office, and they generally file a criminal complaint the same day. Oh, and by the way, cops hate it when they take bogus police reports. They’ll want to charge you for that crime as well. You think it’s hard to get a promotion at your job without computer skills? Well, just see how difficult it is when you have a criminal history.”
“The cops will arrest me for this?”
“Oh yeah.” Harrison collected the documents and closed the file. He leaned toward Hopkins, and then whispered, “Ever worn handcuffs?”
Quiet and sullen, Hopkins slumped in his seat. The front of his robe drooped open, exposing stained underwear. “What do you want from me?”
“Cover your crotch and I’ll explain an alternative to you.”
As Hopkins adjusted himself, Harrison opened the file again and removed an insurance company form, thick with multiple pages. He handed it, along with his pen, to Hopkins.
“Sign this form, and your claim and crimes will go quietly away.”
“What is this?”
“It basically says that you want to withdraw your claim and that you would like to cancel your policy. Once you sign it, I’ll give it to the insurance company.”
With a quick flick of the wrist, Hopkins complied. “Goddamn, money-grubbing insurance companies.”
Harrison turned off the recorder and took the paperwork from Hopkins. “Yes, yes. Their bottom line is all that matters. Your greed is all that matters to you. Frankly, all of you disgust me.”
“Get out of my house before I throw you out!”
Collecting the file and tape recorder, Harrison was relieved to be finished, and did not mind that Hopkins still had his pen. He left without it. Outside, he heard the door slam. The noise did not bother him.
The news about Harold Groom did.
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Zemdarsky and Associates.
Harrison and Associates.
Two private investigators shared a first-floor suite of an aging office building in downtown Tucson. The names of their firms were misleading, as no “associates” existed. But the use of the term provided prestige to their businesses, or so the owners believed. Their location, near the police station, courthouse, and central business district, lent itself to making contacts and attracting clients.
A new parking structure, just across the street, left only a short walk for Harrison. This was good for a man with a limp. He could park in a handicap space, but opted not do that.
Pushing open the glass and chrome door to his shared office suite, Harrison had only one thought on his mind. He wanted to find a postcard he had received last July. There had been a cryptic message on it, printed neatly, about Harold Groom.
“Yo no soy,” a female voice said from behind the front counter.
Harrison stopped, confused, wondering if he had entered the wrong office. Pete Zemdarsky was nowhere in sight. A thin, worried-looking Hispanic male stood at the counter, and a very attractive woman spoke to him.
“Un momento, por favor.” The woman looked at Harrison and said, “Can I help you, sir?” Her glowing face, blond hair, and bright blue eyes made him immediately think of a flight attendant he had once met on a long Lufthansa flight to Stockholm. Only the woman standing before him was much younger. Harrison guessed that she was probably in her mid- to late twenties.
Reluctantly, he drew his eyes away from her for a glance around the office. There was the small sofa and coffee table to his left. Along the wall directly ahead, there were bookshelves that he and Pete shared, although the space was mostly dedicated to Harrison’s collection of American history and constitutional law books. Two gray filing cabinets and an aging green electric typewriter also occupied space in the familiar cramped alcove to his right, just beyond the yellow Formica counter.
There’s that old globe Dad gave me, Harrison thought.
“Sir?” Her voice, professionally sensitive and youthfully seductive, invited his attention once more. “May I help you?”
For the moment, he forgot about Harold Groom.
“Can you help me? I don’t know, can you? Who are you, and what have you done with the chubby, bearded fellow who sits over there?” Harrison pointed to the cluttered desk in Zemdarsky’s office.
She responded with a warm smile, revealing perfectly aligned, white teeth. “You must be Mr. Harrison. Mr. Zemdarsky stepped out for a moment.” Edging closer, the woman put out her hand.
“Yes, I’m William Harrison.” He took her hand in his. “And you are?” Working for us, I hope.
Her cheeks blushed. “I’m Janice Evans, the new intern.”
“New intern? We never had an old intern.”
Janice tried to answer, but the sudden rattling and clanking from a heavy pastry cart entering the office overcame her words.
“Hey, Willy, my boy, scoot, scoot,” Pete Zemdarsky said, pushing the cart. “You want a donut, or perhaps a bran muffin?”
Without turning around, Harrison said, “Pete, what are you doing with the whole damn cart?”
The racket ceased.
“Its attendant is in the restroom, not feeling well or something, and so I told her that I would keep an eye on her tasty commodities until she could fortify herself.”
Turning around this time, Harrison saw Zemdarsky. He wore his usual brown three-piece, pinstriped suit and brushed some crumbs off his thick black beard.
“Scoot, scoot. I see you’ve met Janice.” Zemdarsky’s teeth and wide mouth fastened onto a fresh cheese Danish.
“Yes, I have, but, hey, you are going to pay for that and whatever else you’ve already consumed?”
Zemdarsky tilted right and looked at their new intern. “Oh, don’t mind him; lately he’s usually in a foul mood until noon or so. Would you like a bear claw?”
As Janice politely accepted, Harrison walked around the counter. “I haven’t been in a foul mood.” Harold Groom returned to his thoughts, and two stacks of case files on his desk came into view. “I just didn’t expect…Are you even listening?”
Gazing at the pastry cart, Zemdarsky nodded. “You know, she still has Halloween napkins on here.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Janice said with firmness and deference. “This is Alonzo, and he’s concerned about his missing pet iguana, Huevos.”
Harrison looked at Zemdarsky. Zemdarsky looked at Harrison. Both restrained smiles
.
In Spanish, Janice asked Alonzo a quick question, then translated the answer. “He says that his cousin may have taken Huevos, and the police don’t seem to be interested in investigating the situation.”
“Why does he think his cousin would do that?” Harrison said.
Pete took another bite of Danish.
“Apparently, his cousin has made prior comments about turning Huevos into some form of clothing.”
“I bet moe’s wifey,” Pete said, his mouth full.
Harrison cocked his head, not understanding that Pete had just tried to say, “A belt, most likely.”
Also confused, Janice said, “He was wondering if one of you might be willing to look into it.”
Pete swallowed hard. “Tell Alonzo that both our caseloads are quite full right now and we aren’t taking on any more clients.”
Before she translated, Janice looked at the other investigator. “Mr. Harrison?”
“I don’t know.” The Huevos Caper. Is this the “infinite horizon,” Dad? Harrison thought. “Miss Evans, tell Alonzo that I respectfully decline. And tell him to try the Humane Society. Actually, take his name and phone number. I’ll pass it along to Sergeant Verone at the PD. Maybe he can call Alonzo about the theft. I can’t promise anything, but tell him that anyway.”
Harrison walked into his office, listening to Janice translate the message. He saw that Alonzo seemed disappointed, but grateful. On his way out, Alonzo accepted a Danish from Pete, who then asked Janice to brew another pot of coffee.
After sitting, Harrison removed the Hopkins file from his briefcase and looked at the two tidy stacks of case files in the center of the blotter pad. The one on the left was for “active” cases, and the one on the right was for “completed” cases. He placed the Hopkins file on top of the completed stack, and then set his briefcase on the floor. Rather than preparing the final report for Susan Jacobs, the insurance company adjuster, he began opening the desk’s various drawers, digging through forms, stationery, pens, and pencils. Everything had a proper place on or in Harrison’s desk, but he was unable to recall exactly where he had put the postcard about Harold Groom.
Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project Page 5