As promised, there was a stupid, little mint green Prius parallel parked in front of The Library with the vanity plate, CHKMATE. Harrison stuck his arm out and motioned me over as though I might not be able to identify which vehicle was his. I waited for a bus to lumber past, but otherwise the Sunday morning traffic was light. Inside the car, Harrison was listening to rap, turned up too loud, and wearing an oatmeal-colored sweater over a tan polo shirt. I would have pictured him as the kind of person who listened to weird indie bands with names that had no meaning.
I had learned to categorize people at my parents’ knee, since knowing the mark was pivotal to a good con. Harrison made my head spin. When I thought I might be one step closer to understanding what he was, he showed up dressed like Edward Cullen, driving a douchey hybrid car and listening to Young Jeezy. What on earth was he? And why did I care?
I slumped back in my seat and crossed my arms over my chest, deciding to let him drive in silence. Well, our silence anyway. The radio was loud. We made our way onto I-25 and headed towards his cousin’s house in Cedar Crest. A song came on that he didn’t like, and he pressed another programmed button, turning it to freaking Vivaldi. Seriously?
Was he the con artist? Because I was starting to get the impression he wanted to keep me confused and off balance. If that was true, what was his game?
I turned the knob all the way down. Harrison glanced at me with raised eyebrows, but said nothing. “Tell me about Nicholas.”
“Who is Nicholas?” He seemed perplexed.
“Your cousin?”
His lips twitched, but he didn’t quite manage a smile. “Boy, you suck at names, don’t you?”
“Okay, so his name isn’t Nick. Sue me. I have a very good memory for numbers.” It was a lame defense, tacked on the end so he’d know I wasn't a complete idiot.
“Seriously, how long did it take you to learn my name?” he pressed.
As far as I could remember I’d learned it the first day of class. “I don’t know. Not very long. But you do sit next to me.”
The very corners of his lips quirked, almost a smile now, but he kept his eyes on the road. “What’s the name of the person who sits on the other side of you?”
Really? I had no idea. “What is this, Jeopardy?”
“You don’t have a clue, do you?”
“None whatsoever.”
His tiny smile turned into a grin, but he was wise enough not to say anything. He turned the radio back up, country this time, and accelerated so that we were passing most of the lazy weekend traffic.
“Nate is my mother’s brother’s son. He has an older sister, Melissa, who goes to Princeton. Nate had a great scholarship to NYU, but he couldn’t keep his grades up, so he came back here. He doesn’t do much; takes a couple of classes at the community college to keep his parent happy. Though, my uncle and aunt are pretty fed up, to tell you the truth.”
I could imagine. Harrison came from a family of over-achievers. To have an adult child who refused to start his life must have been very frustrating. Almost as frustrating as having a mother who was the same, I’d be willing to wager.
“Where does your mom live?” It was not the question I’d expected to hear myself ask.
“Well, she’s from here, but she met my dad in LA. Right now she’s in Florida working.” He didn’t sound bothered by her absence.
“What does she do?”
He glanced at me before directing his eyes back to the road, like he was somehow suspicious of the question. Or maybe embarrassed by the answer. “She’s, uh, well, she’s an aerospace engineer.”
And to think I’d been expecting him to say nudie dancer, the way he was acting. “An aerospace engineer. Your mother is a rocket scientist?”
Of course she was. What else for a member of Harrison’s extra special bloodline?
“I guess so. She’s working for NASA right now, but usually she works for Sandia National Laboratory.”
We were quiet for a few moments. I didn’t say anything because I was annoyed at Harrison for coming from a family of decent human beings. I wasn’t sure why Harrison wasn’t talking.
“What about your parents? What do they do? I mean, you know, aside from the psychic thing.”
Now he seemed embarrassed again, as though saying my mother was a psychic was somehow awkward. Then again, he’d acted the same about his mother’s job. I considered, briefly, telling him what my parents actually did. That my father was in jail, and my mother was, at the moment, little better than a crook, sometimes not any better than a crook. I didn’t. For his sake or mine, I wasn’t sure.
“My mom does the Mystic Meg thing. My dad’s…in California. Because of his job.” So true, and yet such a lie. It was most certainly because of his job that he was spending his time playing cards in minimum security in Bakersfield.
“Are your parents divorced?”
I shook my head. “No, they’ve been married for almost twenty years. Go figure.”
“My parents got divorced when I was two. My dad’s very good at his job, but…well, he’s kind of a loser at everything else.”
Boy, did I know that story. I wondered again what the hell I was doing here. Clearly this was a family matter. I didn’t get involved in other people’s business. Rule of the Con number twelve: Don’t get into trouble. Especially other people’s trouble. But then I remembered Mr. Pete and the two grand. This was my trouble.
We crossed into the mountains, and the temperature started dropping. I zipped up my sweater and got brave enough to turn the channel on the radio. The next button was NPR. Sure, why wouldn’t it be? I hit the next button, and it was the typical top forty hype, but it was better than talk radio. I wondered what Harrison’s response would be to my actions, but he didn’t take his eyes off the road. Most guys I knew held their radios to be sacred. Clearly, Harrison wasn’t that type.
“Why do you think that N…your cousin is doing this?” I asked, as we pulled off the Cedar Crest exit.
I’d driven by Cedar Crest before, but it was the kind of place that I couldn’t afford to even look at the houses for fear I’d somehow break something. The places weren’t close together, but instead were buried in the trees, cedar and glass poking out in unexpected places. Cedar Crest proper wasn’t much, only a few businesses, mostly coffee shops, gift shops and yoga places.
Harrison pulled off on to a side road and headed up the mountain before he answered me.
“I’m not sure. Nate and I aren’t close. We’ve never been. I mean, he thinks I have a stick up my butt, and I kind of think he’s a giant walking penis, but I don’t know why he’d try something so pointless. I mean, what could he hope to gain?”
That was an excellent question, and something I hadn’t yet figured out. I was hoping to get a feel for Nate and his game once I met him in person. The road that Harrison drove on was heavily wooded, not particularly well-paved and, so far, barren of human life, though I did see a skunk and two coyotes. Finally, when we’d driven up the hill for at least four miles, the peak came into view, and a house sat on the top like a “cabin” cupcake topper.
A bizarre mix of backwoods meets intense contemporary, the house that Harrison’s cousin lived in looked like two different architects had designed it. Large cedar beams covered everything that wasn’t windows on the three-story house. The majority of the place was windows. And not one of them had curtains. I could see right into the downstairs bath when we pulled into the drive. What did they do when they wanted to be naked?
Harrison put the car into park next to a shiny Jeep that looked like the farthest off road it had ever been was the dirt driveway. Which was likely pretty horrible to traverse once winter set in. You’d think with all the money these people had, they’d pave the road. Or at least throw some pebbles down to help with traction and cut down on mud.
“That’s Nate’s car.” He pointed to the Jeep like he might have been talking about some other car and it needed a descriptor. I glanced around to be sure, but
it was definitely the only car.
“Well, then. Let’s do this thing.” I released the seatbelt and hopped out. It was windy and cold up here on top of the mountain, but the sun was bright and warm, and it smelled like pine trees and deliciously cool air.
Harrison climbed out and took a moment to zip up his jacket before we approached the door. I didn’t think he was cold. I thought he was stalling. It was no business of mine how he chose to deal with his issues, but I would have burst into the house and punched Nestor in the face.
The front door was, not surprisingly, made of glass, streak free and gleaming in the mid-morning sun. I couldn’t see a lock mechanism. Maybe, in addition to not caring about being seen streaking by the neighbors, people in the mountains didn’t worry about locking up. Harrison hit the doorbell located to the right of the doorframe, and it chimed cheerfully, sounding like someone playing elevator music on a pan flute, part two.
No one answered. My fingertips were starting to freeze, so I put my hands in my pockets. It was cold up here. While we waited I asked, “What are you going to say?”
Harrison shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll play it cool to start. Ask him if he remembers the whole demon thing from the party or the fair. Maybe he’ll just come clean and say it was a prank without me having to say anything at all. Nate’s pretty bad with the pranks. His parents took away his car when he wouldn’t stop pranking his dad. So mostly he’s stopped now.”
When we stood there for another long second with no response, Harrison pushed the doorbell again. I could hear the song floating through the house. One would have thought that inside it would have been louder, but Nate didn't coming running. Maybe he didn’t want to talk to Harrison. Or maybe he just didn’t want to lose his Jeep again for pulling the demon prank.
Sighing, Harrison pulled his keys from the pocket of his jacket, an enormous jumble of metal, and sorted through it until he found the key he desired. He moved to the side of the door, and inserted the key into a lock that was so tiny and unobtrusive that I hadn’t seen it. For such a small locking mechanism, it sure made a loud noise, clanking like prison doors when Harrison turned it. He pulled on the right side of the double doors, sliding it back into the wall. A pocket door. Well, sure. Why not? If you live up in the mountains, without fear of wild animals or indecent exposure, then why not have glass pocket doors?
Why was I not rich? I would find something to do with all that money that wasn’t this stupid. Inside, the entire bottom floor was open to our view. Not a single dividing wall that I could see, except for a small partitioned area in the corner that was most likely a second bathroom. It was like an ocean of cedar. Everywhere. And all the furniture was made out of logs. The bedrooms were above us on the second level, which curved around the main living area and disappeared back into the house, because no one wanted the process of sleeping to stop them from having twenty-six foot ceilings.
“Nate?” Harrison’s shoes squeaked against the uber polished wood as he moved into the center of the living room. There was no answer. I understood wanting to hide from your family, but this was a little ridiculous. Especially since for all Nate knew, Harrison was there to say hello.
Discomfort crept over me, making my skin itch. It was a feeling I’d learned to trust over the years. Nate’s house was creeping me out. “Harrison…”
He didn’t respond to the caution in my voice. Instead, he moved farther into the house, heading towards the kitchen. Everything was open concept in the house, but there were areas I couldn’t see because of furniture or because of kitchen built-ins, like the island. Harrison stopped where he could see into the kitchen, but I still couldn’t. My eyes were on the door, and his were on the floor. When I looked back his way he still hadn’t moved. He was standing there, staring. The prickling of my skin got worse.
“Harrison?”
He didn’t respond. Just stood there, staring down. Against my better judgment, I crossed the room, knowing the whole time that I was going to be sorry.
He didn’t raise his eyes, even when we were practically touching. Then I kind of wished we were touching, just because I could have used the physical comfort. I pretended to be unaffected by the world, and generally I was, but I’d never seen a dead person before. I wished I could have continued that trend.
It wasn’t clear to me how the guy on the kitchen floor behind the island had died, but he was definitely all kinds of dead. He was lying, twisty-limbed, in a big puddle of blood that almost blended into the dark wood floor. From my vantage point, I couldn’t tell where he was injured. Until I saw the pinpoint entry wound in his black button up polo. He’d been shot in the heart.
Young, maybe twentyish, he looked like he’d otherwise been healthy. Before the gun and all. “Nate?”
Harrison nodded, his head barely moving. “Nate.”
CHAPTER SIX
Rules of the scam #50
Know when to get out…
I’d spent a lifetime avoiding the police, and as a result I always felt vaguely like I’d done something wrong, even if I wasn’t doing anything at all. If I was at 7-11 buying a Slurpee and a cop came in, I spent the rest of my time in the store staring furtively like I was debating a major heist when really I was looking for some corn chips. It had only gotten worse since Dad had been caught selling insurance that didn’t actually exist to old people in Pasadena.
But there was no avoiding the police in a case like this. Harrison had to call them. Then he had to call his aunt and uncle, who, it would seem, were out of town. I didn’t envy him. In fact, I felt sorry for him. Which was something I certainly wouldn’t have admitted. I didn’t think he’d appreciate it anyway, and sympathy wasn’t my deal.
I just tried to stay out of the way when the police showed up and more out of the way when Harrison’s grandparents showed up, frantic and hysterical. I felt bad for them, too. Their grief appeared to be genuine, while Harrison seemed to be in a daze, unaware of what was going on around him.
The police questioned me briefly, but after corroborating Harrison’s statement about how we’d gotten here and found the body, they ignored me. I heard Harrison tell the police that he had something he’d wanted to return to Nate and that’s why were here. Which was, in a way, perfectly true.
There were cops everywhere, but it didn’t take me all that long to peg the two that were in charge. An enormous Pacific Islander type with a mustache that belonged on a bad detective show and a very small woman in her mid-40’s with a perm that was much too curly. They moved around the house with authority, picking through Nate’s things.
I realized, after perhaps fifteen minutes, that no one was paying any attention to me at all. And really, I mean no one. I hadn’t been glanced at in forever. So I started moving around the perimeter of the room, watching to see what the myriad cops would do. Still no one paid any attention to my actions. I decided to see what would happen if I left the room. I wandered into the partitioned off bathroom area and glanced around. There was an office too.
No one yelled at me so I stayed back there. This area of the house was much more interesting than the open area. In the office, there were pictures of Nate’s family. He had a sister, older from the look of the pictures. I would have known from Harrison’s grandparents anyway, but being in the room full of pictures made it relatively obvious why Harrison looked so different from Van Poe.
His mother’s side of the family was East Indian. When I had considered his obvious multicultural background, East Indian had never crossed my mind. For good reason. I’d only been in New Mexico for a few months, but I’d never, once, seen a person of Indian origin. Even the Indian food grocery next door to Mr. Wong’s was owned by a Hispanic guy named Moe.
I discovered that Harrison’s uncle, Balveer Malhotra, worked for Sandia Labs, which a lot of people around here did. But he was also the president of some kind of organization for people who made ceramics as a profession. I had no idea what he made from ceramics. All I could picture were those
places where you could paint your own unicorn statue.
The office was extremely tidy and filled with books about everything from design to animal husbandry to quantum physics. Maybe this room wasn’t only used by Balveer Malhotra. Maybe it belonged to the whole family. And that meant some of this stuff was probably Nate’s.
I took a pen from my purse and poked around on the desk a little, pushing papers around. They were stacked in neat piles, and the police might notice if I rifled too much, so I moved a few papers, mostly bank statements and financial documents, that sort of thing. Harrison’s name caught my eye, so I risked moving a pile to the right. Disappointment flared when I saw it was just a piece of paper where someone had jotted, in bad handwriting, their bank account numbers. Someone named C.A. Harrison had given the author twelve thousand dollars.
In a house like this, that kind of money changing hands was no big whoop. I read up the page and saw that the author was Nate. No one who kept an office this organized was going to keep their accounts that way. I pushed again and spotted a checkbook that belonged to Nathaniel Malhotra. A glance at the checkbook revealed that his account was at a local bank with an account number that was ridiculously easy to remember. He should have been more careful with that checkbook. Nate had a bipolar checking account. It was up and down sporadically, though typically more down than up.
He got most of his money from his father, something I knew because his snazzy accounting system included large sums of money with plus symbols next to them and the word ‘Dad’ tacked on at the end. But wherever he got his money aside, Nate had serious issues hanging on to a dollar. He took out large cash withdrawals with alarming regularity. As a person more familiar with the dirtier underbelly of the world we lived in, that suggested to me that Nate was into something like drugs or gambling. But what did I know? Maybe he liked kitten figurines and spent hundreds a month adding to his collection.
The Tell-Tale Con Page 5