by Don Passman
I felt my chest tighten. “I’m good for it.”
She shook her head. “I’ll get you a public defender who won’t charge you.”
I swallowed. “I don’t want a public defender. I want you.”
“I’m sorry. It’s business.”
I nodded slowly, to give myself a few seconds to think. “Okay. Business. How about this? I’ll write you a check for three grand. That’s almost all my savings. That means I’m totally committed.”
“I told you. Criminal lawyers—”
“Get paid in advance. Look, what will it take?”
She crossed her arms. “Wait a minute. How could you afford Nadler?”
I gritted my teeth. “My mother was going to give me the money.”
“And…”
I looked at the carpet. “She said she’d only pay for him. Not anyone else.”
Hannah rubbed the front of her neck. “Harvey—”
“I don’t want Nadler. I want you. I’ll work in your office. I’ll try to send you business. I’ll do your laundry.”
I got a crack of a smile.
I produced a red silk handkerchief and held it out to her. “How can you resist someone who makes hankies out of thin air?”
I almost got the rest of the smile.
“Hannah, please. I really need you.”
She stared at me.
I raised my eyebrows, trying to looking like a pet store puppy dog who wants to go home with the customer.
Hannah slowly shook her head. “Well, I hate sending anyone to Nadler.…”
I smiled, nodding.
She said, “Maybe I could use a little help in the office.”
I made a pull-down Yes! gesture. “Excellent! I can use my magic skills to find new angles on your cases.”
“Nice thought, but what I really need is someone to file, answer the phones, and run errands.”
We had something of a negotiation, considering I had no leverage whatsoever. I agreed to work in her office full-time, except for substitute teaching, since that put money in both our pockets. Hannah also agreed to let me off for my magic gigs. That wasn’t much of a give on her part, considering I hadn’t worked in a month. And most of the gigs were at night.
I lost the last negotiating issue, about bringing my bird to the office.
* * *
When I got to her office the next morning, Hannah pointedly looked at her watch and said, “It’s nine twelve. My office opens sharply at nine.”
Well, aren’t we off to a good start? “Sorry.”
She waved at the papers lying on her desk, her chairs, her filing cabinet, and the floor. “I’m way behind on filing. Most of these are stacked by client, and they should be in chronological order. Please check to make sure they’re correct, then punch them into the proper file. Each file has three sections—one for my notes, one for correspondence, and one for court documents. Got that?”
“Absolutely.” Sort of. In truth, my filing skills peaked at stuffing overdue bills in a drawer.
Hannah opened her desk drawer, took out a metal punch that cuts two holes in the top of a page—and handed it to me. She said, “When everything’s clipped in, put the files in the cabinet, alphabetically by client. If there are multiple files for the same client, then put them alphabetically by matter, and then chronologically if a single matter has more than one file. I’m expecting a delivery of some documents in the next few hours. When they come, take them to Kinko’s and make two copies. They’re sensitive materials, so you have to do it personally. Don’t just hand them to a clerk.”
She picked up the phone and dialed a number.
I looked around at the stacks of papers on every available surface. While Hannah yapped on the phone and paced, I picked the smallest one I could find. The client’s name was Arnold. It said: “B and E”—whatever that meant. Oh. Breaking and entering. I sat cross-legged on the floor and started to sort the stuff by dates. Ow. Shit. Paper cut. I sucked on my finger.
It took about ten minutes to get the papers in order and punched. Guess that wasn’t so bad. I went to the file cabinet, took out the file, then sat on the floor and started to clip them in. Oh, wait. I forgot I was supposed to separate the correspondence and notes and other crap. I let out a sigh.
Maybe Mom really could afford Nadler.…
After I clipped Mr. Arnold into his file, I grabbed another stack and noticed the papers had my name on them. I glanced over at Hannah. She was lost in a phone call. I turned my back to her and took a peek.
At the top was a copy of the police report on Sherry Allen’s murder. My pal Sergeant Morton’s handwriting could use a Rosetta Stone. Either the victim’s address was 4529, No. 9, Kester Avenue in Van Nuys, or he wanted to put 45,299 Jesters in a Vat of Ice. From what I could decipher, she was twenty-four years old and worked with autistic kids. Cause of death was strangulation.
No location for the father of her son. Child turned over to foster care.
I turned the page and saw a photo of the murder scene. My breathing stopped. I quickly looked away.
Then glanced back.
She was nude, lying on her back, tied spread-eagle to the bed. Her eyes and mouth were open wide, like she was shocked that this was happening to her.
How could someone do this to another person?
How could they think my DNA was there?
Hang on.…
I studied the picture. Something’s off.
What is it?
The way her wrists were tied to the headboard with rope. There’s something …
What?
I kept staring. There!
The rope. That’s it.
I took the photo over to Hannah, who was still yapping on the phone. She gave me a look that said, Why are you not filing?
I held out the photo. She scowled at me, then put her hand over the mouthpiece. “You’re supposed to be clipping materials, not nosing into the files. Especially yours, which you can do on your own time.”
I said, “She wasn’t really tied to the bed.”
“Excuse me?”
“Look.” I pointed to a small gap in the rope loops around her wrists.
She held up her hand, signaling me to hold on, then finished the conversation. Hannah let out an impatient breath. “What is it?”
I pointed at the photo and said, “Look at the gap in the rope. When Houdini let an audience member tie him up with rope, he flexed his muscles. No matter how tightly they cinched the ropes, when he relaxed, it created enough slack for him to slip out. See that space around her wrists? It’s a fake. Maybe some kinky thing. She could have easily gotten loose.”
Hannah took the photo, squinched her eyes at it, then looked up. “So she probably knew the killer.”
“Exactly. Maybe it was rough sex, but it probably wasn’t rape.”
“Get me the file.”
I grabbed the rest of the papers off the floor and handed them to her.
Hannah thumbed through, stared at a page, then looked at me. “You’re right. The coroner said it’s not clear whether it was rape or just rough sex.”
I grinned, saying, “Let’s go look at her apartment.”
Hannah backed up. “What?”
“Maybe we’ll find something the cops missed.”
She laughed. “So, Mr. Sleuth for a Day, you’re going to waltz in and solve the case?”
“Yep.”
She shook her head. “You can’t go to the crime scene.”
“I’ll wear latex gloves.”
“I’m not worried about prints. The cops have already released the scene.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“There’s probably a thousand of them, but let’s start with this. Her neighbors see you; then in court, they say you look familiar. In the minds of a jury, that could place you at the crime scene.”
“I’ll wear a disguise.”
Hannah rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that won’t be suspicious. Why don’t you put on a kimono and t
ell them you’re Japanese?”
“I was thinking I’d go as a dog.”
“Unless you use a doggy door, they won’t let you in.” She shook her head. “You have no right to be there without a court order.”
“Then we’ll have to rely on my charm.”
She twisted her mouth. “Drop the ‘we.’”
“Hey. We might find something important. I mean, I might find something important.”
“This is stupid. If you’re not going to listen to my advice, I can’t be effective as your lawyer.”
“You wanted a detective to help with the case. Who’s better at figuring out mysteries than a magician?”
“If you get caught, you’ll be in even deeper shit.”
“Then I won’t get caught. Look. I already found something in the photo that the cops didn’t notice. Who knows what I’ll find when I actually go there?”
She stared at me. The phone rang. She didn’t answer it. “You committed to working here full-time.”
“I get an hour for lunch, don’t I? When you go to your mysterious meeting?”
She glared at me.
Why’s she so touchy about those meetings? A shrink maybe? Hardly a big deal these days. Isn’t having a shrink kinda like making a fashion statement?
Hannah shook her head. “I guess you’re free to be an idiot on your lunch hour. I don’t want to know about it.”
“Then I guess I can’t thank you for something you don’t know about.”
She wagged her finger at me. “If you screw up your case, I’m resigning.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Be back at two fifteen. Sharp.”
Ja wohl, mein Führer.
I grinned as I went back to filing.
She softened her voice. “And be careful.”
CHAPTER TEN
As soon as Hannah left for her mysterious appointment, I went to Kinko’s, xeroxed the police report on Sherry Allen, and headed home. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I twisted open a bottle of spirit gum and took out the little brush that was attached to the cap. I painted my upper lip with the cold liquid, picked up the mustache that I sometimes use onstage, and pressed it onto my lip. The thing smelled like old hair. I looked in the mirror and twisted my lip.
I took the phony can of foam shaving cream from my medicine cabinet and screwed off the bottom, to get to my ultrasecret hiding place that every thief probably learns about in Burglary 101. I fished out my secret “tools” and stuck them in my pocket.
* * *
When I got to Sherry Allen’s street, Kester Avenue, I parked a block away from her address. No need for anyone to see my car near her building.
I walked toward the apartment house, which was one of those beige boxes that spawned like paramecium in the 1960s. On the front wall, the name Kester Prince was spelled in wooden letters that were covered with sparkly metal disks. Below the sign was a scraggly palm tree with dried brown fronds, sticking out of a white-rock flower bed.
The building was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence that looked like it was added long after the building went up. Probably when the neighborhood took a nosedive. I stopped at the security gate’s phone box and looked at the directory. There were maybe twenty names printed on little cards. Near the bottom was S. Allen.
I picked up the phone and dialed the manager.
A man’s voice said, “Yes?”
“Hi. I’m investigating the Sherry Allen incident. Could we talk a few minutes?”
“Are you with the police?”
“No.”
“I already talked to the police.”
“I know. This will only take a minute.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a private detective. May I come in?”
The door buzzed.
I went into the building. The center hall was dimly lit by coiled fluorescent bulbs dangling from ceiling sockets. The air smelled like damp carpet.
Halfway down, I saw a middle-aged man step out of his door and look at me. He had thinning black hair and loose skin under his jaw that sagged like a canvas pouch. As I got close, I saw a mass of curly hair spilling over the neck of his Hawaiian shirt.
The manager struck out his hand. “Jim Caldwell.”
“Horace Kimbel.” Close enough. If I get questioned, I’ll say I gave him my right name but he misunderstood me.
Jim looked at me, almost squinting.
He said, “Have we met?”
Huh? How could he possibly even think that?
I said, “No.” Did my voice go up when I spoke?
He kept staring at me.
The fake mustache felt stiff against my lip.
Caldwell shrugged an Oh well. “How can I help you?”
“Could we talk privately for a minute?”
He shrugged. “C’mon in.”
I followed Jim into his apartment. The living room had a beige couch with black piping, a wagon-wheel coffee table, and a television on a wheeled cart with wires trailing behind. Decor by Chez Goodwill. One wall had several wooden racks that displayed a collection of spoons with city names on the handles. I’d seen those things in souvenir stores. Always wondered who bought them.
I said, “How many spoons do you have?”
Jim gave a throaty Ugh. “Eleven hundred and something. My wife’s idea of a hobby.” He shook his head. “These are her favorites. The rest are in a couple of old suitcases.”
I walked over and looked at the display: Philadelphia Bicentennial, Los Angeles ’84 Olympics, New Orleans Jazz Festival.
I turned to him and said, “Nice.”
He gave me a look that said, You can’t possibly mean that.
I said, “So, Jim. Can you tell me a little about Sherry Allen?”
The door to the hall opened. A short woman with a down-turned mouth came in, carrying a bag of groceries. She looked at me like I might be a spoon thief, then hustled into the kitchen.
Jim said, “Why’re you asking about Sherry?”
“Like I said, I’m working as a private detective.”
“For who?”
I swallowed. “A possible suspect in the case.”
“Who?”
“Sorry, I can’t say.”
Jim stared at me, cocked his head, and squinted.
Finally, he said, “I didn’t know much about Sherry. I’ve only been the manager here about six months. She was living in the building when I got hired.”
“You must know something.”
“Well … She had a little dog. The neighbors sometimes complained about the barking. Otherwise, she wasn’t any trouble. Paid her rent on time. Which is more than I can say for a lot of folks around here.”
“Did she get many visitors?”
“I wouldn’t really know.”
“Boyfriends?”
“Sorry.”
“Could I see her apartment?”
Jim lowered his eyebrows. “I don’t think I can do that.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I could be responsible if something turned up missing.”
“You can come in with me.”
“Sherry’s parents are coming to pick up her stuff, day after tomorrow. I’m not authorized to let a stranger in. Maybe you should talk to her parents.”
Great idea. I’ll just say, “Hello, Mrs. Allen. The cops think I screwed your daughter, then killed her. Would you mind if I poked through her things?”
Shit.
The parents’ arrival isn’t good news. Once they pick up her stuff, I’ll never get to see it.
I raised my eyebrows, pleading. “I’d only need a few minutes. It’d be just between you and me.”
Jim shook his head. “Sorry.”
“What if I threw in a few spoons?”
He smiled.
I let out a little sigh. “Could I see her rental application?” I figured maybe I could find some info on her friends, employers—that kind of stuff.
“That’s also confidential. Look
, you seem like a nice fella, but I gotta be careful here. You know, with the cops and all.”
“What harm could it do?”
“You know how things are these days. Everybody suing everybody. I could lose my job.”
We went on in that vein awhile. I got precisely nowhere.
I said, “Well, thanks for your time.”
“Sure.” He walked me to the door of his apartment.
I stepped into the hall and turned back. “I’ll check back, in case you think of anything.”
Jim gave me another “Are you sure I don’t know you?” look.
I started toward the front of the building, listening for the manager to close his door.
When I heard the lock catch, I slowed down and glanced back.
Empty hallway.
I stood there a moment to make sure he wasn’t coming back out.
When he didn’t appear, I walked down the dim hall and stopped in front of Sherry’s apartment.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As I reached for the handle of Sherry’s apartment door, I got another idea.
I walked farther down the hall and knocked on the door of her next-door neighbor. No one home. Then I banged on the door directly across the hall from Sherry’s. Inside, I heard footsteps. A few seconds later, the door opened and I saw an elderly lady with disheveled hair, wearing a pink terrycloth bathrobe, even though it was almost two in the afternoon.
The woman squinted at me. “Yes?” With an age-spotted hand, she pulled the lapels of the robe tight against her throat.
I said, “I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Horace Kimbel, and I’m doing a private investigation into the unfortunate incident with Sherry Allen.”
Her eyes softened. “That poor dear.”
“You knew her?”
She squinted at me. “Who are you again?”
“A private detective.”
“Can’t you get this from the police? I talked to them for over an hour.”
I nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry to ask again. It’s important for me to talk directly to the witnesses. How did you say you knew her?”
She nodded. “I babysat Sherry’s son, Brandon, sometimes. Sweetest little boy. Do you know how he’s doing?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, I don’t.”
She let go of the bathrobe lapels. “Ironic, isn’t it? Sherry had to leave her own child so she could help those autistic children? She wanted to go to medical school, you know. She was taking science classes at Northridge.”
