by Don Passman
Shake it off. Got a show to do.
When I got the second case inside, I put Lisa on her perch and started unloading the tricks.
Keep your mind on the show. These people are paying you. They deserve your best.
I shoulda brought one of my escape routines. Might be the last time I get to use it.
I unfolded my black velvet table and set up the coins for Miser’s Dream. I put the Dice Box on the table, then arranged the cards for Joanne the Duck. I unpacked my silver urn for the signed twenty-dollar bill, then took out the red, white, and blue silks for my Mismade Flag. That’s the trick where I blend the silks into an American flag but “accidentally” drop the blue one, so the flag comes out with just red and white. Then I put the blue silk in with the mismade flag, and produce …
My body jerked, as if I’d been stung by a bee. Lisa dug her claws into my shoulder to keep her balance.
Wait a minute.…
Blending.
Is it possible?
I thought about Mom grafting that shrub in the backyard. What did she say? The little branch becomes part of the root stock?
I’ve been thinking someone duplicated my DNA. What if …
Could that be how my DNA ended up at the crime scene?
Could it …
Long shot, but …
I know who can tell me.
I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Carly’s apartment. Got her voice mail. “Carly. It’s Harvey. Call as soon as you get this. It’s urgent.”
I left the same message on her cell, then shoved the phone into my pocket.
Did I piss her off so badly that she won’t call back? If I have to, I’ll call her every half hour. Forever.
This could be the explanation. It’s so simple. The most brilliant magic secrets are often simple. Could this case be the same?
Carly will know.
I heard a thunk and my head shot up. Is Sergeant Morton coming to haul me off, like the last time I did a show?
I don’t see anything. Probably something fell in the next room.
No. Morton won’t show. The court’s got a million bucks of some bail bondsman’s money that says he can’t touch me.
For now anyway.
I went on setting up the tricks. I took out my cell phone and made sure it was on vibrate and loud ring. I checked to see if I’d missed a call.
Why isn’t she calling back?
In the foyer, I heard the muffled sound of bankers chatting it up.
I looked at my watch. Twenty minutes to showtime. C’mon Carly.
I finished setting up the tricks and looked at my cell phone again. No calls.
Ten minutes to go.
What the hell …
I called her again. Got voice mail. “This is really, really urgent. Please. Please. Call me. Right away.”
Maybe she’s getting stoned and humping Mr. New York.
They gotta come up for air sooner or later.
The doors to the dining room swung open. The sound of the conversations grew louder.
The bankers started trickling inside. I gave my phone one last look.
Shit.
I turned it off.
* * *
The show went incredibly well. Two standing ovations from people who sit all day. Afterward, I got a lot of compliments, even a few requests for my card. Better book me quickly.
As soon as the last banker was gone, I turned on my cell. One voice mail.
“Harvey, this is Carly. I got your—”
Yes!
I hung up on the voice mail and called her back.
I heard the phone clunk. “Hullo?” Her voice was heavy with sleep.
“Did I wake you?”
She yawned. “It’s okay.”
“It’s only ten o’clock.”
“I’m in New York.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Her voice got a little steadier. “You said it was an emergency.”
I cleared my throat. “You used to do genetic research, right?”
She yawned. “Uh-huh.”
“I need to ask you a question about DNA.”
“Okay.”
“Well. Here’s the thing. I was watching my mother graft a branch onto a shrub, and I started wondering—is it possible to change someone’s DNA?”
“Not without a radical procedure.”
My heart thunked. It is possible! “What kind of procedure?”
“Like a bone-marrow transplant.”
“What’s that?”
“You take bone marrow from a donor’s hip and inject it into the patient. The patient takes on the DNA of the donor.”
I said, “Would this be done for someone who had cancer?” Like me, when I was seven?
“Not most cancers. It’s a very specialized procedure.”
“Which cancers is it used for?”
I heard the rustling of sheets, like she was sitting up. “Is this about your case?”
“Yeah.”
Her voice cleared. “Explain please.”
I told her about my DNA being at the crime scene, and how I’d had cancer as a child.
She said, “What kind of cancer did you have?”
“Leukemia.”
Her sheets swished. “Bingo.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
As soon as I hung up with Carly, I called Hannah on her cell.
No answer. Left an urgent message.
Not at home, either. Shit.
Is she out…? tumbling around with her Mercedes Prince?
I packed my tricks and hurried home. Just as I came through my apartment door with Lisa on my shoulder, the phone rang.
Hannah said, “This better be important.”
“Someone else has my DNA.” Lisa pecked at my ear.
“Statistically, those chances are about one in a billion.”
“Unless you had leukemia as a child.”
“What?”
I told her what Carly said.
Silence.
I said, “Hannah?”
Hannah cleared her throat. “Is that true?”
“Yes.” Lisa shuddered on my shoulder. I said, “Carly works at the DNA lab. Isn’t this all we need for ‘reasonable doubt’? Can you get the charges dismissed?”
It sounded like Hannah was shifting the phone around. She said, “Not so fast. First, I have to legally verify this is scientific fact. Second, if it is, we need to know who the other person is.”
“Why? As long as there’s someone out there, isn’t that enough to throw doubt on me?”
“Not really. The apartment manager connected you to the scene.”
I fell onto my couch.
Hannah said, “Finding this person may be difficult. Medical records are private.”
“Hey. I’m the guy that found Sherry’s thumb drive.”
“If you’re thinking of breaking and entering a hospital, I would remind you that’s a crime. You probably don’t need another one on your record. Also, there’s an excellent chance that stolen records won’t be admissible in court. Most judges won’t let you profit from an illegal act.”
Got it. In other words, you don’t need to hear how I get those records. “Leave that to me.”
Hannah said, “What if this other person is living in Africa? Or dead?”
“He wasn’t in Africa when the murder happened. And he definitely wasn’t dead.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Simple.” I rubbed Lisa’s chest. “I didn’t do it. That means he did.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Next morning, I drove to my mother’s house. When the foster kids opened the door, I smelled baking brownies. In a chorus, they said, “Show us a trick, Uncle Harvey.”
”Okay, okay.” I did the one where I take a regular-size deck and turn it into a tiny one. That was good for an Ooooh.
I went into the kitchen and sat down at the table.
Mom said, “You hungry?”
Why does walking into her kitc
hen always make me hungry? “Do I smell warm brownies?”
She took a pan out of the oven, used a sifter to sprinkle powdered sugar on top, then cut me a gigantic piece. Mom put it on a plate, slid it in front of me, and licked the chocolate residue off her fingers. She sat down with an Umph.
I took a bite of the brownie, then chewed until I was able to talk. “Where was I treated for leukemia?”
She drew back. “Why?”
“I’ve figured out what happened in the criminal case. When you have a bone-marrow transplant, you take on the DNA of the donor.”
Mom’s eyes widened. “The killer was that nice young man?”
I bolted upright, sending a spray of powdered sugar off the brownie. “You know who he is?”
“You met him, too.”
I set down the brownie. “I did? When?”
“When you were eight years old. About a year after your treatment. The hospital has an event every year for all their donors and recipients.”
“Why haven’t we been going?”
Mom leaned back. “Because of what happened when we went to the first event, one year after your transplant. As soon as we turned into the hospital driveway, you recognized the place and thought you were going to get more shots. You screamed so loud that people in the parking lot held their ears. You grabbed the car door and wouldn’t let go. When I finally got you to the picnic area, you were sobbing. Then you ran away. I found you behind some bushes, dragged you back, and finally located your donor. You hid behind me and wouldn’t talk to him.”
“Really? I don’t remember any of that.”
“Well, I do.” Mom reached over, picked up my brownie, and took a bite. “That’s why we never went back.” Her words were mushy from chewing.
“Tell me about the donor.”
She set the brownie on my plate and dusted powdered sugar off her hands. “He was probably in his late twenties. Brown hair, bluish eyes. He told me his sister died of leukemia back in the days before they had bone-marrow transplants. So he put himself in a marrow registry when he was twenty. We were very lucky to find a match for you. It’s not so easy.”
“You know his name?”
She shook her head. “Honey, it’s been over twenty years.”
“You don’t have it written down anywhere?”
She looked pained.
I toyed with the edge of the brownie plate. “Do you know if the hospital’s records are sealed?”
“I would think so. We signed all kinds of papers that said we had no right to know the donor’s name.”
I stood up. “What’s the name of the hospital?”
“City of Hope.”
* * *
I went home and stuck my lockpicks in my pocket. Good chance the files are in a locked room, probably in a locked file cabinet. If they even have twenty-year-old files at the hospital. They might be in some warehouse. Or destroyed.
I took the 210 freeway to the city of Duarte, where City of Hope is located, and turned into the hospital’s long driveway. I went past rolling lawns dotted with beige stucco cottages, past enormous redwood trees whose branches swayed in the wind. On my right, behind a hedge, I saw a rose garden.
This place looks more like a college campus than a hospital. There must be a hundred acres here.
As I got near the parking lot, I felt myself gripping the wheel. I slowed the car, then stopped. Looked in my rearview mirror.
I rolled down the window. Sucked in a deep breath. Let it out slowly.
I don’t consciously remember this place. Why do I want to run?
Forcing my foot against the gas pedal, I chugged up to about 10 miles per hour, then turned into the parking lot.
I don’t see any spaces. Should I come back?
C’mon. This is silly.
I opened the glove compartment, pulled a tissue from the plastic packet, and patted my forehead.
There’s a space.
I pulled into it, killed the engine, and climbed out. As I walked down the sidewalk alongside the driveway, I jangled my keys. In the distance, I saw a courtyard with a huge water fountain. Behind it was a sprawling two-story concrete building whose facade was feathered with trees. To my right, the multicolored blooms of the rose garden caught my eye. Among the roses was a tall iron gate gilded in gold, with cut metal lettering: There Is No Profit in Curing the Body if in the Process We Destroy the Soul.
As I got closer to the main building, I saw that the large marble fountain sprayed arcs of water below a modernistic bronze statue of a mother and father with their arms stretched over their heads, holding up a child. I walked to the edge of the fountain and stood there, listening to the shush of the water, feeling the droplets spray my face.
Get on with it.
I forced myself to walk inside the hospital, where a round woman at the front desk said, “May I help you?”
I cleared my throat. “Um … Hi.”
She nodded. “Hello.”
“I was a bone-marrow-transplant patient here many years ago.”
The woman broke into a broad grin. “Well, welcome back.”
“Uh … thanks. I was wondering—how can I get information on my marrow donor?”
“Since you’re asking, I assume it wasn’t a relative?”
“Yes. I mean, no, it wasn’t.”
She picked up the phone, dialed an extension, explained that I was looking for my donor, then hung up. She turned around and called out, “Helen, can you take this gentleman down to MUD?”
I said, “MUD?”
She chuckled. “Sorry. Our code around here. It means Matched Unrelated Donors.”
Helen led me down the hall and into an elevator. We went to the basement, then walked along a stark white corridor to a set of gray double doors, which Helen opened for me. I stepped into a large area with blue-green walls and an array of cubicles with gray fabric walls. I heard a whir overhead and looked up at a metal track hanging a couple of feet from the ceiling. A metal box about the size of a briefcase was moving along the track.
Helen noticed me watching and said, “That’s our system of moving patient records around the hospital. What’s your last name, dear?”
The metal box disappeared through a hole in the wall. I looked at Helen. “Kendall.”
A woman’s voice said, “That’d be me.” A tall lady with wavy black hair stood up behind her cubicle wall. “We divide the alphabet. I’ve got I through P.” She motioned me over.
I walked over to the tall woman, who stuck out her hand. “I’m Jill Buccholz. Have a seat.”
We shook hands. Her hand was a lot warmer than mine.
I sat next to Jill’s desk and looked around the room. In the back, I saw a door with a high-security lock. Would that be the file room? Pretty high-tech lock. Not sure I can pick it.
Jill said, “Mr. Kendall?”
I looked back at her. Did she catch me casing the place?
“How can I help you, Mr. Kendall?”
I explained that I was looking for my donor.
She said, “If the donor signed a consent form saying you could know his or her identity, then it’s easy. If not, I have to send a request to the hospital where the person donated. They’ll try to contact the donor. If they can, and if the person’s willing to meet, we can put you in touch.”
“That sounds like it could take a long time.” I pulled my chair a little closer, trying to look at her computer screen. It was turned so I couldn’t see. Guess she’s done this before.
Jill said, “If the hospital can’t find the donor, or if the person’s not willing to meet, the only thing I can tell you is the person’s gender and age at the time of donation.”
“It’s a he.”
“You were already told?”
“I met him when I was little.”
She raised her eyebrows in an “Ah!” expression. “If you met him, I’m sure he signed a consent. This should be easy. Spell your name, please?”
Jill punched my name into the c
omputer. “Here we go. Your donor was James Caldwell. Age twenty-eight at the time of donation.”
Why does that name sound familiar? I said, “Do you have his contact information?”
“I have an address and phone from the date of his registration. That was thirty years ago.”
“I’ll take it.”
She tapped the computer keys. A printer on her desk hummed, then chugged out a page. She handed it to me.
James Caldwell
10527 Lucerne Drive
Simi Valley, CA
805-555-8121
I stared at the page, furrowing my forehead.
Caldwell …
Why does that name sound familiar? It’s not that common a name.
I slowly shook my head. Can’t think of it.
Maybe I’m just getting desperate.
I said, “Thanks,” folded the paper in half, and stood up.
* * *
As soon as I got outside, I opened my cell phone and dialed Caldwell’s number.
A woman answered. “¿Bueno?”
“Is James Caldwell there?”
“¿Mande?”
“Caldwell. You speak English? ¿Inglés?”
I got a barrage in Spanish.
I hung up and walked toward my car. The soles of my shoes scraped the concrete sidewalk.
Caldwell. I know that name.…
How?
I called Hannah. “Does the name James Caldwell sound familiar to you?”
“No. Should it?”
I twisted my mouth to the side. “Can you look him up on your computer?”
“What’s this about?”
“I’ll explain later. It’s urgent.”
“I’m in the middle of—”
“C’mon, Hannah.”
Sounded like she was banging the keyboard hard.
“Got it.”
I felt my pulse spike. “Excellent. Give me his info.”
“He died in the Boston Massacre of 1770.”
“Probably not the same guy.” A little lady in a walker cut in front of me. “Give it another try.”
“Will you please explain what’s going on?”
I hurried around Grandma Walker. “Caldwell is…”
Of course!
I stopped suddenly, almost tripping the old lady, who said, “Watch it, sonny.”
Hannah said, “Harvey?”
I suddenly remembered and broke into a wide grin.
