by Lee Goldberg, Scott Nicholson, J A Konrath, J Carson Black,
“You asked me to do everything else.”
“I’m taking you out tonight.”
She narrowed her eyes. “But I’m making all the arrangements.”
“Right,” I said. “Remember to pick someplace expensive.”
I hurried off before she could ask me any more questions. I went back to my apartment to class myself up. I slathered some Arrid Extra Dry Ultra Fresh Gel under my arms, ran some water through my hair, and brushed my teeth. I washed down a couple Advils with a gulp of Pepto Bismol, then realized I should have done that before I brushed my teeth. The Pepto leaves a chalky residue on your tongue, but it has a nice, minty scent, so I decided not to brush again.
I changed into the only suit I had. It was black; I bought it for my mother’s funeral two years ago. That was the last time I wore it, but it still fit, and black is always cool.
Carol was waiting outside when I opened my door. She was wearing a low-cut dress, a fake-pearl necklace, and high-heeled shoes. She was also wearing make-up and had done something different to her hair that made her face seem bolder and sharper. Her eyes sparkled and her lips seemed fuller and redder than ever before.
She was beautiful.
Better than that, she’d become a woman.
Carol must have been thinking the same about me, opposite sex-wise, because she gave me the once-over two or three times and then flashed me this big smile.
“We’ve never gone out before,” she said.
“We’ve gone out hundreds of times.”
“Not like this.”
I took her hand. “Then we should have.”
***
The Bistro Garden in Studio City was big, open, and airy. The place was alive with the tinkle of silverware, soft music, and the occasional trill of a cell phone. It was fancy without being snobby.
Well, that’s not entirely true. When I drove up in my Kia Sephia, the valet hesitated before opening Carol’s door, like a compact car with a sticker price under twenty thousand dollars carries some kind of infectious disease. But she gave him a look through the window that promised immediate emasculation unless he jumped to attention, so he did. That was the only bump in an otherwise perfect evening.
While we waited for our steaks and lobsters, and ogled the movie stars and agents at the other tables, she took my hand from across the table.
“You’re forgetting something,” she said.
“Would you like some wine?” I replied. “Order whatever you like.”
“Thank you, but that’s not it. Last night, you promised me an explanation,” she said. “I want to know what happened to you yesterday and what tonight is all about.”
I thought about it for a minute. I thought about what I should leave out, what I should exaggerate, and what I should invent. In the end, I decided to tell her the truth and only leave out the part about wetting myself and everything related to that.
Even without that part, as I told the story I kept waiting to see the disappointment, disgust, and pity on her face, or for her to just start laughing at me. But instead she did something strange. She kept her hand on mine and, every so often, gave it a little squeeze.
Our dinner arrived, and while we ate, I told her the rest, about breaking into Pelz’s car and presenting my case to Parkus and getting paid the bonus.
“I was right, Harvey,” she said when I’d finished. “You’re good at this.”
“Even though I let Arlo Pelz beat me up?”
“The thing is you didn’t give up; you stuck to it and succeeded in what you were hired to do.”
I shrugged. “I suppose you’re right.”
“But more importantly, you proved something to yourself.”
“I did?”
“It’s changed everything about you. You’re proud of yourself, maybe for the first time,” she said. “Isn’t that what we’re here celebrating?”
I didn’t really know what we were doing. I just knew I didn’t want to eat dinner at Denny’s and that I didn’t want to be alone that night and there was only one person I really wanted to be with.
So, that’s what I tried to tell her.
“I don’t know what we’re doing,” I said. “I’m just glad we’re doing it together.”
Something seemed to melt in her. Me, too, if you want to know the truth.
Carol put her hand on mine. “Let’s go home, Harvey.”
***
It was the best sex of my life. It was like that moment when she buttoned up my shirt, only with intercourse thrown in.
I don’t know if it was because we had to go real slow because of my broken ribs, or because we’d dressed up nice and had a fancy dinner first, or because I’d finished a job and had some real money in my pocket.
All I know is that it lasted a long time, it felt real good, and afterwards I didn’t want to be anywhere else but in her bed and in her arms.
So, why the hell couldn’t I get Lauren Parkus out of my head?
I slipped out of bed, closed the door, and went into the kitchen. I picked up the phone, called the Universal Sheraton, and asked for Arlo Pelz’s room.
It was after midnight, and I had no idea what I was going to say to him, so it was probably a good thing that he’d already checked out.
I hung up the phone and stood there for a moment in the dark before I realized Carol was standing in the bedroom doorway in her bathrobe, looking at me. A tomato would have been wearing my shirt and nothing else.
“What are you doing, Harvey?” she asked.
I’d actually been asking myself the same question.
“Nothing.” I suddenly realized that I was naked and I wished I wasn’t.
“You’ve been paid,” Carol said. “The case is closed.”
“I don’t really feel like it is,” I replied. “I don’t know the answers to a lot of questions.”
“The answers are none of your business.”
“I know that, but I still want to know,” I said. Now I saw the look of disappointment on her face that I’d been expecting before. “I’m just doing my job.”
“No one is paying you anymore,” she said.
No one ever paid Spenser, either—the Robert Urich TV Spenser, I mean. All that mattered was justice, honor, and duty. That duty was to solve the mystery. Hell, even Encyclopedia Brown always did that, regardless of whether or not somebody plunked a quarter down on his table.
“But I only did half the work,” I said, trying to make her understand. “I didn’t solve the mystery. I don’t know who Arlo Pelz is or what Lauren Parkus is getting blackmailed about.”
“You were hired to follow her and find out why she was acting strange. You did that. The client is happy and you got paid.”
“Why do you think Cyril Parkus paid me so much? To buy me off. To get me to stop investigating. He knows who Pelz is.”
“Then there’s nothing left for you to investigate, is there? If he knows Pelz, then Parkus probably already knows what his wife’s secret is, or if he doesn’t, you gave him the leverage to get her to tell him.”
She stood there, looking at me. I really wished I had some clothes on.
“This isn’t about doing the job,” Carol said. “It’s about your curiosity.”
“That’s not true,” I argued, feeling very exposed. I stepped behind the kitchen counter for some cover. “Maybe I can help her.”
I was more exposed than I thought. I quickly corrected myself. “Maybe I can help both of them.”
If she caught my slip, she didn’t mention it.
“Harvey, you’ve done a good job. It could be the start of something. Of a lot of things. Don’t screw it up now.”
Carol turned around and went back to bed. I stood there for a moment, thinking about our conversation, weighing what she’d said. I also thought about what Spenser, Elvis Cole, Travis McGee, and Joe Mannix might say.
I knew what I had to do. I really didn’t have any other choice.
***
I was parked down t
he street from the Bel Vista Estates gate by seven thirty the next morning.
I couldn’t park in my usual spot, because Sergeant Victor Banos was sure to notice my car when he arrived to take over from Stanley Gertz, the old guy who handles my shift on my night off.
Even so, I could see who came and went from where I was, and had plenty of time to duck down under my dash when Cyril Parkus left at eight twenty and drove right past me.
I knew that Carol was right, but she just didn’t get it. She wasn’t immersed in the case the way I was. I couldn’t go back to sitting in my shack, watching Cyril and Lauren Parkus come and go, without knowing the truth.
I didn’t care whether it was my business or not.
And I was certain that most private eyes, at least most fictional ones, would agree with me on this, with the possible exception of Jim Rockford, who never did anything unless he was paid to or was forced into it at gunpoint.
So I sat there, waiting for something to happen.
As the hours passed, I found myself enjoying the wait, just sitting there watching the gate. There was something about being a private eye that gave even the simplest things in life more intensity. Even doing nothing suddenly had a thrilling edge to it.
It was certainly different from the experience of sitting in the shack and doing nothing.
I thought about going back to Swift Rent-A-Car and trying to talk the lady behind the counter into giving me more on Arlo Pelz. I felt I handled myself well last time, and that maybe we connected in some way towards the end.
Then again, there might be something in the computer about what happened to Arlo’s car, and if I walked in asking more questions, she might just call the cops on me.
I really had to find myself a big, brutal sidekick who wouldn’t care about ethics, morality, or the law, and would be glad to do all the dangerous or tricky stuff that I didn’t want to. I could send him to talk to her. He’d just walk in, stick his gun in the woman’s face, and leave with a complete printout of the information I wanted.
I imagined him. A huge, bald, Asian guy with a dragon tattoo on his face. His name would be Drago. We’d engage in lots of witty, tough-guy repartee. We’d share a manly code of honor. He’d pick up my uniform at the dry cleaners’.
Around eleven, Lauren sped through the gate in her Range Rover. I started the car and really had to floor it to keep up with her, inadvertently letting a couple cars slip in between us. She was in a hurry to go somewhere, and I had a feeling it wasn’t to get a cup of coffee.
I was excited. I had a hunch that my extra, added surveillance was going to have an immediate payoff. And then I was excited simply because I’d had a hunch. Before I became a private eye, I never had hunches.
Lauren raced down the hill towards the freeway. I wondered whether we’d be heading down to LA or up to Santa Barbara. I wondered if we’d be seeing Arlo Pelz again and if I’d have an opportunity to ambush him. When she passed the onramp, I knew we were going south.
But she suddenly came to a screeching stop in the middle of the freeway overpass, causing a domino-like chain reaction in the lane behind her. Everyone slammed on his brakes to avoid rear-ending the car in front of him. I was so busy trying not to become a Kia stain on the truck in front of me, I didn’t even see Lauren get out of her car.
When I saw her again, she was already standing on the rail above the freeway.
She turned her head and looked right at me, her eyes blazing with the intensity of spotlights, exposing me and everything I ever thought or felt.
And then, before I could even blink, Lauren faced straight ahead and dove gracefully into the traffic below.
Chapter Eleven
I never saw what happened next. But I heard it. The scraping and sliding and tearing and mashing of metal, glass, and flesh, and the moment afterward of unnatural stillness, when even time seemed shocked into immobility and silence, a stillness shattered by screams everywhere and the blur of people abandoning their cars, running down to the freeway to help the injured and the dead and to see the mess that one human being can make.
I backed up, made a screeching U-turn, and drove away. I didn’t want to be any part of it.
But I already was.
Lauren told me as much with that look. She said: I know you’re there. I know what you’ve seen. Now watch this, asshole.
Or maybe that wasn’t what she said. Maybe she was asking me a question: Why did you do this to me?
I didn’t know where to go or what to do. I just drove aimlessly. I wasn’t aware of the traffic, of the stoplights, or even the car itself. I was fleeing.
All I saw was that horrible moment again and again, on an endless-replay loop in my mind. And the more I thought about it, the more frightened I became, the more my stomach churned and ached and seized up.
I finally stopped the car and puked in the street, my broken ribs raging with pain with each deep, choking heave. When I was done, I leaned back against my car, clutching my sides, my whole body shaking, tears streaming down my checks.
And once again, I saw her head turning around slowly, her eyes intense, her lips curled in a tiny grimace.
She was looking for me. She wanted to be sure I was watching, that I would never forget.
And then Lauren was gone. Off the edge, taking me with her.
***
It was on the radio within the hour. I was somewhere out near Fillmore, driving aimlessly through the endless farmland, when I heard it.
They said a woman leaped to her death from a freeway overpass in Camarillo, causing a seventeen-car pile-up and injuring half a dozen people, two of them seriously.
Police had found her abandoned Range Rover and were withholding her identity until notification of next-of-kin.
Authorities said a full autopsy would be conducted to see if drugs or alcohol played a role in the horrific tragedy, but based on numerous witness accounts, they believed no foul play was involved.
They were calling it a suicide.
There was no mention of her looking at anybody first, or of the guy in the Kia Sephia who sped away from the scene.
No one was chasing me except my conscience, and that’s how it would stay.
I knew that Cyril Parkus wouldn’t tell them about her strange behavior, or that he’d hired a security guard to follow her around, or that somebody named Arlo Pelz was blackmailing her. I knew that despite the shock, the sorrow, and the disbelief, he would protect himself and her secret.
I had nothing to fear. And yet, I was terrified. Of what, I’m not sure. Maybe it was simply the knowledge that my presence alone could kill, that without even meeting someone, just by watching her, I could provoke death and injury.
That may have been why I was afraid, but it wasn’t why I felt guilty.
I didn’t really have a reason to be. I knew it wasn’t my idea to follow her. I knew I wasn’t the one blackmailing her and that I didn’t push her off that overpass. I knew I had nothing to do with the secret that haunted her.
But I still felt guilty.
Because I was there.
Because she wanted me to.
***
Fillmore was a Hollywood-perfect recreation of a small town from the ‘30s, only with cars from the ‘90s filling the diagonal parking spaces.
Actually, the town had always looked like this, until it was decimated by the 1994 earthquake. They quickly rebuilt the Main Street, faithfully restoring everything to the way it had been.
But it wasn’t really Fillmore any more, no matter how much they thought it was.
They had to know it, too; otherwise, why put historical placards on every building, detailing its history and rebirth?
It made the whole town feel like a museum exhibit. Because it was. An authentic recreation of a genuine California farming town.
Even so, walking down Main Street past the hardware store and pool hall and ice cream parlor was like stepping into an idealized, make-believe world, one more innocent and safe than the one we l
ive in.
I don’t know how I ended up there, but it was the perfect place for me to be. It didn’t matter if Fillmore was real any more or not. In fact, it was probably better that it wasn’t.
For the rest of the day, and into the night, I walked up and down the three blocks of Main Street, stopping to admire each and every window display. I sat in the park and fed the birds. I walked along the train tracks and had a slice of homemade pie at the diner.
I found a way to escape. I went to a place that didn’t really exist. Where even the kids playing in the park looked like re-creations. I was half-tempted to see if they had historical placards around their necks.
I didn’t think about Lauren Parkus.
I didn’t think about myself.
I just went numb.
And then, when the clock tower above City Hall chimed at eleven p.m., I snapped out of it. It was time to return to the real world.
But I was going back a different man.
I became a re-creation of myself. I looked like Harvey Mapes once looked, but like Fillmore, something had been lost.
I got in my car and drove back through the orchards and up through the hills and down into Camarillo again.
***
I went to work.
I didn’t know what else to do or where else to go. I just sat there and stared out into the night.
Around two a.m. the coyote showed up, stepping cautiously into the circle of light cast by the streetlamp. We looked at each other for a long moment, and then the telephone rang, startling us both.
The coyote ran away. I answered the phone.
“Front gate,” I replied.
“I saw you this morning.”
It was Cyril Parkus’ voice.
It sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a deep, dark pit.
“You were parked on the side of the road,” he said. “You tried to hide from me, but I knew you were there. Your windows were fogged up.”
Maybe he should have been a detective. He could have saved me a lot of pain.
“If you knew,” I asked, “why didn’t you do something about it?”
There was a long silence. I didn’t say anything, I just held the phone, listening to him breathe. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was almost a whisper.
