The Amazing Harvey (12 page)

Herb's nostrils flared. His eyes narrowed.

Either I've impressed him with my balls, or he just remembered he can snap my neck like a chicken's.

Herb clenched his fists.

Don't move, I told myself.

Are my hands shaking?

He lunged forward and grabbed my neck in a headlock. I flailed my arms, trying to hit any part of him. My fists glanced off his overalls. Using both my hands, I grabbed his arm that was holding my head and pulled so hard that my muscles quivered. His grip didn't budge. I twisted my head. My neck chafed against his shirtsleeve. “Herb! Let go of me!”

He started laughing.

Herb dug noogies into my scalp with his knuckle. “What am I gonna do with you, you little pisher?”

He let go so suddenly that I fell on the floor.

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

Next morning, I wandered down the aisle of a Walgreens on Riverside Drive. Hannah had called and woken me up early to say that the best use of my skills would be to buy her some lightly scented panty liners on my way to the office.

I walked along the feminine-hygiene section.

I don't think I've ever been on this aisle before.

The shelves were stuffed with bulging plastic packages of panty liners—pink, yellow, pastel blue. Lots of unscented but not one that was lightly scented.

I let out a sigh. Do I have to get a salesperson? That'll be fun. Asking for help with panty liners. It could be the second-most embarrassing drugstore incident of my life. First place goes to a night when I was sixteen and wanted to discreetly buy a package of condoms. I waited a half hour until I could get alone in a checkout line with a male clerk. He scanned the box four times and couldn't get a beep. So he grabbed a flexible chrome microphone, pulled it to his mouth, and told the store, “Price check on Trojan Ribbed, SuperSensitive.”

I came to the end of the feminine hygiene aisle.
There.
On the bottom shelf. Lightly scented panty liners. I grabbed the package and held it down at my side as I walked to the front.

The checkout clerk didn't smirk when the package moved toward him on the rubber conveyor belt. Neither did the old lady behind me.

The bar code beeped on the first try.
Whew.

As I drove to Hannah's office, my cell phone rang. “Yo.”

“Harvey, it's Marty.”

My magic agent, if you consider someone who hasn't gotten you work for three months to be your “agent.”

I said, “Hey.”

“I got a gig for you next week. It doesn't pay much, but—”

“I'll take it.”

“Crappy little convention. They only got a hundred bucks.”

I spoke loudly into the phone. “I'll take it.”

Marty laughed. “Man, if you were a chick, you'd always be pregnant.”

“I can use the money right now.”

“Fine, fine. You didn't even let me tell you the best part. There's a Vegas promoter who's going to be in town. He books five different casinos. I think I can get him to the show.”

“Excellent!” I made a pull-down gesture. “I still want the hundred bucks.”

“Yeah, yeah. And for God's sake, be on time.”

*   *   *

Whistling, I walked into Hannah's office. She was sitting at her desk, forehead scrunched, studying the computer screen. I set the panty liners on her desk. She didn't look up.

I said, “Here's your diamond bracelet.”

She kept her eyes on the monitor as she rapidly tapped the keyboard. “Mmm.”

I said, “I had a hard time finding ‘lightly scented.'”

“Mmm-hmm.” The keys clicked under her fingers.

“You didn't tell me which scent to get, so I made an executive decision.”

She stopped typing and looked at me, squinting in confusion. “There's more than one scent?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What did you get?”

“Tuna fish.”

Hannah whacked me on the arm so fast that I didn't see it coming.

Ow!
Shit.

I rubbed the throbbing spot. That girl can wallop.

Between Hannah's smack and the remnants of Herb's noogie, it's gonna be a great day.

Hannah said, “If you weren't being such an asshole, I'd have told you I've been working on the password for Sherry Allen's thumb drive.”

I stepped behind her to look at the screen.
Invalid Password
.

She swiveled her chair to face me and rubbed her eyes. “I can't get it. We have to hire a hacker.”

I leaned closer to the screen. “What have you tried?”

“Her address, birth date, Social Security number. Forward and backward. I tried her name, her son's name, her parents' names.”

Guess I don't need to mention that I already tried most of those. Though I only did the numbers. Why didn't I think of using names?

I said, “You try brothers? Sisters? Grandparents?”

“I don't have those. We need the hacker.”

“We can't afford a hacker.”

She shook her head. “Maybe I'll just give this to the cops.”

“Don't you want to know what's on it first?”

“We don't seem to have that option.”

“Can I try?”

She smirked. “If you want.”

What was important to Sherry? What could I tell from her apartment? That chair full of stuffed animals. I said, “Try Teddy. Try Barbie.”

Hannah turned back to her keyboard and punched them in. “Nope.”

“Monkey.”

Seemed like she was hitting the keys harder.
Invalid Password.

What else? Sherry had pictures of boyfriends. Pictures of a …

I said, “Hang on. I saw a dog dish with a name painted on it. It was … Melissa. No. Misty.”

She typed in
Misty.
The file opened.

Hannah looked at me like I was a three-year-old who'd just solved a calculus equation. “Very good.”

We both leaned into the computer screen.

It showed two file folders:
Personal
and
E-mails.

Hannah said, “The cops said they have her computer. The only things on it were songs, photos, and some papers she wrote for college. They checked her online e-mail account. The in-box and out-box were empty, and the trash was dumped. Maybe she backed up her e-mails before she erased them.”

I twisted my mouth to the side. “Who backs up e-mails?”

“Someone who has a reason to save them.”

She opened the
Confidential
folder. There were four files, titled
Ellison, Sutton, Michaels,
and
Bragg.

She clicked on
Ellison.
It read, “June 14. Babysat for Randy Ellison, 8:00 to 10:30
P.M.
Although he hugged me last time, this time he didn't acknowledge my being there. The entire evening, he stacked blocks, tore them down, restacked them, tore them down.”

Hannah clicked on Bragg.

“June 16. Babysat Helen Bragg. She echoed my speech. I said, ‘Hello, Helen.' She said, ‘Hello, Helen.' She drew circles over and over on the same page for an hour. When her parents got back, I heard them arguing outside the front door. Her father said he can't afford Helen's therapists. He's working an extra job and he's exhausted. Her mother said Helen will grow out of this. It's just a phase.”

Hannah scrolled down the screen, passing similar entries. “This is obviously her journal of the autistic kids. And none of our business.” She closed the file and clicked on the
E-mails
folder, then opened a file.

The first was an e-mail from someone named Linda, telling Sherry about a ski trip to Mammoth.

I said, “That's pretty mundane. Why would she go to the trouble to back it up, then hide it?”

“Maybe they're not all so mundane. Maybe someone was snooping around her computer and she didn't want them to see the e-mails.”

I glanced at Hannah, who was staring at the screen.

She opened another e-mail. A note from a social worker, asking if Sherry would take on a mildly autistic child named Arthur.

I said, “Will the cops fingerprint her computer keyboard?”

“Not likely. With all that banging around, it's hard to get a good print off computer keys. Besides, it would only mean someone used the computer.” Hannah opened another e-mail. She pointed at the screen. “Aha.”

I leaned in.

The e-mail was from Sherry. Addressed to KL186. She wrote, “You're making me nuts. Stop hassling me. Do I have to call the cops?”

It was dated February 20.

Two days before she was killed.

 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

We scrolled down to the beginning of the e-mail chain with KL186. The first was dated three months before Sherry died.

Just as Hannah clicked on it, the office door opened. We both looked up, like a couple of kids that'd been caught playing doctor behind the house.

A distinguished-looking man with gray hair, combed back perfectly, strode in. He wore a tailored gray stripe suit, gold watch, and rep tie. As he walked, he swung a shiny black alligator briefcase.

Hannah jumped up. “Daddy!”

Her father carefully set down his briefcase, then held his arms out to his sides. She ran to him, grinning like a toddler. He hugged her and picked her up. Hannah bent her knees, sticking out her feet as he swung her back and forth.

When he put her down, he said, “I sure couldn't do that when you were a little girl.”

Hannah's shoulders slumped.

Wow.
Has this asshole been ragging on Hannah's weight for her whole life?

Hannah turned to me, forcing a smile. “This is my father.”

I walked toward him, saying, “I kinda figured that when she called you ‘Daddy.'” I stuck out my hand. “I'm Harvey Kendall.”

He gave me a firm shake. “Bruce Fisher.” I got the same power stare that I'd gotten from Nadler. Do they, like, teach that in law school?

Actually, there was one slight difference between him and Nadler. Old man Fisher also had an “Are you banging my daughter?” look in his eyes.

Bruce said to Hannah, “I was in the neighborhood. Can I take my media starlet to an early lunch?”

She perked up. “Sure.” Hannah went back to the desk and grabbed her purse.

He said, “While I'm here, let me see your motion to suppress in the Desmond case.”

Hannah dropped her purse, opened a file on her desk, took out the papers, and handed them to her father. He took a pair of rimless half-glasses out of his coat pocket and started to read. Hannah watched him intently, shifting her weight back and forth.

Her father turned the page. “Mmm.”

She bit her lip, looking at Bruce like a figure skater waiting for the Olympic judges to hold up their signs.

He nodded slightly.

Hannah rubbed the front of her neck.

He turned another page.

Bruce finished the document and handed it to her.

He said, “Not bad. You've got a typo on page three, line sixteen. Courts hate that. And I would punch up the reference to
People versus Anandale.
Put your emphasis there.”

Hannah dropped the hand holding the papers limply to her side.

Her father smiled. “C'mon. We can discuss strategy over lunch.”

She threw the papers on the desk, picked up her purse, and whispered to me, “Stay off my computer.”

As she walked off with her father, I heard him say, “You were a little stiff on the news show. Memorize what you're going to say beforehand. When you read something, the audience can tell.”

Jeez.
Welcome to the Self-Esteem-Squashing Theater.

After the door closed, I waited a few minutes to make sure they weren't coming back, then sat down at the computer keyboard and hit the space bar to knock off the screen saver.

Shit! She passworded the damn thing.

What, she doesn't trust me?

I took a guess at her password and hit
ENTER.

Guess
BITCH
isn't it.

I let out a sigh.

Thanks, Hannah. Daddy waltzes in, makes Dumbo fat jokes, eviscerates your work, and you take off with him like a teenage girl running to the football captain's convertible. Leaving me and my murder case hanging.

Maybe those e-mails have something time-sensitive in them.

It's my neck that might get stretched here. Seriously stretched.

*   *   *

Hannah got back at her usual two fifteen, looking glum. I said, “Does your father always treat you like that?”

She took a half step back. “What do you mean?”

Ooops.
“I, well, you know … criticizing your work.”

“He's a brilliant lawyer. I couldn't achieve half of what I've done if he didn't push me to do my best.”

From the look on her face, she meant maybe half of that.

Hannah said, “Did anyone call?”

“Yeah. A slug of press people.” I handed her the yellow pad on which I'd written the names. “Also, some guy named Terence Lund. He said he's a corporate lawyer and he's got an emergency for one of his clients. I tried your cell, but you didn't answer.”

Hannah grabbed the phone and dialed. “Terence? Hannah Fisher.” She started pacing.

After a few back-and-forths, she stopped at her desk, leaned over, and wrote on a yellow pad. Hannah scowled; then her mouth formed a little smile.

She said, “Okay, I'll take care of it. Listen, why don't you just do a memo to all your male clients. Tell them if they go down to Whoreville on Sunset, there is no such thing as a gorgeous young blond woman who's down on her luck and trying to make a few bucks. Those are all undercover cops.”

She hung up, shaking her head, then dialed a reporter and repeated what she'd said about Desmond on television.

I started filing.