The Amazing Harvey (2 page)

Morton lowered himself into a guest chair. Dupont set his briefcase on the floor and stood behind Morton, staring at me.

Morton said, “Were you arrested for a DUI in Virginia a few years back?”

I jolted. Lisa fluttered her wings, slapping my neck. I said, “That was just some college stupidity. The charges were dismissed.”

“We know. No problem there.”

I leaned back a little. “What do you want?”

“Mr. Kendall, do you remember that they took a sample of your DNA when they arrested you in Virginia?”

I certainly did. They wanted to take my blood with a needle and I freaked out so badly that I had to be restrained by two officers. I couldn't help it. I have this horrible phobia of needles, because I was really sick when I was a kid and I got a lot of painful injections. The few times I needed shots as an adult, they had to first give me something close to a horse tranquilizer. Remembering it, I felt my pulse beat in my neck.

I swallowed drily. “What's this about?”

“We'd like to ask you a few questions.”

“I've got students waiting for me.”

“Won't take long.” He kept smiling at me. His grin was starting to feel like saltwater taffy, the way it starts out sweet in your mouth but then you keep chewing and pretty soon you think your teeth are going to rot.

I said, “What's this all about?”

“You thirsty? Want something to drink?”

“I guess.…”

Morton turned to Dupont. “Grab us a coupla Cokes, okay?” He turned back to me. “Coke all right?”

“Just water.”

Dupont left, closing the door behind him.

The room went quiet.

The air felt thick.

Morton massaged his temples with his fingertips. “How'd you get interested in magic?”

“How do you know about my magic?”

He chuckled. “I used my detecting skills. First clue was your outfit.” Morton leaned back, tipping his chair onto its back legs. “And to be honest, I've done a little nosing around. I love magic. How'd you get started?”

“Sorry, but what's that got to do with my DNA?”

Morton leaned forward, clunking the chair legs against the floor. He held up his palms in a gesture of Hey, didn't mean any harm. Morton said, “Just making some friendly conversation.”

I stood up. “I need to get back to my class.”

Dupont came through the door with two Coke cans and a bottle of water. He gave Morton a can and handed me the icy plastic water bottle. I twisted off the top and gulped down a mouthful, feeling my Adam's apple bob as I swallowed. I sucked in more water, squeezing the bottle hard enough to make the plastic crackle. I felt a chest freeze from the ice water.

Morton popped the top on a Coke can, took a sip, and let out a sigh like it was a good year for that batch of syrup. He said, “Please sit down, Mr. Kendall. I promise this won't take long.”

I slowly sat, keeping my eyes on him. Dupont stood against the wall behind Morton.

Morton said, “You know someone named Sherry Allen?”

Both men watched me intensely.

I scrunched my forehead. “Who?”

“Sherry Allen.”

“No.”

Morton leaned forward. “Woman in her early twenties. From Van Nuys?”

“No.”

“Single mom, with an eighteen-month-old son. She worked with autistic kids.”

I shook my head.

Morton said, “Maybe you know her under another name.” He reached back over his shoulder with an open hand, moving his fingers in a request for Dupont to hand him something. Dupont opened the battered briefcase, took out a photo, and placed it in Morton's waving fingers.

Morton stood up and handed me a picture of a young woman with electric blue eyes and long blond hair that brushed across her bare shoulders. She was smiling sensually at the camera, biting her bottom lip like she was keeping a delicious secret.

I shook my head. “I've never seen her. Why do you keep asking?”

“She was raped and murdered.”

“What?” The picture suddenly felt grimy in my fingers. I handed it back to Morton. He didn't take it.

I dropped the picture on the desk. “Why are you showing me this?”

Morton still had that jovial expression. “We found DNA at the murder scene. When we ran it through the databases, we got a match.” His smile dimmed a titch. “It matched the DNA they took from you in Virginia.”

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

I stared at Morton.

He stared at me.

I leaned forward in the desk chair and said, “Is this a joke?”

“No sir.”

The bird on my shoulder cocked her head.

I said, “Did some of my buddies at the Castle put you up to this?”

“The castle?”

“The Magic Castle. It's a private club for magicians.”

“It's not a joke, Mr. Kendall. Your DNA matched the DNA at the crime scene.” Morton looked hard into me. “Miss Allen was tied up on her bed, beaten, and strangled. Do you tie people up in your magic act?”

I glanced down at the desk, then looked at Morton. “Only myself sometimes. You know, escape routines.”

“How did your DNA wind up at her murder scene?”

I shook my head. “That's impossible.”

“It's a fact.”

“There's been some kind of mistake.”

“Not likely. But if there was, help us clear it up.”

The bird moved closer to my neck. “Are you accusing me of murder?”

“Should we be?”

I forced a laugh. “Do I look like a killer?”

Morton raised his eyebrows, as if asking, Well…?

I shook my head. “I never met that woman. I don't know anything about this.”

Morton kept staring at me. “Do you mind if we take your picture? For our records?”

I felt my chest tighten.

Murder?
Me?

Ridiculous. This is some colossal screwup. Why don't they see that?

Morton said, “Mr. Kendall?”

“Huh?”

“Your picture?”

“Oh. Yeah, okay. I guess.”

Dupont took a small camera out of the briefcase, came around in front of the desk, and clicked off a few shots.

When Dupont stepped back against the wall, Morton said, “Where were you on February twenty-second? Around ten
P.M.
?”

I felt myself leaning back in the chair. “I don't know. What day of the week was that?”

“Wednesday.”

“I'm at the Magic Castle almost every night. I was probably there.”

“That's the magicians' club you mentioned?”

“Yes.”

Morton picked up his Coke, drank the rest of it, and crushed the can with one hand. “Can anybody verify that?”

“I have some friends there. I'll ask if they remember.” I drained the water bottle and set it on the desk.

Dupont opened the briefcase and took out a brown paper bag. He came over to the desk, carefully lifted my water bottle by the neck, and dropped the bottle in the bag.

Whoa.
These guys just took my fingerprints.

I shifted in my seat as I watched him put the bag into the briefcase.

Morton stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Kendall. That's all we'll need. For today anyway.”

I stood up quickly, causing Lisa to dig in her claws.

Dupont, clutching the battered briefcase that held my picture and fingerprints, opened the door.

Morton said, “Don't leave town, Mr. Kendall.”

 

CHAPTER FOUR

 

After taking the photo and fingerprints, Morton and Dupont left me sitting in the empty office. My heart thudded in my ears.

My hand trembled as I stroked the feathers on Lisa's chest with my index finger.

Murder?

Me?

Why did their stealing my fingerprints feel like they'd stripped me naked?

I looked at the blank wall for a clock.

Is someone coming back to this office? I need some time to get myself together.

Out in the hall, a school bell rang.

Shit. I missed my entire class. Through the closed door, I heard the eruption of footsteps, students chattering, lockers banging.

I need to get out before someone walks in.

As I stood up, I could feel my pulse thumping in my neck. I dug into my pants pocket, took out one of the vintage Walking Liberty fifty-cent pieces that I always carry, and ran it over the backs of my knuckles. That usually calms me down.

Not working.

Maybe I should try the anti–stage fright routine that I use before big shows. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

Then another.

Still a little jagged.

A few more.

Better.

Sort of.

Gotta get outta here.

I straightened up. Should I hide Lisa? Nah. I'll get enough stares because of the outfit.

Rubbing the bird's chest, I opened the door and headed for my car, ignoring the looks from passersby.

What the hell was that about? Why me? Obviously some massive mistake. Probably a computer error or something.

I didn't do anything.

They'll have to figure that out.

Right?

Absolutely.

Won't they?

*   *   *

I spent the rest of the morning buying birdseed, cleaning Lisa's cage, and calling around for substitute teaching work.

No one needed a substitute.

Is that because of the cops?

Don't get paranoid. It's not unusual that there's no work. A lot of teachers have specific substitutes they like, so us floaters can go several days without assignments. Besides, knowing the school board's efficiency system, the people who hire substitutes won't know about the cops for a year or two.

Right after lunch, my cell phone rang. When I answered, it, my mother said, “You need to come over. Right now.”

Whoa.
Mom never sounds like that. “What is it?”

“Not on the phone.”

*   *   *

I walked up the concrete pathway to Mom's tiny one-story ranch house on McCormick Street in Van Nuys, past a line of plaster baby ducks who were following their plaster mother across the lawn. The ducks' white paint was peeling off in large splotches, which wasn't so surprising, since the ducks had been left by the home's previous owner some thirty-odd years ago.

I opened the unlocked front door, with Lisa balanced on my shoulder. Mom's three foster kids, Ed, Max, and Skye, ran toward me, yelling, “Uncle Harvey!” Skye hugged my leg as I picked up the six-year-old boys. Max said, “Show us a trick!”

I said, “Where's Mom?”

“Where do you think she is?”

That meant the backyard garden.

Max said, “Show us a trick.”

I shook my head. “Mom said she had to see me right away.”

“C'mon. One trick. Pleeeeease.”

“Yeah, pleeeease.”

I looked toward the back of the house. “Okay, okay. Real quick.”

I set down the kids and put the bird on Max's head. That always made them giggle. They squeezed in close to me, eyes wide.

What's a fast one? I never go for vanishing a coin and pulling it out of a kid's ear. It's incredibly trite, though for some bizarre reason it's amazed children for hundreds of years.

Ah.
Got it.

I reached into my pocket and took out two foam-rubber rabbits, each about the size of a quarter. I had Ed squeeze the rabbits in his fist. After a few magic words, I told him to open his hand. Out popped the two rabbits plus ten little ones. The kids oohed.

Ed said, “Good one!”

I thought, When you're older, you'll have a whole different take on that trick.

Max said, “Do another one.”

“I gotta see Mom.”

I took Lisa off Max's head, put her on my shoulder, and walked through the living room, past the Wall of Photos. There was a large picture of me in the center, surrounded by twenty-plus pictures of the foster kids who'd lived with Mom after Dad died. I hurried through the den, past a cluster of handmade clay planters that overflowed with strands of ivy. The planters were remnants of Mom's pot-throwing era. Hanging on the wall was a tie-dyed piece of cloth, which was a remnant of Mom's pot-smoking era. Her current passion sat by the window—an easel with a half-finished painting. On a small table next to the easel were brushes on their heads in a jar of cloudy turpentine, along with a wooden palette with multicolor splotches that smelled like oil paint. The painting showed a man walking on a country path with what was probably supposed to be his dog, though it looked more like a weasel.

In the backyard, I saw Mom on her hands and knees, wearing jeans and a loose paisley blouse that was supposed to hide the thickness around her middle. Her long gray hair was tied in a ponytail that trailed over her spine, with rubber bands clipping it every few inches, so that it looked like a string of gray mini–hot dogs. She was tickling a plant with a paintbrush.

When she saw me, she dropped the brush and squinted at me through her purple-framed rectangular glasses. I heard her knees crack as she stood.

Mom wasn't smiling.

I said, “What were you doing with the brush?”

She pushed a few wisps of gray hair off her forehead. “Pollinating the vegetables. It's been a bad year for insects, so I'm playing Ms. Bee and moving pollen from the males to the females. If the females don't get pollen, I don't get zucchinis.”

“I love it when you talk dirty.”

She didn't laugh.

Uh-oh.
“Mom, what's wrong?”

She bent down, grabbed the paintbrush, and stuck it in her back pocket.

Mom dusted her hands on her jeans and lowered her voice. “Inside.”

*   *   *

Mom sat me at the kitchen table and hustled the kids into the den. She gave me a piece of toast with peanut butter on top, cut into four triangles. My favorite breakfast when I was little. Lisa perked up on my shoulder.