When it Rains - Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO: Will you walk into my parlor, Harvey?

The antique, worn leather molded around Harvey like a glove as he fell again into his office chair. The last eight years of his life had been orchestrated from this very chair, from finding missing persons to nabbing kidnappers, the odd shadowing job, blackmailing blackmailers, and sometimes simply determining which restaurant on his Chinatown street steamed the best buns--a case he was just now poised to take on. From the street below, neon filtered in through slatted windows in bright ribbons of orange, red, and green. The paper carton on his desk steamed the polished surface with the saccharine aroma of barbecued pork and steam bread. For the last eight years, this chair, this office, and this job had been his life, just as it had been Detective Verdugo's before he died that day on the docks, leaving it all to his neophyte apprentice.

Harvey took up his soy and saffron stained chopsticks, the bas relief cranes worn smooth, and popped the carton open, breathing in the delicious cloud of vapor.  His saliva went thick as he picked out one of the miniature buns, its delicate, white skin depressing softly as he pinched it ever so carefully.  It was at moments like this that Harvey knew in his heart, the whole world could be corrupt and mad, but a glass of good whiskey, a kiss now and then, and a perfect steamed bun was all he needed to set it all right, at least for a little while.

An unexpected knock at the office door startled Harvey more than he would ever care to admit, the little bun falling back among its siblings with a soft plop and a click of chopsticks.  He sighed and sat back, setting his already late dinner aside.

"Yeah, come in."

What slipped into his office then set an entirely different appetite on edge: a tall woman, perhaps in her thirties, Harvey guessed, though not for a line on her face of milk and roses.  She was a modern sort of dame, all proper in a jet black suit that fluted at the hip and knee, not defying her femininity for a moment.  Her blouse said business, but the lace said pleasure, and all of her said rich widow.  From downy, blonde finger waves to heavy, black pumps, she was in great distress, yet very in charge.

"Can I help you, ma'am?"  He tried his best to sound suave, like birds like this one flitted in and out of his private office every day.

"I understand you're acquainted with Mrs. Veronica Hartley."  Her voice was high and honeyed, a touch breathy from a decade of cigarettes.

Harvey cleared his throat.  "Who's asking?"

"I am."  After a moment and a prompting eyebrow: "Beatrice Artois."

"Ah, the sister-in-law.  Pleasure to make your acquaintance."  Harvey rose from his desk and moved to the small dry bar set up in a corner of the room.  "Can I offer you a drink, Beatrice?"  Considering the intimacy of his office and work, he hoped he might get past formalities.  Usually clients were eager to if you let them--a trick of the trade.

"Mrs. Artois."  She stood as stiffly as ever.  "And no, thank you.  I'd rather you answer my question."

He poured himself a few fingers of whiskey, hoping his intruder, none other than Charles Hartley's younger sister, couldn't hear the decanter rattle against the glass.  "I knew Mrs. Hartley's father."  Harvey took a sip and turned to lean against the cabinet.  "Unfortunately, Mrs. Artois, I usually charge for answering questions.  It's what I do, you see.  I'm a private--"

Beatrice withdrew a fat roll of paper money from her black, alligator envelope and held it up, perched between her long, red-tipped fingers.  "I know all about you, Detective Harvard Black.  I know you've been having trouble paying the lease on this office.  I know that you and my brother's wife have a history.  I know you gave her that limp."

Harvey's jaw flexed behind his glass.  Wordlessly, he stalked past his desk and past this woman to the door where he wrenched it open.  "You couldn't pay me enough to stand here and be insulted in my own office, Mrs. Artois.  Good night."

She pursed her cherry lips with venom.  "So you haven't read the papers?"

"No."

In truth, he had.  Although he hadn't spoken to Veronica since she had attempted to invite him to her wedding four years ago, Harvey found himself keeping an eye out for her in the gossip columns.  It was the stuff of fiction: "Scandal!  Jazz Singer Weds Millionaire Hartley."  It had made his blood run cold.

Harvey began to look impatient.

"So you don't know that Veronica's disappeared."

That hadn't been in the papers.  After a moment Harvey slowly closed the office door and pulled the shade closed with a soft snap.  A tiny look of triumph crept onto Beatrice's face.
"I see I've caught your attention."

Harvey crossed back to his desk and dropped into the chair, taking another, long draught from his glass.  "Look, Betty.  Regardless of what history Veronica and I did or didn't have, she's her husband's responsibility now.  If I went chasing after every idle wife that goes missing in this city, I'd have to open corporate offices in the Chrysler Building]."

Beatrice strode up and braced herself (and the roll of bills) over the edge of the desk.  "Look, Harvey," she sneered.  "My brother was poisoned last night; and, while he lays comatose in the hospital, his idle wife--and, unless I'm terribly mistaken, your friend--is the prime suspect."


Somewhere in the flat, a cellphone cried out its cloying, polyphonic jingle.  Astrid gritted her teeth, loath to step away from her netbook now, at the risk of losing her train of thought.  There was a mental queue of words to be substituted, phrases to rework, and punctuation to mull over.  Eventually the noise died, but the damage had been done.  With an exasperated sigh, Astrid hauled her stiffened body out of her chair and commenced the search for her cell.

She found her Evo Shift on the nightstand where she'd left it that morning after fumbling to shut off the alarm.  Despite her best efforts, sleep had refused to steal her away from the uneasy revelations of the previous day, even after sex had failed to do the same.  Neither would the feeling leave her, except for the precious moments when she was truly lost in her current novel.
The missed call was from a blocked number.

"Fantastic."

Astrid sighed and returned to the study, plopped down in her chair, and placed the cell on her desk.


"I don't have to be fond of the girl, Mr. Black.  I'm not going to throw her to the dogs just because she's some reformed floozy--and not a very convincing one at that--but I can't ignore the fact that she's crazy about my dear brother."

Harvey frowned at the article in his hands.

"I know she has old enemies.  There's something more at work here than a simple black widow case."

Smart woman.  Harvey frowned further.


The cellphone blared again, and Astrid couldn't help but yell at it in frustration.  She punched the Talk button with her thumb.

"Yes?"

"Wow, some welcome.  Is this a bad time?"  It was a young man's voice with a hint of amusement.

"...Tristan?"

"The one and only.  Well, probably not.  But the only one you know.  Seriously, is this a bad time?"

Astrid shook her head at herself.  "Oh, no.  I was just on a roll; don't worry about it.  God, I almost didn't recognize you--you never call.  Is everything all right?"

Tristan chuckled.  "Oh, yeah, just peaches.  Actually, I've got a proposition for you."

"What sort of proposition?"  She couldn't help but grin slyly.  He was too easy to tease, and he played along well enough.

"One where you make like Mae West to my Cary Grant."

Astrid could practically hear his eyebrows waggling.  "You mean, 'Why don't you come up some time and see me?'"  She put on her best pouty voice.

"That's the one, doll.  Turns out I've got some business up in Vancouver next week.  If you can spare the time, I'd love to buy you lunch."

Astrid tucked her feet up into her chair, quite flattered, and suddenly a little shy.  "That's awfully sweet of you Tris, really.  If you're coming all that way, shouldn't I be buying you lunch?"

"I won't hear it.  Lemme at least pretend to be a gentleman, huh?"

"I guess it would be cruel to deprive you of the opportunity.  Alright, then, lunch it is."

"Awesome.  I'll call you when I get in.  Is evening okay?"

"You know, 'I'm home every evening.'"

Tristan laughed heartily.  He really did sound younger than thirtyish.  "You're good.  Okay, back to work for both of us."

"Alright, then.  Good luck!  And thanks for calling."

"Of course.  Talk to you later."

Astrid touched the End button and found the phone shaking in her hand.  After a pensive moment, she snapped up her cigarettes and marched outside.  It was warmer today, the sun peaking out from a half-hearted cloud cover, but she barely noticed.  She scrubbed at an eyebrow with her fingertips.  There was no denying it: she was utterly atwitter, and now deeply embarrassed.  What the hell?

Tristan had been just a friend, a good friend, a Platonic friend, for years.  She had never once felt a shred of guilt, never had anything at all to hide about their personal relationship.  In fact, despite being an incorrigible flirt, Astrid was fairly certain the man was gay.  It was true that they had never before met in person, work and separate lives keeping them busy and apart, Facebook and phone calls making a poor substitute for actual face time.  That must be the culprit, Astrid determined, nodding to herself as she huffed smoke into the damp air.  Just nerves.

Astrid tapped out a few more lines before collapsing into her chair.  As the taut springs rocked her just a little too sharply, her gaze fell to the cell phone again.  "Business," he'd said.  What sort of business?  Clicking over to her Google Calendar, the whole next week showed no conventions, no book signings, no fairs.  His agent worked out of Seattle.  Moonlighting, perhaps, but as what?

That odd, despairing feeling from the day before continued to nag at her, even worrying away at the bubble of solipsism where Harvey and his pithy, black and white world resided in her mind.  This wouldn't do at all.  Her life had been lacking something, some spice, she could acknowledge that.  Maybe Tristan had the right idea by living a fantastical life rather than simply writing about one, and perhaps the mini-mystery of her friend's sideline job could be just the adventure she needed to be able to get on with hers.