Dreams of Jeannie and Other Stories Part 11

"Hope would have made more sense. Hope is what you need, not Faith," Michael said cheerfully, impervious to the glare he got in response. "I've been calling you Fay for too many years now. I'm sorry. And I don't understand why you have this sudden need to change your name."

"Because I'm claiming my own ident.i.ty. People should be named what they want to be named, not stuck with whatever name their parents happened to stick them with. If you wanted to change your name, I would change what I called you."

"Michaelmas, perhaps? Michelangelo? I rather like that."

"Michelangelo it is, then. Anyway, start again from the beginning. I don't understand how this happened."

"Really, I don't either." Michael sighed. "But someone who knew how much money I had in my checking account called the bank and told them I had moved, that I needed new checks sent to my new address, and the bank actually sent them. Sent new checks, ordered in the proper number sequence, to the new address. The recipient then wrote a check to Max Strother Commodities in the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars, to open a trading account. Then the bank called to make certain that I was opening an account at Max Strother Commodities-and astoundingly, inefficiently, called my real telephone number, not the new one the thief had given them, which was the only thing that tripped up whoever wanted to pull this thing off."

"How much did the thief know about you?"

"My Social Security number, my mother's maiden name, and the date and amount of my last deposit." Michael paused to watch the pigeons descend on a half-eaten croissant that a young man two tables away had tossed to the concrete. "I really, truly want it to be an inside job, someone with access to the bank computer. Because if it isn't, the only other people who had that information are my mother, Elizabeth's agent, and Jason."

"Jason! I didn't know you'd seen him."

"He happened to stop by the day the check arrived, and so he rode with me to the bank. That's all."

"Oh, Michael. Do you really believe Jason would steal from you? Is he that desperate?"

"He's not employed, and he didn't look well. He might decide he was stealing from Elizabeth, not from me. Jason could rationalize it that way. And he was always so jealous of her."

Michael was still watching the pigeons. Faith turned away from the table to watch them with him.

"Better Jason than your mother," she said.

Michael didn't say anything, and Faith began to wish that she hadn't, either.

"Is the bank keeping you informed about their investigation?" she finally asked.

"I don't think they're doing much. As far as they're concerned, n.o.body lost anything. I talked to somebody at the West Hollywood sheriffs station, and he said that Hollywood had jurisdiction, because Max Strother Commodities and the alleged new address are both in Hollywood. He added that it would be a low priority with the LAPD, too, because all I could file a complaint for would be stealing checks and attempted forgery. Even if the person is caught, he or she-and I'm talking about Barbara, Elizabeth's agent, not my mother-even with all our past problems, I really don't think it was my mother-could plead it down to a misdemeanor."

"Then let's investigate it ourselves."

"What?" Michael turned back to Faith.

"I love the way you can express so much disdain for an idea in a single word," she said, uncowed. "Let's check the address and the phone number, at least. We might be able to eliminate both Barbara and Jason, even if we can't do anything more."

"I'd ask if you have a life, but I know you don't. Why do you want to seize my life? Did you make the mistake of calling Brian?"

"No, I heard, though. He and Frances are getting married Sunday. Ten years younger than I am, and she finished her dissertation. She officially gets her Ph.D. Sat.u.r.day, the day before the wedding. Not that I feel bad anymore about never having finished mine, you know I worked that out. It's been too long since I dropped out of the program, and the family counseling license brings me all the clients I can handle."

Michael nodded and smiled his professional therapist smile. "Well, I suppose neither of us can feel any more inept than we do now, no matter what our next failure is. How do we start our investigation?"

"By calling the phone number, of course. And then driving to the address. Do you have them?"

"The bank gave them to me, to make certain that they weren't mine. They're at my apartment, sitting on my desk. Do we finish our cappuccino first or start our Nick and Nora caper at once?"

"I was thinking more Lord Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane. Down the cappuccino and let's go." Faith stirred the cinnamon-topped foam into the brew and drank it in two gulps. She didn't like Farmers Market cappuccino very much anyway.

"I don't suppose there was a couple who didn't sleep together." Michael finished his cappuccino and stood, fishing his car keys out of his f.a.n.n.y pack.

"Nancy Drew and Ned Nickerson, but you'll have to wear a football jersey and let me drive."

"Separate cars as far as my place, and then we flip a coin. I'll think about the football jersey."

They threaded their way around tables to the aisle between the falafel stand and the gift shop. That led them to the parking lot, where they parted company.

Faith never liked the hunt for a parking s.p.a.ce that she had to endure when she visited Michael's Kings Road condo, so she grabbed the first one she spotted, just north of Santa Monica Boulevard. She walked the block and a half, past buildings that all looked alike-four stories over an underground garage, evenly s.p.a.ced balconies with views of other balconies, white stucco with greenery around the front doors. Michael was waiting on the sidewalk.

"You might as well have walked from the Farmers Market," he said, unlocking the security door. "There were at least three s.p.a.ces closer."

"If I owned a Yugo, I could have parked in two of them. The third couldn't accommodate anything bigger than a tricycle."

"Suit yourself, but I could have slid the Honda into all three."

"Then we don't need to flip a coin. When we leave to investigate, you drive, you park."

"Investigate. My G.o.d, this is so absurd."

They took the elevator to the third floor. Michael unlocked the deadbolt, and Faith followed him in.

"My G.o.d, indeed," Faith said, having held her tongue during the short trip. "It smells like a cattery in here. You ought to show your meal ticket more respect. When did you last change the cat box?"

"Elizabeth doesn't mind the smell. She was born in a cattery, after all. But the cat box is probably still clean. She doesn't like to put her feet in it, so she sort of backs up to it, and sometimes she misses it entirely. Wait here, I'll check."

The cat in question, looking like a blue pearl with darker blue eyes, was stretched out on a pink velvet chair, staring at Faith with what was undeniably att.i.tude.

Michael returned almost immediately, spritzing the air with a pseudo pine scent.

"At least she hit the paper," he said. "I flushed it down, and the smell will be gone in a minute."

"That cat is lucky she's both smart and beautiful, and you don't want to work for a living. It seems to me, though, that if you can teach the cat to give you high fives on camera, you ought to be able to teach her to use the litter, not the paper."

"The difference is, she likes to give high fives on camera."

"The address and the phone number. Quickly. The cat s.h.i.t smell is not dissipating, and the air freshener is disgusting."

Michael's desk was a rectangle of distressed oak in a corner of his living room. He sat in the bentwood rocker and began sifting through small slips of paper.

"It can't be too far down. I saw it yesterday."

"Why don't you ever file anything?"

"Here it is." He handed Faith an envelope with an address and phone number scribbled on the back. "If I filed, I'd have to clean out the files. I don't have room for files. What I want is on my desk. Everything else I throw out."

"Let's call the phone number."

Michael pointed to the phone. Faith picked it up and punched in the number.

"Four nine two seven," a woman's voice said.

"Michael Haver," Faith responded.

"I can take a message."

"Is that what this is? A service?"

"That's right. What message do you want to leave?"

"Never mind." Faith replaced the phone. "Let's check out the address."

"You know it's going to be a mail drop."

"Yes, but somebody had to establish it. And somebody had to open the trading account, so if we don't find anything out at the mail drop, we talk to Max Strother Commodities."

Elizabeth watched them leave. With att.i.tude.

The La Brea address was indeed a minimall mail drop. Michael parked the Honda right in front.

"It's so simple when you pray to the parking G.o.ds," he said.

Faith slammed the car door in answer and marched ahead of him into the narrow store. No one was near the front counter. Both side walls and a center stretch of shelves held boxes, envelopes, tape, and other mailing paraphernalia, carefully arranged to make the selection look larger than it actually was.

"h.e.l.lo!" Faith called.

A young Asian woman, not more than twenty, emerged from the back.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"I'm trying to get in touch with Michael Haver. He left this as an address, and I need to talk to him."

"If you leave a message," the young woman said, staring at Faith through large, dark eyes.

"But I don't want to leave a message here. I want to find him."

"You leave a message," the woman repeated.

"This is silly, Fay-ththth," Michael said. "All these places offer confidentiality. That's the appeal."

"Look," Faith said. "This is the real Michael Haver. The Michael Haver who gets mail here is a fake."

"This is Michael Haver? You found him?"

"I know this Michael Haver," Faith said patiently. "I want to find the other one, the one who calls himself Michael Haver but isn't."

"I don't know," the woman answered. "You leave a message, I put it in his box, the Michael Haver box."

"Do you know when he will be in to pick it up?"

"No. Whenever."

"Let's go," Michael said. "Unless you want to leave a message."

"Thank you for your help," Faith said to the woman.

Michael was starting the car before Faith slid into the pa.s.senger seat.

"Just one more stop," she pleaded. "Max Strother Commodities. If they can't help, we give up."

"I'm surprised you aren't suggesting a stakeout of the mail drop."

"I thought about it, but there are only the two of us, and I couldn't really count on your cooperation."

"You're right. Max Strother Commodities, and that's it. Where is it?"

"Haven't you ever noticed the sign? It's on the woefully tacky part of Hollywood Boulevard, near Western."

"Dear Lord and Baby Jesus protect us." Michael glared at her briefly, but he turned north on La Brea and east on Hollywood. The neighborhood quickly deteriorated from office buildings to souvenir shops to thrift shops to bars.

Michael parked in a s.p.a.ce almost directly in front of the Max Strother Commodities sign, which was on the second story of an Art Deco building too small and probably too deteriorated to make the preservationists' lists. Graffiti almost obliterated the sign warning them of a two-hour parking limit.

"I may wait in the car," Michael said.

"Put the Club on the steering wheel, turn on the alarm, and pray to the ant.i.theft G.o.ds," Faith replied.

He caught up with her in the lobby.

The elevator door had an OUT OF ORDER sign. They climbed the stairs, not to the second floor, but to the fourth.

"And you complained about the cat," Michael said as they traversed a landing that smelled of old vomit.

Faith didn't bother to answer.

Max Strother Commodities was at the back of the building, behind a frosted gla.s.s-topped door that jangled as they opened it.

"I'll handle this one," Michael added.

The large office was illuminated only by the gray haze from the windows on the back wall. Five-foot part.i.tions had been strategically placed so that visitors couldn't tell how many of the cubicles were actually staffed.

Michael and Faith waited until a short man with a burgundy toupee, wearing a white shirt rolled to the elbows, paisley tie loosened, came to greet them.

"Yeah?" he said.

"I'm Michael Haver." Michael automatically held out his hand.

"The guy who gave us the b.u.m check? No, you aren't."

Michael retracted his hand. "I didn't give you a b.u.m check."