True Crime

Silence.

“Mr. Petersen, I’m saying I’ll bring your daughter to you—I think she’ll be willing to meet with you at least. But whether she’ll come home to stay or not is going to be up to her.”

More silence; I waited, making him fill it.

Finally he did, stoically: “I understand.”

“She’s a big girl now, Mr. Petersen. She has a right to make her own way in the world. She needs to learn how, but that’s another story. Anyway, I’m going to be right there with her, and I don’t want you badgering her. I won’t abide any show of force on your part. If you can mend fences with her, fine. But if she doesn’t want to stay with you, she doesn’t stay. It’s that simple.”

“All right.”

“Okay. I just wanted that understood.”

“It’s understood.”

“And that bonus you promised me, I expect it whether she stays with you, or not.”

“The thousand dollars is yours, Mr. Heller.”

“I earned that money, Mr. Petersen. Like you said, I had to go among the wolves.”

“The money’s yours, no argument. I’m grateful to you.”

“Well, okay then,” I said. “Where shall we meet?”

And we’d agreed on a time and place, the next afternoon; but this was tonight, and the girl across from me eating Mr. Binyon’s cheesecake was still calling me Jim.

Somehow I just couldn’t seem to level with her. Somehow I couldn’t make myself risk seeing disappointment, perhaps even loathing, in those wide-set big brown eyes.

So by nine we were in my Murphy bed, just cuddling in the dark; I had pulled the shades so even the neon couldn’t get in.

That way I wouldn’t have to see her eyes when I told her.

“Sugar, remember when I told you I thought you ought to go home, and see your daddy?”

“Yes. Aren’t we going tomorrow?”

“I have to tell you something first. I wasn’t necessarily thinking about what was best for you, when I said that.”

“Who were you thinking of?”

“Me.”

I waited for her to say something, but she didn’t.

So I went on. “There’s no easy way to tell you this. I’m not Jimmy Lawrence.”

She still didn’t say anything; but she didn’t pull away from me, either. Stayed cuddled right up next to me. Her breathing easy, calm, regular.

I said, “I’m the guy whose name is on the door. I’m Nathan Heller.”

“I know,” she said.

“You know?”

“I may be from the farm, Jim. Sorry—Nathan? But I wasn’t born in a barn.”

“How…?”

“When you were gone, I looked through the drawers in your desk and your file. I found snapshots of you and a pretty girl at the fair. And some clippings about a trial with your picture and your name under it.”

“Hell. Why aren’t you mad?”

“I am mad.” She said this like, pass the salt.

“You don’t sound mad…”

“I forgive you, Jim. Nathan.”

“Nate, actually, but—”

“I asked you before…Nate. I’ll ask you again. I’m with you, now—aren’t I?”

“You’re with me. I’m right beside you, all the way.”

“Then what does it matter what your name is, or why you came looking for me?”

“You—you know I came looking for you? How did you figure that out?”

“You had my picture in your desk. Did my husband hire you to find me?”

“No, your father.”

“Daddy gave you that picture?”

“That’s right.”