Mr. Scary Smart

April 20, 2009

 

A Joe Downing Mystery 

The following is fiction:

 

Mr. Scary Smart

 

Part One: NOW THAT I KNOW YOU EXIST

 

IT WAS 4:45 ON THE AFTERNOON of Christmas Eve when I first encountered the Johansen family. Sunset had arrived, and the long shadows had begun their slow rule. The temperature had dropped to “shivering.” The year 2009 was about to turn the corner and take its much-lamented leave. But you knew that. Sammy, the building custodian here in my little office complex, had given me the head’s up from the foot of the old staircase:

 

“Hey, Joe?! You up there? There’s a man here seems to be lookin’ for ya. Says he’s sorry it’s late, and can he see ya? I could tell him you’re OH-YOU-TEE….. if you want…..”

 

“Yeah, I’m right here, Sammy. And yeah, it’s okay. Business is business, or…..whatever. I’ll come down for him. He can probably tell by now that I’m not O-U-T, anyway.” I started to descend. An articulate voice I didn’t know then entered the fray:

 

“I’d be glad to come up there, Mr. Downing, if your office is up there…..I mean, uh, I don’t wish to trouble you unnecessarily.” I then saw a tallish, early-middle-aged man emerge into view. He wore a dark, expensive business suit, and a red, floral-patterned tie over an immaculate white dress shirt. He had a full head of sandy hair, and trim, athletic looks. He was the very picture of responsible success in every way. This success undoubtedly was won through long application and through confident, prolonged effort, but now he had a vulnerable look, a deeply troubled look.

 

Bay City or L.A. were both a bit far away to come for just me; Portuguese Hills was closer, of course, and rich, but it had an older population, an elderly demographic; Rancho Verde, on the other hand, was all about up-and-coming executives, six-figure-annual-income-heaven, with a decidedly younger demo to go with it. Which one was he, ya think? Sammy called up to me, past the shoulder of the upwardly mobile gentleman caller who effortlessly ascended the stairs:

 

“Merry Christmas, Joe! You have yourself a nice Christmas Day tomorrow with your family.” (What family?! I thought to myself.) But I returned the sentiment, envying Sammy the wholesome, conventional life he possessed. Not a lot of money in his stock portfolio, to be sure, but he was rich in other ways. My client-in-training now reached the top of the darkly-lit, darkly-carpeted stairway. He extended his hand with a friendly, professional, and practiced smile.

 

“Hello, sir. I’m David Johansen…..I would very much like to speak to you, if I may intrude upon your time at such a moment. It’s very important to me that I get your advice on a certain matter — I’ve heard great things about your competence and discretion, and I’d be very grateful for your time, Mr. Downing.” He meant it. There was a desperation and unsettled quality to his voice, barely controlled. I could only respond with a neutral graciousness until I knew more.

 

“Certainly, Mr. Johansen, I’d be glad to speak with you. ‘Time’ is what I do for a living….. and please call me ‘Joe.’” We shook hands over a small smile, and his shake was firm, but he seemed to show nevertheless a slight deference towards me at the same time. (What in the world for?) I motioned, and suggested we stroll down the gloomy hallway to my office (but I didn’t say it that way).

 

We quietly padded past the now darkened and silent real estate firm, past the usually-busy law firm, too, with the two gorgeous babes, now off-duty, and finally we passed the Marriage and Family Counseling office. Absurdly, we were at pains to keep quiet, though the building was deserted for the Christmas Eve festivities. We were playing some role we knew not what.
 

Inside the inner office we settled down. I sat behind the oak desk in front of the window, Johansen on the couch. He suddenly got up, however, with considerable alacrity, and moved into the solid, not-very-comfortable, straight-backed pinewood chair at the corner of my desk. He did it hurriedly, as if he had to just beat the 24-second clock. He looked like someone from the right side of the tracks who had gotten lost over here on the wrong side. (The City of Deep Gorge is not your dream condo in the Hamptons, let me help you out.) But there was no arrogance about him. He seemed a good guy: not much use for digging ditches, but an okay sort. The shadows grew longer outside, and the white courtyard below us was now illuminated through Sammy’s ministrations. A Douglas fir Christmas tree could be seen down there twinkling green and red. I eyed my new client silently. Johansen began:

 

“I live in Rancho Verde with my wife Julie and our daughter, Chelsea. I’m a stock broker at Mills, Robertson, and Johansen in Century City. And, well, anyway, I mean, I don’t know how to put it, Mr. Downing, but there’s been some, uh, trouble, Joe, that we’ve been experiencing…..some real trouble. We’re just at sea about it, we’re worried sick about it, and we just don’t know what to do. We really need your help.” He sighed so deeply I thought his lungs would pop.

 

“What’s been going on, Mr. Johansen?” I said patiently. He fidgeted nervously in the chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs perpendicular on his thigh, trying different ways to get comfortable. None worked. (He had some expensive socks, boy, I noticed that.) It was tough for him to come out with it: maybe a sense of shame that fate had picked him out to sound his depths. Maybe he felt it was punishment? Who knows…..as he thought over how to put his points, he looked the office over: fairly Spartan quarters, to be sure, not real impressive, I had found out, to the high-powered legal babes: a TV/DVD player on a little stand in the corner, a photo here and there of old girlfriends, the dark, oaken desk, the light-colored, birch bookcase my dad had made for me — not much, admittedly.

 

Oh, yes, there was also a framed photo in the bookcase of my mother’s grandfather in his old Civil War uniform, a daguerreotype: Colonel Joseph Patrick Spillane, Union side. I was named after him. May I live to be half the man he was. Johansen then roused himself and laughed uncertainly, sighed once more, and continued his narrative:
 

“Well, my daughter has unfortunately made a new acquaintance, shall we say. An unwanted acquaintance, Joe. It’s so outrageous! I could pummel this guy! I mean, I don’t want to do anything illegal, to risk everything, but I’ve been sure thinking about it…..but I haven’t done anything yet, you understand.” I nodded gravely and respectfully. I then had to ask the obvious, to manipulate him a little (in a benevolent way), to establish a clear benchmark:

 

“I understand, Mr. Johansen. It sounds like a serious matter. Now, is this ‘new acquaintance’ positively being forced on Chelsea against her will?”

 

“OH, VERY MUCH SO! Very, very much so! It is definitely being forced on her against her will! That’s absolutely the perfect description, Joe! We’re just minding our own business and then this creep outta nowhere comes into our lives! I just don’t know what to do, Joe. I’ll do it, whatever it is, you just tell me what I need to do. This guy is a freak! We gotta end this!” He certainly could bristle with anger. I didn’t think he was lying. His eyes were full of pain, too, that he couldn’t help his daughter more. Maybe he felt a failure in that way. His eyes almost asked for forgiveness. But why from me, of all people?

 

“We’ll get him, Mr. Johansen. That you can be sure of. We’ll just go through the steps, one-by-one, and we can’t fail. We will end this. Now, how old is Chelsea, and what’s happened so far?”

 

“She’s 17, about a month short of 18. This guy, this damn guy, has been staring at her relentlessly through our windows at night for about three weeks. And then he goes to her school during the day and stalks her there, too! He’s unbelievable! Sometimes he talks to her, I don’t know what he says exactly, but he’s careful, I’ll say that for him. He knows how to have his cake and eat it, too.”

 

Johansen took on a bitter countenance now, and sat on the edge of the chair — now he looked the very picture of edginess and agitation. Their family life had become pins and needles, obviously. He abruptly continued: “This guy was even on the back deck, just now, less than an hour ago! Looking in! Right up against the sliding glass door of the deck! Julie almost died from fear! It scared the living daylights out of us! The cops won’t do anything until he actually touches her…..some Constitutional thing, but I don’t care, it’s my daughter!”
 

I was paralyzed: a sense of doom came over me, and not for the last time: “Just an hour ago?! On your back deck?” I stood up suddenly. “Where’s Chelsea now?”

 

“She’s at home with Julie. She’ll call if he appears again.”

 

“You can call her, too, and I suggest you do so frequently. Mr. Johansen, this could very well be extremely serious, and we can’t take any chances. At all. I’m glad you’ve come to me. I’ll be glad to take your case. And from now on, until this thing is settled, don’t let Chelsea out of your sight. Take her to work with you, check in on her bedroom in the middle of the night. Do everything. She must be on Christmas vacation, so that’ll help us out. Keep all doors and windows doubled-checked. Watch her like a hawk constantly while I track this guy. It ain’t complicated – stand in the way!”

 

“I will, Joe. I definitely will. I’m grateful for your help. This has been going on so long, we’re just drained with the worry…..the cops say we have to catch him trespassing…..”

 

“That’s true – they’d have to be there actually on guard when he comes over, and of course they can’t just sit there waiting…..that’s where I come in. I’ll need to talk to Chelsea, though, and get this going quick. With you present, of course.”

 

“That would be great, Joe. You’ve really given me a sense of hope! We haven’t slept in days, weeks even…..when can I bring Chelsea over?” An aggressiveness took root in his eyes.

 

“Or when can we meet at your house in Rancho? I should get a look at the grounds, to get a feel for what this guy is doing and thinking.” Johansen was astonished:

 

“You mean, at my house?! Right now, possibly?!”

 

“Yes, yes, of course! No time like the present. We better get over there. Will you lead me there?” Johansen broke into a broad, relieved smile like you’ve never seen.

 

“Will I! God yes, let’s go! No time like the present I always say! This is great, really great, Joe! Thank you so much!” Off we went, me in the battered, weathered Corvette, him in his black Mercedes SL. As I pulled out onto Mission Boulevard behind him, I wondered, as I always do (and with considerable trepidation), what new wonders of the human soul this case would bring. It’s usually more than you would’ve thought possible.

 

We went up Mission and then left onto Footfalls Boulevard, and then left again after a while onto the eucalyptus-lined, downward-curving, Portuguese Hills Drive North. The dark, rolling waves of the Pacific were just visible from the drive, in the distance and in the gathering gloom. The stars overhead began to be visible, and radiated from the darkening ether.

 

We drove into the night on a chilly Christmas Eve, the Nativity displays of Rancho Verde blinking from the wide, well-manicured lawns, the tidy neighborhoods passing us by until we reached Via Capri. We drove up a slope on that winding way and finally arrived at the broad, clean, up-tilted driveway of the Johansen residence. As we pulled in, an anxious, maternal, illuminated face appeared at the just-opened front door of the sprawling, two-story, ranch-style house. Gazing upon that worried face, so wracked with pain, a face so unaccustomed to danger, a sense of doom came over me for a second time.
 

…..to be continued…..

 

Tony Downing