The Lemon Thief's Ex-Wife's Third Cousin

Chapter Thirteen

Somehow I wasn't surprised to discover, on returning to the hotel, that they'd switched my room from a double to a single and from the fourth floor to the third. Perhaps the police had already informed them of Hernan's situation. I didn't know, and it had been such a long and trying day that I didn't even try to find out. I felt as if I wasn't merely in a different city, or even a different country, but a new universe altogether, one whose rules of operation I wasn't familiar with. People looked the same and spoke the same, but beneath the skin they might have been giant bug-eyed reptiles for all I could tell. From my new vantage point on the third floor, I ordered a sandwich and chips from room service and scanned the local television stations for any evidence of inter-galactic mayhem, but all I found was traffic reports and intermittent listings of recent business re-locations. These people were keen on keeping up to date on where everyone else had got to. They had a mania for constant change, it seemed.

I spent a sleepless night in three fourteen. The events of the day were confusing enough, but when fatigue and worry were added to the package, I was unable to keep anything straight in my mind. I knew my Hernan Kaitel, or at least I thought I did, and I knew he was no wanted fugitive who'd spend the last months on the run from the law, perhaps hiding underground in that inexplicable bunker, or hanging around with those awful greasy spoon gangsters. He had been, and I had to keep reminding myself of this definite fact, living in my own house and working for my own paper, under my very eyes practically the entire year to date. So who were all these people claiming otherwise, and why was Hernan remembering things that never happened, and what did it all add up to? Had we imperceptibly crossed paths with some sort of a mirror dimension? Were we now truly walking on the road not taken? That seemed as reasonable a notion as any.

I'm sure I came across as a babbling idiot the next morning when I broached some of these notions with Hernan's attorney, to whom I was directed by the sergeant on duty at the station, after he refused to let me visit with my incarcerated friend. The lawyer's name was Robin Pence, and she was apparently a highly respected one, judging from the shiny condition of the walnut paneling in her downtown high-rise office, and the golden nameplate on its door. She was relatively easy to track down, too, actually located at the very first address I was given. She was a very imposing presence, at least six feet tall. She was very dark with a mass of curly black hair which made her entire height approach the rim of the standard-size basketball hoop adorning one of the walls. She also had a very deep and calm voice, and it was easy to imagine her having a side-job narrating nature documentaries. She sat behind a wide obsidian desk in a red leather chair and listened to my chronological rendition of the story, just as you yourself have heard up until this point. When I finally paused for breath, she whistled, smiled and said,

"I've been Nando's lawyer for a long time now and this is by far the best he's come up with yet."

"The best what?" I asked.

"Alibi," she said. "He's always good for a new one. Every time he gets caught, which is something that occurs on a quite regular basis, by the way, although this time he did manage to elude the authorities for several months. I have to admit I had placed a small wager on the tall tale he'd drag in this time. I see I was wrong, very wrong. I had something more along the lines of 'my ex-wife's third cousin stole my identity', or the classic 'you know what bacon does to my system', or even  'the dog ate the diamonds', something uniquely Nando like that."

"I don't know anything about diamonds," I said, discouraged.

"They'd already been sold," she said. "Weeks and weeks ago. The jewels went through so many hands along the way that the police can't trace it all the way back, but they're pretty sure they've got some telling links. Not enough for a conviction perhaps, but enough for a case. Nando will be going to trial this time. Ah," she leaned back in her chair and pretended to exhale from an imaginary cigar, 'The Case of The Christmas Heist'. It's going to be fun, and I'm going to enjoy it."

"The Christmas Heist?" I asked.

"Surely you heard about it," she said. "Even in Wetford they must have some idea of what goes on in the world. It was the most spectacular burglary in years. The Hanover diamonds, on loan from the Hapsburg collection, swiped from the Ruggeinheil Museum in broad daylight during operating hours, heck, during a public tour no less, in the presence of hundreds, and on Christmas day itself!"

"Well, it couldn't have been Hernan," I said, "that same day he was busy losing his life savings at the Pindar Casino in Pink City."

"What's that?" Robin Pence broke out of her reverie. She must have been imagining how even more famous she would be after her day in court on this case.

"And his car," I added. "Hernan lost everything last Christmas day."

"At the Pindar Casino, you say? In Pink City? I didn't know they had Indian casinos there, and I never heard of that particular tribe."

"These Indians are from India. Pink City's a little unusual, you know."

"Pindar Casino. Interesting." Robin Pence was nothing if not connected. In minutes she'd been on the phone with someone very important in Pink City, who'd connected her with someone very important at the Pindar Casino, who ran an immediate scan and came up with not only printed but video evidence as well, evidence which would be perfectly admissible in court, according to Robin Pence, after she hung up the phone.

"Very," she abbreviated, once again holding up the invisible cigar to her lips.

"Very very, indeed," she contemplated.

"I must say, Mister - I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name."

"It doesn't matter what my name is," I replied. "All I care about is getting Hernan out of that jail and back home with me."