The fingers did not move.
"All right, then." Evans turned left, walking toward the picture windows. Still the fingers did not move. There was only one direction remaining: he moved behind the investigator, heading toward the door. Since the man could not see him, Evans said, "Now I am walking away from you, toward the front door..."
The fingers did not move.
"Maybe you didn't understand," Evans said. "I wanted you to move your fingers if I was heading in the right direction..."
Fingers moved. Scratching the couch.
"Yeah, okay, but which direction? I went in all four directions and--"
The doorbell rang. Evans opened it, and two paramedics rushed in, bringing a stretcher. And now there was pandemonium, they were asking him rapid-fire questions, and loading the guy onto the stretcher. The police arrived a few moments later, with still more questions. They were the Beverly Hills police, so they were polite, but they were insistent. This man was paralyzed in Evans's apartment, and Evans did not seem to know anything about it.
Finally, a detective came through the door. He wore a brown suit and introduced himself as Ron Perry. He gave Evans his card. Evans gave him his own card. Perry looked at it, then looked at Evans and said, "Haven't I seen this card before? It looks familiar. Oh yeah, I remember. It was at that apartment on Wilshire where the lady was paralyzed."
"She was my client."
"And now it's happened again, the same paralysis," Perry said. "Is that a coincidence or what?"
"I don't know," Evans said, "because I wasn't here. I don't know what happened."
"Somehow people just become paralyzed wherever you go?"
"No," Evans said. "I told you, I don't know what happened."
"Is this guy a client, too?"
"No."
"Then who is he?"
"I have no idea who he is."
"No? How'd he get in here?"
Evans was about to say he had left the door open for him, but he realized that was going to be a long explanation, and a difficult one.
"I don't know. I, uh...Sometimes I don't lock my door."
"You should always lock your door, Mr. Evans. That's just common sense."
"Of course, you're right."
"Doesn't your door lock automatically, when you leave?"
"I told you, I don't know how he got in my apartment," Evans said, looking directly into the detective's eyes.
The detective returned the stare. "How'd you get those stitches in your head?"
"I fell."
"Looks like quite a fall."
"It was."
The detective nodded slowly. "You could save us a lot of trouble if you'd just tell me who this guy is, Mr. Evans. You've got a man in your apartment, you don't know who he is, you don't know how he got here. Forgive me if I feel you're maybe leaving something out."
"I am."
"Okay." Perry took out his notebook. "Go ahead."
"The guy's a private detective."
"I know that."
"You do?" Evans said.
"The paramedics checked his pockets, found a license in his wallet. Go on."
"He told me he had been hired by a client of mine."
"Uh-huh. Which client is that?" Perry was writing.
"I can't tell you that," Evans said.
He looked up from his pad. "Mr. Evans--"
"I'm sorry. That's privileged."
The detective gave a long sigh. "Okay, so this guy is a private investigator hired by a client of yours."
"Right," Evans said. "The investigator contacted me and said he wanted to see me, to give me something."
"To give you something?"
"Right."
"He didn't want to give it to the client?"
"He couldn't."
"Because?"
"The client is, uh, unavailable."
"I see. So he came to you instead?"
"Yes. And he was a bit paranoid, and wanted to meet me in my apartment."
"So you left the door to your apartment open for him."
"Yes."
"Some guy you'd never seen before?"
"Yes, well, I knew he was working for my client."
"How did you know that?"
Evans shook his head. "Privileged."
"Okay. So this guy comes into your apartment. Where are you?"
"I was at my office."
Evans quickly recounted his movements during the intervening two hours.
"People saw you at the office?"
"Yes."
"Conversations?"
"Yes."
"More than one person?"
"Yes."
"You see anybody else besides people in the law firm?"
"I stopped to get gas."
"Attendant will recognize you?"
"Yes. I had to go in to use my credit card."
"Which station?"
"Shell on Pico."
"Okay. So you were gone two hours, you come back here, and the guy is..."
"As you saw him. Paralyzed."
"And what was he going to give you?"
"I have no idea."
"You didn't find anything in the apartment?"
"No."
"Anything else you want to tell me?"
"No."
Another long sigh. "Look, Mr. Evans. If two people I knew were mysteriously paralyzed, I'd be a little worried. But you don't seem worried."