The Amazing Harvey

by Don Passman

  “Did Sherry get a lot of visitors?”

  Ms. Bathrobe sighed. “I’m afraid she was one of those trusting souls who went for a few too many men.”

  “Did anyone come more often than the others?”

  “There was a young man with tattoos who seemed to be here a lot.”

  I took a step closer. “What kind of tattoos?”

  She shook her head. “They all look like scribbles to me.”

  I tried to keep my voice soft. “Did you remember anything else about him?”

  “Spiked hair. I told the police all about this.”

  I nodded. “Was there anything else you noticed about Sherry?”

  “She had a little dog that barked a lot. It used to drive me crazy, but now I find myself listening for him.” She looked at me. “Is that crazy?”

  I spoke gently. “Of course not.”

  She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her bathrobe.

  “Did you notice anything unusual on her … last night?”

  She shook her head, sniffled.

  I said, “No one coming or going?”

  “No.” Her eyes glistened. “I … I’m sorry.”

  She closed the door.

  I tried a few more doors, and when no one answered, I went back to Sherry’s apartment, No. 9. Gotta get in before the parents take her stuff.

  I grabbed the door handle and turned. It rattled in place. I squatted down and studied the lock. Pin and tumbler cylinder. The easiest to pick. Thank you, Mr. Cheapo Builder.

  When I was a kid, I read that Houdini worked for a locksmith so he could learn the inner workings of handcuffs, padlocks, and safes. The summer I turned sixteen, I wangled a job at Locks-a-Million, a dumpy little place on Riverside Drive. I saw maybe five customers in eight weeks, but I learned a helluva lot about locks, including how to pick them. I also acquired the lockpick set that now resided in my pocket, even though keeping it without a locksmith license was on the shady side of the law.

  I looked both ways down the hall, then pulled the tools out of my pocket. I took the tension wrench, which looked like a miniature hockey stick, stuck it in the bottom of the keyhole, and turned it slightly to keep tension on the pins. Then I took the pick, a metal instrument with a hook on the end that looked like a dentist’s pick, and inserted it all the way into the keyhole. I maneuvered the pick until I could feel it engage the first pin; then I pushed until it lined up with the shear line. Keeping the tension on the cylinder, I carefully moved the pick forward to the next pin and fiddled with it until I felt the pin line up.

  A bead of sweat ran down my forehead, then veered into my eye. Ahh! That stings. If I wipe it, I’ll lose the two pins I already picked. Ow! I blinked rapidly.

  I looked down the hall. Still clear.

  I got another pin lined up.

  Then the next. Almost there …

  My cell phone rang. Shit. I can’t have someone come out to look for whatever is ringing.

  I let go of the pins, pulled out the picks, and answered the damn thing. “What?”

  Hannah said, “Did I not tell you to be back at two fifteen sharp?”

  I looked at my watch. Two twenty. Ooops. “I’m really sorry.”

  Hannah said, “Get back here. Now. Otherwise, you have no job and no lawyer.”

  She hung up.

  I looked at Sherry’s door, looked at the cell phone.

  I stuck the lockpick tools in my pocket and went out the building’s back door, so I wouldn’t pass the manager’s apartment.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When I got back to the office, Hannah set down her pen. “Why were you late getting back from lunch? That is unacceptable.”

  I smiled sheepishly. “It took a little longer than I thought to, you know, do that thing you don’t want to know about.”

  She closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. “I don’t suppose I should ask if you learned anything?”

  I told her about the manager and the neighbor, then said, “I’ll be having lunch again tomorrow out of the office. Stay tuned for further developments.”

  “What you do on your own time is your business. Just remember. You have a lunch hour.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Hannah opened her desk drawer, took something out, walked over to me. She handed me a business card that read Daniel Labs.

  Hannah said, “I’ve asked the cops for a split of the DNA from the crime scene so we can have it analyzed by our own expert. You can leave early to pick it up from the downtown police department at this address.” She handed me a piece of paper. “You’ll need the case number written at the bottom. Then take the DNA sample to the address on the business card. I phoned ahead and made all the arrangements at both places.”

  “Anything else?”

  She looked at me. “Pray they find a discrepancy.”

  * * *

  Late in the afternoon, I got to the downtown police headquarters and found a small room whose door said EVIDENCE RELEASE CENTER. Behind a window made of thick bulletproof glass, a tired-looking woman in a blue uniform pushed a red button. The speaker inside a metal wall box shrieked, then her tinny voice said, “Can I help you?”

  My mouth felt a little dry. “I’m, uh, here to pick up some evidence.”

  “Case number?”

  I read the number off Hannah’s sheet.

  She said, “Put your driver’s license in the drawer.” A metal drawer underneath the window slid out at me, like one of those bank teller operations.

  I fished the license out of my wallet and set it down.

  She pulled the drawer toward her, picked up my license, and studied it. Then she got up and went into a back room.

  A man in a beige messenger uniform with greased black hair and stained armpits walked up beside me. He smelled like a pitchfork full of manure.

  The man smiled at me. “Pickin’ up some evidence?”

  No, I’m in the Evidence Release Center to grab some cheeseburgers. “Yeah.”

  “Me, too. Two rapes and an assault. Whadda you got?”

  I started breathing through my mouth to avoid the smell. “Parking ticket.”

  He screwed his forehead in puzzlement.

  Through the tin speaker, I heard, “Mr. Kendall?”

  I turned away from Mr. Dung Heap, still breathing through my mouth.

  The woman behind the window said, “Please sign the receipt.”

  The bank drawer opened. Inside was a receipt, my driver’s license, and a clear plastic Baggie with a strip of yellow tape on it.

  I scribbled my name on the receipt, grabbed the license and Baggie, and left her to Mr. Manure, who stepped up to the window. Good thing for her that it’s made of thick glass.

  As I walked down the hall, I examined the clear plastic Baggie. Inside was a tiny piece of cotton, smaller than a pencil eraser. A strip of yellow tape printed with the words Los Angeles Police ran up one side of the Baggie, over the stapled top, and down the other side. Someone had written on the bag itself, across the tape, with a felt pen. Case number, date, and an undecipherable signature.

  I held the Baggie carefully in my fingertips and walked to my car. After placing it gently on the passenger seat, I drove through heavy afternoon traffic to the Pacoima address on the lab’s business card.

  It turned out to be a squat brick building on Glenoaks Boulevard, surrounded by a cracked parking lot with weeds growing through the asphalt. I squinted at the building. Is this the right place? I can’t see an address number.

  I looked closer. The sign on the door said DANIELS LAB.

  I drove into the lot, parked my car, and went into the building.

  Whoa. The temperature in here is subarctic.

  My bare arms bristled. This some kinda lab thing? To preserve dead bodies or something?

  Behind a counter, a man stood up. He had a nose that looked like it had been given a quarter turn clockwise. As I stepped closer, I saw that the pin on his white coat said David.

  David sa
id, “Help you?”

  “I’m delivering some evidence for analysis.” I rubbed my hands for warmth. Is my breath visible?

  “Name?”

  “Hannah Fisher.”

  He looked through several loose pages, then back at me. “Maybe it’s under a case name?”

  I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “Um, Kendall?”

  He looked at the papers again. “Yep. Got it.”

  I quickly handed him the Baggie, got a receipt, and hurried outside. It felt great to be back in the heat of a seventy-degree day.

  As I walked toward my car, I saw a woman standing next to the open door of a black Dodge Neon, taking off her white lab coat. She looked about my age, with short black hair, bright blue eyes, and a slight overbite. Now that the lab coat was off, I saw that she wore a loose-fitting checkered blouse over denim jeans. Is she wearing a bra?

  The woman noticed me watching and held my gaze. Her mouth formed a little smile.

  I smiled back.

  She slowly rubbed her bare arm.

  We kept looking at each other as I walked over to her.

  I said, “You must work here.” Could I have possibly found a worse cliché?

  She smiled with that overbite. “Guess the white coat gave it away?”

  I laughed a little too much. “What do you do?”

  “Lab work. Titrating liquids, capillary electrophoresis, and similar exciting things. What brings you to beautiful downtown Pacoima?”

  I looked down at the cracked pavement, then forced myself to look at her. “I’m working for a criminal lawyer. Dropping off some evidence for analysis.”

  She raised her head in an Ah.

  I said, “You worked here long?”

  “Just a few months. I left my prior job over a moral issue.”

  I took a step closer. “What happened?”

  She held out her hand. “I’m Carly Banks.”

  “Harvey Kendall.” I shook her hand. She didn’t let go of mine.

  She said, “Your hand’s cold.”

  “Yeah. It’s about three degrees in there. That to preserve chemicals or something?”

  “No. The lab director likes it that way. Took me a month to get used to it.”

  She was still holding my hand.

  I cleared my throat. “So, what happened to your other job?”

  She slid her hand out of mine, crooked her index finger in a “Follow me” gesture, and walked around behind her car. When I got there, Carly pointed to a bumper sticker: ABORTION IS MURDER.

  Uh-oh. Religious freak?

  She said, “I worked for two years at a university, doing stem-cell research. Then I came to believe that dealing with the aftermath of abortions was wrong, so I felt like I had to quit. When I left, I wasn’t exactly quiet about my feelings, and that didn’t go over so well with the academic community. Since they all know each other, I couldn’t get a research job, even outside the stem-cell area. So this was the best I could do. I’m sure things’ll quiet down in time. Meanwhile, I’m the only Ph.D. here at the lab.”

  “All because you talked about your views on abortion?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Whatever happened to free speech?”

  She twisted her mouth and raised her eyebrows as if to say, Don’t be naïve.

  I said, “You, um, said you ‘came to believe’ abortions were wrong. Was that … I mean, was it because of…”

  She smiled. “A religious awakening? No. I’m an agnostic.”

  I wrinkled my forehead. “So why did you take such a strong stand?”

  She walked back to the open door of her car. I hurried behind.

  Carly said, “I gotta run. I’m meeting someone.” She reached into the pocket of her blouse and pulled out a business card, then leaned inside the car and grabbed a pen. Carly wrote on the back of the card and handed it to me. “Here’s my cell phone. Buy me a cup of coffee sometime, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  I looked at the card. Carly Banks, Ph.D., along with the Daniels Lab information. I flipped it over to make sure her personal number was really there. Nice handwriting.

  Carly gave me a smile with that overbite, her top teeth sensually touching her bottom lip.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Next morning, when I walked into Hannah’s office, she said, “It’s five minutes after nine.”

  “My watch says it’s nine exactly.” Give or take five minutes.

  “Harvey, you’ve been late both days you’ve worked here. I expect you here on time.”

  Prepare for disappointment. “Sorry.”

  She gave me a curt nod. “Don’t do it again.”

  * * *

  Hannah spent the morning on the phone while I worked through the filing, which seemed to grow faster than I was putting it away, like the insect monsters in some space movie.

  She left for an appointment late morning, so I took the opportunity to extend my lunch hour a bit and drove toward Sherry’s apartment. On the way, I called Dr. Carly from the laboratory on her cell.

  When she answered, I said, “Dr. Banks, this is the barista from Starbucks, and there’s an incredibly charming young man here who’s insisting on buying you a coffee tonight.”

  She laughed. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

  “One of my better qualities. How about it?”

  “Well, since you had the barista call me, I don’t see how I can refuse. But not tonight.”

  We arranged to meet at the Starbucks in Westwood the next night.

  She said, “There’s one embarrassing thing.”

  “I like embarrassing things.”

  “Well … I’ve forgotten your name.”

  * * *

  I parked a block away from Sherry’s apartment, in the opposite direction from where I’d parked the day before, and walked toward her building. How do I get in? Not a good idea to alert Jim, the Hawaiian-shirted apartment manager. Can’t pick the security gate’s lock out in the open. Maybe buzz Ms. Bathrobe? I didn’t get her name. Do a random buzz? That never works. Even if it does, they’re suspicious.

  Maybe the old “Wait for someone to go in and grab the gate.” How do I stand around and not look like a stalker?

  I walked slowly past the building. The lock on the security gate was better made than the ones inside. It’d take a long time to pick. I looked around. Don’t see anyone heading for the gate.

  I turned the corner, walked a half block, and turned down the alley behind Sherry’s building. The rear of the apartment house was built with an overhang held up by round black metal pillars, with several cars parked under the eve. The back door was wrought-iron mesh. Same kind of high-security lock as the front gate. Neighboring apartments looked down on it. Can’t pick it without risking an audience.

  I started to circle the block, then stopped.

  Hmm.

  The cars.

  I walked back. Wonder if any of the cars have alarms? Probably not the battered Ford from the seventies. There. That Kia looks pretty new. It’s parked all the way into a space, so the neighbors can’t see me if I stand in front of it.

  I went around the side of the car next to the wall, turned myself sideways, and inched forward. The car was too close to the stucco wall. Couldn’t quite get to the front. I squeezed as far forward as I could manage and got my foot on the bumper. I stepped hard, then let it go. The car bounced a little.

  No alarm.

  I stood up on the bumper and bounced up and down.

  Kept going.

  Harder.

  The alarm shrieked out an escalating whooop.

  Ow. That is seriously loud.

  I scoogied out of the tight space, hurried over beside the Ford, and squatted down. The Kia alarm switched to a pulsing buzz.

  Is this stupid? What if the apartment manager comes out?

  The alarm went back to a whoop.

  Where’s the car owner? Are these people deaf?

  The back door of the building rattled,
then swung open. A woman carrying a small child stepped out, both of them grimacing from the noise. She looked around, frightened, then held her keys toward the car.

  Go. Now. While her attention is on the car. I straightened up, sidestepped along the wall, caught the door as it closed, and hurried into the building. I heard the car alarm stop. My ears were still ringing.

  I took a few steps down the dim hallway, then stepped into the stairwell. Don’t want that woman to see me when she comes back.

  I heard the metallic groan of the back door, then the woman’s voice talking as she went past. “Shhh, honey, it’s okay.”

  Steps going farther down the hall.

  Jangling of keys.

  Door open.

  Door close.

  The hall went quiet.

  I waited a few moments, then peered around.

  Empty.

  I stepped softly as I walked to Sherry’s apartment, continually swiveling my head.

  When I got to her door, I took the lock picks out of my pants pocket and squatted down. After looking up and down the hall one last time, I stuck the wrench in the bottom of the keyhole, inserted the pick, and started working the pins.

  Got the first one.

  I checked the hall again. Still clear.

  Worked the next pin.

  My thighs burned from the awkward stance. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, then wriggled the pick until the last pin lined up.

  The cylinder gave way in a slight turn.

  Yes!

  I used the tension wrench to turn it all the way. The latch opened.

  I pushed the door just past the catch, then pulled my tools out of the lock.

  As I straightened up, my knees cracked. I froze. Did anyone hear that?

  I gave one last glance up and down the hall, then stepped inside and shut the door.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Inside Sherry’s apartment, I leaned my back against the door and tried to steady my breathing. Blood whooshed loudly in my ears.

  In the dark apartment, I groped along the wall, feeling for a light switch, then stopped. If someone looks through the window, will they notice her lights are on? Can you see lights in the daytime?