The Amazing Harvey

by Don Passman

  I waited for my eyes to adjust, looking around. Her place smelled like dusty rags.

  Against a living room wall, I saw a bookshelf made of raw planks and cinder blocks. The wood sagged under a mass of paperbacks and an old television. Next to that was a yellow crib. I took a few steps toward the crib. Mounted over the bare plastic mattress was a mobile of multicolored fish, hanging dead-still. I remembered that Sherry had an eighteen-month-old son. I took another step. There was dust on the crib’s rails. Dust on the mattress. Even on the fish. I found myself wondering if this little boy will even remember his mother. I turned away from the crib.

  Against the opposite wall was a couch. An end table was crammed with photos in clear plastic frames. I walked over to it. Two of the pictures were larger than the others. One showed Sherry in ski clothes, standing in the snow with an older couple. Gotta be her parents. They look just like her. Sherry had her fingers in a V behind her father’s head, making rabbit ears. The other large picture was a photo of Sherry with a toddler on her lap, both of them grinning. A tiny white Maltese looked up at them.

  A lot of the smaller photos were pictures of Sherry with different kids. Maybe the autistic ones she’d worked with? They didn’t look any different from normal kids. Most were smiling. Some were playing with blocks. Another sat staring at a train set.

  The rest of the pictures were of Sherry with different men. In every photo, she was touching the man: her head on his shoulder, or hugging him around the waist, or holding his hand. In each one, she was looking at the camera with that sexy look I’d seen in the photo that the cops showed me.

  I went into the kitchen. The air smelled of rotting food. I took a deep breath and held it.

  The sink was full of dishes caked with food. On top of the pile was a tiny bowl, painted with a clown holding a red balloon that said Brandon. Beside the sink was a box of organic wheat cereal with its flaps standing up. A stream of ants pulsed down the side of the box, across the counter, and onto the floor. On the linoleum was a small red dog dish, heaped with tiny kibble pellets. It said Misty on the side. Why was it full? Did the dog stop eating when she …

  I left the kitchen and let out my breath. To my right, I saw the open bathroom door. In front of me was the closed bedroom door.

  I took a step toward the bedroom, then stopped.

  What am I doing here?

  I feel like a ghoul.

  I half-turned around.

  No. I have to be here. The cops are trying to hang this on me.

  How could they think I did something like this? I’m starting to feel like some guy in a 1950s horror film who’s telling everyone that the aliens are coming and they’re all smiling at him and saying, “Sure, sure” while they call the men in the white coats with nets and …

  Shit. I could really swing for this. I’m the only one who knows I didn’t do it. Except the real killer, who’s not likely to stand up in court like Jean Valjean in Les Miserables. My shirt felt wet against my chest.

  If I don’t figure this out, there’s a good chance nobody will.

  I turned back and stared at the off-white door, which was warped enough to leave gaps where it should be flush with the frame.

  I took a step.

  Stopped.

  Can I really go into the bedroom where she was murdered?

  There could be something important in there. According to the manager, her parents are coming tomorrow.

  I took another step.

  Wouldn’t the cops have found everything important?

  Am I going to see something gross? I don’t do well with blood.

  I reached for the door handle, then stopped my hand in midair.

  C’mon, Harvey.

  I forced myself to put my fingers on the knob. The metal felt cold.

  Should I really be doing this? Hannah said it was stupid. Why am I paying her if I’m not going to listen?

  The handle squeaked as I turned it.

  I took a deep breath and opened the door.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  As I stepped inside Sherry’s bedroom, I half-expected to see the outline of a body painted on a bloody mattress.

  I let out my breath.

  Just messy sheets. The crumpled fabric was printed with little smiling unicorns.

  No ropes on the headboard.

  I looked around the room. In one corner was a chair, heaped with teddy bears, a Barbie doll, and a stuffed sock decorated as a monkey. Near to the chair was a desk, with wires stretched halfway across, their plug ends laying limply inside the dust outline of a laptop. Did the cops take the computer? If not, was there a burglary? The door to the hall didn’t look forced. No broken windows. Maybe the killer took the computer because he wanted it to look like a robbery? Maybe because he didn’t want anyone to know what was on it?

  I walked over and carefully opened the desk drawer. A mess of pens, chewed pencils, Scotch tape, Post-its, and paper clips.

  When I finished looking through the desk, I walked over to her dresser, which had an open red-lacquered jewelry box sitting on top. A thick gold necklace was draped over the side of the box. In the black velvet divider were a few rings and jeweled pins.

  This couldn’t have been a robbery. They’d have taken the jewelry, even if there’s nothing valuable.

  I opened the top drawer of the dresser. Inside were three cut-glass bottles that smelled of flowery perfume.

  The next drawer held her underwear and bras. I started to go through them, then stopped myself.

  Hannah was right. There’s nothing here. I took all this risk …

  I let out a breath and closed the drawer.

  As I straightened up, I noticed something.

  Hang on.…

  I squinted at the jewelry box. There was something odd about it.

  What?

  Onstage, the wooden boxes that make people disappear sometimes have hidden compartments, designed to fool the eye. It’s done by painting them with a forced perspective, and it’s very deceptive. But I’ve seen so many trick boxes that it’s obvious to me.

  That’s what’s wrong here. The jewelry box has more space than you can access from the top. Not much. But definitely something.

  Is there a hidden compartment? I tried lifting up the velvet dividers.

  Wouldn’t budge.

  Everything looked solid. I took out the jewelry, picked up the box, and studied the construction. I tilted it to the side and heard something slide.

  Aha.

  I quickly tilted the box the other way. Whatever was inside thunked against the wood.

  If it got in there, there’s a way to get to it.

  I looked at the sides of the box. I turned it over and felt around the bottom. Checked the sides again.

  Wait.… A gap where one of the corners met was a little bigger than the others. I fidgeted with the back panel. C’mon.

  Nope.

  I put both thumbs on the side panel and tried to slide it sideways.

  Nope.

  I pushed in the other direction.

  When I applied upward pressure, I heard a click. The panel slid up an inch. Yes!

  I could see a small space under the velvet divider tray. I opened my palm and tilted the end of the box against it.

  A computer thumb drive, about the size of a toenail clipper, fell into my hand. I put down the jewelry box and took the thumb drive to the light by the window. The writing said 2.0 GB. A drive that size can hold a lot of data.

  I went back to the box and pushed down the wooden panel. Then pushed harder. What, is it stuck?

  I heard the metallic turn of a lock in the next room, then the creak of hinges.

  Sherry’s front door.

  The manager’s voice said, “Mr. Kimbel, I’m here with the police.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I heard footsteps coming toward Sherry’s bedroom.

  As I stuffed the thumb drive into my pants pocket, one of the lock picks slivered under my fingernail and stabbed into the q
uick. OW!

  I pulled my hand out and shook it.

  The lock picks. Shit. Not a good thing for the cops to find on me.

  I am good and truly fucked.

  The footsteps grew louder.

  I grabbed the jewelry box, forced the secret panel back into place, scooped up the jewelry, and dumped it on top.

  Just as I set down the box, an olive-skinned policeman walked in, followed by the manager. The manager turned on the lights. I squinted in the sudden brightness.

  The name tag on the officer’s shirt said Morales. The radio on his shiny black utility belt squawked.

  The manager pointed at me. “That’s him, Officer. One of the tenants saw him sneak in the back door. When they called me, I recognized his description. He’d been asking about Sherry Allen, so I listened at her door and, sure enough, I heard him inside.” The manager squinted at me. “I see you shaved your mustache since yesterday.”

  Ooops.

  Morales looked at me, then around the room. He noticed the jewelry on the dresser.

  The officer took a step toward me. “May I see some identification?”

  “Yes, of course.” I fumbled my wallet from my back pocket and held it out.

  He didn’t take it. “Remove your license, please.”

  I opened my wallet, reached behind the clear plastic window, and grabbed the end of the laminated license with my fingertips. When I tried to pull it out, my grip slipped off. I wiped my fingers on my pants, managed to get a better hold, and pulled.

  Is the damn thing glued in?

  I scissored it until it was loose, then handed it over.

  Morales looked at the license. The manager looked over his shoulder, then up at me. He narrowed his eyes.

  Guess he noticed my name isn’t Kimbel.

  The officer handed back my license. “What are you doing here, Mr. Kendall?”

  I tried to hold his gaze. “I’m a suspect in Sherry Allen’s murder. I wanted to look at the crime scene.”

  The manager’s eyebrows went up.

  The cop said, “You understand breaking and entering is a crime?”

  I said, “The door was unlocked.”

  The manager said, “No, it wasn’t.”

  I said, “Yes, it was. Otherwise, how could I get in without breaking the door?”

  The manager pointed a finger at me. “I double-checked it last night. After you came snooping around, bothering the other tenants. This apartment was locked up tight as a drum.”

  “I’m telling you, it was open.”

  The officer held up his hand to stop our volley. “Mr. Kendall, have you taken anything?”

  “Absolutely not. I just looked around. I was only here five minutes before you arrived.”

  The manager said to the policeman, “Mrs. Horst, the lady across the hall, saw him fooling with the lock.”

  Morales squinted at me. “That true, Mr. Kendall?”

  “I had to give it a few turns, that’s all. Look, I’m sorry about this. The manager said Ms. Allen’s parents are taking her things tomorrow. I wanted to see the apartment before it was emptied.”

  “You know there are procedures for this kind of thing?”

  I grimaced, forcing a smile. “I guess not.”

  The officer’s radio cackled.

  He said, “You haven’t taken anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Would you mind emptying your pockets?”

  The thumb drive and the lock picks suddenly felt like they were burning my leg. “Um, of course not.”

  The manager moved closer to the cop.

  I reached inside my shirt pocket and pulled it inside out. Then I tucked it back in. I stuck my right hand into my pants pocket and grabbed my keys and coins. I stuck my left hand into the left front pocket, which had the lock picks and Sherry’s thumb drive. I palmed the picks and drive, just like I do with coins in my magic act.

  I took out both hands at the same time, pulling my pants pockets inside out. As I did, I let the coins “accidentally” fall. The officer’s eyes went to the floor. While he was distracted, I dropped the picks and thumb drive into the shirt pocket I’d already shown him was empty.

  I said, “Sorry. I’m a little nervous.” With the insides of my pants pockets dangling over the seams, I held out my open palms, then turned my hands over and back.

  He said, “Back pockets, please.”

  I turned around and pulled out my back pockets. With my back to him, I took the contraband out of my shirt pocket and put it back in a front pocket as I stuffed the inside back into my pants. I didn’t want him noticing any bulges in the shirt.

  When I turned around, the officer stared at me.

  His radio screeched with static.

  Morales said, “Get out of here, Mr. Kendall.”

  “Yes, sir.” I squatted down to get the coins and keys.

  The manager said, “You’re not going to arrest him?”

  “I have no evidence he took anything. There’s no sign of a break-in.”

  “What about trespassing?”

  The cop said, “With all due respect, sir, I’ve got a few more serious crimes to worry about.” He motioned his head toward the door. “Mr. Kendall, I’ll escort you out of the building.”

  * * *

  I got back to Hannah’s office a little after two.

  She wasn’t back from her mysterious meeting, so I unlocked the door, turned on the lights, and went inside.

  Did the filing papers have babies while I was out?

  I let out a sigh.

  Hmm. I’ve got a few minutes before she gets back from her meeting.…

  I sat down at her desk, glanced at the closed office door, and turned on her computer. Before it finished booting, Hannah came through the door. I sprang up.

  She said, “What are you doing?”

  “I … uh…”

  “Don’t you ever touch my computer without asking. There’s sensitive data on there.”

  I threw up my hands in surrender and stepped away from the desk. “Sorry.”

  She scowled as she moved between me and the computer.

  I reached into my pocket, grabbed the thumb drive, and held it out on my flat palm. “I went somewhere you don’t want to know about and found this. The cops missed it.”

  “You … what?” She stepped closer and took the device.

  I said, “It’s a thumb drive.”

  She turned it in her fingers. “I can see that. What’s on it?”

  I suppose I could have plugged it into my ass to read the data, but I thought it’d be easier to use your computer. “I dunno. I was about to look.”

  Hannah studied the thumb drive, then looked at me. “Where did you find it?”

  I told her about the jewelry box.

  She cocked her head, as if asking, Are you really that clever? “How did you get into her apartment?”

  “I don’t think you want to hear about that.”

  She let out a breath.

  I said, “Aren’t you proud of me?”

  Hannah set the thumb drive carefully on her desk. “Actually, this is quite problematic.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, the cops didn’t find it. So the only way we can prove it was in Sherry’s apartment is for you to testify.”

  “You don’t think they’ll believe me?”

  “That’s not the issue. I never put murder defendants on the stand. It opens you up to cross-examination by the district attorney.”

  “I don’t care. I didn’t kill her.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not about what you did. It’s about how you look to a jury when you’re under the knife of a prosecutor. On top of that, if there’s anything on this device that incriminates you—”

  “There won’t be. I didn’t know her.”

  “If there’s anything on here that incriminates you, then I’m ethically obliged to give it to the police.”

  “Before we spin out thirty-two theories, why d
on’t we stick the damn thing in the computer?” I gestured for her to take the seat in front of the screen.

  Hannah sat down and plugged the thumb drive in a USB port. I came around behind and leaned over her shoulder to watch.

  The device showed up as G: drive. Hannah ran the mouse pointer over it and double-clicked. Only one folder: Sherry Personal. Hannah clicked on it. A box popped up, asking for a password. We both said, “Shit.”

  I said, “You know anything about computer hacking?”

  “I’ve got a techno weenie who can do it, but he’s not cheap. It’s worth trying a few guesses. Passwords are usually something people can easily remember. Personal data, like their birthday, Social Security number, or address. Most of that should be in the police report.”

  I walked toward the file cabinet. “I’ll get it.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t do this now. I’m on a deadline.”

  “Maybe I could—”

  “Do your filing.” Hannah took the thumb drive out of the computer and put it on her desk. “You can play with the thumb drive on your own time.”

  She started typing.

  I said, “Someone took Sherry’s computer. Can you find out if the cops have it?”

  She answered without looking up. “I’ll check. Start punching.” Hannah grabbed her briefcase off the floor, put it on the desk, and clicked the two latches with her thumbs. “I’ve got to finish my brief in the Oliver Desmond case and file it within the next hour and a half.”

  “Oliver Desmond? That rich kid who killed the basketball player’s son?”

  “Allegedly killed him.”

  “You’re his lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  I nodded repeatedly. “Wow, that’s a really high-profile case.”

  She smiled despite herself. “I have to hurry. There’s a press conference in two hours.”

  “And you’re talking to the press? This really is the big time.”

  She picked up her purse. “I wouldn’t normally talk to the press at all, but there’s so much negative coverage of this case that I have to get our side out there.”

  “Cool. Where are we going?”

  “I’m going to the downtown courthouse. You’re staying here and filing.”