The Amazing Harvey (7 page)

I grinned as I went back to filing.

She softened her voice. “And be careful.”

 

CHAPTER TEN

 

As soon as Hannah left for her mysterious appointment, I went to Kinko's, xeroxed the police report on Sherry Allen, and headed home. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I twisted open a bottle of spirit gum and took out the little brush that was attached to the cap. I painted my upper lip with the cold liquid, picked up the mustache that I sometimes use onstage, and pressed it onto my lip. The thing smelled like old hair. I looked in the mirror and twisted my lip.

I took the phony can of foam shaving cream from my medicine cabinet and screwed off the bottom, to get to my ultrasecret hiding place that every thief probably learns about in Burglary 101. I fished out my secret “tools” and stuck them in my pocket.

*   *   *

When I got to Sherry Allen's street, Kester Avenue, I parked a block away from her address. No need for anyone to see my car near her building.

I walked toward the apartment house, which was one of those beige boxes that spawned like paramecium in the 1960s. On the front wall, the name Kester Prince was spelled in wooden letters that were covered with sparkly metal disks. Below the sign was a scraggly palm tree with dried brown fronds, sticking out of a white-rock flower bed.

The building was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence that looked like it was added long after the building went up. Probably when the neighborhood took a nosedive. I stopped at the security gate's phone box and looked at the directory. There were maybe twenty names printed on little cards. Near the bottom was S. Allen.

I picked up the phone and dialed the manager.

A man's voice said, “Yes?”

“Hi. I'm investigating the Sherry Allen incident. Could we talk a few minutes?”

“Are you with the police?”

“No.”

“I already talked to the police.”

“I know. This will only take a minute.”

“Who are you?”

“I'm a private detective. May I come in?”

The door buzzed.

I went into the building. The center hall was dimly lit by coiled fluorescent bulbs dangling from ceiling sockets. The air smelled like damp carpet.

Halfway down, I saw a middle-aged man step out of his door and look at me. He had thinning black hair and loose skin under his jaw that sagged like a canvas pouch. As I got close, I saw a mass of curly hair spilling over the neck of his Hawaiian shirt.

The manager struck out his hand. “Jim Caldwell.”

“Horace Kimbel.” Close enough. If I get questioned, I'll say I gave him my right name but he misunderstood me.

Jim looked at me, almost squinting.

He said, “Have we met?”

Huh?
How could he possibly even think that?

I said, “No.” Did my voice go up when I spoke?

He kept staring at me.

The fake mustache felt stiff against my lip.

Caldwell shrugged an
Oh well.
“How can I help you?”

“Could we talk privately for a minute?”

He shrugged. “C'mon in.”

I followed Jim into his apartment. The living room had a beige couch with black piping, a wagon-wheel coffee table, and a television on a wheeled cart with wires trailing behind. Decor by Chez Goodwill. One wall had several wooden racks that displayed a collection of spoons with city names on the handles. I'd seen those things in souvenir stores. Always wondered who bought them.

I said, “How many spoons do you have?”

Jim gave a throaty
Ugh.
“Eleven hundred and something. My wife's idea of a hobby.” He shook his head. “These are her favorites. The rest are in a couple of old suitcases.”

I walked over and looked at the display: Philadelphia Bicentennial, Los Angeles '84 Olympics, New Orleans Jazz Festival.

I turned to him and said, “Nice.”

He gave me a look that said, You can't possibly mean that.

I said, “So, Jim. Can you tell me a little about Sherry Allen?”

The door to the hall opened. A short woman with a down-turned mouth came in, carrying a bag of groceries. She looked at me like I might be a spoon thief, then hustled into the kitchen.

Jim said, “Why're you asking about Sherry?”

“Like I said, I'm working as a private detective.”

“For who?”

I swallowed. “A possible suspect in the case.”

“Who?”

“Sorry, I can't say.”

Jim stared at me, cocked his head, and squinted.

Finally, he said, “I didn't know much about Sherry. I've only been the manager here about six months. She was living in the building when I got hired.”

“You must know something.”

“Well … She had a little dog. The neighbors sometimes complained about the barking. Otherwise, she wasn't any trouble. Paid her rent on time. Which is more than I can say for a lot of folks around here.”

“Did she get many visitors?”

“I wouldn't really know.”

“Boyfriends?”

“Sorry.”

“Could I see her apartment?”

Jim lowered his eyebrows. “I don't think I can do that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I could be responsible if something turned up missing.”

“You can come in with me.”

“Sherry's parents are coming to pick up her stuff, day after tomorrow. I'm not authorized to let a stranger in. Maybe you should talk to her parents.”

Great idea. I'll just say, “Hello, Mrs. Allen. The cops think I screwed your daughter, then killed her. Would you mind if I poked through her things?”

Shit.

The parents' arrival isn't good news. Once they pick up her stuff, I'll never get to see it.

I raised my eyebrows, pleading. “I'd only need a few minutes. It'd be just between you and me.”

Jim shook his head. “Sorry.”

“What if I threw in a few spoons?”

He smiled.

I let out a little sigh. “Could I see her rental application?” I figured maybe I could find some info on her friends, employers—that kind of stuff.

“That's also confidential. Look, you seem like a nice fella, but I gotta be careful here. You know, with the cops and all.”

“What harm could it do?”

“You know how things are these days. Everybody suing everybody. I could lose my job.”

We went on in that vein awhile. I got precisely nowhere.

I said, “Well, thanks for your time.”

“Sure.” He walked me to the door of his apartment.

I stepped into the hall and turned back. “I'll check back, in case you think of anything.”

Jim gave me another “Are you sure I don't know you?” look.

I started toward the front of the building, listening for the manager to close his door.

When I heard the lock catch, I slowed down and glanced back.

Empty hallway.

I stood there a moment to make sure he wasn't coming back out.

When he didn't appear, I walked down the dim hall and stopped in front of Sherry's apartment.

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

As I reached for the handle of Sherry's apartment door, I got another idea.

I walked farther down the hall and knocked on the door of her next-door neighbor. No one home. Then I banged on the door directly across the hall from Sherry's. Inside, I heard footsteps. A few seconds later, the door opened and I saw an elderly lady with disheveled hair, wearing a pink terrycloth bathrobe, even though it was almost two in the afternoon.

The woman squinted at me. “Yes?” With an age-spotted hand, she pulled the lapels of the robe tight against her throat.

I said, “I'm sorry to bother you. My name is Horace Kimbel, and I'm doing a private investigation into the unfortunate incident with Sherry Allen.”

Her eyes softened. “That poor dear.”

“You knew her?”

She squinted at me. “Who are you again?”

“A private detective.”

“Can't you get this from the police? I talked to them for over an hour.”

I nodded sympathetically. “I'm sorry to ask again. It's important for me to talk directly to the witnesses. How did you say you knew her?”

She nodded. “I babysat Sherry's son, Brandon, sometimes. Sweetest little boy. Do you know how he's doing?”

I shook my head. “I'm sorry, I don't.”

She let go of the bathrobe lapels. “Ironic, isn't it? Sherry had to leave her own child so she could help those autistic children? She wanted to go to medical school, you know. She was taking science classes at Northridge.”

“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.”