The Amazing Harvey (8 page)

“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 said, “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?

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.