Read Online The Amazing Harvey by Don Passman - Free Book Online Page B

places.”
    â€œAnything 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.”
    â€œCase 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.”
    â€œMe, 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?”
    â€œI’m delivering some evidence for analysis.” I rubbed my hands for warmth. Is my breath visible?
    â€œName?”
    â€œHannah 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