Free You Can’t Stop Me by Max Allan Collins, Matthew Clemens Page A

attend graduate school at the University of California-Berkeley, probably the nation’s best chemistry grad school.
    Tall, with blond bangs, Anderson had the playful brown eyes and wide smile of a boy-band singer. Not yet thirty, he was something of a prodigy in the forensics field—Shaw paid the young man double what he could have made in public law enforcement.
    After Harrow outlined the plan, Anderson—who had never watched Crime Seen! —turned to Shaw. “Mr. Gerald, how do you feel about this?”
    A hand settled on Anderson’s shoulder. “Might be a good idea, Chris. I’ve known J.C. for years. He’s a good man, and it’d get you out of the lab for a while. Some field work would be good experience for you.”
    The young man considered that. “And my job would be here when I got back?”
    “You bet, son,” Shaw said. “Whenever you want it.”
    Turning his fresh face to Harrow, Anderson said, “Well, then, sir—when do I start?”
     
    Two days later, in New York City, Harrow found himself in a rundown Brooklyn tenement building, standing in a dark hallway in front of apartment 406.
    He knocked and waited.
    Nothing.
    He was just getting ready to leave when the door swung slowly open and he found himself staring at a bleary-eyed young man wearing only a bed sheet wrapped around him like a sarong. The son of an Asian father and Caucasian mother, Billy Choi was an ex-New York cop and former Golden Gloves boxer. Harrow had run into the criminalist at various IAI functions, where they’d shared war stories over drinks, even teaming up for conference role-playing sessions.
    “J.C.,” Choi said, rubbing the sand from his eyes, his normally swept-back jet-black hair a bird’s nest. From the lack of surprise, the guy might have seen Harrow five minutes ago.
    “I come in?” Harrow asked.
    Choi stepped out of the way, gestured with one hostly hand, and Harrow entered. To call the place a rathole would have been an insult to rats, the young man’s housecleaning skills limited to hiding the real mess beneath empty pizza boxes and dirty dishes.
    “Is it helpful in your work, Billy?”
    “Is what?”
    “Living at a crime scene?”
    “Pretty funny, J.C. When I wake up, I might laugh.”
    “Mind a question?”
    “Hit me.”
    “Can you play nice with others?”
    Shrugging, Choi said, “Not according to the NYPD. Gross insubordination, they call it.”
    Harrow gave him a long hard look. “They also call it striking a superior officer.”
    “Nothing superior about him,” Choi said.
    “Oh?”
    “Well, maybe. As in King Asshole.”
    “Ah.”
    “J.C., I just hit him. You’d’ve killed his ass.”
    But Harrow merely looked at the young ex-officer. “No, I wouldn’t.”
    Choi could not take Harrow’s gaze, and his eyes dropped to the floor. “Yeah, man, I know—I screwed up royal.”
    “Question stands. Can you play nicely with others?”
    “Does it matter?”
    “Might. You watch my show?”
    “I’ve seen it. Hey, nice gig, bro.”
    “You see Friday’s show?”
    “What’s today?”
    “I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” Harrow said, and brought him up to speed.
    “I’m in,” Choi said.
    Harrow shook his head. “Answer the question first.”
    “I can play well with others,” Choi said, a kid forced to recite in front of the class.
    “No bullshit, Billy—I’ve got the second chance you’ve been looking for. But if you screw me over, you won’t be able to land mall cop.”
    “No bullshit, sensei ,” Choi said, earnestly. “I promise ya, J.C. You give me the chance, I’ll be a right guy. No more screwin’ up.”
    “And you would walk away from all this?” Harrow asked, gesturing around the dire apartment.
    Billy grinned. “For you I would, J.C.”
    Harrow was halfway down the crummy corridor of Billy’s building when his cell chirped. The caller ID said it was Pall.
    “Michael,” Harrow said. “Good to hear from you.”
    “Thought you should know,” Pall said, “I put my