Free The Amazing Harvey by Don Passman Page B

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
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    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.
    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