The Amazing Harvey (33 page)

I rolled down the window. Sucked in a deep breath. Let it out slowly.

I don't consciously remember this place. Why do I want to run?

Forcing my foot against the gas pedal, I chugged up to about 10 miles per hour, then turned into the parking lot.

I don't see any spaces. Should I come back?

C'mon.
This is silly.

I opened the glove compartment, pulled a tissue from the plastic packet, and patted my forehead.

There's a space.

I pulled into it, killed the engine, and climbed out. As I walked down the sidewalk alongside the driveway, I jangled my keys. In the distance, I saw a courtyard with a huge water fountain. Behind it was a sprawling two-story concrete building whose facade was feathered with trees. To my right, the multicolored blooms of the rose garden caught my eye. Among the roses was a tall iron gate gilded in gold, with cut metal lettering:
There Is No Profit in Curing the Body if in the Process We Destroy the Soul.

As I got closer to the main building, I saw that the large marble fountain sprayed arcs of water below a modernistic bronze statue of a mother and father with their arms stretched over their heads, holding up a child. I walked to the edge of the fountain and stood there, listening to the shush of the water, feeling the droplets spray my face.

Get on with it.

I forced myself to walk inside the hospital, where a round woman at the front desk said, “May I help you?”

I cleared my throat. “Um … Hi.”

She nodded. “Hello.”

“I was a bone-marrow-transplant patient here many years ago.”

The woman broke into a broad grin. “Well, welcome back.”

“Uh … thanks. I was wondering—how can I get information on my marrow donor?”

“Since you're asking, I assume it wasn't a relative?”

“Yes. I mean, no, it wasn't.”

She picked up the phone, dialed an extension, explained that I was looking for my donor, then hung up. She turned around and called out, “Helen, can you take this gentleman down to MUD?”

I said, “MUD?”

She chuckled. “Sorry. Our code around here. It means Matched Unrelated Donors.”

Helen led me down the hall and into an elevator. We went to the basement, then walked along a stark white corridor to a set of gray double doors, which Helen opened for me. I stepped into a large area with blue-green walls and an array of cubicles with gray fabric walls. I heard a whir overhead and looked up at a metal track hanging a couple of feet from the ceiling. A metal box about the size of a briefcase was moving along the track.

Helen noticed me watching and said, “That's our system of moving patient records around the hospital. What's your last name, dear?”

The metal box disappeared through a hole in the wall. I looked at Helen. “Kendall.”

A woman's voice said, “That'd be me.” A tall lady with wavy black hair stood up behind her cubicle wall. “We divide the alphabet. I've got
I
through
P.
” She motioned me over.

I walked over to the tall woman, who stuck out her hand. “I'm Jill Buccholz. Have a seat.”

We shook hands. Her hand was a lot warmer than mine.

I sat next to Jill's desk and looked around the room. In the back, I saw a door with a high-security lock. Would that be the file room? Pretty high-tech lock. Not sure I can pick it.

Jill said, “Mr. Kendall?”

I looked back at her. Did she catch me casing the place?

“How can I help you, Mr. Kendall?”

I explained that I was looking for my donor.

She said, “If the donor signed a consent form saying you could know his or her identity, then it's easy. If not, I have to send a request to the hospital where the person donated. They'll try to contact the donor. If they can, and if the person's willing to meet, we can put you in touch.”

“That sounds like it could take a long time.” I pulled my chair a little closer, trying to look at her computer screen. It was turned so I couldn't see. Guess she's done this before.

Jill said, “If the hospital can't find the donor, or if the person's not willing to meet, the only thing I can tell you is the person's gender and age at the time of donation.”

“It's a he.”

“You were already told?”

“I met him when I was little.”

She raised her eyebrows in an “Ah!” expression. “If you met him, I'm sure he signed a consent. This should be easy. Spell your name, please?”

Jill punched my name into the computer. “Here we go. Your donor was James Caldwell. Age twenty-eight at the time of donation.”

Why does that name sound familiar? I said, “Do you have his contact information?”

“I have an address and phone from the date of his registration. That was thirty years ago.”

“I'll take it.”

She tapped the computer keys. A printer on her desk hummed, then chugged out a page. She handed it to me.

James Caldwell

10527 Lucerne Drive

Simi Valley, CA

805-555-8121

I stared at the page, furrowing my forehead.

Caldwell …

Why does that name sound familiar? It's not that common a name.

I slowly shook my head. Can't think of it.

Maybe I'm just getting desperate.

I said, “Thanks,” folded the paper in half, and stood up.

*   *   *

As soon as I got outside, I opened my cell phone and dialed Caldwell's number.

A woman answered.
“¿Bueno?”

“Is James Caldwell there?”

“¿Mande?”

“Caldwell. You speak English?
¿Inglés?
”

I got a barrage in Spanish.

I hung up and walked toward my car. The soles of my shoes scraped the concrete sidewalk.

Caldwell.
I know that name.…

How?

I called Hannah. “Does the name James Caldwell sound familiar to you?”

“No. Should it?”

I twisted my mouth to the side. “Can you look him up on your computer?”

“What's this about?”

“I'll explain later. It's urgent.”

“I'm in the middle of—”

“C'mon, Hannah.”

Sounded like she was banging the keyboard hard.

“Got it.”

I felt my pulse spike. “Excellent. Give me his info.”

“He died in the Boston Massacre of 1770.”

“Probably not the same guy.” A little lady in a walker cut in front of me. “Give it another try.”

“Will you please explain what's going on?”

I hurried around Grandma Walker. “Caldwell is…”

Of course!

I stopped suddenly, almost tripping the old lady, who said, “Watch it, sonny.”

Hannah said, “Harvey?”

I suddenly remembered and broke into a wide grin.

That's
how I know the name Caldwell.

It all fits.

Holy Shit.

 

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

 

Hannah and I walked into the district attorney's cramped downtown office. The thin man, who had a crescent scar at the corner of his eye, was on the phone. He stood behind a desk piled with legal files, empty Styrofoam cups, and a ceramic coffee mug jammed with ballpoint pens. A worn brass nameplate on the desk said
Ken Warren.

Warren was wearing a white shirt, buttoned tight to his neck. As he leaned over the desk and opened a file, his black tie swung like a pendulum. He said to the phone, “Tell him six years. Period. Otherwise, we start trial Monday.”

A young woman rushed in and shoved a paper in front of him. He crooked the phone between his shoulder and ear, grabbed a pen from the mug, and slashed a few strokes at the bottom of a page. She took the paper and scurried off.

Warren said to the phone, “Fine. Done.” He hung up and looked at me, squinting like he couldn't quite place me, then looked at Hannah. “What's up?”

“Can we sit?”

He glanced at the door. “Yeah, sure.”

Hannah took the open chair. I moved some files off the other one and sat. Warren stood behind his desk.

She said, “This is Harvey Kendall.”

He raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth in an
Ah,
like it all came back to him. “Right. Murder suspect.”

Hannah said, “You have to dismiss his case.”

His mouth formed a half smile. “And why would I do that?”

“The evidence is based on his DNA, correct?”

“I've got fourteen murder cases. I can't keep all the details in my head.”

“Well, without this ‘detail,' you've only got thirteen cases.”

He looked at his watch. “Will you please get to the point?”

“Mr. Kendall had leukemia as a child. It turns out that the treatment for leukemia is a bone-marrow transplant, which changes your DNA. He and the donor have the same DNA.”

Warren looked at her, then at me. “I've never heard of such a thing.”

“It's true. Look it up on the Internet. I found several articles about it this morning.”

“Thanks, but I'll ask one of my forensic scientists. Assuming it's true, how do I know this other person was even in the city?”

Hannah stood. “Because the bone-marrow donor was James Caldwell, the victim's apartment manager.”

 

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

 

Hannah said to the district attorney, “When the victim broke up with her boyfriend, Kevin, she said she was dating an older man. Kevin said, while they were having sex, someone came in and yelled, ‘Slut.' There was no forced entry, so he had to have a key to her building and her apartment. The boyfriend said her dog barked, then shut up. The dog would have gone quiet because it knew the manager.”

I said, “The manager left in a jealous rage, then came back the next night, had rough sex with her, and strangled her. You found his semen and thought it was mine because of the DNA.”

Hannah said, “The City of Hope will verify that the manager was the marrow donor.”

I said, “The apartment manager said I looked familiar. It's not because I knew Sherry. It's because we met when I was a child, a year after my transplant.”

Hannah stood. “There's nothing other than DNA to connect my client to the crime. He never met the victim. Besides, if two people have the same DNA, there's more than reasonable doubt which one of them did it. You've got to dismiss.”

Warren sat, then pushed on his temples with his fingertips. “I will, of course, have to verify all of this.”

*   *   *

When we left the DA's office, I bounced down the hall. Couldn't help grinning. Hannah had a pretty big smile herself.

I said, “What happens next?”

“Warren has to go through his due diligence to verify our story. That'll take a few days, but essentially it's over.”

I walked a little faster. “Will they take a DNA sample from the apartment manager?”

“Yes. But he probably won't go down for this.”

I stopped. “Why not?”

Hannah turned to face me. “Because of you. There's no way to prove which one of you did it.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “Really. There's no way for the prosecution to show guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.”

I let out a sigh. “That's … shitty.”

“Well, sometimes in life, things don't tie up in neat little packages.”

We started walking slowly.

Shit.

This guy literally gets away with murder? Why do I feel guilty about that?

Guess there's nothing I can do.

I wrinkled my forehead.

On the other hand …

The apartment manager doesn't know any of this yet.

Maybe there's a whole other angle.…

 

CHAPTER FIFTY

 

I walked up to the security gate at Sherry Allen's apartment building and buzzed the manager.

Caldwell's voice came through the intercom. “Yes?”

I held down the metal pushpin with the tip of my index finger. “It's Harvey Kendall.”

“Who?”

“Kendall. We met a few weeks ago, when I was asking about Sherry Allen.” The metal pin felt like it was denting my finger.

I heard a clunk. The line went dead.

I buzzed again.

The manager said, “You got a lotta nerve coming around here.”

I tried to sound pleasant. “Can I come in for a minute?”

He hung up.

I let go of the metal pin. My finger throbbed at the indentation point. I used my middle finger to buzz him again.

Then again.

Caldwell's voice came on. “Do I have to call the cops again?”

“You don't want to do that. I have something here that's important to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'll tell you in person. Give me five minutes.”

After a moment of static, the speaker went dead.

The gate lock buzzed.

I quickly pulled the handle, then squatted down, took the wooden wedge from my back pocket, and placed it so the gate would stay open. I hustled up the sidewalk, yanked open the front door, propped it open the same way, and hurried into the dim hallway. The air smelled like mildew.

I blinked my eyes, trying to adjust to the low light. Down the hall, Caldwell stepped out of his apartment, leaned against the doorjamb, and studied me. As I got near him, he planted his feet shoulder-length apart and folded his arms over his chest, straining the buttons of his Hawaiian shirt.

He said, “What is this about?”

“We need to talk privately.”

Not moving, he stared into me. “You got four more minutes.”

“I think you'd prefer to do this privately.”

Keeping his eyes on me, he backed into his apartment. I stepped inside and closed the door.