She and her husband heard the killer flee, the reporter said. “I looked out, almost got a look at him,” said the husband, a chunky fellow wearing a mustache and a gold chain, “but he ran, and by the time I pulled some pants on and got out there, he was driving off. We didn’t know yet it was a murder.” They rapped on their neighbor’s door but there was no answer. Her sliding glass door stood ajar. They alerted the manager who found the body, they said.
The victim’s sister and best friend were assisting detectives in determining what was missing from the murder scene, a police spokesman said on camera. Harvey felt a thrill of fear at his words. Asked if robbery was the motive, the spokesman hinted that certain items might be missing, but he was not free to divulge what they were since it was crucial to the investigation.
“Do you think this could be linked to other cases?” a reporter asked. The spokesman lifted a meaningful eyebrow. “No comment at this time.”
Harvey knew then what he had to do.
He limped into the kitchen first, to prepare his usual breakfast — two poached eggs, whole wheat toast, orange juice, and tea. He had no appetite for anything, not even the high-heeled red sandals. He looked at them and felt only sadness. He forced himself to nibble at his meal the best he could. Maintain regular habits, he told himself, do not become overwhelmed by stress and fear. This was no time to go haywire. He stacked the breakfast plates in the dishwasher, then called in sick to his job as inventory clerk at Federated department stores. He had injured his ankle in a fall, he told them. No lie there.
Raymond Karp Construction was listed in the yellow pages without a street address. The man must work out of a home office, Harvey thought. He tried the number, carefully preceding it with star sixty-seven to block caller ID.
“You have reached the office of Karp Construction, please leave a message at the sound of the tone.”
It was the big man’s voice. Harvey hung up.
He stopped at a drugstore to buy an elastic bandage for his ankle and at 10 a.m. walked into the building department at city hall. He wore sunglasses, a baseball cap, and carried a notebook. His elderly mother was planning renovations, he explained, and he wanted to check out a potential contractor. A smart move, said the friendly clerk who confirmed it was all a matter of public record and helped him access the computer database.
By noon he cruised his newly rented Ford Taurus past the modest ranch-style home of Raymond Karp Construction. The blue truck wasn’t there. He found it at the second of three permitted projects Karp had underway, a two-story corner house on Northeast Ninety-third Street. The next forty-eight hours became a recon mission, as Harvey observed Karp from a distance, day and night, recording in his notebook where the contractor parked at each stop, and for how long. Karp seemed preoccupied during the day. He looked guilty, it seemed to Harvey, but, he reasoned, Miami contractors were notorious for their shoddy work and greedy post-hurricane rip-offs of helpless homeowners. They probably all looked guilty, or should.
Karp attended AA meetings at night, though, Harvey noted, he never stayed long and went from one to another, as if looking for someone.
Harvey arrived home late. Headachy and hungry, he popped a Lean Cuisine in the microwave, then checked his message machine.
“Where ya been, Harv?” Phil’s friendly voice sounded concerned. “Is everything okay? That fellow you mentioned, Ray, the contractor, he’s been asking around about you. What’s going on?”
The clock was ticking down, no time left for further recon. Harvey set his alarm for 3:00 a.m. Somebody once wrote that it is always 3:00 a.m. in the dark night of the soul. He tried to remember who it was, before napping fitfully, anticipating the alarm.
When it sounded, he arose and reluctantly began to gather his collection. He cleaned out his closets, removing other souvenirs from beneath his bed, touching them longingly, reliving the special moments evoked by each one. The Salvatore Ferragamo slingbacks that had hugged the long narrow feet of that tall blonde with the swanlike neck and high cheekbones. He had trailed her from Saks Fifth Avenue all the way home to Coconut Grove. The soft suede loafers had been well worn by that long-haired young woman he had followed home from the library, and the black and white mules with their pointed toes and open heels unleashed a rush of memories. He had shadowed them all the way down Lincoln Road as she strolled, window-shopped, and chatted with friends. She seemed demure, so shy, so quiet, but screamed loud enough to wake the dead when she woke up as he fondled her feet.
He included the anklets, stockings, peds, and house slippers, all the little bonuses picked up along the way. He nearly forgot the silvery thong sandals tucked between his mattress and his box spring and had to go back for them. Finally he had dropped them all — the battered running shoes, the bejeweled evening slippers, the rubber flip-flops — into the maw of a big, black plastic garbage bag.
Each was a part of his life, he would miss them, but never again. The AA counselor was right, it was easy to replace one addiction with another, but now it was over. He wasn’t going back to booze either. If he got out of this, it was time to exert some control over his life. His firm resolve felt good. He pulled the rental car up to his front door, checked the street, then carried the bag to the car. This would be his final caper.
The brisk Miami winter night was splendid, the temperature sixty-five, a star-studded sky, and the moon nearly full. The blue Cherokee was exactly where he expected to find it, parked in the driveway of the modest rancher. The house was dark. He stopped on the street near the foot of the driveway and wondered if the sleep of the man inside was as troubled as his had been.
Harvey sat in the car, watching, listening. He thought about prowlers gunned down by irate homeowners and trigger-happy cops on patrol. Even fifteen-year-olds had been shot for stealing hubcaps.
He wondered what this town was coming to.
As high-flying clouds obliterated the bright face of the moon, he made his move, melting like a shadow into the bed of the truck. There was an alarm on the cab but nothing in back. His penlight clenched between his teeth, he worked methodically on the padlock, then on the toolbox. It didn’t take long. He cautiously lifted the creaky lid, then stopped to listen. A dog barked in the distance, but the house remained quiet and dark. The box was half full of tools, with rolled sets of plans on top. Harvey removed the plans and the tools, then replaced them with the shoes and other intimate items of footwear. He kept only a single red high-heeled sandal. He replaced the plans, closed the box, chained and padlocked it, sighing with relief as the lock snapped shut. He wrapped the tools in the empty garbage bag, scanned the street, then carried them back to the rental. He was about to start the car when he saw approaching headlights and crouched, holding his breath.
A Miami prowl car, two officers in the front seat. Harvey whimpered, some neighbor must have made a prowler call.
He thought he would faint when he heard the two cops talking companionably as their car pulled abreast of his, then rolled by, ever so slowly. He fought the urge to jump out, hands in the air, to surrender before they pulled their guns. But they kept moving and turned right at the end of the block. He must have a strong heart, Harvey thought, unlike his father. If ever he was to succumb to a heart attack, it would have been now.
He continued to crouch, body limp, heart pounding, until he was convinced they were gone, that no SWAT team was surrounding the block, then started the car, rolled a few hundred feet, switched into second gear, and turned on the lights.