The interior was divided into two large areas, each with an entrance, and separated from each other by a glass wall and lockable glass door. The space on the right contained a counter, the copiers, office supplies, and a clerk to assist with the packaging and mailing services. Through a doorway in the rear wall, I could see banks of flat cardboard boxes in assorted sizes, continuous rolls of bubble wrap, wrapping paper, and bins of Styrofoam packing fill.
The clerk was gone, but she'd left a note on the counter: CLOSED FOR PERSONAL EMERGENCY. SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. BACK MONDAY. TIFFANY. If she was anything like Jeniffer, the personal emergency consisted of a tanning session and a pedicure. I said, "Yoo hoo" and "Hello" type things to cover my ass while I took the liberty of walking around the counter to inspect the backroom. Not a soul in sight. I returned to the front and stood for a moment, feeling thoroughly annoyed. Anyone could waltz in and steal the office supplies. What if I had a package to ship or a critical need for a notary public?
I crossed to the glass wall and peered into adjoining space: a veritable cellblock of mailboxes, numbered and glass-fronted, floor to head height, with a slot on the far wall for the mailing of letters and small packages. This was the section open twenty-four hours a day. I pushed through the glass door. I followed the numbers in sequence and found box 505-fifth tier over, five down from the top. I leaned over and looked through the tiny beveled glass window. No mail in evidence, but I was treated to a truncated view of the room beyond where I could see a guy moving down the line, distributing letters from a stack in his hand. When he reached my row, I knocked on the window of 505.
The fellow leaned down so his face was even with mine.
I said, "Can I talk to you? I need some help out here."
He pointed to my right. "Go down to the slot."
We both moved in that direction, he on his side of the boxes, me on mine. The slot was at chest height. This time, I leaned close, catching a glimpse of mail piled in the bin beneath. The guy was much taller than I and the difference in our heights forced him not only to bend, but to tilt his head at an unnatural angle. He said, "What's the problem?"
I took out a business card and stuck it through the slot so he could see who I was. "I need information about the party renting box 505."
He took my card and studied it. "What for?"
"It's a murder investigation."
"You have a subpoena?"
"No, I don't have a subpoena. If I did, I wouldn't need to ask."
He pushed the card back at me. "Check with Tiffany. That's her department."
Her department? There were two of them. What was he talking about? "She's gone and the note says she won't be back until Monday."
"You'll have to come back then."
"Can't. I have a court appearance. It won't take half a second," I said. "Please, please, please?"
He seemed vexed. "What do you want?"
"I just need a peek at the rental form to see who's renting it."
"Why?"
"Because the man's widow thinks he might have been receiving pornographic material at this address and I don't think it's true. All I want to know is who filled out the form."
"I'm not supposed to do that."
"Couldn't you make an exception? It could make a really big difference. Think of all the grief she'd be spared."
I could see him staring at the floor. He appeared to be forty, way too old for this line of work. I could well imagine his debate. On one hand, the rules were the rules, though I personally doubted there was any kind of policy to cover my request. He wasn't a federal employee and his job didn't require a security clearance. Executive mail-sorter. He'd be lucky to earn fifty cents an hour over the minimum wage. I I said, "I just talked to the police and told them I'd be doing this and they said it was fine." No response.
"I'll give you twenty bucks."
"Wait right there."
He disappeared for what felt like an interminable length of time. I pulled the twenty from my wallet, folded it lengthwise, bent it, and balanced it on the lip of the slot, thinking he might be morally dainty, shying away from a direct hand-to-hand bribe. While I waited, I kept my back to the wall, my attention fixed on the entrance. I entertained a brief fantasy of Richard Hevener crashing his sports car through the plate glass window, squashing me up against the wall like a dead person. In movies, people were always diving out of the path of runaway trains as they plowed into stations, flinging themselves sideways as jumbo jets smashed into airline terminals, or buses went berserk and jumped the curb. How, in real life, did one prepare for such a leap? "Lady?"