Private Heat

by Robert E. Bailey

  “Were I you, I would keep a lot of distance between me and Karen Smith,” said Finney.

  I turned to Wendy. “Who was with Karen while you were at the hospital?”

  “Just me and her uncle,” said Wendy, “but she was still out. When Carter showed up with Emmery, they told me I had to leave the room, so I called Ron to tell him to meet me downtown.”

  “Van Pelham say anything about taking us off the case?”

  “No. He didn’t,” said Wendy. “He seemed very pleased that I hadn’t left her alone.”

  “Then we’re still on it until noon tomorrow.”

  “Randal Talon is dead,” said Finney.

  “Wasn’t exactly a suicide,” I said.

  “If you are going to persist in this matter, you had better call Martin Van Pelham and make sure you still have a client.”

  “The first time I hired you, you told me there were three rules that a defendant had to follow.”

  “Certainly. Always pay your attorney, never lie to your attorney, and never tell your attorney more than he wants to know,” said Finney.

  “Exactly,” I said as we arrived at his car, one of those new midsize jobs that looks and sounds like a battery-operated vacuum cleaner.

  “You were lucky today, Art,” said Finney as he unlocked the driver’s door and settled onto the leather seat.

  “If that was good luck,” I said, “I don’t think that I could survive another dose.”

  “Luck is the residue of hard work,” said Finney with a devilish grin. “You have two prosecutors and a whole raft of police officers hoping that you will make a mistake.” He pulled the door shut, cranked up the squirrel cage engine, and let the electric window down.

  “You’re a cruel man,” I said. “There’s something else I want you to take care of for me.” I took my pistol off my hip and punched out the magazine. Pulling the slide back to the take-down detent, I slid the retainer pin out, and had the frame in one hand and the barrel and slide in the other. I handed the barrel and slide to Finney.

  “What am I to do with this?”

  “Put them in your safe with the booking material.”

  “I hardly think that’s necessary.”

  “If you’re right, what’s the harm? It’s just that the missing slugs and brass make me nervous.”

  “I don’t have a license to carry this kind of thing about.”

  “Those are just parts,” I said. “It’s the part with a serial number that’s considered a firearm. I have to take this in to be buffed.”

  “Suit yourself,” Finney said. He laid the slide and barrel on the passenger seat.

  “Call me if Van Pelham stalls you on the bill.”

  “As certain as the sunrise,” said Finney. He drove off.

  Both Wendy and Ron had parked one floor down. I put the frame of my pistol into my coat pocket and we started down.

  “When do you want to pick up your car?” asked Ron.

  “I think we need to go straight out to the hospital. My car is pretty much toasted on this job anyway.”

  “Are you going to ride with me or have Wendy drop you at the hospital? If Wendy drops you, I can swing by my house with some milk and bread. I have to make a phone call.”

  “You guys aren’t leaving me behind on this one,” said Wendy.

  “We’re up to our armpits in alligators!” I said.

  “So is Karen Smith, and I don’t think she finds all this as amusing as you two seem to.”

  “You trying to say we ain’t sensitive, nineties kinda guys?”

  “I’m trying to say you’re a couple of Neanderthals.”

  “Well, I’m cut to the quick,” I said. Ron was a half step behind and shaking his head. “What do you think, Ou-Glug, we need a beard on this one?”

  We had reached the bottom of the ramp on the lower level of the structure. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” said Ron. “Isn’t that Lieutenant Emmery over by the door to the tunnel?”

  “Certainly is,” I said. “And he’s found somebody else to argue with.”

  “That’s the guy who was visiting Karen when I pulled up on the surveillance yesterday,” said Ron.

  11

  Arnold Fay stood just a shade taller than the lieutenant—blond and health-club bulky. Probably in his mid-fifties, he worked at looking late thirties. His plastic surgeon had to be making more than my lawyer. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt buttoned at the wrists, a shiny yellow silk tie, and beltless charcoal pleated slacks. In his hands he held a stack of papers the size of a telephone book. Something had been scrawled on the side of the stack in black felt marker. Lieutenant Emmery held Fay by the elbow and aimed a finger pointed in Fay’s face.

  Emmery growled loud and mean, but vehicles moving in the parking structure made him hard to hear. All I got was, “Dumb ass,” and “the fuck did I tell you?” Fay shrugged and shook his head. Emmery let go of Fay’s elbow, snatched the stack of papers out of his hands, and slam-dunked them into the wire-wicker trash barrel that stood next to the door of the tunnel.

  Fay backed away as Emmery turned from the trash barrel. Emmery stopped mid-turn and glowered at Wendy and me standing at the end of the ramp. “What the fuck you looking at?” he yelled. Fay fled in long steps. Emmery marched straight toward us.

  “Maybe you guys better go get in the truck,” I said.

  “I’m staying right here,” said Wendy.

  “This could get out of hand,” Ron said.

  “You shoulda got your ass outta here when you had the chance,” said Emmery, his eyes narrow and his jaw set.

  “Just looking for our car,” I said. Arnold Fay, in his green Corvette, passed behind us and went up the ramp.

  “Lieutenant, you have a filthy mouth,” said Wendy.

  “Yeah, who are you?” said Emmery. He stopped in front of me but he looked at Wendy.

  “Clean up your mouth,” said Wendy.

  Emmery reddened and turned his face to mine. “Where’s your shyster lawyer, Hardin? You need him. I want to know about the crap you pulled at Talon’s house.”

  “Maybe you ought to start by jerking me around like you did Arnold Fay. Let’s see how that goes.” The “Arnold Fay” part changed his face.

  “You’re done in this town,” he said. He turned on his heel and walked back toward the tunnel doors.

  “Interesting,” said Ron.

  “He’s a pig,” Wendy called after him and waited for a reaction. She didn’t get one.

  “Time to go,” I said.

  Ron had backed his van into a space against the wall among some service vans. I opened the slider and Wendy climbed in.

  “How come I have to sit here all by myself?” she said.

  I took the shotgun seat.

  Ron cranked up the van. Arnold Fay walked down the ramp from the upper level and stopped a third of the way down. He bent forward at the waist and looked over toward the tunnel doors with a furtive face, then turned and walked up the ramp.

  “What’s that about?” said Ron.

  “Let’s wait and see,” I said.

  Fay drove down the ramp and over to the tunnel doors. He stepped out of the car, walked around to the tunnel door, and pulled it open. After a moment he let the door fall shut and rummaged in the trash. He pulled out an accordion stack of tractor paper and stashed it behind his driver’s seat.

  “Just for grins and giggles—” I began.

  “Let’s go with him,” Ron finished.

  I handed Wendy the clipboard from the dash. “You can take the notes.”

  “Why should I take the notes?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Get in the front, and if the bad guys try to hose us, you shoot ’em.” I stepped out the door and threw open the slider. Wendy’s face was evil. “Well, would you rather drive?” I asked innocently. Ron gave me an astonished face.

  “No,” said Wendy.

  “Good!” I said, “because this isn’t the wallpaper store or the bedroom. You can put that scornful fa
ce in your pocket.” Wendy unclipped the pen, wrote the date at the top of the pad, and showed me a curled lip.

  “He’s moving,” said Ron.

  I climbed back in and pulled the door shut.

  Fay slithered his ’Vette around the corner and snaked his way through the structure to the exit booth.

  “The subject is male, white, six-one, one-eighty. The car is a late model emerald green Chevrolet Corvette. The license-plate number is M-U-N-Y-M-A-N.”

  Wendy wrote it all down, then hit me in the side of the head with the pad. “What are you going to shoot with?” she asked.

  Ron laughed.

  “I’ll borrow Ron’s gun,” I said and smoothed my hair back in place. “This sure ain’t a safe place for a married man to sit.”

  I yelled out the Corvette’s coordinates to Wendy as we tailed Arnold Fay. Wendy slid from side to side in the rear seat and tried to keep up with the route notes.

  Fay led us to a curb-cut near Williams Street and drove up among the cement and steel monoliths that held up the interstate. Parked under the urban canopy was a beat-up red Ford Escort. Chuck Furbie and Paulie Milton sat waiting on the front deck of the Escort and looked to be dressed for a “bubba barbecue.”

  Ron pulled over as far back as he could and still keep the trio in sight. “Gimme the camera bag,” said Ron. We both looked into the back seat. Wendy was climbing off the floor. Her hair was a mess and her blouse and blazer askew.

  She said, “Where’s the seat belt back here?”

  “The black camera bag,” Ron said and beckoned with his hand.

  She reached over the seat and handed up the nearest bag. “They’re all black,” said Wendy.

  “Right-oh,” said Ron. He took out a Canon AE1 that had a foot-long lens and a motor drive.

  Paulie handed Fay a bowling bag retrieved from the back seat of the Escort. Ron swacked the camera shutter. Fay set the bag on the hood of his ’Vette. Swack. And examined the contents. Swack. He handed Chuck and Paulie an envelope. Swack. They each thumbed the contents. Swack. Swack.

  The van jerked as something struck the rear bumper. Ron and I looked at each other. “You carry a spare?” I asked.

  “No, just take mine.”

  I pulled Ron’s revolver out of his hip holster and bailed out with a friendly smile on my face and the weapon behind my back. At the rear of the van I discovered Matty Svenson and Maria Sanchez in a brown government sedan. I stepped up to the already open passenger window. Matty sat in the driver’s seat using the rearview mirror to apply lipstick. Maria had a fat nine resting in her lap. Her hand looked like a shrimp trying to strangle a boat anchor.

  “Ladies!” I said. “Slumming?”

  “Maria,” said Matty without moving her gaze from the mirror, “if he doesn’t rack that heat, shoot him.”

  Maria rested the barrel of her government issue Beretta on the open window rail. I stuffed the pistol into my pants at the small of my back and stuck my pinky finger in the barrel of Maria’s weapon. She focused wide, astonished eyes on my hand.

  Matty put away her lipstick. She flounced out her hair with her hands and made an approving face in the mirror. “There,” she said and then looked at me. “Go home, before I call some mental midget with a four hundred pound badge to write your partner a whole list of traffic violations.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be leaving shortly,” I said.

  “Think ‘obstructing,’” she said, “and then get lost.”

  Ron cranked up the van. “Chow-chow, ladies,” I said. I pulled my finger loose so it made a little pop. Maria was still staring at the muzzle. I climbed into the van. “Feds with ruffles,” I said. “They’re complaining about your driving.”

  “And that we weren’t invited to the ball.”

  “That, too.”

  Fay opened the door of the Corvette, put the bag behind the seat, and climbed in.

  “Which one do we stay with?” asked Ron.

  “Fay has the ball,” I said. “The other two desperados should be on duty until later tonight, if they’re on the same shift they had yesterday.”

  Fay led us to a tree-lined street of many mansions. At a cul-de-sac he pulled into the drive at a three-story fieldstone estate with a red slate roof. Mounted on the wrought-iron gate was a nameplate: Van Pelham.

  Fay pulled up on the apron and the gate slid to the side on a motor-driven track.

  “Hey, Van Pelham,” said Wendy. “That’s your client.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What the hell is Fay doing here?” said Ron.

  “Small town.”

  Ron pulled up even with the drive just in time to see Fay exit his vehicle and pull the bowling bag from behind his seat. Swack. Van Pelham appeared at the door wearing a teal-blue polo shirt and dark slacks. He grinned broadly as he took the bag from Mr. Fay. Swack.

  “Waddles like a duck and quacks like a duck,” said Ron.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “I just wanted to believe. Christ’s sake, Karen is his niece!”

  “What are you two babbling about?” asked Wendy.

  “We’re deciding whether or not to go and have a word with our client,” I said.

  “Well, how long would that take?” said Wendy. “We have to go and see about Karen.”

  “They aren’t going to smell any better tomorrow,” I said.

  “And he hasn’t paid Finney yet,” said Ron.

  “Well, that puts a rather fine point on it.”

  “Two hundred and fifty dollars per hour.”

  “The job was to protect Karen,” said Wendy.

  “The feds said to lay off,” said Ron.

  “Works for me,” I said.

  Ron dropped us at Wendy’s old Caddie. The check-engine light was on again—glowing proof that five hundred and thirty-five political putzes had no business designing automobiles. “Let’s get something to eat,” I said.

  “That’s how you waste your money,” said Wendy. “You spend half your life in restaurants.”

  “I haven’t eaten today.”

  “All right,” said Wendy as she fired up a menthol 100, “but drive-thru. We have to see about Karen.”

  The first drive-thru that presented itself was the charbroiled burger outfit. I started to pull in.

  “No,” said Wendy. “Their stuff tastes burned and gritty.”

  I turned off the signal and went straight. I liked their big burger, but it was too sloppy to eat while driving. The fellow behind me changed lanes, pulled up even with us, and flashed me the bird.

  I smiled and nodded back. “There’s the place that makes the juicy burgers up there,” I said.

  “Too greasy,” said Wendy. We drove on.

  “How about Mickey D’s?”

  “No,” she said. “You can’t smoke in there.”

  “We’re not going inside.”

  “I don’t give them any of my money. There’s a taco place.”

  “I haven’t eaten all day, and you want to have some spiced-up, loose ground beef crap?”

  “I just want something with some taste.”

  “Quit smoking them menthol coffin nails, and you’ll be surprised what things taste like.”

  We both saw it at the same time: the roast beef place. They had five for five dollars. We ate. Wendy got the curly fries that smell like they’re made out of garlic paste.

  The sun had set by the time we got to the hospital and the whole inside of the car smelled like garlic—all the better to ward off vampires, I suppose. Floodlights mounted on the roof of the hospital provided illumination around the building. Below each fixture a large fluorescent yellow box was stenciled with the word “VIDEO” in black letters.

  I cruised by Edward Fenton’s reserved parking place and found it vacant. A plus. Fenton is the security director at Mt. Hollowview. I knew him from American Society for Industrial Security dinner meetings. A pompous ass on good days, he was bound to have his shorts in a knot over my being arrested in his emergency room.
r />   “Make any friends while you were here this morning?”

  “Rhonda, the head nurse,” said Wendy.

  “She’s probably gone by now.”

  “Maybe not. She told me that she liked to stay until after evening meds.”

  “That’s dedication,” I said as I parked the car.

  “She’s our age. She said that she didn’t agree with some of the hospital policies about leaving the wards in the hands of an LPN and some orderlies.”

  “If she’s at the desk, maybe you should do the talking.”

  “Sure thing, doll baby,” said Wendy. She slid over and kissed me on the temple. I put my arm around her and nuzzled my face into her neck where I made a gentle bite and injected a warm breath. Wendy hugged back.

  “A shame we have to work,” I said.

  “Maybe they have an empty room and a spare nurse’s uniform,” said Wendy.

  “A scandal brewing,” I said and kissed her on the forehead.

  “On the other hand maybe they have cable.”

  “Of course they have cable, but if there’s anything good on, the bad guys will show up ten minutes before the credits.”

  “Oh, well,” said Wendy.

  I kissed her on the nose and gave her a wink. “Job’s over tomorrow at noon. I’ll take a couple of days off.”

  “Empty promises.”

  “Push the trunk button,” I said. “I need the Colt.”

  I couldn’t see anything in the trunk, but Wendy always stows her weapon on top of the spare if she’s not carrying it. Her Colt was a .380, kind of a nine millimeter short called a Maverick. It uses six-round magazines. The weapon, the magazines, and the box of ammo were all in a zippered case with a fuzzy lining. I left the trunk open and carried it all around to the front deck of the car.

  “They’re going to see you doing that on the video cameras and have a fit,” said Wendy.

  “Those yellow boxes aren’t cameras,” I said. “If they were, the bloom of the spotlights would stop down the optics.” I scooped a handful of bullets and started pressing them into the spring-loaded magazines.

  “The guard could come by,” said Wendy as she reached into the back seat and came up with her old blue sweater—really more of a cable knit blanket with sleeves and large patch pockets.