“Looks about like any ambulance to me.”
“Good point.” I could hear Sergeant Franklin making the same comments.
“Run the tape back. I think I saw a number on the back door before they opened it,” said Daniel with a gleam in his eye.
I did. He was right. The number was 187. I threw my arm around him and kissed him on the cheek. Daniel bolted from the chair, wiping his face.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “I have brilliant sons!”
“I think you’re losing it, Dad. I got to go to work. All they gave me was the lunch rush and cleanup.” He fished out his keys and headed out the door.
The telephone rang. I answered it, but the caller would not speak. “Talk to me,” I said. I got no response. “Come on,” I said, “it’s your nickel.” They hung up. I punched up star sixty-nine and got a recorded message that said, “This telephone is not equipped to receive incoming calls.”
I went to the bedroom and pulled on a knit shirt with one of those little alligators on the pocket. Back in the kitchen I oiled and checked my sidearm and put it in my holster. I packed up the video equipment and the bags of Fay’s discarded records and stacked them by the door.
Wendy and Karen returned at ten minutes to three. Karen had dressed at the store and applied a little lipstick. Wendy had her in a knee-length blue pleated skirt and a floral summer blouse with a round collar. All Karen needed was knee socks, and she would have looked like one of my sons’ dates, but luckily, she had gone with nude pantyhose and open-toed sandals.
“You guys are a pain in the butt,” Wendy said as she trudged up the stairs.
Ron shrugged and looked woeful.
“All right, ladies in the Cadillac. Ron and I will follow in the van.”
“I’m not going into town in sweats,” said Wendy. The ladies marched down to the bedroom.
I looked at my watch. “Christ on a crutch,” I called after them. “Shake it up, will you?”
Ron gave me a basset hound face. “Never, ever again,” he said. “They’d been in the lingerie department for twenty minutes when I had to tell them to hustle up. I had to stand there while they discussed panty lines and bought a brassiere.”
We loaded the equipment and bags of evidence. I cleared the short-barreled Smith, took it down to the gun safe, and exchanged it for an Ithaca riot pump with a goose barrel—a very long barrel with an extended magazine. Ron watched me thumb a magazine full of double-ought.
“Got a telephone call from nobody,” I said as I put the shotgun in a bifold case. We loaded the case between the front seats of the van.
“Constabulary will have a shit fit over that,” said Ron.
“I think we may need it, but I’ll leave it if you want.”
“Rather be judged by twelve than carried by six,” said Ron.
Wendy appeared in an A-line skirt and flowing pullover blouse, all in shades of lavender. I pulled on the brown herringbone sport jacket that still hung in the hall closet.
At the end of the drive we encountered Denny Parker—Wendy’s undercover investigator who had been providing armed security at the house—wearing his school clothes and a guilty look on his face. Wendy let her window down. They exchanged a few words. His expression changed and he departed.
I hate to be late. Luckily, Mr. Finney has a different view of promptness. We got to his office twenty minutes late and still got to wallow in the waiting room.
Wendy didn’t let me off. “See?” she said. “You are always in a rush, rush, rush. We could have done Karen’s nails.”
I rolled my eyes up and answered the receptionist’s question. “Yes ma’am, I would love a cup of coffee, black, please.” I got my coffee. “What did Denny have to say?”
“He apologized. He said that he couldn’t work today.”
“He looked a little happier when he went back to his car.”
“I told him not to worry, that we were taking Karen to see an attorney and then the prosecutor. He went to call off Walt.”
My coffee was still too hot to drink when the secretary called for us. Finney rose for the ladies and offered them the plush chairs in front of his desk with a gallant sweep of his arm. Ron and I made do with a couple of folding chairs that he had stacked in the corner. His tie was loose and his suit coat hung from the back of his chair. The desk and the floor on both sides of his chair were stacked with files and notes.
“Sorry about the clutter,” he said.
I said, “A tidy desk is the sign of an idle mind.”
“Arthur,” he said, “you are much too kind. Karen, it’s nice to see you. I do hope you are feeling fit.”
“Much better.”
Finney waived the viewing of the evidence and settled for a description of the items and events. About halfway through, he sat up to his desk and began taking notes. I could see the wheels turning. He backtracked over some points, then asked us to leave him alone with his client.
In the waiting room Wendy plunked down next to me and took my hand in hers. “What do you think?” she asked.
“I think it’s up to Finney now. The feds trust him, and they don’t like to joust with him. I hope this works out for Karen, but I don’t think her hands are as tidy as we’d like to believe.” I slugged down my now lukewarm coffee.
By the time Finney’s door opened, nearly forty minutes had passed. He had his jacket on and his satchel in his hand. Karen’s eyes were red. “Let’s go and visit your friend, Mr. Carter,” said Finney.
I shook my head. Pete wagged a finger at me. I looked at my watch. It was almost five-thirty.
“Carter seems to think that what we have to offer is worth the lateness of the hour,” said Finney. “I’ll ride with the ladies,” he said and smiled. “You gentlemen may batch it.”
In the parking lot he managed to get himself ensconced between Wendy and Karen in the front seat of the old Cadillac. He smiled broadly and looked every bit as happy as Rusty did when he got his morning treat.
Wendy knew not to leave us at any yellow lights. We parked in the county lot under the Calder Plaza and found Neil Carter waiting at the door of the Gerald R. Ford Building in the company of the U.S. marshal with the southern drawl, Harlan Johnson.
“Ms. Smith,” he said, “I’m glad that you could make it. I’d thought I was meeting just with Mr. Finney and his associates.”
Finney played a stone face. I didn’t comment. Carter, Finney, and the ladies went directly to Carter’s office. Ron and I, in party with the marshal, went first to the fifth floor to park our sidearms. When we caught up with the rest of the party, we found an additional grim-faced woman—attired in a dark gray business suit, high-buttoned blouse, and flat-heeled black pumps—sitting in Carter’s office.
“This is Alyson Khideshland,” said Carter. “She’s an attorney with the Internal Revenue Service. She would like to see the records that Mr. Finney has described.”
“They’re in the truck,” I said, “with the video equipment.”
“I think we shall need them,” said Finney.
I shrugged. “It’ll take a couple of trips.”
“Please,” said Carter.
“I’ll give you a hand,” said the marshal.
In the elevator not a word passed until I asked the marshal, “Arrested any axe murderers lately?”
He laughed. “Just the other day,” he said. “How much crap do we have to tote up here?”
“Eight trash bags, a videotape recorder, and a monitor.”
“Carter has a tape setup in his office,” said Harlan.
“Is it digital?” asked Ron.
“VHS, I think,” said Harlan.
“We’d better bring up my equipment,” said Ron.
“If you can drive your vehicle up from the parking structure,” said the marshal, “I think that I can find some hands to help truck the bags upstairs.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Ron.
Now I had
to pay for parking twice. I kept the complaint to myself. We pulled up to the horseshoe drive at the east side of the building. A cable barred entrance, but a uniformed guard unlocked and lowered it to let us in. The marshal and two other guards waited for us at the curb closest to the building. We opened the slider and handed out the bags. True to the marshal’s word, they “trucked” them into the building.
“I’ll carry my own video gear,” said Ron.
“Suit yourself,” said the marshal, “but you can’t leave this van stopped here. If you do, the bomb squad will come and pry it open so that the fire boys can fill it with water.”
Ron flipped me the keys and picked up his equipment. I closed the slider and went around to the driver’s door. Harlan got into the passenger seat.
“Carter says I have to keep an eye on you,” he said. “You’ve got that boy jumping over shadows.”
“I told him that I had the greatest respect for him.”
“He said that’s what you say about police officers.”
“And it’s absolutely true.”
Marshal Johnson smiled again and said, “What’s in the big shotgun case?”
“Big shotgun.”
Johnson pointed forward. “Let’s go,” he said. As we pulled out, a guard locked the cable across the drive after us.
We parked Ron’s beast and went back. In the office Ron stood and narrated the video. Carter had the still pictures spread out in front of him on his otherwise vacant desktop.
The lady from the IRS had emptied the bags and piled the contents around her chair. In her hand was the rubber-banded stack of 8453s. She thumbed through them with her face cast in a mix of horror and fascination.
Ron’s cellular telephone beeped inside his coat pocket. He paused his presentation and answered the telephone. Everyone stopped and looked at him like he was doing a magic trick, but he handed me the telephone. “It’s for you,” he said, “your son.”
“Yeah, Dad,” said Daniel, “you know those guys in the videotape we watched?”
“Yes.”
“They’re in a rowboat about fifty feet offshore, in front of the house. The white guy has a big bandage on his face.”
20
“Fishing and staring at the house,” said Daniel.
“Where’s your brother?”
“Playing the Nintendo.”
“Get him in the car and get the hell out of there.”
“Where should we go?” Daniel asked.
“I don’t care,” I said. “Just get going, if anybody follows you, drive straight to the police station in Belding, and stay there until I come to get you.”
Daniel hung up. I handed the telephone back to Ron. “The two gentlemen on the videotape are now sitting in a rowboat in front of my house.”
I didn’t like Neil Carter’s face. Not smug, not sly—just mean and satisfied. “What are they doing?” he asked.
“Trying to look like fishermen,” I said.
“No law against fishing,” said Carter.
“There is a law against stealing motor vehicles,” I said. “Attempted murder is also a serious crime.”
“Those are matters for the local police.”
“Mr. Carter,” said Finney, “you have, spread out on the floor, every reason to suspect a continuing criminal enterprise.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Carter. “So far I haven’t seen anything that connects these two gentlemen with Mr. Fay—and for that matter—anything that ties these records to Mr. Fay.”
I stepped over to the desk and found Carter the pictures of Fay meeting under the viaduct with Chuck and Paulie.
“These photos would have to be analyzed,” he said.
“God’s sakes, Carter!” I said. “Fay’s name is all over these records.”
“We have to go,” said Wendy.
“Kidnapping,” I said. “Last I heard, kidnapping was a federal crime.”
“Yes,” said Carter through a sneer, “and judging from your statements, I’d say you’re the ones who did the kidnapping.”
“Karen, were you taken any place you did not wish to go or held against your will by Mr. Hardin or his associates?” asked Finney.
“No,” Karen answered.
Finney fixed confident eyes on Carter. “Well?”
“Not that simple,” said Carter. “Ms. Smith was released from the hospital on proper custody papers. At the time, she apparently wasn’t in any state of mind to give her informed consent as to her whereabouts.”
“If Mr. Hardin and his associates had not intervened, Karen’s dismembered body would be at the bottom of the Grand River in a weighted metal drum. She would not be sitting in your office and offering evidence of racketeering,” said Finney.
“Just to put a fine point on it,” said Carter, “I take this evidence as proof that Karen Smith was probably party to a criminal conspiracy.”
“Her name does not appear on any of these records.”
“Her name did appear on a half-million-dollar offshore bank account,” Carter said. “How would she have gotten so much money if she had not been involved in detail in this matter.”
“That account was set up by Wayne Campbell. Karen was innocent of the details. She was told that it was a retirement account. Wayne Campbell even made small deductions from her paycheck to cover the real nature and size of the account.”
“How convenient for her that Mr. Campbell is dead.”
“No one,” said Finney, “not even you, has suggested that she killed Mr. Campbell.”
“She told me in front of witnesses that her husband killed Wayne Campbell. Either she was lying then or she is lying now. In either case I have trouble relying on her veracity.”
“Karen has no recollection of that conference. Medical records suggest that she was unlikely to have made any lucid statements at that time. She has come forward now, and in complete possession of her faculties, to voluntarily report a crime and provide you with the evidence.”
“You have yet to convince me that Mr. Craig and Mr. Hardin were not in felonious possession of tax records,” said Carter.
“That’s absolute rubbish,” said Finney. He stood up and walked over to Carter’s desk. “I’ll discuss this matter with Mr. Sehenlink.” Finney scraped the still photographs into a stack, returned to his seat, and jammed them into his satchel. “Mr. Craig, you may roll up your cables and pack up your equipment.”
Harlan Johnson and Alyson Khideshland measured Carter with disbelief on their faces. Alyson broke the silence.
“I am convinced that Mr. Hardin and Mr. Craig came into possession of these records exactly as they asserted. There are photographs of a woman discarding bags identical to these, as well as the possible testimony of the security guard who witnessed these gentlemen recovering the bags from the trash.”
Carter cast her a laser stare.
Alyson went on. “I’m satisfied that Mr. Craig and Mr. Hardin acted lawfully. They surrendered these records as soon as they became aware of the nature of the documents.”
“I’m not sure that you are going to be allowed to make that determination,” said Carter.
“I assure you,” said Khideshland, “this matter is entirely in my hands. You seemed satisfied with my authority when you asked me to come over here today.”
“We have to see about the boys,” said Wendy. She had already gathered her purse and stood up.
“Should I go on?” asked Alyson.
“You may soon wish you had said nothing,” said Carter. “Nothing is going to happen until it has been investigated by proper authorities. And by that I mean the Justice Department and not a couple of cheesy hustlers and an ambulance chaser.”
Finney dropped his valise and started around Carter’s desk. His blank face radiated heat. Carter fled toward the door. Finney kicked Carter’s chair out of the way and rounded the desk. Marshal Johnson stepped up to block Finney.
“Mr. Finney,” Johnson drawled down at Pete, “perhaps this is a go
od time to just take judicial notice, if you get my drift.”
Wendy grabbed my jacket, pulling me toward the door. “Wendy, we’re going,” I said. “They aren’t looking for the boys. They probably won’t approach the house unless they see Karen.”
“You had better hope,” said Wendy.
“You have to take Pete back to his office,” I said. “Ron and I will see to Chuck and Paulie.”
“Start going!” Wendy yelled.
Finney said nothing to the marshal and walked stiffly over to recover the luggage he used as a briefcase. Ron rolled up his cables and put them in his coat pocket. I picked up the monitor from Carter’s desk and jangled out the keys to Ron’s truck.
“I want the videotape and pictures left here,” said Carter.
“Not happening,” said Finney. “The IRS is welcome to the records but you’ve already denied that you have jurisdiction.”
“Marshal, seize the evidence!” said Carter.
Ron punched the tape out of the player and put it in his pocket. The marshal took the monitor out of my hand, picked up the tape player, and started for the door. The IRS lawyer fired up her cell phone.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going with my equipment?” said Ron.
“Come with me,” said the marshal, nonchalant, “and get the door, will you?”
Ron gaped at the marshal like he’d just stepped off a UFO, but he opened the door. At the elevator he repeated his question.
The marshal looked over his shoulder at Carter’s office door. It was closed. “We’re going down to pick up your weapons, then we’re going to put your equipment back in your van.”
The elevator door slid closed and I pushed number five. Finney held his valise in both hands and looked blankly at the floor. Marshal Johnson stood with his face turned up and watched the numbers change above the door.
I asked Ron for his cell phone, dialed the house, and got a busy signal. “What’s Tina’s number?” I asked Wendy. I punched the numbers in as she reeled them off, and Tina answered.
“Hi,” I said, “this is Art Hardin, your neighbor. If you’re not too busy, I wonder if you could do me a little favor.” Everyone in the elevator stared at me like I had lost my mind.
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