Private Heat

by Robert E. Bailey

  “He is a clever man. He loaded bullets shot from your pistol into a shotgun—a little one—and left your cartridge. You will have a nice long time in jail for our work tonight. I like the lieutenant of police until he make to kill me.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said and wiped my face with my hand. Sweat had collected soot. My hand was black. “Emmery has the money. Your boss is going to be pissed.”

  “He can piss pants. He acts crazy, in his nightclothes in the park—but his is not. I think he is just stupid. Too stupid to be my boss. I think I go back and show them about the Romans.”

  “You’re going to give them a history lesson?” said Ron.

  “Da, a history lesson.” Rosenko managed a laugh that turned into a cough. He wiped black phlegm from his mouth and said, “When Romans find barbarians at door, barbarians wear Roman clothes.”

  “You have a previous engagement,” I said.

  He asked, “Where will they take me?”

  “To County General first. You’re toasted pretty crisp.”

  “Good! This is a place Volody must go.”

  “With what you know, you could probably be a celebrity guest of the U.S. government.”

  “I never betray my countrymen.”

  “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Colonel,” I said, “but I don’t think they give a shit about that anymore. The current administration has already sold or given the Russian Republic the technology you were trying to steal for the Soviet Union. As far as they are concerned, you’re just a common criminal.”

  Rosenko laughed. “They only ask about American gangsters?”

  “That’s all they’ll care about.”

  “Good, then I tell them after they only beat me a little. It is good to trick the police.”

  Sergeant Franklin rounded the corner and approached us walking backward with a shotgun at port arms.

  “You’re under arrest for the murder of Wayne Campbell,” said Ron. He covered Rosenko with his K-frame. I followed Ron’s lead with the Colt.

  Franklin backed up past Rosenko so that he could look out between the ends of the building, and asked, “What the hell is going on? Who the hell is that?”

  “Colonel Volody Rosenko,” I said. “Late of the GRU and currently in the employ of certain New York gambling interests.”

  “What’s the GRU?”

  “The GRU was Soviet Army Intelligence.” I looked down at Rosenko and said, “Colonel Rosenko, this is Sergeant Franklin of the civil police in Grand Rapids.”

  “At your service,” said Rosenko. “I kill Wayne Campbell.”

  “These guys tell you to say that?” asked Franklin.

  “Yes,” Rosenko said. “I am promised to say this.”

  “In this country you have certain rights.”

  “Yes, I know. I shot him in his head and had his body delivered to the airport in the trunk of his car.”

  “That’s common knowledge,” said Franklin.

  “A small white rodent was in his mouth.”

  Ron snapped his eyes to mine. I nodded.

  “You’re under arrest,” said Franklin. He produced his handcuffs and knelt down. “What’s this?” he asked and pointed at the cuff that remained on Rosenko’s right wrist.

  “Emmery’s hardware,” I said. “The rest of it is hooked to the plumbing in the motel room. He cuffed Rosenko under the sink, poured lighter fluid on him, and set the motel room on fire. Emmery—”

  “We chased the other one around the parking lot, and it sure as hell wasn’t Lieutenant Emmery.”

  “Sasha Solutzkof, this man’s partner. He wanted to lure you away so he could get Rosenko out of the fire. You catch him?”

  “Still looking for him,” said Franklin. He hooked up Rosenko. “How about it, pal? You do that little job over at the warehouse? Who was with you?”

  “I am so much in pain,” Rosenko said. “I am afraid if I not say as you wish, you will not take me to hospital.”

  “You could die,” said Franklin. “If you’ll give me a statement now, and you die, we can use it as evidence against the man who did this to you.”

  “I will not die,” said Rosenko. After that it was screams and moans until they took him away in the ambulance.

  We retired to the corner of the parking lot to watch the fire department work while we leaned on a Kentwood patrol car with a cheese-grater nose clip. It was a balmy sixty-five degrees—shirt-sleeve weather for Michigan natives.

  News vans popped up like mushrooms. Patrol cars and police from surrounding communities showed up for the shoot-out but ended up directing traffic. A local pizzeria sent over pizza for the police and fire personnel. We had a few slices left in a box lying on the ventilated hood of the patrol car. Franklin worked on a string of Camels.

  Detective Van Huis had been summoned from his bowling league. He appeared wearing a bright red bowling shirt—Kentwood Keglers—that hid some of the spread that developed with a desk job. He grilled me on how to spell the names “Rosenko” and “Solutzkof” and bitched about how smoky Ron and I smelled.

  “Look at this,” said Ron.

  A tan government sedan rolled up next to us with Matty Svenson and Maria Sanchez in the back seat. Detective Shephart rode shotgun. John Griswald, the Special Agent in Charge of the Grand Rapids office of the FBI, drove. I’d met him once or twice at ASIS meetings, but he never had much to say to me.

  They all got out, but only Griswald walked up to us. He stood maybe five-ten and was federal-weight-standards thin. He wore a cheap suit with an expensive tie. He flashed his credentials. Everybody nodded.

  “You come to take charge?” asked Van Huis. He seemed pleased at the prospect.

  Griswald shook his head. “Local matter,” he said. “I want to talk to Hardin.”

  “How can I help?” I asked.

  “I need to speak with you privately.”

  “Privately, you get me and my attorney. He does all the talking and he doesn’t know shit about the questions you want answered. If you want to have a friendly chat, you get everybody up here—Matty, Maria, Detective Shephart—the whole crew. Sergeant Franklin, Detective Van Huis, and Ron Craig stay here.”

  “I don’t think that’s prudent.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll call my attorney.”

  I watched his face. He couldn’t make up his mind whether to use the I’m-from-the-government-and-I’m-here-to-help-you approach or to just fall back on the basic I’m-going-to-make-your-life-a-shit-storm. He snapped his credentials together and put them away.

  “All right,” he said. “But I’ve got a dead assistant U.S. attorney. If I don’t get the answers I need, we do it my way.”

  So I’m thinking, call the park police, but I kept it to myself. We got everybody gathered around the car, and I made sure everybody was introduced. “Okay, Matty, you start,” I said.

  Matty dog-eyed Griswald and he nodded back. “Like what?”

  “Like we had a little powwow this afternoon, and—”

  “And I went back to the office and called Arnold Fay. I told him I knew about the Russian. He said he’d come in and talk, but he didn’t. He wasn’t at his office. I went to his house, but there was no answer at the door.”

  “I want the names of the Russians,” said Griswald.

  Van Huis opened his pad and read, “Volody Rosenko and Sasha Solutzkof.”

  “Vladimir, on the picture I gave to the U.S. attorney, Ralph Sehenlink,” I said. Everyone looked at Griswald. Griswald looked at his shoes.

  “Rosenko, Vladimir—whatever his name is, and believe me we probably still don’t know—anyway, he says he’d be interested in giving up New York Mafia gambling types, so long as you don’t ask him about his period of service in the GRU,” I said. “But I think you should talk to him soon. His other idea is to go back, kill them, and take over the business.”

  A firefighter walked up in full turnout gear. She had a single handcuff in her hand. Her eyes swept over the group.

  �
��Hi,” I said. “I’m Art Hardin, what’s your name?”

  “Cassidy,” she said. “They told me to bring this up here.”

  “What is it?”

  “Looks like one handcuff.”

  “Where was it?”

  “Clamped on the sink plumbing in the unit where the fire started.”

  “Accidental fire?”

  “Smells like accelerant to me, but that’s not my job. Who wants this thing? I got work to do.”

  “Give it to the fed,” I said.

  “Here, you look like the salad-bar-and-light-beer-lunch type,” she said and handed Griswald the cuff. Everybody laughed but Griswald.

  Cassidy left.

  “What the hell is this?” asked Griswald.

  “Evidence,” I said. “It belongs to Lieutenant Emmery, according to Rosenko.”

  “Every heavy metal head banger in the city has a pair hanging from his rearview mirror,” said Shephart.

  “Where are we going with this?” said Griswald.

  “Right to the guys who shot Neil Carter,” I said. “Detective Shephart, who got the warrant for the wire and had you set up the time and place for our meet tonight?”

  “Lieutenant Emmery.”

  “Sergeant Franklin isn’t your partner?” I said.

  “No. We asked Franklin to work on this because you seemed willing to talk to him about the Talon murder. Cox was going to do it, but he had a wedding or a graduation or something like that. I volunteered because I was looking to jam you up.”

  “So these two Russian hoods shot Neil Carter?” asked Griswald.

  “No, Rosenko and Emmery shot Neil Carter,” I said.

  Griswald held up the handcuff. “You need a lot more than this to tie Emmery to the shooting.”

  Van Huis fished a piece of pizza out of the box. “Ah, green pepper and onion,” he said. “Still warm, too!”

  “I was a half-hour late to the meet with Sergeant Franklin. Emmery wanted to establish a time line with me in town. I try not to arrive late, anywhere, but tonight I was late, and it screwed up Emmery’s timing.” I took the pictures and documents out of the breast pocket of my coat and handed them to Griswald. “Emmery is married to the daughter of Van Pelham’s law partner, and her maiden name is listed as a partner on the DBA for Alton, Burns, and Fay.”

  “Which one was that?” asked Matty.

  “Carolyn Timmer. The other woman was Brenda Clemments. I never got that tracked down.”

  “Oh my God,” said Matty. “Carter’s wife! Her name is Brenda, but I don’t know her maiden name. I checked the Social Security numbers on both those names, and they were fraudulent.”

  “That’s why I figured the names had to be correct,” I said.

  “You think that their wives are involved in this?” asked Griswald.

  “No, I think that they used their wives’ maiden names to cover their involvement and still have a conduit to the laundered gambling money.”

  “Too thin,” said Griswald.

  “Rosenko’s your man. Make him a deal. He knows it all, including the New York mob connection and how Emmery manufactured and planted evidence to set me up to take the fall for the festivities in the warehouse tonight.”

  “So where are these two Russian hoods now?”

  A uniformed Kentwood police officer walked up to Van Huis and handed him a folded piece of paper. Van Huis had to twist and turn to get some light on it.

  “Rosenko is on his way to County General,” said Franklin. “He got burned up pretty good in the fire. He confessed to killing Wayne Campbell. He said that Campbell had a rodent in his mouth.”

  Griswald snapped his head to look at Matty and Maria.

  “We never told anybody,” said Matty.

  “I guess the shooter knew,” said Ron.

  “So where’s the other Russian?”

  “Don’t know,” said Van Huis. “He just shot up a bunch of our cars, blew up a Grand Rapids car with a rocket launcher, and hauled ass. We found the pickup he was driving across the street at the mall with some truck driver knocked unconscious and lying on the seat.” Van Huis looked at me and smiled. “I always wanted to say this: Hardin, you’re under arrest.”

  “What for?”

  “Open murder on the persons of Arnold Fay and Neil Carter.”

  “That’s a crock,” said Shephart. “He was with me and Franklin when it went down. We chased the doers from the warehouse.”

  “Whatever,” said Van Huis. “But this here is a real warrant, and what Patrolman Breton is holding there is a real Glock forty-caliber pistol, and good old Art, here, is really busted.”

  26

  I leaned on the car. Officer Breton walked around behind me, grabbed the collar of my suit coat, and kicked my feet apart.

  “You gotta excuse Officer Breton, Art,” said Van Huis. “He’s a little miffed because you didn’t jump the thug that hosed his cruiser when you had the chance.”

  “Man had a Mac-ten,” I said, “and wasn’t bashful about using it, but I think Officer Breton probably noticed that.”

  Breton took the Colt off my hip, cleared it, locked the slide to the rear, and put it on the shot-up hood of the cruiser. He stood the loose round from the chamber on its flat end next to the magazine. “Carries one in the spout,” he said and started working my pockets.

  “Jeez, Art,” said Van Huis, “that’s a goddam antique you’re carrying. Even the schoolyard bullies are carrying fat nines.”

  “Just makes for careless marksmanship and a sloppy trigger.”

  “He’s wearing a vest,” said Breton. His attitude went from grumpy to surly when he discovered my arms wouldn’t come together behind my back. “I need an extra set of cuffs, Lieutenant.”

  “Case you didn’t notice,” said Van Huis, “I was bowling when they paged me.”

  Breton turned to Shephart.

  “Hardin was with me when those men were shot. This is a hummer bust. You ain’t using my cuffs to hook him up.”

  I looked at Shephart. Whatever was on my face—he wouldn’t look back.

  “I got paper,” said Breton. “The rest isn’t my concern.”

  “So, Hardin’s an ox,” Van Huis said. “So, hook ’em up in front so you can watch his hands.” Breton gave me a nasty face but installed the hardware in front. “How many cars we got that haven’t had their radiators shot out and tires hosed flat?”

  “Two,” said Breton. “One in the shop and the one Gonzales drove over with the warrant. If we call Grand Rapids, they’ll probably send a car.”

  “Not a chance,” said Van Huis. “We busted him here, we book him here.”

  “We book at county on this shift,” said Breton.

  Van Huis told him, “Call the patrol car and have them transport Mr. Hardin back to the station.”

  “It’s locked.”

  “We both have a key. So does Gonzales.”

  “The desk doesn’t come on until six-thirty.”

  “And your point is?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Breton. He made the radio call.

  “Where’s our car?” said Shephart.

  “We gotta talk about that,” said Franklin.

  Some of us laughed.

  “What?” Shephart’s eyes darted around the group.

  Franklin said, “It, ah, took a few rounds.”

  “It took a LAWS rocket!” said Ron.

  “I’m fucked!” said Shephart. “That was the assistant chief’s car. He’s on vacation. They told me not to scratch it.”

  “Look at it this way, Shep,” I said. “When he gets back, he’ll have a brand-new car, and only you to thank for it.”

  “Don’t call me Shep!”

  Agent Griswald and his FBI crew departed with Detective Shephart. They agreed to drop Ron at his van on their way to County General to quiz Rosenko.

  I got my ride down to Kentwood. Franklin rode with me. Van Huis followed in his burgundy minivan with fake wood paneling.

  The Kentwood Police
Station is located in the same building as the fire department, city offices, and district court. The exterior is made of cement poured into a form that gave the building a gray corduroy finish and very few windows.

  Van Huis led us past the public entrance and around the corner to the north side of the building. A narrow sidewalk led to a door near the rear of the building. He used his key to let us into a tiled anteroom with a long row of wooden pegs for coat hangers and a rack for boots. He locked the door after us.

  The next door opened into the rear of the police department. While the city had grown, the space allotted to the police department had not. File cabinets lined the back wall, end to end, providing a display area for bowling, baseball, and shooting trophies. A dozen desks shared barely adequate space. On the wall opposite the file cabinets was a row of gray office-divider cubicles.

  I had to use the pay phone in the public hallway because all the police lines, except for the fax line, were routed to voice mail until the station opened in the morning. Nine-eleven calls were diverted to the county dispatcher.

  “Yes,” said Wendy, “I’ll accept the charges.”

  “Wendy, I need you to call Pete. His home number is in my address book by the telephone.”

  “It’s after midnight.”

  “I got arrested.”

  “I knew that. If you’re calling collect, you’ve been arrested. What jurisdiction this time?”

  “Kentwood.”

  “Are you at the county lockup?”

  “No. I’m actually at the Kentwood Police Station.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “Open murder, twice.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I don’t kid about open murder.”

  “Tell me what Finney needs to know.”

  “Tell him Arnold Fay and Neil Carter are assuming room temperature as we speak. I was with two Grand Rapids police officers when the shooting took place. Lieutenant Emmery got the warrant. Tell Pete he’ll need the stuff I asked him to lock up in his safe.”

  “Who were you with? Wait a minute. Let me get a pencil. This pen won’t write.”

  “Sergeant Franklin and—”

  “Not yet. Okay, go ahead.”

  “Sergeant Franklin and Detective Shephart.”