“Him again? Who’s the arresting officer?”
“Detective Van Huis, Kentwood.”
“Why did he arrest you?”
“Grand Rapids faxed them a warrant.”
“You’d think they’d be too busy after that terrorist attack on the police. It’s all over the TV. They said it was a miracle no one was killed. The mayor of Kentwood said there was no loss of life, due to the training and experience of his police force and fire department.”
“I was there—no doubt in my mind that it had everything to do with training and experience. I’m going to let you go so you can get hold of Pete.”
“Okay. Stay where you’re at.”
“Funny,” I said. Wendy hung up.
Franklin took the telephone as soon as I hung it up. Van Huis had me follow him to his office—he had a desk in one of the cubicles. His desk placard read, “LIEUTENANT GERALD VAN HUIS, CHIEF OF DETECTIVES.” He pulled a rights notification form out of his desk drawer and flopped it down in front of me.
“This is just a formality,” he said. He read me my rights and asked me if I had any questions.
“Yeah, just one. Does that ‘this is just a formality’ line ever work?”
“You’d be surprised. A lot of guys will tell me to screw off and then spill their guts.”
I signed and handed the paper back.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “If you sign the waiver affidavit at the bottom of the sheet, your rights won’t keep us from being able to discuss this. I can probably help you out here.”
“That ever work?”
“Sometimes,” Van Huis said.
“I thought we were pals.”
“That ever work?”
“Never,” I said.
“It’s going to be a long night,” said Van Huis. “Your life is in the hands of three feds and Detective Shephart.” He took a deck of cards out of his desk. “Let’s go up to the break room and play cards. You know how to play You Bet Your Life?”
“That’s not a card game.”
“Indulge me.”
“Okay. I answer your questions and if I say the secret word, a duck comes down with fifty bucks in its mouth.”
“No. If your Russian pal doesn’t say the magic words, they strap you to a gurney and pump poison in your arm. Whacking an assistant U.S. attorney is a federal beef. Maybe you better talk to me.”
“Hearts,” I said.
Franklin hung up the telephone and joined us as we passed him in the hallway. The break room was really just the dead end of the second-floor hallway—furnished in wrought iron and orange plastic. Vending machines lined the end wall.
Van Huis shuffled the cards and dealt a hand of hearts.
Franklin said that he had called the desk sergeant at Grand Rapids. He said they’d been hot to get his arrest report on Rosenko until the feds moved in on the case. Emmery had shown up at the warehouse right after Cox and just before the feds. The feds got muscular about having a dead assistant U.S. attorney—something about Carter being a covered person under the new antiterrorism legislation. Emmery called in a carload of forensic people. The Grand Rapids police chief showed up, and when the dust settled, they had agreed to share jurisdiction, because of Fay. When they got the news that the shit had hit the fan over at the Crest Haven, Emmery designated Shephart to come over with Griswald.
I said, “You tell them Emmery was the shooter?”
Franklin had “Are you nuts?” written on his face, but he said, “You read Hardin his rights?”
“Signed the affidavit but doesn’t want to discuss it with us,” said Van Huis.
“I got to see a man about a horse,” I said. “I know where it’s at.”
“Don’t get lost,” said Van Huis.
When I came out of the restroom, they were waiting for me in the hallway. Van Huis had my Colt in his hand.
“This your regular carry piece?” he asked. “It’s been fired.”
“Talk to my attorney.”
We went back to the break room and played cards in silence. I stuck Van Huis with the queen of spades, took one heart, and Franklin got the rest.
“Look,” said Franklin. “I know this isn’t your regular carry piece because it’s not the one you wag in and out of the Hall of Justice. The desk sergeant told me that they picked up some forty-five-caliber brass at the warehouse. The feds matched the bolt face and firing pin marks with brass left over from when you got busted on the Talon beef.”
“I was with you when the shooting happened,” I said.
“I didn’t hear any shots,” said Franklin, “your partner was talking about them on the radio.”
“You chased the shooters when they came out of the warehouse,” I said.
“I saw them running, not shooting,” said Franklin, “and you’re the one who hauled the Russian cocksucker out of the fire.”
“Any slugs?” I asked.
“Deformed in the floor; the brass is good enough.”
“You’re looking for a .410 shotgun,” I said.
“I want to know where your carry piece is,” said Franklin.
“Talk to my attorney.”
We worked on another silent hand until someone started pounding on the door downstairs. Franklin volunteered to be the greeter. It took him twenty minutes. Just about the time Van Huis got antsy, Franklin walked up the stairs with Ron Craig.
“What took so long?” asked Van Huis.
“I asked Mr. Craig to show me his surveillance van,” said Franklin. “He’s got better shit than we do.”
I fixed hard eyes on Franklin. He glared back.
“I’m ever the optimist,” I said. “I’m driving a rental car, but it’s still over at The Chance. It’s a black Mustang convertible. Maybe you could give Sergeant Franklin the keys, and he and Ron could go pick it up.”
“Coffee and it’s a deal,” said Van Huis. “The coffee in the machine here is crap.”
“It’s almost warm enough to put the top down,” I said. “You can leave the windows up and run the heater. Look around the glove box and trunk. The instructions are there somewhere.”
Van Huis had my property in a large brown envelope on the seat next to him. He sorted out the keys and handed them to Franklin. “And donuts,” he said.
“Don’t forget to look under the seats. You know these rental outfits. It could be under the mats—anywhere.”
“Did I miss something here?” asked Ron.
“Yeah,” said Franklin. “I didn’t give a shit about your equipment. I wanted to search your van.”
“Hell, I knew that,” said Ron. “What were you looking for?”
“Art’s regular carry piece,” said Franklin. “The one he was carrying when he got busted for the Talon murder.”
Ron laughed. “Talk to Art’s attorney.”
“You mean …?” asked Franklin.
“He means, talk to my attorney. You gonna get my car or what?”
Franklin took the keys, and he and Ron departed.
“If you were with Franklin when those two guys bought the farm, the gun can’t be in your car,” said Van Huis.
“Three will get you five if he doesn’t look under the seats; he already searched Ron’s van.”
“Sucker bet!”
I scraped up the cards and dealt us a hand of rummy—hard to do wearing handcuffs. I had half my hand in the discard pile when Van Huis picked them up.
“Maybe if you tell them where to find your other Russian pal. Rummy!” he said.
“Easy,” I said. “Watch Rosenko. Solutzkof will be close.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Common criminals.”
“There’s nobody here,” said Van Huis. “Just you and me. Common criminals don’t hose down most of our fleet, come at us with rocket launchers, or disappear into thin air.”
“Time passes. Things change.” I laid my cards down and fanned them out with a finger to count the points.
“Just when I start liking y
ou, you revert to type.”
“Seventy-five.” I rolled my eyes up to Van Huis and said, “What type is that?”
“The pain-in-the-ass type.”
“Once upon a time there were dinosaurs. They went extinct and rats ruled the world. The rats thought the few remaining dinosaurs were a pain in the ass.”
“You saying I’m a rat?”
“Nope. I’m saying that when you retire, people will think you’re a pain in the ass.”
A racket came from the downstairs door. Van Huis made me go with him to answer it. We found a pale-faced Shephart leaning on the door jamb.
“They made Hardin’s gun,” he said. “They said because I was with Hardin, I’m a material witness. I have to get Franklin, tell him he’s a witness and not to talk to Hardin.”
“Not to worry,” said Van Huis. “Pain in the ass that he is, Hardin saved Franklin’s virginity. He hasn’t said shit.”
“Where’s Franklin?”
“He went for coffee with Ron Craig.”
“They want Craig,” said Shephart. “They want to know where he was the morning Talon got killed. Where he was for the last couple of hours, and if he was in the warehouse before I got there with Hardin and Franklin.”
“He was with you; then he came here,” said Van Huis.
“What time did he get here?”
“Beats the shit out of me,” said Van Huis.
“Better think hard. That’s the big question—we got to County General, that Russian cocksucker had vanished. They wheeled him in and he walked out. When they went looking for him, they found Paulie Milton with a bullet in his brain and a silenced Mauser twenty-two pistol on his chest. Emmery’s on his way here, right now. He’s taking Hardin down to the federal building. They sent you a fax because of the telephones.”
“Shit! We’ve been upstairs!” said Van Huis.
Shephart stepped in and pulled the door shut.
“Ron Craig didn’t kill anybody,” I said.
Van Huis turned toward me, his face red. “I don’t want to hear your bullshit. Franklin was right. Everyone’s watching you, and it’s your pal doing the dirty work. I stuck my neck out to help you, and you and your partner played me!”
“Look, I don’t know where my attorney is,” I said. “He should have been here by now. When he gets here, this will be cleared up. Emmery is playing for time. He stole Rosenko’s passport. Probably has Rosenko’s airline tickets. He knew if I got arrested I’d clam up. He’s not coming here.”
Van Huis put a right hook on the side of my head that came out of nowhere. My glasses exploded. It was a head shaker. Thank God for plastic lenses. I backed up a step.
Shephart stepped between us but didn’t have the body mass to slow down Van Huis. He went down.
Van Huis had somebody’s blood on his hand. He left it all over the back of Shephart’s suit. I tried to talk but my tongue was too woolly to operate. Van Huis stepped over Shephart, and I ducked a roundhouse right.
Shephart got to his knees. Van Huis stood sideways to me because of the missed punch. I drove my shoulder into him, and he toppled backward and over Shephart.
“Listen, Jerry!” I managed to say. It didn’t sound like me. The words were slow and leaden. “Goddamit, listen! I was late to the meet! It fucked up his timing! He wanted Shephart and Franklin to be able to testify that they’d seen me in town!”
“Asshole sure talks better when you thump him a little,” said Van Huis. “Emmery can have what’s left when I’m done.”
Someone made a polite, almost tentative, knock at the door. Everybody looked at the door. Nobody moved until the second knock.
“Your fucking ride is here,” said Van Huis. He smiled.
“Don’t let him in,” said Shephart.
“You think I give a shit? Let the bastard sue me. We’re insured.” Van Huis got up off the floor.
“Don’t let him in. Hardin was with me. He didn’t kill anybody! If he’s right, he won’t make it to the federal building!”
“If he stays here, he won’t make it to the door.”
“Open the door,” I said. “It’s not Emmery. He won’t come here.”
“Go with Hardin to the federal building. I can’t go with him because I’m a witness,” said Shephart.
The polite knock turned to a raucous pounding. Van Huis opened the door. It was Emmery.
“I underestimated you,” I said.
“Yeah, but your looks have improved,” said Emmery.
“Rosenko got away,” I said. “But not before pumping a twenty-two into Paulie’s brain. Tell these guys the truth. Stay here until they can send enough guys to cover you. You know it all. You can make a deal.”
“You don’t ever quit, do you Hardin?” said Van Huis. “Take the son of a bitch. He’s all yours!”
“You set Rosenko on fire,” I said to Emmery. “He told me it was going to take you a long time to die. He’s a man of his word, and he has a partner you never knew about.”
“Thank God,” said Pete Finney from somewhere in the darkness behind Emmery. “I’ve been knocking at the bloody front door for an hour.” He had to sidestep past Emmery to get into the building. “I used that bugger red phone by the door, and all I got was the county dispatch. They put me on hold. They just now agreed to send you a fax.”
Pete wore khaki shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and had seriously hairy legs. He held a folded piece of paper in his right hand.
“Damn, Pete,” I said, “I thought the suit went all the way through. I didn’t know there was a person in there.”
“Arthur, you have half the town out of bed. Flowers is downtown dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and Judge Henry is sitting on her bench in sweats. The only ones properly dressed are the feds, and they’re all over town like ants at a picnic.”
“Counselor, you can shag your ass back out of here because your comedian is on his way down to the federal building. I hope the ants have a feast!” said Van Huis.
“You are not to turn Mr. Hardin over to the lieutenant. You have been issued some rather explicit instructions. Please check the fax machine before someone makes a”—he looked at me and then back at Van Huis—“another and rather serious career misstep.”
“I’ve got a writ in the car,” said Emmery. “I didn’t think I’d need it, but I’ll go get it for this shyster.”
Finney cast an evil eye on Emmery. Emmery sneered back and stepped briskly through the door.
“The barrel and slide that were on Mr. Hardin’s weapon when he was arrested have been in my safe since he was released. I have a writ of habeas corpus for Mr. Hardin,” Finney told him.
Van Huis stared at Pete Finney like he was an apparition. “Why didn’t you give me this when you walked in?”
“Mr. Emmery is a man in a desperate situation. His involvement seems to be rather more complicated than conjuring evidence and lying on an affidavit to obtain a warrant. I didn’t want to find myself standing in the middle of a gun battle.” said Finney.
“I want to see the writ,” said Van Huis.
Finney handed him the writ and watched him read it. When the light of recognition came to Van Huis’s face, Finney went on. “One of the faxes is a warrant for the arrest of Lieutenant Emmery. Detective Cox has made some rather startling admissions concerning the evidence collected at the warehouse. He has agreed to testify in exchange for immunity.”
Shephart and Van Huis produced their weapons and hustled out the door. Finney and I filed in through the desks. The fax machine displayed a blinking yellow light. It had run out of paper. One fax lay in the tray—said Lieutenant Emmery was coming to give me a lift.
We found the paper in the cabinet below the fax machine. The first fax said to detain Emmery. The second one was a request to let Pete in the door. The last one was a warrant charging Emmery with evidence tampering and making a false sworn statement.
“Not exactly open murder,” I said. “This isn’t the kind of thing that usually results in a hue and cry
.”
“Apparently you made some disclosures to the FBI.”
“Yes, I did, but only before I was arrested.”
“In the future—if you don’t want your alibi slashed to ribbons—you should give it to me to substantiate before it is revealed to the police,” Finney said, his voice low and his eyebrows holding hands.
Shephart hurried in the door, his revolver still in his hand. He told us that Emmery had left and that Van Huis was talking to county dispatch on the red telephone. “Hardin, I didn’t know anything about this,” he said.
“So said Detective Cox,” said Finney. “He said he fired Mr. Hardin’s weapon on the way back from the state police laboratory and collected the brass and slugs for Emmery.”
Sergeant Franklin and Ron arrived with a box full of coffee and donuts. Shephart holstered his heat and showed them the warrant for Emmery.
“I guess the golf date’s off,” said Ron.
“Just doing my job,” said Franklin. “I don’t play golf, anyway.”
“Neither do I,” said Ron, “unless you count miniature golf.”
We laughed. Pete took a jelly-filled donut and passed on the coffee. He left, but not before he told me that I needed some ice on my eye and that he charged double after midnight. Van Huis walked in with the pieces of my glasses in his hand.
“Mr. Hardin,” he said, “I have a citizen’s complaint form that you may fill out.”
“Jerry, I’ve signed enough of your forms tonight.”
“I got out of hand. I apologize.”
“I’m not angry, Jerry.” I touched the side of my head. My left eye was already swollen to a slit. “I just wish I’d ducked. If you hadn’t kept me here, I’d be cooling in a morgue locker right now.”
I held out my cuffed wrists and gave him a nod. He took the cuffs off. My glasses had carved a half-moon gouge into the second knuckle of his right hand. The bleeding had stopped but the flesh gaped apart.
“That’s going to take a stitch,” I said.
“How are you going to get home?”
“I’m nearsighted, not blind.”
“You could get a ticket or have an accident.”
“I doubt that the warrant is off the wire, so if I get stopped, I’m going to get a ride. I’ve got a spare set of glasses at the house.”
Private Heat Page 33