The Diehard

by Jon A. Jackson

  “You're right,” he said. He went to the telephone and called McClain. “I think they're trying to set up a meet,” he told him, “but there's no way that Clippert could get a flight to Miami, so maybe they'll come to him.”

  “If these are Kusane's people,” McClain said, “they don't have to come here. Kusane's here, he can deal direct with Clippert.”

  “What kind of a deal?” Mulheisen asked.

  “Maybe Clippert thinks the game plan is blown. Maybe he wants their help in getting out, in exchange for a big payoff.”

  “I doubt it,” Mulheisen said. “I think Clippert's too shrewd for that. He won't want to deal with Kusane. It's too risky for him. He'll want to see what Wienoshek and this other guy are up to, and make a deal from that point.”

  “Well, I'll get onto the Miami police and ask them to increase their surveillance. If you're right, somebody'll be going in or out of Miami, and it'll probably be the airport.”

  “Thanks,” Mulheisen said. “I'll be here, waiting.” He hung up and came into the living room again. He slumped into the big chair and looked out the window.

  “The snow has stopped,” he said. “Wind's still up, though.”

  A moment later he jumped up again and made another phone call. “Hello, Oz? Did I wake you? . . . I didn't? Oz, it's two in the morning, what are you doing up? . . . Oh. Santa Claus. I forgot . . . Yeah. Listen, I've got an emergency, Oz. I've got to get out. Do you think that four-wheel drive rig of yours would get through this snow? Can I borrow it? . . . No, I'll walk there, Oz. It's only a mile, I'll walk. You stay there and fill the stockings. I'll be by for the keys. I'm leaving now.”

  “Where are you going?” Lou asked. She seemed alarmed.

  “Ozzie's marina,” he said. “He's got a rig that I think will make it through this snow. A Dodge Powerwagon.”

  “I'll go with you,” Lou said.

  He looked at her as if she were crazy. “No, no,” he said. “You stay here. I can't take you with me. It's cold out. You don't have the gear for it.”

  “I'll wear something of your mother's.”

  “Don't be silly,” he said. “I'm just going down to the precinct, and maybe see if I can't locate Clippert.”

  “For what? To arrest him?”

  “I don't know. He could be in bad trouble, if he's playing games with a guy like Kusane.”

  She stood there in his too-large robe, looking upset. “You could get in trouble too,” she said.

  “Well,” he said, “so what?”

  “So what?” She was angry.

  “It's my job,” he said. He walked over to her and took her by the shoulders. “Come on,” he said, “don't be this way. I have to go out. I don't want to leave you, but I have to. Clippert doesn't want to go out either, but he has to.”

  She moved into his arms and he held her, smelling her hair. “Aren't you the one who wanted to know what it was like to be a cop?” he asked.

  “A detective,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest. She clung to him tightly.

  “Yeah. Well, this is what it's like,” Mulheisen said. He kissed her. The kiss was longer than he wanted it to be. Her arms were tight about his neck. At last, he gently pulled away from her.

  “I've got to go,” he said. “But I want you to stay here. Wait for me. I don't know how long I'll be. Maybe just a few hours. But if it's longer, if the plows get through in the morning, you can take the car and go home.”

  “No,” she said. “I'll wait here. I'll do the puzzle for you.”

  “You go to bed,” he said.

  “Call me.”

  He promised that he would, as he got on his old Air Force parka. It was a big, bulky nylon thing with a fur-lined hood and reflective markings sewn onto it. He wore heavy wool pants, his old uniform pants, and boots that had felt liners. He kissed her again and left.

  It was cold. The snow was waist-deep in places, but generally he found that he could avoid these drifts and walk where it was only knee-deep or less. After a hundred yards he wanted to go back, but then he hit a barren stretch where the snow was only six inches deep. What the hell, he told himself, my boots are warm. He stumbled on through the high wind, turning his face away from the icy buffeting. It took him forty minutes to get to the front door of Gary Oswald's house.

  Oswald was a burly man in robe and slippers. He was balding and had a huge, drooping mustache. The tree was decorated and shining with lights and tinsel. There were children's presents everywhere.

  “Damn, Mul, come in. Take your coat off and warm up. I'll get you some coffee.”

  “Oz, I'm in a hurry,” Mulheisen said. But Oswald insisted, bringing a cup of coffee with a generous dollop of whiskey in it.

  Mulheisen stood by the door and drank the coffee. “Where's the Powerwagon?” he asked.

  “In the big shed,” Oswald said. “Here's the key to the shed, and here's the key to the truck. Unplug the engine heater, and pull out the choke to start it.”

  “Do you think it'll get through this?”

  “Mul, it's got snow tires, chains if you need them, and a high clearance. There's a winch, too. If you get stuck, just throw the cable around a tree and you can winch yourself out.”

  “How's the gas?”

  “Gassed up yesterday. It should be full, and there's a couple of full five-gallon cans in the back.”

  Mulheisen took the keys and went out. Oswald closed the door, shaking his head. A wisp of snow had blown in while the door was open. Snow had melted from Mulheisen's boots onto the carpet by the door. Oswald thought about cleaning it up, thinking of his wife upstairs in bed. She would be annoyed by the mess. “Ah, to hell with it,” he said, and turned out the lights.

  Twenty-five

  “What the hell?” said Sergeant Dill, the desk man at the Ninth Precinct. “Mul, I didn't recognize you. How the hell did you get here?” The sergeant peered out the back door at the Powerwagon. “Jesus, it looks like a weapons carrier.”

  “Where's Jensen?” Mulheisen asked.

  “He got restless. He went to Clippert's house. He got a city plow to take him. Hey, are those uniform pants?” He gestured at Mulheisen's heavy blue pants.

  “Yeah, I'm back in the blue,” Mulheisen said. He went to his tiny office and dialed Clippert's home.

  “Hello,” a voice said. “Who is this?”

  “Jensen, it's me.”

  “Oh. Mulheisen.”

  “I'm down at the precinct. Is Clippert there?”

  “No. His car is, though.”

  “Both cars? His wife had an Audi, I think.”

  “Both cars. But I'll tell you one thing—”

  Jensen volunteering information? This is new, Mulheisen thought.

  “—this house is a mess.”

  Silence. “What do you mean, a mess?”

  “There's mattresses ripped open, kitchen shelves emptied, closets dumped out, and he never picked up that Christmas tree that he blasted. Looks like he cleared out.”

  Mulheisen thought about that for a moment. “Anything else, Jensen? Did you notice anything else?”

  “Not really. You want me to stay here?”

  “No. Have you been to Kusane's?”

  “Should I go to Kusane's? I still got the plow waiting.”

  “Go see Carmine,” Mulheisen said. “Call me from there.”

  Mulheisen went out to the desk. “Any messages for me, Dill?”

  “You're practically our only customer tonight, Mul. I was just gonna call you when you came in. A Lieutenant Mendoza from Miami called. He left a message.”

  Miami police had Miami International locked up tight, with the aid of the FBI, and they were canvassing the hotels, armed with a photograph and a description of Wienoshek. Apparently they had found where Wienoshek was staying, under the name of George Gordon, but he had checked out earlier in the evening.

  McClain had called to say that arrest warrants were waiting downtown on both Wienoshek and Clippert, but that it would be impossible
to have them delivered to the Ninth Precinct. Any other assistance Mulheisen required would be forthcoming by calling the shift commander at Homicide. Or call me, McClain's note said. Mulheisen read that to mean, call Homicide first.

  Mulheisen told the desk man to get Miami police and put the call on his office line.

  Lieutenant Mendoza came on the line. “Did you get our message?” he asked, after the introductions. “Looks like your boy has skipped. We've got checks on the bus stations, train station, and so forth.”

  “How about roadblocks?”

  “Of course,” Mendoza said. “But if you think he'll try to get back north, I imagine he'll want to fly, don't you?”

  “Most likely,” Mulheisen agreed.

  “We've got Miami International covered,” Mendoza said. “Of course, starting around six there'll be a hell of a lot more people in the terminal and then it'll be tougher to spot him. But the FBI is helping out, so we shouldn't have too much trouble.”

  “What kind of an operation do you have?” Mulheisen asked.

  “At the airport? We've got men all over the place, watching from observation points, outside, inside, in the johns . . . the FBI has men behind the counters of the major airlines.”

  “Just at the one airport? Are there other airports?”

  “Miami International is the only one with the big scheduled airlines. It's where he'd have to go if he wanted a flight north.”

  “Look,” Mulheisen said, “check with Miami Flight Service. It's probably right there at the terminal. They'll have clearances on all air traffic in the area. See if there has been any kind of flight plan filed for private aircraft into the upper Midwest, especially to Michigan. And if they don't have anything, ask them to call you if they get anything.”

  Twenty minutes later Jensen called again. “I'm at Kusane's. They never heard of Clippert, of course, never saw anybody of that description. But I'll tell you one thing, there's been cars in and out of their parking lot tonight.”

  “Did you ask Carmine about Wienoshek?”

  “My old buddy Carmine is kind of irritated with me,” Jensen said, “for waking him up on Christmas morning.”

  “Did you lay it on him heavy?”

  “Like a goddamn hammer,” Jensen said. “Nothing.”

  “See if you can find out what kind of car he's got that could get around in this weather, then come on back.”

  As soon as Mulheisen hung up, the phone rang. It was Mendoza.

  “Not much traffic on Christmas Eve,” Mendoza said. “I checked as far back as 10 P.M. That good enough?”

  “Fine,” Mulheisen said. “What have you got?”

  “Let's see here.” Mulheisen could hear paper rattling, then Mendoza said, “They got a Twin Beech out of Miami International at ten-eighteen Eastern, for Atlanta—”

  “No,” Mulheisen interrupted, “just give me the destinations, for now. Anything into the Midwest.”

  “There's not much,” Mendoza said. “The guy at Flight Service said, most of these are small aircraft that don't have the instruments to fly into bad weather areas. The farthest north we have is a flight to Chicago.”

  “What's that?”

  “A Convair 240 off at 0131 Eastern, for O'Hare International. A company plane, belongs to Northwest Properties. Sounds like one of those real-estate operations, where they fly prospective customers down for a day or two.”

  “That doesn't sound like Wienoshek,” Mulheisen said. “What else?”

  “Okay, here's one to Nashville.”

  “Nashville? What's that one?” Mulheisen asked.

  “That's, ah . . . oh, here's one to Pittsburgh,” Mendoza said.

  “What's he sound like?”

  “Lear jet, out of Miami at 0112 Eastern, for Greater Pittsburgh Airport.”

  Mulheisen copied the information, then asked about the Nashville aircraft. That turned out to be an Apache that had changed its flight plan shortly after take off and headed for Memphis.

  “That's about it,” Mendoza said.

  “Thanks, Mendoza. Let me know if you hear anything interesting.”

  Mulheisen sat and smoked a cigar. He studied the note pad scribbled up with flight plans and was reminded of his own days as a control-tower operator. Almost twenty years ago. It didn't seem that long ago. In a way, he thought he should have stayed at it. He had enjoyed tower work. All the tower operators did, although they bitched constantly about the pressure and/or the occasional moments of boredom when there was no traffic. That was the way it seemed to go: one moment you had five guys on final and the next hour you had nothing. It was different in the big commercial airports, of course, where the traffic was heavy and steady.

  Mulheisen had never tired of it. Standing in the tower before a bank of radios, clearing a flight of F-101 Interceptors for a hot scramble, telling a KC-135 refueling tanker to begin his jet penetration from thirty miles out, watching a loaded C-5A use every bit of runway on takeoff. When civilian aircraft entered his control zone he would advise them of what local traffic there was.

  He used to sit in the darkened tower on nights of little traffic and listen to the big control centers passing on flight plans. Like this Apache out of Miami: someone would be calling Nashville tower to cancel that inbound; the same person would call Memphis tower with the change in flight plans.

  On impulse, Mulheisen got on the telephone, and through a series of information operators was able to call the FAA Flight Service in Memphis. Memphis told him they had the Apache inbound.

  “Is there any further amendment on the flight plan?” Mulheisen asked.

  “No, sir. They're terminating here and requesting parking space for overnight.”

  Mulheisen thanked him and hung up. It was interesting talking to Flight Service again. Just like old times. He decided to call Pittsburgh.

  Pittsburgh Flight Service said, “A Lear? Flight out of Miami? That's Juliet Tango One-Oh-Two-Oh-Seven Sierra Tango. Amended flight plan, en route to Chicago, O'Hare. Estimated time of arrival, 0217 Central. He ought to be there by now, sir.”

  Mulheisen went out into the hall and looked at the clock. Four-thirty Eastern, in Detroit, on Christmas Day. That made it three-thirty in Chicago. He called O'Hare.

  O'Hare verified that they had a Lear, JT 10207 ST, out of Miami. “She was a little late,” the man said, “but she got off okay, after refueling.”

  “Refueling? Where was she headed?”

  “Milwaukee, with an open destination for Pellston, Michigan, if the weather cleared there.”

  “How does Pellston look?” Mulheisen asked.

  “Last report had a fifteen-hundred-foot overcast, but breaks in the overcast all quadrants. I see that Traverse City is almost clear with fifteen miles visibility. That's just southwest of Pellston, so they could be all right by the time they get there.”

  “When will that be?” Mulheisen asked.

  “About twenty minutes.”

  Mulheisen immediately called the Michigan State Police. “Where the hell is Pellston?” he asked.

  “About three hundred miles due north of Detroit,” said a Lieutenant Ackerman.

  “I have information that an interstate fugitive, wanted here for murder, is aboard a Lear jet inbound to Pellston in about twenty minutes. Can you get a man there to make an arrest?”

  “I understand that it's been storming up there,” Ackerman said, “but not as bad as here. We should be able to get a car over there, and if we can't then I don't imagine they'll be able to get out either. We'll try.”

  Mulheisen gave the information to Ackerman and hung up. He stared at Jensen, who had just come in. Jensen was wearing an overcoat and galoshes, but no hat. He never wore a hat, even though his blond hair was only a half-inch long. Jensen believed that wearing a hat was an instant tipoff that one was a cop. “Anymore,” he would say, “only cops wear hats.” It didn't take a hat for anyone to know that Jensen was a cop.

  “Kusane has a Lincoln Continental,” he said. “It woul
dn't get through that mess. Someone was there in his parking lot in a four-wheel drive, but of course, Kusane doesn't know who it could have been. I'm gonna sack out,” he said. He looked beat.

  Mulheisen nodded. He sat there, looking at his flight plans. After a while he began to look through the desk. Then he went out front. Snow was still whirling around the glass doors of the precinct. “Dill,” he said, “have you got any whiskey?”

  “Whiskey? Mul, are you kidding?”

  “Dill, it's Christmas.”

  Dill looked around the deserted lobby. “Watch the desk, will you, Mul? I gotta go to my locker for a minute.”

  He came back shortly with two plastic cups from the coffee room. They were filled with an amber fluid.

  “Merry Christmas, Mul,” Dill said.

  “Cheers,” Mulheisen said. He sipped. “What is this stuff, anyway?”

  “Kessler's. Took it off a drunk yesterday.”

  Mulheisen took the cup back to his office and sat there, sipping. He had another cup before the state police called back, forty minutes later.

  “We got your man,” Lieutenant Ackerman said gleefully.

  Mulheisen let out a great sigh. So that's it, he thought. It was curiously anticlimactic. He had Wienoshek. That left only Clippert, and Clippert was out in the cold.

  “That's great,” Mulheisen said. “Good work. Did you get both of them?”

  “No, only the one,” Ackerman said.

  “Only one? Which one?”

  “He says his name is Oliver Lewis. We're checking on him now.”

  “What's the description?” Mulheisen demanded.

  “Um, according to the officer there, he's five-ten, a hundred sixty pounds, Negro male—”

  “What? I didn't give you anything on a Negro!”

  “You said one of the guys might be short and dark,” Ackerman said.

  “I meant he might be an Italian. Besides, where's the other guy, the main one? Wienoshek?”

  “I don't know anything about Wienoshek,” Ackerman said. “All we've got is this Oliver Lewis. The pilot.”

  “The pilot! I'm not interested in the pilot! Oh, well, you might as well hold him, if you can. But find out about his passengers. Why was he late, anyway? He should have been into Pellston a half-hour ago.”