Private Heat (10 page)

Randy nodded once and said, “Yes.”

“The throwaway? It was a twenty-two, right?” I asked. Okay, speculation is dangerous. If you ask twenty questions, you should know the answer to nineteen. The shots I heard were more crack than bang so guessing a twenty-two wasn't a long stretch.

“Yes,” said Randy.

“What was the accountant shot with?”

“Twenty-two,” he said.

“Are your fingerprints on it?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“Did you load the weapon? Check the magazine? Anything?”

“No,” said Randy. “I wore gloves. It was already loaded. I just racked the slide, but I had gloves on.”

Ron's head swiveled with a snap. “What kind of twenty-two?”

“I don't know,” Randy said and shrugged like he meant to say, “What the hell difference does it make?”

“Big one or little one?” asked Ron.

“Little one.”

“Some liquor-store special?”

“No, it was a German something.”

“Walther?”

“It was dark in the car and dark in the house.” Randy was silent. Then he said, “It wasn't shaped like a Walther.”

I waited for Ron to ask another question, but he just shrugged at me, so I asked Randy, “So which one of your good friends gave you the cold piece?”

“Paulie. He said he took it off a crack dealer and kept it for a spare. He gave it to me in an evidence bag.”

Karen's face was all eyes and arched eyebrows. “Paulie?”

We had police cars like ants on a jelly bean. They covered the house with spotlights and headlights. Sergeant Franklin had arrived and was on the loudspeaker. “Inside the house … you are surrounded … put down your weapon … come out with your hands on your head … and you will not be harmed.”

“So how about it, Karen?” I asked. “This what you and your uncle had in mind? Me and Randy faced off like a couple of pit bulls? Then you tell the U.S. attorney that Randy's the shooter, and that he had the money. Either way it goes, you win. I get whacked, and Randy looks guilty. Randy gets whacked, and bingo, you keep the dough and Randy can't tell a different story.”

“No,” said Karen, shaking her head with her chin on her chest. “Uncle Martin said you wouldn't kiss up to the police, so he hired you because, Randy, he”—Karen launched herself in a fury of wild swinging hands, smacking Randy as best she could around the seat—“he … he beat the shit out of me.” Angry tears and splattered sweat showered the inside of the van. “And you shot … you … you bastard … you shot.”

Randy sat there and took it like flea bites. While Karen was venting, several unmarked police sedans arrived. Black-clad officers threw open the doors and went straight to the trunks of their vehicles. They donned their British Special Air Service wanna-be suits—the black helmet, mask, and ballistic gear made to look so dashing by the crack counterterrorist unit—and formed up behind the cordon of vehicles.

Sergeant Franklin was back on the horn. “In the house … we know you have no hostages … this is your last chance … lay down your weapon and come out … you will not be harmed.”

Uniformed officers started rousting the neighbors, most in nightclothes, and driving them away. Karen wouldn't quit; I had to board check her off Randy and back to her side of the seat.

“We have to turn this meatball over to the cops before half the city is playing musical chairs in their pj's,” I said.

“You said that you were going to help me!” said Randy.

“Yeah, you never heard that line before, right?”

“I'll tell them you're lying!”

“Of course you will.”

“I'm a cop! They'll believe me!” He left off the nasty comments about PIs but they were implicit in his tone.

“We
have
you!” said Ron. “We have the videotape, and I use a voice-activated tape recorder for surveillance notes.”

“You didn't read me my rights,” said Randy.

“Sorry, pal,” I said. “The Fifth Amendment only protects you from the government, not your fellow citizens.”

“You and your pals are gonna hate not being cops,” said Ron.

“They'll make me for whacking that asshole Campbell.”

“Gee,” said Ron, “you're a policeman, just tell them you didn't do it.”

Randy turned his head to the side. “Karen, honey, I'm sorry,” he said. His voice broke. “I've been a jerk. I didn't know how out of control I was until I was shooting those stupid pillows in the hot tub. It was like I was watching someone else do it. I threw the gun and ran. I was standing in the bushes and I heard the sirens and I was glad that they were going to get me—glad that it was over and you were okay. I'm not mad about any of it anymore. It was my fault. All of it. I love you.”

“An epiphany, right here, in front of God and everybody,” I said. “We
got
to let him go, now.”

“He's toast,” said Ron.

“He didn't do it,” said Karen, her chest heaving either with emotion or from her recent exertion. “He didn't kill Wayne.”

“Who did?” I asked.

Karen shook her head.

“He's toast,” said Ron.

“Except,” I said, “he's not supposed to be toast right now. He's supposed to be dead or fleeing from a double murder.”

A pair of black-clad officers launched themselves toward the front of the house. One had a fireman's tool for breaking windows, and the other carried a satchel. They broke a window at each end of the house and threw in tear gas grenades.

“Maybe,” said Ron, “he's supposed to be fleeing from a double murder and then, also, very dead.”

Sergeant Franklin was on the horn again. Same message. Nobody came out. The black-clad officers, now in gas masks, set to the front door with a battering ram. Two officers went into the garage. Chuck and Paulie with black assault gear strapped on over their street-mufti disappeared behind the house.

“Son of a bitch,” said Randy.

“I take it your deal with the U.S. attorney is in the toilet if Randy takes
the fall for Wayne Campbell,” I said to Karen.

“Uncle Martin is giving them the name to get me a deal.”

“Sehenlink may be the U.S. attorney, but he's going to have a hard time making a murder witness out of somebody who was at Lake Tahoe when Wayne Campbell got whacked here in Grand Rapids.”

“I know who did it. It's something big, way bigger than just Grand Rapids. Sehenlink wants it bad.”

“Sehenlink is going to be stone deaf if there's a good case on Randy,” said Ron, “but that's not our problem. We just signed on to keep Karen alive, not guarantee her a wonderful life. With Randy and his pals locked up, who's left to spoil our day?”

“Yeah, that's the question,” I said. “None of these guys have the kind of style that eleven million bucks could buy.”

“It wasn't Chuck or Paulie,” said Karen, “but they know about it and some other stuff that I don't think Randy knows. There's something that hasn't come out yet and Paulie told me about some guy that was sent here by the Mafia in New York.”

“Paulie!” said Randy. He twisted himself toward Karen.

I hauled on the seat belt. “Back, Fang,” I told him.

“It's your fault,” said Karen. She leaned forward.

I wedged myself between them. “No,” I said. “Both of you quit.” Randy settled back with a sullen face. Karen started wiping her eyes with the heels of her hands.

“Okay,” I said. “The guy? What guy?”

“I can't say any more. Uncle Martin said I shouldn't talk about it to anyone, unless he said so. I already said too much.”

Ron made a sigh and shook his head. He turned toward me and dragged his index finger across his throat. I nodded. He reached up and hit the switch that shut off the tape recorder.

“We've only got a couple of minutes before they roust us, too. Here's the deal. We score Randy here a walk,” I said and gave the seat belt another tug. “You get some rhythm on this one.” I waited for any nay votes, but heard none. “You do that with criminals all the time, don't you, hotshot?”

Randy didn't answer. Another tug expelled a “yes” from him.

“This is the way we tell it,” I said. “Randy's pals drop him off, and he's feeling really remorseful. So Randy knocks on the door and says, ‘I know I'm a jerk, and I'm sorry, and I'm going to straighten up.'” I gave the seat belt another tug.

“I know I'm a jerk, and I'm sorry, and I'm going to straighten up,” said Randy.

Karen smiled.

“So Karen says”—I made a sappy sweet smile, tilted my head side to side, and said in falsetto—“Okay, let's talk about it.”

Several flash-bang bag grenades shook the house and flashed in the darkness.

“Your tax dollars at work,” I said and nodded at Karen.

“Oh, my God,” said Karen. “They just blew up my house!”

“They're just trying to protect you and your property.”

“And it's on fire!” she said. Flames from the tear gas grenades had begun to lick up the curtains.

“Try to think of it as the IRS's house,” I said. “The flames will seem rosier.”

“You're supposed to protect me!” she said.

“You're fine,” I said. “Now I think we need to focus a little, because they're not going to call the fire department until they're done with the assault and search of the house.”

Karen made a fake dimple in her cheek with her index finger and said, “Okay, let's talk about it.”

“Then I said”—I made my voice gruff—“‘Oh no, that's a bad idea.' And then Karen said …” I nodded at Karen.

“This is my marriage,” she said in a mocking sweet voice, “and I want to talk about it.”

“So we let Mr. Randy in, all friendly like,” I said. “I went to the telephone to order a pizza to nibble on while we talked because Randy here is drunk.” I gave him another little tug. “Then as the line is ringing, the telephone goes dead. While I'm playing with the phone, someone starts pounding on the door to the kitchen from inside the garage. So we all retreat to the bedroom and barricade the door.”

“I'd have let the fucker in and kicked his ass,” said Randy.

“I'm sure you would,” I said, “but tonight you've already had enough trouble and you don't want any more. Tonight you feel that you're too drunk to defend yourself. You decide to leave the trouble to the police—officers who are sober, on duty, and not suspended or deprived of their firearms.”

Randy made a glum face and stared at his lap. He started mumbling, something about “Paulie” and “rotten son-of-a-bitch.”

“So,” I said, “we retreated to the bedroom and barricaded the door. Someone—we don't know who or how many—started working on getting through the bedroom door. We didn't see anyone, because we didn't hang around. We made it out the slider and to the street. Some good Samaritan calls nine-one-one on his car phone for us.”

“It's not nice to lie to Officer Friendly,” said Ron.

“Right,” I said. “That's why I want you to leave us here and go up and wait for us at HoJo's on Twenty-eighth and Division. If the constabulary ever asks you about this job, you answer their questions straight. When we're done here we'll get a cab and meet you.”

“I have to stay here,” said Karen.

“You can't stay here,” I said. “The doors and windows are smashed, the house is full of gas, and if they don't get the fire out pretty quick, this place ain't gonna be here.”

“But the guys from the Marshal Service?”

“We'll call them in the morning,” I said. “But if you prefer we can insist that the police take you into custody.”

“No,” she said and shook her head.

“Randy,” I said. “You done mumbling? You get all of this? I have to know what you're going to do.”

“I'm cool,” he said.

“You have to stand up on this.”

“I just want to make this up to Karen.”

“I'm going to let up on you now,” I said. “If you come at me, or if you go at Karen, you don't get your base on balls. You're headed for a shit shower.”

“I'm cool,” said Randy.

I thumbed up the safety and racked my heat. Ron didn't. I let up on the seat belt, opened the slider, and eased out. Karen followed. I tucked my hand into the side pocket of my sport coat and palmed the gas canister.

Ron unlocked the door.

Randy opened the door and stepped out. He squared his shoulders, inflated his chest, and glowered at me.

“You've got to be kidding,” I said.

“I wanna look sober,” he said. He bent over and retched.

Karen made a face and then looked at me and rolled her eyes.

Ron slid over and pulled the passenger door shut. The door clipped Randy on the fanny and he went down on one knee.

“You're not very convincing,” I said. I took my hanky out with my left
hand. Randy straightened up and got to his feet. I offered it to him, but he waved it off and produced a blue bandanna the size of which would have made a farmer proud.

When he had mopped up, I said, “Okay, Karen in the middle, put your arm around his waist. Randy, put your right hand on Karen's right shoulder.”

Karen glowered at me. “I don't want to touch him.”

“That doesn't match the lines you just practiced. Make up your mind whether you're going to help Randy out here,” I said and nodded, “or have a little cat snit.”

Randy cracked the first grin I had seen on him.

She put her arm around his waist and Randy followed directions. They both looked like they'd been dying of thirst and had just found a cool, clear mountain spring.

“Now,” I offered Karen my elbow, “we're off to see the Wiz.”

“That about tears it,” said Sergeant Franklin. He stood hatless in the open door of his cruiser with a bullhorn cocked under his left arm, and a Glock nine millimeter dangling in his right hand. His car sat stopped at an angle to the street, idling, with the rollers on. “Right. Now, you're all pals?”