Private Heat (11 page)

The assault teams fled the burning house. Chuck Furbie and Paulie Milton came out the front door, grabbed the garden hose, turned it on to full whoosh, and dragged it into the house.

“What are those two hot dogs doing?” said Franklin. “Get out of the house,” Franklin said into the bullhorn. “The fire department is coming up the street.”

“Policeman's house,” someone answered loudly.

Franklin said, “Yeah, you argue with the fire union steward.” He looked at us. “I can hardly wait to hear this.”

The red rollers of the first arriving fire truck washed across us. “Everyone out of the house,” Franklin announced on the bullhorn. A fireman in full turnout gear ran up to us. The question on his face showed through the shield of his air mask.

“Perpetrator has fled,” said Franklin. “Put it out.”

The fire department turned to it. Chuck and Paulie stumbled out the front door choking and pulling off their gas masks. They were led to the fire truck for a shot of oxygen. Randy's sofa crashed out through the front window and tumbled to a stop. The television set and stereo were saved in the same manner.

“All right,” said Franklin, “give me a description. Who? How many? What did they look like?”

We shrugged.

“Bullshit!” said the sergeant.

“Randy Talon is drunk, Karen Smith had her eyes closed, and I ran like a dog and didn't look back,” I said.

“Don't talk to me unless I ask you a question,” said Franklin. “Okay, let's find 'em,” he said into the bullhorn. Car doors slammed and patrol cars shined their spotlights through the shrubbery. Cyclone fences rattled as officers began searching back yards with flashlights. Franklin keyed up the radio, “Dispatch, call and see if you can get us a dog.”

Karen and Randy told him the story. Sergeant Franklin kept circling back. If I started to speak, he shook a finger at me.

“Got a ski mask from the lawn of the house directly behind on Paris,” the radio informed Franklin. He mellowed a little.

“Paulie picked up a piece in the bedroom,” someone informed from a gaggle of the blue suits stowing assault gear.

“Paulie!” Franklin summoned.

The white member of the salt-and-pepper crew pushed the air mask off his face and shambled over from the fire truck. Less the do-rag, he had blond hair that shagged down to his shoulders. His face was muscular with a bushy blond mustache. Six feet tall in designer running shoes, he weighed at least two-fifteen, and walked like a bear wading upstream.

“Sorry, Franky,” he said, “I kicked my backup loose.” He lifted his pants leg, revealing a five-shot hammerless revolver in a black canvas ankle holster. “Guess I need a new rig.”

Randy cast threatening eyes on Paulie. Franklin took note.

Chuck Furbie had pulled the air mask off his face and walked up close
enough to hear. Taller than Paulie, but chunky, he was clean shaven—including his head—except for a dime-sized patch of bramble under his lower lip. Shaving bumps speckled his round face and trailed down his neck.

“Maybe you and your partner need to see if they have any openings in the fire department,” said the sergeant.

“We would have done the same for your house, Franky.”

“Feel free to stay the hell away from my house.”

“You're gonna hurt our feelings, Franky.”

“I'm gonna have the detectives route me a copy of your report,” said Franklin.

Paulie walked back to his partner. A fireman appeared with a carpet satchel big as a diaper bag—Karen's purse. “In the bedroom,” he said.

“Oh, God, thank you,” said Karen. She took the purse.

Franklin looked me and said, “You have enough tires to move your car?”

“Need a cab,” I said, “but I'd like to put my duffel bag in the trunk; it's lying on the lawn there.”

“Sure,” he said and ordered a cab through the dispatcher.

Forty minutes for the cab. Sergeant Franklin kept digging—made it sound like idle conversation. Karen stuck to her story. Talon kept apologizing for being a jerk and telling Sergeant Franklin how much he looked up to him.

“All right,” Franklin said to me, when the taxi arrived. “What have you got to add to what these two have said?”

“I don't have anything that adds to what they've said.”

“And?”

“And, when the shooting started we ran.”

“You discharge your weapon?”

“No, sir.”

“The lieutenant may want written statements, so stay available. Any more shit tonight, and I know a place where you can all cool off and sober up,” said Franklin.

Randy nodded.

“She's on a federal beef,” Franklin said, pointing at the tether on Karen's leg. “She's in your custody?”

“I'm a civilian,” I said.

“She's out on bail. Her family hired you to watch her?”

“I'll make sure the U.S. attorney knows where she is.”

Franklin said, “I'll put that in my report.”

I shrugged and the three of us started for the cab.

“I don't think so,” said the sergeant. “Randy, you definitely have an appointment with the lieutenant in the morning. I'll drop you at the YMCA and you can walk over to the station in the morning.”

“I love you, Randy,” said Karen. “We'll talk in the morning, I promise.” She turned and threw her arms around him. Her head only came up to his chin.

“Karen, honey,” he said, his voice choked, “I love you. I want you to be careful, real careful.” He kissed her.

Franklin rolled his eyes and then looked at me and nodded at the cab. “We got to go,” I said. Karen whispered something and peeled herself loose. Both of her cheeks were wet to the chin.

“You keep her safe,” said Randy.

“You know that you can count on me,” I said.

The ride over to Howard Johnson's lasted like a trip to Chicago. Karen sobbed and blew her nose for the entire ride.

“I want my own room,” said Karen, as I paid the cabbie.

“Not a problem,” I said.

Ron Craig pulled up and dropped his window. “Where to?”

“We're working on that,” I said.

“Aren't we going to get a room?” she said.

“Chuck and Paulie can flash their tin and turn the cab driver and desk clerk in a hot second.”

“Pick another motel,” said Ron. “The trail ends here.”

“They've got a telephone and a copy of the yellow pages.”

“Check her in as Miss Jones,” said Ron.

“I can see some assistant prosecutor saying that she was fleeing and eluding by using a false name. Besides, some of the bad guys have badges. We need to be on private property.”

“We were just on private property.”

“Someplace with good lighting and a clear field of fire.”

“Your house?” said Ron.

“No way,” said Karen.

“Look,” I said, “I really am married. I have plenty of room. I'm suggesting that you share lodgings with my wife, two teenage boys, and an old Frisbee-getter dog. You'll have your privacy, and you'll be able to get a good night's sleep.”

“You think that's safe?” asked Ron.

“They're already trying to kill her,” I said. “How much more trouble could she be in?”

“I mean Wendy and the boys.”

“The boys are crashed out by now, and Wendy will give us an extra gun and another set of eyes. There's only about five or six hours of darkness left. I don't think they'll try again unless we're a close and easy target. Tomorrow the U.S. attorney and her uncle can work something out.”

“What's your call?” I asked Karen. “I'll get you a room, if you want. Nobody's taking you anywhere you don't want to go.”

“Your house,” she said. “I think I want to meet Wendy.”

She started around the van. “I get to ride shotgun.”

“How did it go with the police?” Ron wanted to know.

“The good sergeant had his doubts, but I don't think he liked the other distractors,” I said as I climbed in the back.

“He said the lieutenant might want a written statement,” said Karen.

“First of all,” I said, “you don't make any more statements without an attorney present. Second, the lieutenant isn't going to want a statement until he's grilled Randy, and the more Randy tells him, the less he's going to want to hear from us. That's why Franklin was so adamant about you staying in my custody.”

“Where's Randy now?” asked Ron.

“The sergeant said that he was going to take Randy to the YMCA—said Randy could walk over to the police department in the morning because the lieutenant would want to see him.”

Ron made an ominous laugh.

“Yeah,” I said, “I think he's in for a rough ride. But if he starts talking, they'll wish he'd shut up.”

“Cops are natural-born confessors,” said Ron.

“Not to worry,” I said. “I don't think this little domestic tiff is a case that the police department will cry about to the prosecutor. They talked Karen out of pressing charges once already, and I'll bet Randy isn't the only worm in their domestic violence can. There's a law against wife beaters carrying guns.”

Ron nodded.

“I told him we would talk in the morning,” said Karen. “Is he really in a lot of trouble?”

“I think he was in a lot of trouble when he got out of bed this morning. Maybe they'll just send him to the policeman's dry-out farm.”

“I'd like that,” said Karen. “I just want my husband back.”

I fished out a stogie and started peeling off the cellophane. “They picked up Randy's ski mask on the lawn of that house on Paris. I hope he's not shedding.”

“They pick up the drop gun?” said Ron.

“Paulie picked it up and claimed that he'd dropped his backup,” I said.

“Slick,” said Ron.

Karen made a sly grin but asked, “Do you really have to light that thing?” She ran her window about halfway down.

I put the cigar back in my pocket.

In Michigan, every low spot is a lake. I live on one, just north and east of the city. We didn't get there until two and some change in the morning. The gravel crunched on the circular drive, and the motion sensors activated the floodlights mounted on the corners of the house and the garage.

Inside the house the lights were still on. Wendy stays up late to do her paperwork in solitude after the boys go to bed. She operates “Silk City Surveys” from the house. In the beginning she had fielded a few lady friends to conduct “shoppers” to test retail-store personnel and window times at fast-food restaurants. It allowed her the time that she wanted to have with the boys as they were growing up. Now that the boys were older, she had pressed into “internal surveys”—undercover industrial investigations of employee honesty and workplace substance abuse. Her operatives were now mostly law enforcement students and retired police officers.

“Okay,” I said, “now it's your turn to see that I don't get roughed up. I got so involved that I didn't call home.”

“A likely story,” said Ron.

“I'm going to hold Wendy's coat while she works you over,” said Karen as she stepped out of the van.

“Thanks,” I said. “You've been trying to get my ass kicked all night.”

Karen turned back to the van. “I need my purse,” she said, “my pills are in it.”

“What pills?”

“The ones the doctor gave me so I could sleep,” she said.

“I've already got it,” said Ron, as he rounded the front of the van. “Match my outfit?”

“Very chic,” I said.

Karen took her purse and we started for the door.

The house is a bi-level with six steps up from the door to what they called a “great room” when they sold me the house. My front room, kitchen, living room, and dining room occupy one large open space. The kitchen and dining area are divided by a large island counter, attended by bar stools.

Rusty, my big chocolate Labrador retriever, greeted us from the top of the stairs. His bright eyes glowed as he pranced his seventy pounds from left to right with a Frisbee in his mouth.

Karen stopped dead. “Jesus, it's a bear,” she said.

“He's a big lollipop,” I said. “Loves everybody. Only barks at critters.”

Rusty put his head down and released his Frisbee so that it tumbled down the stairs to Karen's feet. I bent over and picked it up. “It's after two in the morning, dog. Go lie down.”

Rusty's face accused me of being a party pooper. He turned and slunk over to his chair, an old recliner that Wendy kept covered with a blanket.

“It's not like you were here to entertain him at a reasonable hour,” said Wendy as we started up the stairs. She was wearing shorts and a tank top. She had her light brown hair tied up in a knot on the top of her head and sat at the kitchen table on a wooden chair with her legs curled under her. The slider was open and an amiable breeze blew in off the lake. She was typing “dailies”—handwritten reports from her undercover operatives—on a battered portable typewriter she'd bought at an estate sale for a dollar.