Private Heat (18 page)

The elevator door swiped shut. “Just how long does a security clearance stay active?” I asked.

“Didn't you sign a nondisclosure document when you left the Defense Intelligence Service?”

“Sure”.

“How long did it say?”

“It said twenty years.”

“There you go,” Ron said. “Don't say shit, even if you read about it in the paper.”

“Carter made some passing references when I called him this morning, and again just now.”

“I caught that, but he could have just meant that you're retired military. That's not exactly a secret.”

“Yesterday Van Pelham revealed very specific information—said he got it from a National Crime Information Center report.”

“Where'd he get an NCIC?”

“Carter is my first guess. Van Pelham told me he was dickering with the U.S. attorney over an immunity deal for his niece. The problem is that my rank and security clearance had to come from my military two-oh-one file.”

“Man, I'd contact the security people at DIS if I were you, just to protect myself. Your ass could be out a mile if they hear the story somewhere else.”

“I could be stirring up a hornet's nest for nothing.”

“Yeah. Sure. Don't worry about it,” Ron said. “I hear they put you old farts in those ‘country club' jails.”

“I'll trade you even up for the vasectomy,” I said.

The doors opened on the first floor and we found Pete and Wendy waiting just outside the south exit door. Wendy had fired up a smoke and Pete was working at staying upwind. We started for the parking structure under the Calder Plaza.

“Were I you, I would keep a lot of distance between me and Karen Smith,” said Finney.

I turned to Wendy. “Who was with Karen while you were at the hospital?”

“Just me and her uncle,” said Wendy, “but she was still out. When Carter showed up with Emmery, they told me I had to leave the room, so I called Ron to tell him to meet me downtown.”

“Van Pelham say anything about taking us off the case?”

“No. He didn't,” said Wendy. “He seemed very pleased that I hadn't left her alone.”

“Then we're still on it until noon tomorrow.”

“Randal Talon is dead,” said Finney.

“Wasn't exactly a suicide,” I said.

“If you are going to persist in this matter, you had better call Martin Van Pelham and make sure you still have a client.”

“The first time I hired you, you told me there were three rules that a defendant had to follow.”

“Certainly. Always pay your attorney, never lie to your attorney, and never tell your attorney more than he wants to know,” said Finney.

“Exactly,” I said as we arrived at his car, one of those new midsize jobs that looks and sounds like a battery-operated vacuum cleaner.

“You were lucky today, Art,” said Finney as he unlocked the driver's door and settled onto the leather seat.

“If that was good luck,” I said, “I don't think that I could survive another dose.”

“Luck is the residue of hard work,” said Finney with a devilish grin. “You have two prosecutors and a whole raft of police officers hoping that you will make a mistake.” He pulled the door shut, cranked up the squirrel cage engine, and let the electric window down.

“You're a cruel man,” I said. “There's something else I want you to take care of for me.” I took my pistol off my hip and punched out the magazine. Pulling the slide back to the take-down detent, I slid the retainer pin out, and had the frame in one hand and the barrel and slide in the other. I handed the barrel and slide to Finney.

“What am I to do with this?”

“Put them in your safe with the booking material.”

“I hardly think that's necessary.”

“If you're right, what's the harm? It's just that the missing slugs and brass make me nervous.”

“I don't have a license to carry this kind of thing about.”

“Those are just parts,” I said. “It's the part with a serial number that's considered a firearm. I have to take this in to be buffed.”

“Suit yourself,” Finney said. He laid the slide and barrel on the passenger seat.

“Call me if Van Pelham stalls you on the bill.”

“As certain as the sunrise,” said Finney. He drove off.

Both Wendy and Ron had parked one floor down. I put the frame of my pistol into my coat pocket and we started down.

“When do you want to pick up your car?” asked Ron.

“I think we need to go straight out to the hospital. My car is pretty much toasted on this job anyway.”

“Are you going to ride with me or have Wendy drop you at the hospital? If Wendy drops you, I can swing by my house with some milk and bread. I have to make a phone call.”

“You guys aren't leaving me behind on this one,” said Wendy.

“We're up to our armpits in alligators!” I said.

“So is Karen Smith, and I don't think she finds all this as amusing as you two seem to.”

“You trying to say we ain't sensitive, nineties kinda guys?”

“I'm trying to say you're a couple of Neanderthals.”

“Well, I'm cut to the quick,” I said. Ron was a half step behind and shaking his head. “What do you think, Ou-Glug, we need a beard on this one?”

We had reached the bottom of the ramp on the lower level of the structure. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” said Ron. “Isn't that Lieutenant Emmery over by the door to the tunnel?”

“Certainly is,” I said. “And he's found somebody else to argue with.”

“That's the guy who was visiting Karen when I pulled up on the surveillance yesterday,” said Ron.

Arnold Fay stood just a shade taller than the lieutenant—blond and health-club bulky. Probably in his mid-fifties, he worked at looking late thirties. His plastic surgeon had to be making more than my lawyer. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt buttoned at the wrists, a shiny yellow silk tie, and beltless charcoal pleated slacks. In his hands he held a stack of papers the size of a telephone book. Something had been scrawled on the side of the stack in black felt marker. Lieutenant Emmery held Fay by the elbow and aimed a finger pointed in Fay's face.

Emmery growled loud and mean, but vehicles moving in the parking structure made him hard to hear. All I got was, “Dumb ass,” and “the fuck did I tell you?” Fay shrugged and shook his head. Emmery let go of Fay's elbow, snatched the stack of papers out of his hands, and slam-dunked them into the wire-wicker trash barrel that stood next to the door of the tunnel.

Fay backed away as Emmery turned from the trash barrel. Emmery stopped mid-turn and glowered at Wendy and me standing at the end of the ramp. “What the fuck you looking at?” he yelled. Fay fled in long steps. Emmery marched straight toward us.

“Maybe you guys better go get in the truck,” I said.

“I'm staying right here,” said Wendy.

“This could get out of hand,” Ron said.

“You shoulda got your ass outta here when you had the chance,” said Emmery, his eyes narrow and his jaw set.

“Just looking for our car,” I said. Arnold Fay, in his green Corvette, passed behind us and went up the ramp.

“Lieutenant, you have a filthy mouth,” said Wendy.

“Yeah, who are you?” said Emmery. He stopped in front of me but he looked at Wendy.

“Clean up your mouth,” said Wendy.

Emmery reddened and turned his face to mine. “Where's your shyster lawyer, Hardin? You need him. I want to know about the crap you pulled at Talon's house.”

“Maybe you ought to start by jerking me around like you did Arnold Fay. Let's see how that goes.” The “Arnold Fay” part changed his face.

“You're done in this town,” he said. He turned on his heel and walked back toward the tunnel doors.

“Interesting,” said Ron.

“He's a pig,” Wendy called after him and waited for a reaction. She didn't get one.

“Time to go,” I said.

Ron had backed his van into a space against the wall among some service vans. I opened the slider and Wendy climbed in.

“How come I have to sit here all by myself?” she said.

I took the shotgun seat.

Ron cranked up the van. Arnold Fay walked down the ramp from the upper level and stopped a third of the way down. He bent forward at the waist and looked over toward the tunnel doors with a furtive face, then turned and walked up the ramp.

“What's that about?” said Ron.

“Let's wait and see,” I said.

Fay drove down the ramp and over to the tunnel doors. He stepped out of the car, walked around to the tunnel door, and pulled it open. After a
moment he let the door fall shut and rummaged in the trash. He pulled out an accordion stack of tractor paper and stashed it behind his driver's seat.

“Just for grins and giggles—” I began.

“Let's go with him,” Ron finished.

I handed Wendy the clipboard from the dash. “You can take the notes.”

“Why should I take the notes?”

“Okay,” I said. “Get in the front, and if the bad guys try to hose us, you shoot 'em.” I stepped out the door and threw open the slider. Wendy's face was evil. “Well, would you rather drive?” I asked innocently. Ron gave me an astonished face.

“No,” said Wendy.

“Good!” I said, “because this isn't the wallpaper store or the bedroom. You can put that scornful face in your pocket.” Wendy unclipped the pen, wrote the date at the top of the pad, and showed me a curled lip.

“He's moving,” said Ron.

I climbed back in and pulled the door shut.

Fay slithered his 'Vette around the corner and snaked his way through the structure to the exit booth.

“The subject is male, white, six-one, one-eighty. The car is a late model emerald green Chevrolet Corvette. The license-plate number is M-U-N-Y-M-A-N.”

Wendy wrote it all down, then hit me in the side of the head with the pad. “What are you going to shoot with?” she asked.

Ron laughed.

“I'll borrow Ron's gun,” I said and smoothed my hair back in place. “This sure ain't a safe place for a married man to sit.”

I yelled out the Corvette's coordinates to Wendy as we tailed Arnold Fay. Wendy slid from side to side in the rear seat and tried to keep up with the route notes.

Fay led us to a curb-cut near Williams Street and drove up among the cement and steel monoliths that held up the interstate. Parked under the urban canopy was a beat-up red Ford Escort. Chuck Furbie and Paulie Milton sat waiting on the front deck of the Escort and looked to be dressed for a “bubba barbecue.”

Ron pulled over as far back as he could and still keep the trio in sight. “Gimme the camera bag,” said Ron. We both looked into the back seat. Wendy was climbing off the floor. Her hair was a mess and her blouse and blazer askew.

She said, “Where's the seat belt back here?”

“The black camera bag,” Ron said and beckoned with his hand.

She reached over the seat and handed up the nearest bag. “They're all black,” said Wendy.

“Right-oh,” said Ron. He took out a Canon AE1 that had a foot-long lens and a motor drive.

Paulie handed Fay a bowling bag retrieved from the back seat of the Escort. Ron
swacked
the camera shutter. Fay set the bag on the hood of his 'Vette.
Swack.
And examined the contents.
Swack.
He handed Chuck and Paulie an envelope.
Swack.
They each thumbed the contents.
Swack. Swack.

The van jerked as something struck the rear bumper. Ron and I looked at each other. “You carry a spare?” I asked.

“No, just take mine.”

I pulled Ron's revolver out of his hip holster and bailed out with a friendly smile on my face and the weapon behind my back. At the rear of the van I discovered Matty Svenson and Maria Sanchez in a brown government sedan. I stepped up to the already open passenger window. Matty sat in the driver's seat using the rearview mirror to apply lipstick. Maria had a fat nine resting in her lap. Her hand looked like a shrimp trying to strangle a boat anchor.

“Ladies!” I said. “Slumming?”

“Maria,” said Matty without moving her gaze from the mirror, “if he doesn't rack that heat, shoot him.”

Maria rested the barrel of her government issue Beretta on the open window rail. I stuffed the pistol into my pants at the small of my back and stuck my pinky finger in the barrel of Maria's weapon. She focused wide, astonished eyes on my hand.

Matty put away her lipstick. She flounced out her hair with her hands and made an approving face in the mirror. “There,” she said and then looked at me. “Go home, before I call some mental midget with a four hundred pound badge to write your partner a whole list of traffic violations.”

“I'm sure we'll be leaving shortly,” I said.

“Think ‘obstructing,'” she said, “and then get lost.”

Ron cranked up the van. “Chow-chow, ladies,” I said. I pulled my finger loose so it made a little pop. Maria was still staring at the muzzle. I climbed into the van. “Feds with ruffles,” I said. “They're complaining about your driving.”

“And that we weren't invited to the ball.”

“That, too.”

Fay opened the door of the Corvette, put the bag behind the seat, and climbed in.

“Which one do we stay with?” asked Ron.

“Fay has the ball,” I said. “The other two desperados should be on duty until later tonight, if they're on the same shift they had yesterday.”

Fay led us to a tree-lined street of many mansions. At a cul-de-sac he pulled into the drive at a three-story fieldstone estate with a red slate roof. Mounted on the wrought-iron gate was a nameplate: Van Pelham.

Fay pulled up on the apron and the gate slid to the side on a motor-driven track.

“Hey, Van Pelham,” said Wendy. “That's your client.”