Private Heat (20 page)

“Somebody told a fib,” Ron said and produced a pack of cigarettes. He offered me one. I took it.

“Hospital hasn't got anything to gain by lying.” I plumbed a lighter from the depths of my pants pocket, lit my smoke, and handed the lighter to Ron.

“That leaves Carter, Emmery, and Van Pelham.” Ron lit his cigarette and returned the lighter.

“Emmery and Van Pelham both have some connection with Arnold Fay. And Karen is scared to death of Arnold Fay.”

“What about Carter? Ralph Sehenlink was supposed to be hot to trot over some big deal that nobody knew about yet and some out-of-town heavy hitter—serious U.S. attorney stuff.”

“The only one talking about Sehenlink was Van Pelham,” I said. “He told me they were working a deal, but when we went to the federal building we saw Carter. Nobody mentioned Sehenlink.”

“You trying to say that Carter is in some kind of deal with Van Pelham, Emmery, and the ever present Mr. Fay?”

“Not an idea I'm in a hurry to try out on the authorities. But you eliminate everything else and it's all that's left.”

“Karen can't say any different as long as she's out of it or locked up in some sanitarium.”

“Or dead,” I said.

“Maybe they're just waiting for us to walk away.”

“If she stays under, there's no rush.”

Ron said, “You think that they'll take that chance?”

“If it was me,” I said, “I think that I would err on the side of caution.”

Ron looked at his watch. “It's a shade after three.”

“If someone's going to make a move, they'll do it right most ricky-tick,” I said, “or not tonight.”

Ron nodded in the affirmative, dropped his butt on the asphalt, and ground it out with the leather sole of his wingtip. “I'll sit out here,” he said, “and get the low-light video equipment up and running. I'm going to park over in the employee lot. Looks like I can get a good angle and have a little cover.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said. We walked over to his van and I got the spare battery. We checked the radios. They worked on the “talk around” channel. We were too far out in the sticks to hit the repeater. I went back inside.

A young fellow in hospital whites sat on the stool behind the nurse's station. He scowled at a file on his computer screen and typed notations. A gold-post earring studded his left ear and a stethoscope lay draped around his neck. He looked up as I approached. His name tag read, “
FLOYD LPN
.”

“You that private eye on the news tonight?” he said.

“I missed the show,” I said. “What did they say?”

“That you had been arrested and released, but the investigation is continuing,” he said. “What's it like?”

“Being arrested sucks,” I said. “I don't suppose that you have one of those really fat rubber bands back there.”

Floyd, LPN dug around under the lip of the counter between us. “Not that,” he said. “I mean being a private eye.”

“Every day is different,” I said. “Some days are boring. You search court records, and a lot of surveillance time is spent watching nothing happen.”

“But you get to carry a gun,” he said.

“The larger agencies put you on the street unarmed.”

“Why?” He held out a wide rubber band.

“Firearms training is expensive, insurance is crippling, and frankly it's cheaper for your employer if you just get waxed.”

“I don't understand.”

I took the rubber band and said, “Well, suppose it's a 'good shoot.' You were entirely within your rights to defend your life. Then the shootee's family sues you for wrongful death. That's a lot of time spent wrangling and a lot of money spent on legal fees regardless of the merits of the case. It's cheaper to train a new employee than it is to defend an old one.”

He shook his head. “I just thought that it would be more interesting, you know!”

“Every day is like playing hooky,” I said. “Go down to the local community college and get an associate's degree in law enforcement. You're young enough for the police department. Maybe that's what you really want to do, anyway.”

“I spent a lot of time and study on nursing,” he said.

“So you're good with books and study,” I said. “Law enforcement isn't an easy curriculum.”

“I just don't know if they'd take me.”

“So far you're the only one telling you no.”

Floyd, LPN smiled.

“In the meantime, has anybody called about Karen Smith?”

“Just her uncle, about an hour ago.”

I looked at my watch. “Up late. What did he ask?”

“He wanted to know if she had regained consciousness.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him that she was still in a coma.”

“He mention that she talked to him and two other guys this afternoon?”

“Not possible,” said Floyd. He dug through the charts and selected Karen's. Running his finger quickly down the page, he shook his head. “Nothing like that here.”

“My mistake. You told him we were on the job?”

“He didn't ask,” said Floyd, LPN, “and Rhonda said to answer only direct questions about you guys.”

“I think you'll find that you have a natural talent for the police department.” I held up the rubber band, said, “Thanks,” and walked slowly down the hall. The rooms on both sides were occupied. About halfway down, maybe fifteen or twenty feet before Karen's room, I found an unlocked closet. Inside, cleaning supplies lined the shelves and a mop and pail stood in a low cement sink. The door lock worked but had not been set.

A short distance past Karen's room the corridor turned left. On the wall a lighted exit sign featured a glowing red arrow pointing left. I followed the arrow and found a short hallway—no more rooms—just a door to the outside with a panic bar handle. On the window a sign warned that opening the door would set off the fire alarm.

I took the pistol out of my holster and wrapped the rubber band snug around the grip. I slid the pistol into my waist band just behind my right hip. The rubber band would keep it from sliding down into my trousers and I wouldn't have to worry about it falling out of a loose holster in a scuffle.

Back in the room, I took a turn at reading, but moved the chair so that my back was to the wall and I could watch the door. Wendy pulled the curtain and crashed on the spare bed.

Around a quarter to seven, Moses parted the waters and Ron called me on the radio. “There's an ambulance out here in the drive,” he said, “and you'll never guess who the attendants are.”

“I give. Who is it?”

“Chucky Wucky and his pal Paulie.”

“Stand by.” I stood up, plopped the book on the bed tray, and shook Wendy. “Let's go, let's go, let's go,” I said. She had her sweater draped over her like a blanket. I pulled it off and folded it over my arm.

“They're coming in the door with a gurney,” said Ron.

Wendy sat up, not quite focused. “What?” she asked.

“Come on, come on,” I said and scooped her off the bed onto her feet. I grabbed her purse and hustled her out the door. Karen's eyes were closed. She seemed to be sleeping.

“Just a minute,” said Wendy. Her voice took an edge.

We started up the hall, but I heard the elevator rumbling. We stepped into the mop closet. A thin wedge of light came in between the door and the frame. I twisted the lock on the door.

Wendy hung her arms around my neck. “What's going on?” she wanted to know. Her bosom nestled softly into my chest. She'd removed her bra when she'd laid down to sleep.

“Shh,” I said and keyed up my radio. “Ron, back your truck up to the front of the ambulance and prop up your hood.”

“Roger-dee.”

“I'm going off the air,” I said. “I'll be out in a minute.” I turned off my radio and put it in my coat pocket. I could hear them coming down the hall.

“I guess they're gone,” said Floyd, LPN.

“That's just as well,” said a gravelly male voice. “He's a pain in the ass anyway.”

“I'll look around,” said a third male voice. “Maybe they just stepped out for coffee. They'll want to say goodbye.”

“I can help you load her on the gurney,” said Floyd, LPN.

There were quick heavy footfalls in the hallway. The third male voice said a series of, “oops,” “sorrys,” and “excuse-mes” and then the door to the mop closet started rattling. I took the .380 off my hip, reached my arm around Wendy, and pointed the muzzle up at about chest level on the door.

It occurred to me that police officers often moonlight in other public service jobs. Chuck and Paulie would make a good job of claiming they were legit. If I got busted, Ron was on his own and outgunned.

“That's the mop closet,” said Floyd, LPN. “The only one who has a key is the janitor.”

“Where's the coffee room?”

“Back down to the lobby and turn left.”

“Thanks.”

Fast, heavy footfalls faded down the hall toward the fire door. I reached over to twist the lock but the footsteps were on their way back. The door rattled again. After a pause and a rustle of clothing, the edge of a credit card came though the crack of the door. I put the barrel of the gun across the crack above the lock to stop the card from sliding down.

“Shit,” said the third voice. Chuck—I could make out a slice of his face
through the crack in the door. He wore some kind of blue coveralls, latex gloves, and a two-day growth of beard—no doubt trying to let the shaving bumps heal. He scowled and pursed his lips around his protruding tongue as he sawed the card across the front sight of the Colt.

“Is there something you want in there?” asked Floyd, LPN.

“Yeah,” said Chuck. “I was going down to the coffee room and I dropped some change. It went under the door.”

“I can call the janitor if you want.”

“Let's go,
Dick,”
said Paulie. “Mr. Floyd says we have to inventory her clothes and property together. I'll stand you to a cup of coffee later.”

“Sure thing,
Skippy,
I'll be right there,” said Chuck. The plastic card came out of the door.

Their voices faded into Karen's room. We stepped out into the hall and I eased the mop closet door shut. The elevator stood open—the power switch had been turned off. We took the elevator to the basement. Wendy pulled on her sweater. When the door opened I switched off the power.

We took the stairs to the first floor and found Ron under the one-lane portico. His van blocked the front of the ambulance and he stood by its yawning front deck. “They're upstairs,” I said. “We only have a couple of minutes.”

I unplugged the engine computer located on the fire wall of Ron's van and turned to Wendy. “Stand here by the front of the van and look helpless,” I told her.

Instead she stood there and looked mean, and she was looking at me. I took the gun out of my coat pocket and put it in the right-hand patch pocket of her sweater. “If they give you any trouble, shoot 'em until they stop giving you trouble. When they come out, Ron will be right over by the door. If you start shooting, he will, too. Take the guy farthest from Ron and get up close to the van so that you're covered.”

“You do it.”

“My face is burned and that would leave you to carry Karen out of the back of the ambulance.”

“Ron can do it. It's his van.”

“They won't care if Ron's van doesn't start. They'll sit and honk their horn. I need them both out of the ambulance and at the front of the van so we can get Karen into the Cadillac.”

“I don't like this,” said Wendy.

“Can you do this or not? I need to know. We don't have the evidence to apprehend these guys or the authority to stop them. All we can do is follow them, and Karen may be dead on arrival.”

“This is the last time that I'm working with you!”

“Let's get it done.”

Ron walked up to the driver's door of his van, reached through the window, and put the keys into the ignition. Ron and I hustled over to the Cadillac. I fired it up and parked it perpendicular to the back of the ambulance. We left them room to load, but no room to back out, then hurried into the waiting room, sat down, and hoisted magazines over our faces.

In less than a minute Chuck and Paulie wheeled the gurney out the electric doors. As they passed, Karen rolled her head and mumbled, “Paulie? Paulie?”

They didn't answer her. They didn't look pleased. Through the floor-to-ceiling widows that ran the length of the building we watched them load Karen into the back of the ambulance.

Chuck came out of the back of the ambulance and stormed into the waiting room. “Who the hell is driving that Cadillac?” he shouted and pointed out the door. “We're blocked in!”

Paulie stepped out of the back of the ambulance, closed the doors, and walked around to climb into the driver's seat. He started on the horn. Wendy stepped to the side of the van and looked at him with her arms folded. He honked again. She put her hands into the patch pockets of her sweater, spread her arms and shrugged her shoulders. Her ample bosom made an unencumbered lurch and sway. Paulie got out to see if he could help.

Ron stood up and said, “A couple ran by here with a child. I think they're in with the doctor.”

The receptionist looked at Ron like he had lost his mind. She picked up the telephone. “I'll call security,” she said.

Chuck huffed out the door. He quickly found his way to the front of Ron's van and stared at the engine while Wendy, who was now in the driver's seat, twisted the key to crank the engine.

We hustled out of the waiting room. Ron stopped just outside the door. He drew his weapon and folded his arms, placing the gun under his arm and under his coat. I hurried to the back of the ambulance. After I opened the passenger door on the Caddy and pushed the seat forward, I opened the back door of the ambulance and climbed aboard.