Private Heat (24 page)

“We can put your bike in my van,” said Ron. “I'll give you a ride over to the police station.”

I told Dutton, “He's just angling for a bigger tip!”

“He can get his cut from Van Huis, same as you,” said Dutton, “but I'll take that ride.”

When I heard the front door fall shut I poked out the administrative telephone number for the Grand Rapids Police and got myself transferred to the Community Outreach Office.

“Sergeant Sheridan,” said a male voice, “Community Outreach. How can we help you today?”

“This is Mike Lyle from the Cliffton Neighborhood Association. I was callin' to make sure that Paulie from the Community Service squad was going to make it to the barbecue and meeting tonight.”

“Paulie Milton?”

“I didn't never know his last name,” I said. “I just knew him and his partner Chuck by their first names. They just dress like plain folks and ain't too showy about bein' policemen and all. He said that they'd come by the barbecue and tell us about how to maybe set up a neighborhood watch.”

“That's not their regular duty. I can come over myself if you like. We prefer to have a little more notice, but if this is important to your association, I'll be there.”

“That's what Paulie said—said he'd hook us up with you guys. You know he and Chuck done a hell of a job over here. Put the whores and drug dealers right out of business. We just wanted to ask some questions, you know, before we made this all official like.”

“If you can hold, I'll check.”

“Course,” I said. He was gone for what seemed like a century, but it was only four and a half minutes on my watch.

He came back. “What did you say your name was?”

“Lyle, Mike Lyle.”

“Where are you calling from, Mr. Lyle?”

“Well, you know, my phone is shut off right now. I come up to the Cliffton Corner Tavern to use the telephone.”

“Why is the phone blocked?”

“Well, shit. Everybody knows the number and some of the guys like to call home and let their wives know that they're workin' overtime, if you get my drift.”

“Give me the number and I'll call you back.”

“This here phone says it don't take no incoming calls.”

“Why don't you come down to the office here, and I'll be glad to work this out with you.”

“Cain't,” I said, “I've been working overtime here and I'm way too tired to drive, if you get my drift.”

“I don't know what I can do for you.”

“That's all right, I'll just tell everybody it's off.”

“Wait! Wait! Don't hang up! Paulie had an accident with his chain saw today. He's in the hospital. Let me put you on hold. I'll see what I can find out.” The line clicked silent.

I hung up. The telephone rang. “Shit,” I said.

“You've got a call,” Marg announced.

“Tell me about it.”

“It's Wendy.”

I picked it up. “Your faithful companion,” I said.

“She's talking,” said Wendy, “and I'm taking notes.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“We put her on the deck in the chaise lounge,” said Wendy.

“On the deck?”

“I put your big straw hat and sunglasses on her. Walt said he wanted to be able to see us.”

“You're bait,” I said. “He's psychotically bored with lunch-bucket bandits.”

“Look, I could have said no. I just didn't like the idea of a room-to-room gunfight.”

“Doesn't matter. Paulie had an accident with his chain saw this morning. He's in the hospital.”

“Which one and for how long?”

“I'm working on that. What happened?”

“Smokey jumped up in her lap and started kneading and purring. Next thing I knew, she put her hand on him. I looked and saw she had tears running down her cheeks. She told me about Randy and how they were high school sweethearts.”

“Does she remember this morning?”

“I think that's still pretty fuzzy, but there's some other stuff about her boss and an Arnold Fay. We can talk about that when you get home.”

“Fantastic,” I said. “If I can find out where Paulie is and how long they're going to keep him, I might make it home tonight.”

“Do what you have to do.”

“Walt sounds like he's dialed into this project, but you might want to sound out Denny. He's young and he may feel that he needs to talk to Officer Friendly before he should.”

“He's been with me for two years, and mad at the police since that vice cop burned his cover. He'll be all right.”

“I'll call you back when I get some better information.”

“Ring twice, hang up, and call back,” she said.

“I can do that job.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I said and hung up.

Marg walked in and dropped a handful of telephone messages on my desk. “If you're determined to play with the telephone,” she said, “you should take care of these.”

The first one was from Ginny Hampton, the adjuster from Pacific Casualty. Two were from Martin Van Pelham, but they were from yesterday. The note on the first one was, “You're fired.” The second one—received twenty minutes after the first—said, “Finish the job, sorry.” Ginny would have to wait.

I spun my roller index to Allied Investigative Services, Limited, and dialed the number. The secretary answered. I gave her my name and asked for Roger Stevens. She said to wait.

I got to listen to a couple of show tunes and then the line clicked to a forwarding number and Roger answered, “Colonel.”

“Admiral,” I said.

“Dog face.”

“Squid.”

“What's up?”

“Maybe a security leak.”

“Not good. What happened?”

“I've got a client who hired me because he knew my military rank and that I had an SCI clearance. On the upside, he didn't know that SCI stands for ‘Secret Codename Intelligence.'”

“I told you not to put that stuff in your yellow pages ad.”

“Right. I also have an assistant U.S. attorney who seems to have the same knowledge and is pissed about it.”

“You tell these people anything? Do they know each other?”

“They're parties to the same case. And no, I didn't tell them shit and I don't have a yellow pages ad.”

“Did either one use the project name, mention the Defense Investigative Service, or use the acronym DIS specifically?”

“No, but I discovered today that there is a Russian wet worker in the mix, uses a twenty-two and leaves it on the body.”

“Mauser?”

“Yes.”

“Probably a coincidence. A lot of Russian mugs hit the private sector. Is this a criminal investigation on your part?”

“I'm protecting a probable federal witness.”

“You're having all the fun. I'm out here chasing counterfeit watches and blue jeans.”

“Sure. Do I need to contact the security branch?”

“Things have changed. The security branch is probably a first-year clerk
who makes sure the file cabinets are locked. If this mug was a threat asset at some point, he's more than likely a common criminal now. Let the police handle him—just remember, if he's one of our mugs, he's not apt to be working alone.”

“And the code name operation?”

“Unless you've left something out, there hasn't been a breach. In any case, the project was declassified two years ago, and the police agencies we worked with took it on the chin like gentlemen. Don't stir it up. Just watch your six o'clock. If it goes to hell, dummy up and call me back.”

“Thanks,” I said, and he hung up.

I dragged out my dog-eared telephone book and went back to work. Blodgett General Hospital, Butterworth, and St. Mary's were dry holes. At County General I had a little more luck. Paulie was in room 415.

“Yeah, this is Mike Lyle,” I told the woman who picked up at the fourth-floor nurse's station. “Paulie was going to talk to the neighborhood association, but we heard that he got hurt and we wondered if we could come and visit.”

“Mr. Milton is sedated,” she said. “He can't have any visitors.”

“I hate to think of him just lyin' there all alone.”

Ron walked in grinning and plopped into the chair.

“His police partner is sitting with him. If you want to visit with him, you should wait until he is released.”

“Well, when would that be, darlin'?”

“He's on two days of intravenous antibiotics, so sometime after that, and listen, Mister: I'm not your darlin'!” She banged the telephone down.

I set the phone back in the cradle. “A sweetheart,” I said. “She says Paulie had a little chain saw accident and is going to be at County General for at least two days. The poor man's loyal partner is right there with him.”

“Terrible thing to happen to a public servant,” said Ron.

I chuckled. “Tell me about Dutton.”

“I walked him in. The desk sergeant smiled, just like you said. I left so I wouldn't laugh out loud and ruin the gag.”

Marg answered the telephone. “P. A. Ladin Investigative Associates. Yes, Mr. Hardin is in. I'll get him for you.” To me, “It's a Detective Van Huis for Mr. Hardin, personally.”

I picked up the phone. “This is Mr. Hardin, personally.”

“Hardin, you son of a bitch,” said Van Huis, “I hope this isn't your idea of some sick joke, because I arrested the silly bastard. You hear that, Hardin? I collared him for conspiracy to commit murder. That Dutton character is on his way to the county jail, as we speak.”

I raised my eyebrows and nodded at Ron. “I hope you didn't make him ride his bicycle.”

Ron laughed.

“Fuck you, Hardin. Now my budget is going to be late. I'm going to have the assistant prosecutor call you and your asshole buddy as witnesses. Nobody is going to believe that Dutton just walked into a police station and solicited a detective to commit murder. I hope they tie you up for days.”

“Who should I call next time?”

“Howie,” said Van Huis and he laughed. “Call Howie at the state police post, and then call me, and tell me what happened.”

“That's all the way up in Rockford.”

“So, send 'em the next lunatic who isn't riding a bicycle,” he said. “There is one more thing that you can do for me.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “How may I be of service?”

“Park your car in a fire lane, maybe, or say, in the handicapped space right here in front of the station,” he said and hung up.

“What did he say?” asked Ron.

“He said that I should go get my car and leave it someplace where it could be towed and impounded.”

“Man has no sense of humor,” said Ron.

“Uppity cuss,” I said.

Marg peeled the check for my tires out of her Velcro checkbook, and Ron and I left for the Union Street address. Yellow police tape snaked around the house. The windows had not been boarded but a hasp with a padlock secured the front door. The garage door had been raised and you could see the blue-and-white ski boat on a trailer. The ragged half of a paper police seal fluttered from the garage door jamb in the morning breeze.

A vacant blue Silverado Suburban—same color as the ski boat—sat idling at the curb in front of the house. My ominous dark sedan still hogged the driveway under a circle of police tape. The tires remained flat, but there was something new. Arnold Fay sat in the driver's seat.

The driver's door stood open and Fay had one foot on the ground. He jerked on the shift lever with his right hand and shook the steering wheel with his left.

I got out and left the door of the van open. I didn't want to startle Mr. Fay—yet. I walked over to my car and dangled my keys in front of Fay's face. “Using these will probably save a lot of wear and tear on my car,” I said. Now he was startled.

“This your car?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“You must be that PI I saw on the news.”

“That's me,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

He colored red. “Sorry,” he said, “just want to get my boat out of the garage. Randy and Karen were storing it for me.”

“It's part of a crime scene, now,” I said. “See how the tape goes around the garage, not to mention my car? Notice how the paper seal tore when you raised the garage door? You can't pull the boat out until it's been released by the police.”

“I know some cops,” he said. “They told me that it would probably be all right.”

“We got a cell phone in the van,” I said. “I can give 'em a call, if you want.”

“Fuck them and fuck you!” he said. “That's my boat! Move this goddam car!” He started out of my sedan.

I shoved him back into the seat with my left hand. Fay grabbed my tie, jerked, and discovered that it was the clip-on variety. He stared at the tie like it was a disembodied appendage. I laid my right hand on the butt of my pistol. “Fuck me? I didn't hear that right, did I? I think you need to argue this out with Detective Cox. You're under arrest.”

“You can't arrest me!”

“You're committing a felony. Beetle Bailey could arrest you.”

He started out again. I straight-armed him back and hauled my heat, thumbing the hammer as I cleared the leather but holding the weapon back and close to my side.

He shuddered to a stop. “I'll sue your ass off!” he said.

“Good,” I said. “You're a man after my own heart. In the meantime, I want my tie back.”

Fay dropped the tie like it was on fire and scooted across the seat. He pushed open the passenger door, but found himself looking into the muzzle of Ron's Smith and Wesson.

“Hands on your head,” said Ron. “Do it now!” Fay laced the fingers of his hands across the top of his head. Ron shifted his revolver to his left hand and took his cell phone out of his right-hand jacket pocket.
He punched up nine-one-one with his thumb and spoke to the operator. “This is Ron Craig. I am a private investigator. I have apprehended a man tampering with the crime scene on Union Avenue where the police officer was killed.”