Private Heat (26 page)

“Did you have room on the end of your old report or did you have to file ‘additional information'?”

“I don't leave things out of my reports, and a couple of suits don't jog my memory.”

“I guess I gotta say thanks.”

Franklin pulled at his shirt. “Don't bother,” he said. “It ain't about you, it's about this blue uniform.”

I nodded.

“So what's this I haven't thought of yet?”

“Suggest that Cox and Shephart gas-chromatograph a sample from the Campbell murder slug, some fragments from the house here, and residue from the feed ramp on the pistol recovered from Randy's locker.”

“So we prove that Randy had the gun that might have killed Campbell. Where's the upside for Randy?”

“You said he never went back to the station after you dropped him at the YMCA. If the gun ended up in his locker, somebody else put it there.”

“I would have thought of that,” said Franklin. He dug out his notepad.

I waited for him to start writing. “C-H-R-O-M-A—”

“Yeah, I know how to spell that. I'm just making a note about the date and time that you revealed this guilty knowledge,” said Franklin. He made a big smile. “Somebody's going to get a change of address on this. Maybe it's you.”

“I liked the ‘Depends' joke better.”

“I never tell jokes,” said Franklin. “You'll be hearing from me.” He stalked
over to his patrol car, made the rookie slide over from behind the wheel, and drove away.

I walked over and climbed into the van.

Ron sat working on his third Marlboro; there were two butts in the ashtray. “What's the story?” he asked.

“Not a happy camper,” I said. “I may have told him too much.”

“You told him about Chuck and Paulie?” Ron asked, but made it sound like, “You gave matches to the baby?”

“Not by name,” I said, “but I did tell him that there was pork on the grill.”

He got it after the first ring. “Yeah,” he said. Chuck.

“Hey, dis ain't Paulie.”

“I'm his partner. What do you want?” Chuck made his voice a low whisper.

“Mike Lyle from da Cliffton Neighborhood Association. I called to see how Paulie was doing.”

“What's it to you?”

“Well, he was going to come to the barbecue tonight and talk about neighborhood safety.”

“Paulie?”

“He said he was coming.”

“I'm his partner. He didn't tell me shit.”

“Hey, I called the station. They told me he had an accident with his chain saw, or like that.”

“Yeah, I know, they called me. What do you want?”

“We thought we'd bring up some barbecue.”

“Paulie's getting his lunch in his arm, man. They sewed him up and knocked him out so he'd lie quiet.”

“You gonna be dere? We'll bring some up.”

“Yeah, I'll be here. Sounds good, man.”

“How long is Paulie gonna be dere? He gonna be back soon?”

“I don't know. He banged up his foot.”

“Oh, man! What happened?”

“The chain let go on his saw and, uh, the log he was cutting fell off the sawhorse and landed on his foot. Lucky for him he was wearing steel-toed work boots.”

“Aw, man, he gonna be gimping for a while.”

“I don't know, he's going to be here a couple days anyway.”

“We'll send up the ribs. Maybe we call later or tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he said. He hung up.

I put the handset back in the cradle and ran the window about halfway up. “Sounds like they're settled in,” I said.

“Back to your place?” said Ron.

“I don't know. They're covered. Karen is awake. I told them the heat was off. Let's smell Fay over real good and see if we can catch a whiff of anything Russian.”

“Still on your nickel, man.”

“Let's take a run up to the library and see what's in the city directory for Mr. Fay.”

Grand Rapids enjoys the attention of two city indexes. The Bresser's Cross Index is good for putting a name on an address or telephone number. The Polk provides the same information but works from the other direction; you start with the name and get the bonus of a skim of personal information. In this case, we learned that Fay lived on Rosewood Drive; that Fay's wife, Carol, was a physical therapist; and that they owned their home.

“Physical therapists make good money,” I said.

“Yeah, and she probably keeps him real limber,” said Ron.

“Maybe, but the bed was a mess after his visit to Karen.”

We looked up Alton, Burns, and Fay. Arnold Fay was listed as a partner. Alton, Burns, and Fay was not a corporation. We departed the library and made for the County Clerk's Office.

The County Clerk's Office is located on the second floor of the building directly across the street from the Hall of Justice. Getting there from the
parking structure took us through the same doors where Lieutenant Emmery had waylaid Arnold Fay.

The partnership was filed as a DBA, “doing business as,” and there were actually six partners. Besides Alton, Burns, and Fay, two names appeared that I didn't recognize. Both of them were ladies, Carolyn Timmer and Brenda Clemments. The last name on the list was real familiar: Martin Van Pelham.

We took the tunnel under Monroe Avenue to get to the Hall of Justice. Up on the third floor, in Circuit Court Records, we scored another three-pointer. Carol Fay had filed for divorce in the early nineties. The action had been dismissed for lack of progress. In her filing, Carol indicated that in addition to Alton, Burns, and Fay Securities, Arnold Fay was a partner in Furniture City Temporaries and A-Line Tax Preparation Service.

“Never heard of either one of those,” I said.

“Back to the county clerk?”

“Absolutely!”

We picked up our sidearms at the police desk. Sergeant Franklin was on duty but acted as if we were complete strangers. The woman at the clerk's office acted like we were wearing the welcome mat thin.

The DBAs for the temporary service and the tax service were up to date. Both listed the same business address on Alpine Avenue in Walker, a suburb north of Grand Rapids.

“Got to save a buck when you can,” said Ron.

Arnold Fay was listed on both filings, as were Van Pelham and Wayne Campbell. “I know that name,” I said.

“Seems to keep turning up,” said Ron.

“One more thing,” I said and waved at the clerk. She looked up from her desk and showed me a sullen face.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Is there a DBA for … sorry, I'm having a senior moment. Help me out, Ron.”

“Quick Check Payroll Service,” said the clerk. “That's the one the two FBI ladies asked for after they saw the DBAs you're looking at.”

“What's your name?” I asked with a smile.

“Wanda,” she said and showed me a suspicious face.

“Wanda, you're a doll,” I said. “What's the verdict? Is there a DBA or not?”

“No DBA,” said Wanda. She got up from her desk and threw the phone book on the counter.

“How did you know we wanted that?” asked Ron.

“The feds wanted it.”

We learned what Matty Svenson and Maria Sanchez learned. The address for the tax service and the temporary service was the same as the Quick Check Payroll Service.

“I told them to check with the Corporations and Securities Bureau in Lansing,” she said. “It's probably a corporation.”

“Great. Thanks,” I said. “We need copies.”

“Certified?” she asked.

“Just copies,” I said.

“Nine dollars.”

I paid and asked Wanda as we departed the counter, “When were those two great-looking women from the government here?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“Thanks a million, Wanda,” I said. I smiled. We left and took the elevator down. “I'll bet the payroll outfit is a corporation, and that it doesn't mention either Fay or Van Pelham in the Articles of Incorporation.”

“Why's that?” Ron asked.

“Yesterday the U.S. attorney lost interest in this case,” I said. “Unless Karen could make the connection between the businesses, the treasure hunt was at a dead end. Maybe Karen can still make some kind of immunity deal.”

“We don't know how deep she's in it.”

“Hell, at this point, I don't think it matters. If her hands were clean she wouldn't need immunity or have the information they want.” I looked at my watch. “It's a quarter after twelve. This is where smart money quits.”

“Except we've got the bull by the tail here,” said Ron. “If we let go we get the end with the horns.”

“Let's take a ride over to Fay's residence and look it over. Then we'll have a peek at the business address that was so popular on the DBAs.”

“Film's ready to pick up, too.”

We breezed by the Rosewood Drive address. Nice place, not like Van Pelham's, but two and a half stories of red brick Dutch Colonial is not too shabby when it includes a pool, a guest house, and a three-car garage with a finished loft. A trim blonde lady in her mid-forties, wearing a white smock and slacks, carried bags of trash to the curb.

“Sure are getting the trash out early,” I said. “My guess is that's Mrs. Fay, and she's home on her lunch break.”

“Wonder if she got a call from her hubby?” said Ron. “Something like: ‘Tidy up, Hon. We're going to have visitors.'”

“Let's do a little trash picking.”

We had to weasel in nearly a block away by a cable TV truck. Nobody parks on the street in this part of Grand Rapids. She stacked up eight or nine good-sized bags before she quit, and I wondered if we had room to load it all.

She stayed in the house for twenty minutes. “Good pay and a long lunch hour, too,” I said. To our disgust she backed a Jeep Cherokee out of the garage and stopped at the curb, where she loaded the bags into the four-wheeler.

“Must have gotten further instructions,” said Ron. He batted himself in the forehead with the heel of his hand and said, “Not at the curb, stupid!” We both laughed.

She took us to an old appliance factory south of Chicago Avenue that had been closed for over ten years. The building complex had become a haven for small tool-and-die shops and random warehousing. Then the fires started. One little business after another got real flammable. The most recent fire sale had been less than a week ago. Several cargo-sized dumpsters had been placed to haul the fire debris away. Mrs. Fay made her deposit. Ron made pictures. When she pulled out, we eased up.

“My boots are already a mess,” I said. “I'll do the honors.” I left my tie and jacket on the seat.

“Must be all paper because it doesn't smell bad,” I said and started pitching the bags out. I heard Ron open the slider on his van and start loading them up. Then I heard another voice.

“What the hell you guys adoin'?”

“Picking up some bags of trash,” said Ron.

I kept pitching and Ron kept loading.

“This here's private property, man,” said the voice. “Nobody supposed to be afoolin' with these here dumpsters!”

I lofted the last bag out and started up the inside ladder. When I got up to the top, I saw the man that Ron was ignoring—a security guard. He wore a uniform composed of a blue baseball cap, blue jeans with sneakers, and a T-shirt with security patches on the shoulders.

“Hi,” I said and started down the outside ladder. “I'll bet you work for one of those California-based outfits.”

“Yeah, how'd you know?”

“The uniform,” I said. “I'll bet they told you not to let anybody but the tenants throw trash in here.”

“‘Hat's right.”

“Well, somebody did.” On the ground I turned around to face him. His face testified to a wicked bout of childhood chicken pox. I stuck my hand out. “Art Hardin,” I said. “I'm pleased to meet you.” He took my hand and gave it a pump.

“I know you,” he said. “You was in the paper this morning. Your pitcher was on the front page with your wife huggin' you. Hey,” he said and looked at Ron, “you was in the pitcher, too.”

“Ordinarily I'd tell you that I worked for the dumpster company,” I said, “but just one professional to another, I have to tell you that would be a lie—you know, a pretext—but you'd know that anyway.”

“'Hat's right,” he said.

“The fact is that we are trespassing and if you say so, we have to go, because you have the authority to say that.”

“‘Hat's right.”

“So we're leaving, but these bags are just going to get you in trouble.”

“So what's in 'em?”

“That's what we want to know. It has to do with something we're investigating.”

“Like with that dead cop?”

“Maybe.”

“Shouldn't we call the cops and give them the bags?”

“We could do that, but I'm trying to clear myself and they aren't. If there's anything important, they'll still get it but I'll know about it.”

He smiled, exposing a few brown teeth. “Like in the movies?”

“Sure, except this ain't over in a couple of hours.”

“You take what you need,” he said.

“Can we get you some smokes or a coffee?”

“Nope, I cain't take no graytooties,” he said. “Ain't proper, and smoking ain't good fer ya, so I done give it up.”

I stuck my hand out again. He took it.

“I just want to say thank you.”

He took my hand and said, “You're welcome.” He smiled again and then mugged his mouth and chin. “There is one thing, if you don't mind.” He wrenched a folded newspaper from his hip pocket and opened it up.

The picture he described was on the front page. The headline was
“L
OCAL PI RELEASED
.” The tag line was “Says Arrest Due to Professional Jealousy.”