Private Heat (27 page)

Ron chuckled. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “they're going to forget that one right away.”

The guard fished a ballpoint pen out of his pocket and handed it to me with the paper. “Could you sign that fer me?” he asked. “You know, like we was friends, and all.”

I took it. “Who do I make this out to?”

“Billy White.”

“Johnson City Whites?”

“'Hat's right.” He screwed his face into a question mark.

“I got folks down there,” I said.

“Doan 'hat beat all!”

I wrote, “To Billy White, thank you for your help to an old friend.” I signed it.

He held his face by the chin again and looked at the ground. “Hey, you ain't one of them red-leg riding Hardins, is ya?”

“Council Peak Hardins,” I said.

“Oh!” He looked relieved.

“Let's go, Ron,” I said and closed the slider. I climbed in and made a show of fixing my seat belt. Ron climbed in and started the truck.

“What's that about?”

“Let's just say that the late national tragedy we know as the Civil War is still called ‘The War of Northern Aggression' in some circles,” I said.

“Where's Council Peak?” the guard yelled after us as Ron backed up the truck. I smiled and waved. The guard looked puzzled but waved back.

The trip up to Alpine Avenue took about twenty minutes. We found Quick Check Payroll Service located in a small office complex. The door had a Justice Department seal on it. The neighbor to the right was an advertising agency. They had a reception desk but no receptionist. On a divider behind the desk, a splay of pastel-colored paper restaurant place mats advertised local businesses, radio stations, and auto dealers.

A young lady in her mid-twenties with spiked fright-orange hair, wearing a red leather minidress and giant gold hoop earrings, stepped around the divider. “Hi,” she said. Her tongue was pierced with a row of fat gold posts. “You guys have got to be more cops,” she said.

“Private investigators,” I said. I gave her a card.

“Way cool!” she said. “We can put your card on the place mats in ninety-two
local restaurants for just three hundred dollars for a month's service. Most of our clients report that they make their money back the first week.”

“Sounds good,” I said, “I'll have to ask my partner. I wanted to ask you about that payroll place next door.”

“Oh, that was awful. I knew that girl that worked there, Karen. Sometimes we had lunch together.”

“Do you remember the people who worked at the tax service or the temporary agency?”

“They did payroll checks. I don't remember them doing taxes or temps,” she said, “and I've been here for the last two years. Those two Miss Prissies from the FBI asked me the same question.”

“Were they here in the last couple of days?” I asked.

“Yesterday morning,” she said, “first thing, about eleven.”

“What did you tell 'em?” I asked with a smile.

“I said I ate lunch with Karen and all she ever talked about was having to hustle to get payrolls out on time. Sometimes, they were still working at eight or nine at night and they did like pizza and beer over there. Karen's husband was some kind of undercover cop, and he and some of his real hunky pals came by.”

“Chuck and Paulie?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, “and some old stud in a Corvette. I used to go over and party, and the old geezer would come on to me.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll let you know about the advertising.”

“Come back when you got a Corvette, sugar,” she said and made a sly grin.

We left. In the hallway Ron said, “Geezer!”

“Don't laugh,” I said. “I always wanted a Corvette. They're just a little too flashy for street work.”

“And cost thirty or forty thousand.”

“Well, there's that, too.”

The neighbor on the other side was a credit-counseling service. The receptionist—a matronly lady with hennaed hair—took my card, waded through a waiting room full of people, and disappeared into a maze of divided work spaces. She returned with the manager—a man not yet twenty-five—who wore a blue suit, brown shoes, and a smug face.

“We'll have to take this out in the hall,” he said. He showed us the door and followed us out. “All the files concerning our clients are confidential,”
he said, “and if you persist in harassing us, I will call the police.”

“Wait,” I said and smiled. “I respect the private nature of the work you do. I didn't come here to ask any questions about your clients. I just had a couple of questions about the outfit next door. The one that's closed up.”

“Ruffians and trash,” he said. “I'm not the least bit surprised about what happened. I had to ask them to tone it down several times. When I threatened to call the police, they just laughed it off and flashed their badges.”

“Now, some of them are dead,” I said. “All this loud talk—just beer parties? Were there any fights or arguments?”

“There was one older gentleman, a natty dresser who drove a flashy car. A couple of times in the last month, he was here late, and they had some loud arguments.”

“Emerald green Corvette?” I asked.

“No, gray Mercedes.”

I pointed at my Timex. “Gold Rolex?”

“No. That's definitely not a Rolex.”

I laughed. “Kmart,” I said, “Nine-ninety-five.”

“More of my clients should be that frugal.”

“That guy in the Mercedes,” I said, “he had a gold Rolex?”

“Yes, he did. That's the man.”

“Do you remember when Wayne Campbell disappeared? Was there an argument that night?”

“The night before.”

“Did they leave together?”

“No, Wayne was still here, or at least his lights were on when we left around nine-thirty.”

“Was his car in the lot?”

“Wayne had a beautiful white Lincoln Mark Eight,” he said. “It was in the lot when I left.”

I scratched my head, mimicking a television detective. “Anybody ever ask you these questions before?”

“No. They just wanted to know if Wayne had run a tax service or temporary help firm from the office.”

I shrugged and raised my eyebrows.

“Nope!”

“Thank you,” I said.

“The peace and quiet is thanks enough,” he said.

We left. In the parking lot Ron said, “Snotty little fuck.”

“Yeah, I would've drowned that one as a pup just so I could drill one out that didn't piss me off.”

“Funny nobody asked about Wayne's noisy visitors,” said Ron.

“Maybe the feds were just tracking the money. You got any latex gloves in the truck?”

“One pair.”

“Let's take my watch back to Kmart for a visit and get some,” I said. “You never know what's going to tumble out of a trash bag.”

We hit the Kmart on Alpine near 1-96. As we parked the van, we heard a news flash on the radio. “Martin Van Pelham, senior partner at Van Pelham and Timmer, a prestigious Grand Rapids law firm, died today when a bomb planted in his automobile exploded as he was leaving his place of business.”

The Full Faith Tabernacle, despite humble beginnings—in its first incarnation, the tabernacle had been a full-service gas station—provided a glimmer of hope and community, rooted within the Wealthy Street neighborhood that was, all too often, more notorious than prosperous. Father Thomas, a lay preacher, supported his ministry and provided considerable financial help to his parishioners by giving away barbecued spare ribs. He used three grills made from split fifty-five-gallon drums, and on clear days the aroma for about a block and a half of Wealthy Street could be heaven itself.

Father Thomas—I was never among the privileged few who knew if Thomas was a first or last name—took donations for his culinary miracles. For twenty-five dollars I scored a rack and a half of baby back ribs wrapped in plain butcher paper. I would have bought more but the mayor's limousine,
which was in line in front of us, had seen fit to do an awful lot of God's work. The folks in the furniture company van behind us were going to have to salivate for a while.

“Those damn things are going to drip grease all over the seat,” said Ron.

“Scoot up to the cab stand at the Amway,” I said.

“Maybe we ought to eat them before there's a mess.”

“I see the wisdom,” I said. “But we need to keep Chuck from wandering the streets while his partner mends.”

“You think that he'd make a move on his own?”

“Not hardly. He's the closest thing Paulie has to a Jiminy Cricket. He's my candidate for Rat-of-the-Month Club.”

At the cab stand we picked the last cab in line. Sure, he could make a delivery. County General was an eight-dollar flag drop. Yeah, twenty bucks would cover it, but evil delight blossomed in his eyes when I produced the package of ribs.

“Look,” I said. “This is for an injured police officer.”

“Yeah,” he said, but he still had that gleam in his eye.

“This is insurance money,” I said. I peeled off another twenty and held it up. That got his eyes off the package of ribs. He didn't look happy when I tore the twenty in half.

“What the hell good is this?” he said.

“You got to sneak the ribs into the hospital,” I said. “It's not like they have a door labeled ‘food deliveries' over there. So it's like this: The guys in room four-fifteen get the ribs and I mail you the other half, or you eat the ribs and all you have is a very small and expensive napkin.”

“They're gonna ask me who, you know.”

“Mike Lyle,” I said, “and I'll tell you something else. They know the ribs are on the way. They're drooling. Don't get lost. I think they could probably have their friends find you before you finish the first half rack.”

He took the package and put it on the seat. “Consider it done,” he said. He pulled his cab in gear and faded like last week's paycheck. We headed back to my place.

Ron parked his truck next to my porch. We got a bag of trash in each hand and lugged them through the front door. Wendy met us at the top of the stairs, with her fists on her hips.

“Downstairs with that,” she said. “Remember the time you found out your subject was running an adult foster care home?”

“Those bags were stinky,” I said. “I opened them outside.”

“And a good thing, too, or you would have had to clean up your own mess as well.”

Ron laughed. “In Lansing he threw up over corn cobs.”

“They were still steaming when we dumped the bag.”

“Downstairs!” said Wendy.

“But this is office trash.”

“Downstairs, and when you get to the first chicken bone, outside!” Wendy took her fists off her hips and folded her arms.

We dragged the bags downstairs to the laundry room, which has a cement floor that could be hosed down. I got a couple of folding chairs and an armload of newspapers to spread out on the floor.

“I'd really like to help,” said Ron, “but I've had more than my share of late nights. I need a shower, and frankly, if I don't go home, I may have to move in here permanently.”

“You know,” I said and suddenly felt the collected weight of the last two days, “you're right. Let's do this tomorrow—I mean, if you want. We're out of billing time.”

“I've got a morning shot, but I'll be here—say, eleven o'clockish. You couldn't drive me off this case with a stick.”

“I appreciate your help,” I said. “Drive careful.”

Ron left. I went back upstairs and asked, “Walt and Denny?”

“Sent them home,” said Wendy. “They didn't want to go but I told them the guys we're worried about were in the hospital.”

“How's Karen?” I asked.

“Sleeping,” said Wendy.

“Oh, God,” I said. “She didn't go back under?”

“I don't know. We can't keep her here. She needs professional care.”

“Did she give you any indication of what she wanted to do?”

“Yes, she wants her home back. She wants the man she married back. She wants her life back.” Wendy shook her head.

I looked at my watch. The local television news was over. “Did you catch the news?” I asked.

“Yes, they said the ambulance belonged to County General. They're not going to move it until the state police can examine it for human remains.”

“They mention any link to Karen?”

“Not a word.”

“I still can't believe these two guys thought that they could drive around in a stolen ambulance and not get stopped.”

“They said that the ambulance hadn't been reported stolen. It was supposed to go to the shop for maintenance, so when it was gone nobody thought anything was wrong.”

“Fancy that,” I said. “Sure needs a little work now.”

“Martin Van Pelham was killed today,” said Wendy. “That was on the news, too.”

“I know, I heard it on the radio. How did Karen take it?”

“I don't think she knows. She'd already asked me to take her downstairs before the news came on. She said that he'd been involved in some kind of illegal sports betting cards. Who do you think did it?”

I bent my nose over with my finger.

“Karen mentioned them.”

“Stands to reason. The Duskies are to sports betting what white is to rice. Paulie and Chuck mentioned the sports cards while we were on our way to the riverbank.”

“Duskies?”

“Mob guys,” I said.

“Why did they blow him up?”

“Maybe they thought it was a good way to kill him.”

Wendy turned her head, eyed me sideways, and fought a smile.

“Blowing him up kind of makes a statement. When he reported that Karen was missing and not dead, he signed his own death warrant. They've given up on fixing the old organization. Everybody below Van Pelham is going to turn up in the morgue.”