Private Heat (29 page)

The next bag discharged the same type of records but included two large stacks of tax forms, all numbered 8453 and bundled together with giant rubber bands. The forms indicated that they were an authorization to electronically transmit a tax return.

The names on the 8453s matched the tax records that I had already sorted into stacks. I went back to the telephone book but located only a half dozen of the names. The addresses in the telephone book did not match those on the tax returns.

I picked up the telephone extension in the laundry room and dialed up Virginia Dean. She had it in three rings.

“Hi,” I said. “This is Bart Smith from A-Line Tax Service. I've called to ask if you have been satisfied with our service.”

“There has got to be a mistake,” she said.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I was trying to reach Virginia Dean.”

“That's me,” she said, “but my daughter does my taxes.”

“Yes,” I said, “I see that we have not done your taxes this year. That's the reason I'm calling. We value your business.”

“Young man,” she said—right there, she'd won me over. “I'll have you know that I have never used a tax service. Not this year. Not last year. I think it's a waste of money.”

“I'm sorry to have troubled you,” I said, “but I would like to read you a Social Security number, and ask you if it's yours.”

“I don't give my Social Security number to strangers on the telephone,” she said.

“You're absolutely right,” I said. “I was going to read you a number and ask you to simply say yes or no.”

“I don't want to do that,” she said, “and I want—”

“Perhaps there's a different way,” I said. “Can you tell me if you ever
worked for Furniture City Temporary Service?”

“I certainly did not!” she said.

“Well,” I said, “I suppose it's possible that your name and Social Security number were used by someone else. The address I have for you is on Beekious Court.”

“You read me that number, young man!”

I read her the Social Security number. It was not hers. She wanted my telephone number. I gave her the telephone number for Quick Check Payroll Service.

“Thank you for your help,” I said. “I could send you a discount coupon for our service.”

She said that she didn't think so and hung up.

Three attempts at Joe Klien and two attempts at Richard Chambers netted the same type results except two of them said they would try the service if I'd send them a coupon.

I opened another bag. The tax returns for several businesses tumbled out. Among them were the payroll service, the temporary outfit, the tax service, and Pronto Check Cashing Service on Grandville Avenue.

The bag also contained the tax returns for the businesses that used Furniture City Temporary Service. The partners in those businesses were the usual suspects: Fay, Van Pelham, and Campbell. Sometimes it was all three, sometimes just one or two of the three musketeers.

The telephone book chase revealed only an address and telephone number for Pronto Check Cashing Service. I dialed.

“Hi,” I said. “This is Elmer Pierce. I just moved up here from Tennessee. I got my tax refund check, but I don't have no driver's license up here yet. I was wondering if you could cash the check for me?”

“How much is it for?”

“Four hundred and seventy-four dollars.”

“Do you have any identification at all?”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Credit cards, state ID card, food stamp card, something like that.”

“Well,” I said, “I got my Social Security card and a card they gave me down at the blood plasma place.”

“How about a telephone bill or some other utility bill?”

“I got a bail receipt,” I said.

He laughed. “You didn't get busted for bad checks, did you?”

“No,” I said. “It was for soliciting a prostitute that turned out to be a cop.”

“Bring that down,” he said, “and anything else you've got with your name on it. Have you got a regular address?”

“Yeah,” I said, “but if I don't pay the fine by Friday, it's going to be the county jail.”

“Come on down,” he said, “we do a lot of tax refund checks.”

“Right, man,” I said. “I'll check you later.” He was laughing when I hung up.

The last bag consisted mostly of desk litter, calendars, memo pads, and the like—also the large bundle of tractor paper that Fay had rescued from the trash bin after his run-in with Lieutenant Emmery. It was a list of names, dates of birth, and Social Security numbers. The names were all for children under the age of eighteen; all were listed as deceased.

I looked up and reached for my coffee. I found Wendy standing behind me in her robe and with her notes in her hand.

“I think I can help you make sense out of this,” she said.

“Good,” I said, “because I don't have any chicken bones to read.”

“When it started out, Karen got the job with Campbell through her uncle. Basically, she just entered payroll information sorted, and stuffed checks. Randy came around to visit and brought his friends, Chuck and Paulie. Campbell introduced them to Fay, and the whole group did some pretty serious partying. Randy and Paulie were already doing a lot of steroids to bulk up. Fay introduced cocaine and paid for some trips to Chicago and Las Vegas.

“Karen figured out that Randy and his pals were involved in some kind of business with Fay. They got so wild and scary she was afraid to ask anything. She just tried to get along and not make any trouble. About that time, she started up with Campbell, because he seemed to at least be sane, and he was kind to her.

“At the end of last year, Campbell told her that Fay, her husband, and his friends were involved in illegal sports betting and had threatened to kill him if he didn't help launder the money. He said that he had put money aside and that they could go away and start over. She filed for divorce. She said she tried to talk to her uncle about it, but he just kept telling her to keep her mouth shut and try to work it out with Randy.”

“There's a pretty intricate web of businesses here that didn't just start up,” I said. “I've got records stacked up here that go back for years.”

“She found that out later,” said Wendy. “She was waiting for Campbell at Lake Tahoe, and Arnold Fay showed up. He apparently flew out there on Campbell's ticket. He took her up to her room and told her that the sports
betting had been going on for well over a decade, long before her husband and his friends got involved. Arnold Fay said they laundered the money through the payroll check business and all the little pretend companies that it serviced.”

“That's a pretty expensive way to launder money,” I said. “There are a lot of payroll taxes to pay. I mean, it explains the check-cashing business, but the government had to be beating their brains out.”

“Not really,” said Wendy. “They did only enough payroll to cover billing by the temporary outfit, and the check-cashing company took a big and profitable fee for handling the checks. They took the profits from the various businesses as income so the money was nice and tidy. The payroll checks went through the check-cashing business and that money went in their pockets.”

“It's sure not a scam that the feds would be looking for, but the payroll taxes had to be heavy duty.”

“Karen says that they made money on it. Campbell had a thing called an”—she squinted at her notes and finally held them at arm's length—“an E-FIN number. It authorizes a tax preparation business to transmit tax returns electronically. All of the names and Social Security numbers they used to issue payroll checks were for dead people. They paid them just enough to qualify them for the maximum earned income credit. Campbell used an ‘instant refund' set up through a bank, and he not only charged a hefty fee for the service, but got authorization to print the refund checks himself. The government paid the refund money to the bank, so Campbell's hands were clean.”

“Did this guy do anything legit, or was his life one long felony? I mean, it sounds like he got up in the morning, ripped the tags off his mattress, pulled on his ski mask, and plundered society until he was exhausted.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Wendy, “they really did do payrolls for some of the small custom-furniture companies and for that outfit that makes the bus seats. Their payrolls accounted for most of the money that disappeared the day that Campbell was killed.”

“These guys were flying,” I said. “It's hard to believe that they stumbled over their own feet.”

“Fay told Karen that a couple of years ago the IRS started matching the names of children listed on the earned-income credit form with Social Security numbers on file with the Social Security Administration. That's when the trouble started, because the IRS rejected all of the fake returns
Campbell submitted. The other partners wouldn't give up any money to cover Campbell for the money he was out. He started delaying the tax withholding payments to give them a little nudge, and all the partners started getting ugly mail from the IRS.”

“And that's what generated the heated arguments a neighbor of the payroll firm told us about,” I said.

“Fay told Karen that there were other partners, you know, silent and ‘connected' partners.”

“Yeah, you told me last night.”

“Anyway, Fay told Karen that he paid the payroll tax bills out of the money that was supposed to go to the silent partners in New York and told the New York guys that Campbell took the money. They sent out a guy who made Campbell steal the payroll to pay them back. Then he killed Campbell and made all the local partners participate in the murder. Fay told Karen that she'd be dead, too, if she cooperated with the authorities, and for good measure, he raped her.”

“You'd think that Fay would have been concerned about Randy taking a violent exception to his actions,” I said.

“They weren't afraid of Randy. Chuck and Paulie used him as a gofer and left him on surveillance jobs while they went over to Randy's house on Union Street to party, or to go on jobs for Fay. I'm pretty sure there was some intense partying going on between Paulie and Karen.”

“How did she turn up with nearly half a million dollars in a numbered offshore account?”

“Campbell told her that it was paperwork for a retirement plan. He even took fourteen dollars a week out of her paycheck. She had no idea how much money was in the account.”

I shook my head. “What kind of deal did she think she could possibly make with the authorities? Anything she said would have been a disaster for her uncle.”

“Fay never told her that her uncle was involved, and her uncle told her that he was making a deal to give everybody up. He told her she had to keep her mouth shut, because the more she talked, the less they could get in a deal,” said Wendy.

“So, that's when he called me,” I said. “He thought that however it came out, he could pin Campbell's murder on Randy and that would be the end of it.”

The front door burst open.

I grabbed the shotgun and whispered, “Shit, I forgot to lock the door when I let the dog in.” Wendy produced her .380 from the pocket of her robe. I pointed to the door by the furnace. Wendy went over to cover the stairwell from the left. I moved out into the den to cover the stairwell from the right.

“It's me,” yelled Ron as he shambled in the door. “The wind caught the door. Sorry, if I gave you a start.”

Wendy clutched the neck of her robe and scooted up the steps with her right hand in her pocket. She issued a terse, “Hi Ron,” as she passed him on the landing at the front door.

“I picked up the pictures,” said Ron on his way down the stairs. “You owe me fourteen-fifty. I dropped off my final bill at your office on the way out here. Marg says that if you want to make any money, you have to give up these banker's hours.”

“I'm hiding out from Marg—I used part of my tire check to finance takeout chicken and movies last night.” I stepped back into the laundry room and laid the shotgun on the washer.

Ron handed me a
Grand Rapids Press.
A picture of Van Pelham's exploded car dominated the front page.

“Not like it was a surprise,” I said. “Not after you see what I found.”

“Couldn't wait to open your presents?” he said.

I gave him the guided tour, but he still wanted the fourteen-fifty. I told him about Elizabeth's visit.

“Who's this?”

“Told Elizabeth his name was Vladimir.”

“Bad wig,” said Ron. “Glasses are probably a prop, too. Figure he's the out-of-town guy Karen talked about?”

“Don't know. Chuck and Paulie talked about a Russian. This guy spooked Van Pelham enough to arrange for the pictures.”

Ron shook his head. “I think it's time to let the police handle this.”

“Yeah, I'm getting a lot of that kind of advice.”

We stacked the still pictures and the newspaper upside down on the kitchen table and parked Karen in a chair next to Wendy. Ron set a portable monitor on the table, put the videotape player on the floor, and we took the other side of the table.

“Do you remember the first day we met?” I asked.

“Sure,” said Karen. She washed my face with a tentative gaze.

“You decided to pick sides. You decided to tell the truth. Then you lied to Neil Carter.”

“Who's Neil Carter?”

“Assistant prosecutor from the U.S. Attorney's Office. You met him at the hospital—told him Randy killed Wayne Campbell.”

“No. I didn't,” she said, looking at me straight on.

I rocked my chair back and studied her. “Come on,” I said. “Your uncle and Lieutenant Emmery from the Grand Rapids Police Department were in your room with him. They heard you say that Randy killed Wayne Campbell.”