Private Heat (3 page)

So he found out that I had been a counterintelligence officer for the Defense Intelligence Service. So what? His niece was divorcing a police officer, not some Russian intelligence thug. I'd been a private investigator for a couple of years by the time I ran afoul of a backwoods sheriff in southwest Michigan.

“That case was years ago, and your guy didn't ask me that question on the stand.”

“Years ago we didn't want the jury to hear the answer. What's an SCI clearance anyway?”

Secret Codename Intelligence. “I haven't the foggiest notion,” I said. “Make up any story you like. It won't change the fact that your niece and this Talon character are a disaster looking for a chance to happen.”

Van Pelham closed his eyes, tilted his head down, and measured a long breath. When he looked up, he said, “Mr. Hardin, my sister and her husband were killed by a drunk driver. My wife and I raised K. T. like one of our own. She was only fourteen when I lost my wife. K. T. just seemed to go wild. I've done my best to protect her.” He rapped his folded hands gently on the table. The motion exposed the French cuffs of his tailor-made linen shirt and gold cufflinks the size of postage stamps. The cufflinks were etched with rampant griffins in profile. Each griffin had a quarter-carat diamond eye. “I have an appointment with Ralph Sehenlink this afternoon. I need you for two days,” he said, “maybe just one, maybe just tonight.”

Cat was out of the bag—Sehenlink was the local U.S. attorney. Van Pelham was trying to barter his niece into a witness protection program. In state courts the prosecutor has the authority to make a deal. In federal courts it is the presiding judge who has that authority, and prosecutors are tentative at best. Whatever she knew was good—it had to be really good—but the judge wanted it all, and Sehenlink was playing hardball to get it.

“Two days,” I said, “not a minute longer.”

Van Pelham offered his hand across the table.

I let it hang and ticked off the rest of the deal. “Five thousand in a check from you, or your firm, today, and I take it to your bank before I start.”

Van Pelham didn't flinch. I should have asked for ten.

“I need three copies of the restraining order.”

He nodded.

“If I get sued over this, your firm represents me.”

He smiled and nodded again.

“I mean
pro bono
, Mr. Van Pelham, and you're the barrister.”

His reach got a little tentative.

“I get charged with anything criminal, and you pay Pete Finney for my defense.”

Van Pelham took his hand back. “I have my own security people,” he said.

“Good, use 'em,” I said and went back to my burger.

“For that kind of money, you have to assume some of the risk.”

I set my burger down, gave my mustache a final wipe, and then straightened the napkin onto my lap. Under the table I took the pistol off my hip and wrapped it in the napkin. I put the package in Van Pelham's burger basket.

“Do it yourself,” I said. “It'll be free.”

Van Pelham's gaze fell unblinking to the package. When he looked back up at me his jaw was slack, but his eyes were predatory. He shoved the basket across the table. His lips started working silently, and he seemed to be trying out different words, none of them complimentary. Finally, he said, “This isn't about money.”

“Good,” I said. “Tell me what this
is
about. Tell me why we couldn't meet at your office and why you jump every time someone walks in the door. And what is this sudden fascination with my military background?”

“Just my niece,” said Van Pelham. “This is all very embarrassing for a man in my position. I was glad when K. T. married a police officer. I'm disappointed that it didn't work out. And I'm shocked about the current state of affairs. Given those parties and organizations we are up against, your military experience is essential.”

I took the package out of the basket and put it in the pocket of my sport coat. “I'm a parent, too,” I said. “I have three sons and I don't always like what they do.”

Van Pelham issued me a nod and a “Yeah,” stifled down to a grunt.

“Even when they make me angry I don't love them any less, but I do know about that little voice. The one that asks those hard questions, like, ‘Where did I screw up as a parent?' And, ‘My God, what will people think?' Nothing I can do will make that better for you. Five thousand dollars' worth of conscience money doesn't buy you the right to use me as a scapegoat if this all goes to hell.”

I paused and locked hard eyes with his. He chose not to say what roiled behind the sneer that washed over his face. Against my better judgment I said, “If we are joined at the hip for the sole purpose of protecting your niece's life, then I'll do the job. I'll risk my health, my life, and my license for forty-eight hours. You know the terms.”

“I'll have the check and a contract at my reception desk by one-thirty.”

“Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

Van Pelham shook his head and slid his chair back from the table.

“They ever catch the shooter who parked his trophy at the airport?”

Van Pelham stood up and said, “I think they're going to get him very soon.” He turned and walked out of the diner.

I picked up the mail at the Station C Post Office in Gas Light Village—an enclave of trendy restaurants and used-book stores where the streets are paved in red brick and illuminated by gaslights at night. Flipping through the envelopes, I found a new case from Atlantic Casualty and a couple of circulars from the computer search companies—but no money. I ripped the circulars in half and dropped them in the trash. If they were the future for the detective business, Marg was right: It was time to think of a retirement plan.

A short drive to Kentwood, the first suburb south of Grand Rapids, took me back to my office among the lawyers, dentists, and insurance adjusters that infest the row of three-story brick office buildings west of Breton Avenue on Forty-fourth Street. My first-floor space is down a flight of stairs and sort of half in the basement, where we occupy a location with a big window on the central court meant for a coffee shop or hair salon, both of which I threaten to open monthly.

Marg sat at her desk doing a diet soda and bag lunch when I strolled in the door. She pushed a couple of message slips at me as I passed her desk. One was from Virginia Hampton, the insurance adjuster I had spoken with this morning. I returned her call, but she'd gone to lunch and my call got diverted to her voice mail. The second slip informed me of an “urgent” call from Ron Craig, a good friend but also an energetic competitor.

Ron had worked in the private sector for the past several years. “Budget considerations” used to trim the CIA had cut short his budding career as a public servant.

I called his office but his answering service picked up. They said they'd page him. A recording reported his cell phone “temporarily out of service.”

“Marg, I got a question,” I said as I walked into the front office. She looked up with her soda in one hand and a pickle in the other. “If I sell a job for five thousand, what do I net out?”

“You?” she said with a laugh. “You and the word ‘net' are never mentioned in the same breath. I gave you twenty dollars this morning. What have you got left?”

“Buck and a half.”

“I rest my case.”

“What's left after the government has had its way?” I asked.

“I'd have to figure it.”

“Round numbers?”

“Something less than three thousand.”

The phone rang. Ron Craig. I took the call in my office.

“What's the haps, pard?” I asked.

“I want to borrow your rowboat,” he said.

“Anytime, you know you're always welcome.”

“I want to use it somewhere else.”

“I don't have a trailer, but if you can figure out how to haul it, you're welcome to use it.”

“Fit in the back of a pickup?”

“Sticks out a little, but that's how I brought it home.”

“Great! Sunday all right?”

“Sure. I'm mowing the lawn if it doesn't rain, but you may have to wrestle the boys for it.”

“I'll pick it up before they get out of bed.”

“How busy are you?”

“Gettin' by, man,” he said.

“How much do you charge to get shot at?”

“Do they hit me or miss me?”

“I'll bring the vests.”

“When?”

“Tonight, for sure, and tomorrow, maybe.”

“What's the job?”

“All-night surveillance, in town. And in a sane neighborhood to boot.”

“How do I get shot at in a sane neighborhood?”

“It's a domestic.”

“Things that slow?” he said and then laughed.

“This one pays good,” I said.

“How good?”

“Five hundred for openers, and you bill me another five hundred when the job's done.”

“Christ sakes!” he said. “Who's the hubby?”

“The hubby is one of Grand Rapids' finest, and is guaranteed to have a shitty attitude. He's supposed to get served with a restraining order when he gets off shift.”

“Who's your client?”

“Like I'd tell you. You in or out?”

“In, I need the money. Where's the meet?”

“Someplace downtown. How about the fish ladder, say four o'clockish?”

“Roger-dee, I can do that job.”

“Sleaze ya' later,” I said and hung up. I looked at my watch—already after one-thirty. I took the pistol out of my pocket, unwrapped it, and snugged it back into the holster. “Marg,” I called out, “I need to make a deposit.”

“I have a client,” she said.

I went to the closet and picked out three vests, two in the extra-large size for Ron and me, and one of the ladies' persuasion—Wendy's from when she was still a full-time street detective—for Van Pelham's niece.

The vests are white cotton clamshell devices that hang from the shoulders on wide straps and fasten at the sides with Velcro closures. The Kevlar ballistic pads can be removed from the front and back so that the garments can be laundered. These had been, so I made sure the sides of the ballistic pads labeled “out” faced away from the body. A large pocket sewn to the front of the vest covers the area of the heart, lungs, and spine. I slid a steel ballistic plate into the pocket of each vest and stowed them in a heavy-duty duffel bag I keep in the closet.

I picked two radios out of their chargers and tested them. Both hit the repeater nicely, providing the gratifying second click when I let off the push-to-talk button. I loaded them into the bag, along with a couple of extra batteries, a spare radio, and a cigarette lighter power-and-charger plug.

“You going to Beirut?” asked Marg, standing in the doorway.

I zipped up the bag and dropped it on top of the clutter on my desk. “Nah,” I said. “I'll be on the street in town for a couple of days, maybe. I'll call when I can.”

“You said you needed a deposit ticket.”

“Right,” I said and sat at my desk. “Five thousand dollars.” I pulled out the top right-hand desk drawer.

“You silver-tongued devil,” she said with a smile.

“I was warming up to telling you I need a couple of checks.” I fished a squeeze can of gun oil out of the drawer.

“You can't cash a check against anything you deposit today,” she said with a little meow in her voice.

I peeled my pistol off my hip and punched the magazine out into my left hand. “I'm depositing certified funds,” I said.

“You'd better cash your check when you make the deposit.”

“Yes ma'am, that's my plan.” I racked the slide to the rear and locked it.

“So who do you need the check for?” she asked.

“Ron Craig,” I said. “Five hundred dollars.” I oiled the slide rails and the outside of the now exposed bell-shaped barrel of the Detonics .45 caliber lead launcher that was my daily companion.

Every morning that you get out of bed and strap on your sidearm, you're halfway to jail. Just make the right mistake and your career as a snout—street detective—will be a short one.

Cops occasionally have an accidental discharge. They might even inadvertently flash their heel—expose their holstered firearm—in public or mix alcohol with their gunpowder. As long as they don't cap Grandma at the bus stop and cause the city to get sued, the prosecutor tends to forgive and forget. The same is not true for the private sector. Tick off any of the above errors, and you will meet the judge. The prosecutor will be hot to cancel your permit to carry, punch your private ticket, and provide you with long and tedious days of making colorful new friends in the house of many slamming doors.

“That's very generous for two days' work,” said Marg.

“You wouldn't say that if I took the job at that price.” I picked up the magazine, snapped it home, and thumbed the slide stop. The slide slammed into the battery, chambering a fat, two-hundred-grain semijacketed hollow point. I thumbed the magazine release, and the magazine jumped out into my left hand. I set it on the desk. Pointing the weapon at the cement-slab floor that lurked under the carpeting and away from myself and Marg, I eased the hammer down. “Anyway, he bills us for five hundred more when the job is done.” When I turned back, Marg glared at me with laser heat.

“Hell,
I'd
do the job for that kind of money!” she said and folded her arms.

I set the pistol aside and plumbed another round out of the box in the drawer. “He's not doing it for the money,” I said and thumbed the round into the magazine.

“Well, he
should
be,” she said. “You need to hire a couple of shoe leather snouts. If you're going to do everything yourself, you're wasting money renting space for an investigators' room. All we do is store the file cabinets and hang our coats in there.”