Private Heat (33 page)

We could get only halfway down the drive, so we parked on the lawn. I looked for my son's car—it was blessedly gone.

As I walked toward the house, an officer clad in black and wearing a heavy ballistic vest approached me. He wore a gas mask in a pouch on his
hip. At first glance he appeared to be in his late thirties, but his close-cut hair was speckled gray.

“Are you the property owner?” he said.

“Yes.”

“I'm Lieutenant Lear. I command the State Police Special Weapons and Tactical Unit. Did you dial nine-one-one and report that there were two men, in a row boat, exposing themselves to children?”

“No, sir. I did not. Who got shot?”

“A state trooper responded to the call I mentioned,” he said. “She walked out on the beach, called them in, and a white male suspect shot her.”

“She gonna make it?”

“Took one in the vest and one in the leg.”

“Did she get any rounds off?”

“She was pretty sure she hit the black male suspect who was rowing the boat.”

“We'd like to have your permission to go in and look for the suspects. Are any members of your family in the house?”

“No. I called my neighbor, and she told me that she had heard them leave.”

“Are there any firearms in the house?”

“Yes, locked in the gunsafe, downstairs in the den.”

“You have any dogs in the house?”

“A chocolate Lab,” I said, “but he's a big goof.”

“I'd want you to call him out when we get the doors open.”

“I have to tell you,” I said, “things on the lake drift north and east. That skiff drifting out there had to have been abandoned on that side of the lake and probably several hundred yards west of where it is now.”

“We're looking over there, sir.”

“The way the uniformed people are lolly-gagging around here, I'd say that you don't really think there's anyone in the house.”

“I can't guarantee you'll be safe unless we clear the house.”

“You may search only spaces large enough to conceal a human being. That includes closets, large cabinets, shower stalls, and the crawl spaces above the ceiling. Short of an exchange with the suspects, you may not expend any ordnance.”

“I hear you, sir,” he said. He walked down to the house, detailed his crew, and I dug the door key out of my pocket. He finally gave me a nod, and I went to open the door.

He moved to the side of the doorway, swung the door open, and left the screen door ajar. I stepped back and whistled for Rusty. The dog bounded out of the house with his Frisbee in his mouth and his tail on full rotor. I nodded to the officer and walked back to Ron's van with Rusty close on my heels. I found Ron shooting the breeze with the marshal and calling him Harlan.

“Think they're in there?” asked Ron.

“I think their rowboat is on the other side of the lake. On the other hand, I don't want to wake up dead in the morning.” Rusty studied me with expectant eyes and started keening. I took the Frisbee out of his mouth and sent it sailing across the lawn. Rusty launched after it like a furry ground-to-air missile.

“What do you think spooked them into a shooting match?” said Harlan.

“Beats the shit out of me,” I said. “Paulie is psyched out on steroids and probably chock full of painkillers.”

A breeze caught the Frisbee and it curled across the rear of a county patrol car, about eight feet off the ground. Rusty didn't break stride. He leapt onto the rear deck lid of the cruiser and went airborne. His jaws snapped shut on the Frisbee as his body made a half turn in the air.

A county patrol officer standing by the door of the car ducked and grabbed his hat as the dog passed over the back of the car. He said one word. “Jesus!”

Rusty landed in stride and circled back toward me. His feet made an audible gallop on the ground. The county officer peeked up over the vehicle and looked hard at me. I waved and said, “Sorry!” Hoots, whistles, and applause erupted from the gathered crowd of policemen.

Rusty dropped the Frisbee at my feet, backed up a half-dozen steps, and crouched. “Throw it again,” the officers called out, and I sailed the Frisbee.

“Somebody called nine-one-one,” said Harlan. “Maybe somebody called them and told them about your visit to the U.S. Attorney's Office.”

“That sure as hell narrows the field,” I said.

“It wasn't a secret that you and your attorney were on your way to the federal building. Carter announced it in the coffee room when he told me to meet you at the door.”

Rusty made another airborne capture, to the loud approval of the crowd. Ron pointed up toward my house. The SWAT team stood poised to make its entry, a file of black-clad men each with a weapon in his right hand and his left hand on the shoulder of the man in front of him. The patrol officers
in the yard crouched around the corners of their vehicles. Some drew their weapons. Others just rested a hand on their holsters. Rusty delivered the Frisbee, and I put it on top of the van. He lay down next to my feet, with about a foot of tongue lolling out.

The crew was quick. I had a minute and thirty-five on my wristwatch when they began emerging from the house. The SWAT commander returned and said, “The house is clear. I guess your answering machine is the reason we got a couple of busy signals from your telephone.” He handed me a scrap of paper. It read, “Dad, we went to the show. It's on you—Daniel.”

He signaled his crew and they deployed to search the garage and the shed. We started toward the house, and he handed me a card, printed with the state seal and his name and telephone number. “If there's a problem with your property, please call me first,” he said.

“The shit's hit the fan down at the city police department,” said Ron as we walked in the front door. Rusty brushed by us for a noisy stop at his water pail on the landing.

“Doesn't matter, it was their shit and their fan—not like I was one of their favorite people anyway,” I said and climbed the stairs up to the kitchen level. “Want some coffee?”

“No,” said Ron, “I'm going out on the deck to watch the festivities.” Harlan went with him.

I got out the drip coffeemaker. While I fired it up, a uniformed state police lieutenant knocked on the open front door. “Come on in,” I said and beckoned to him—Howard Dunsel, the man the Kentwood detectives had selected as the candidate to receive my next lunatic.

“Howie,” I said, “your boys already had their way with this house. Knocking on that door is like calling a whore ‘ma'am.'”

“I always call whores ‘ma'am,'” he said and passed through the door to trudge up the stairs. “That's why I find it so easy to call you ‘sir.'”

“I guess you know more whores than I do,” I said and resolved to give the Kentwood crew their wish at my first opportunity. “We'll have some coffee here in a heartbeat,” I said and went to the cupboard to corral mugs with both hands.

“Didn't come here for coffee,” he said and took a mug. He pulled the glass pot out of the coffee maker and held the mug under the brewed brown stream.

“Brighten up, you've always wanted to search my house.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but not for policemen.”

“Criminals,” I said. “There are a lot of hardworking public servants who wouldn't like being lumped together with those two characters.”

“So how do you know they're criminals?”

“You want cream or sugar for that?” I asked.

“Sugar,” he said. “How about it?”

“I'd think the fact that they attempted to kill one of your troopers should just about lock it up for you.”

“I don't like the way this came down.”

“I don't like having a yard full of police cars.”

Dunsel spooned sugar into his coffee and stirred. He was silent. He pursed his lips and studied the brown whirlpool in his cup. “This morning I received an anonymous tip that you were hiding a federal witness in your home. Then I get this call from downtown, from a pay phone in the federal building.”

“It wasn't me,” I said. “Listen to the tape. If you still think it's me, I'll submit a voice sample for comparison.”

“I already did,” he said, “and I don't think that it was you, personally.”

“You've got a narrow list of suspects. Ron Craig was with me and I can tell you that he didn't make the call.”

“I'm going to find out,” he said, “but first I'm going to catch the son of a bitch that shot my trooper.”

“Did you find their car?”

“What were they driving?”

“Usually, a beat-up red Ford Escort—has covered city plates on it.”

“Do you have any idea how many red Ford Escorts there are per square mile in the county?”

“That's the best information I have.”

Howard broadcast the information on a handheld radio he produced from his belt.

“What happened when they were hailed?” I asked.

“They flashed their shields and said they were fishing. When our officer ordered them to row in to shore, the white guy drew a gun out of an ankle holster and started shooting. He fired until his weapon was empty.”

“Paulie Milton,” I said. “He carries a five-shot Smith hammerless in an ankle rig.”

Dunsel took a pad out of his pocket and opened it. “Paul Edward Milton,” he said. “Good thing he's not a better shot.”

“Short barrel,” I said. “If he hit your trooper from a rowboat offshore,
he's a better shot than you think.”

Dunsel passed me a hot glance but said, “The other guy started rowing for the other side and Trooper Fenwick returned fire. She says she thinks she hit the guy who was rowing.”

“Chuck Furbie,” I said.

“Charles Allen Furbie,” said Dunsel. “How'd you know them?”

“They're up to their armpits in a case I'm working on.”

“Sounds like it's about time to turn this case over to the proper authorities.”

“I was trying to hand it off to the feds just this afternoon,” I said, “but they weren't interested.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“Neil Carter, from the U.S. Attorney's Office.”

Dunsel wrote that down. “Who was your client?”

“You already know the answer to that question.”

“Don't go hiding behind the PI act on me,” said Dunsel. “One of my troopers just bled all over your lawn.”

“My client was blown up in his car yesterday.”

“That guy? What were you doing for him?”

“I was protecting his niece from her husband.”

“Where's her husband now?”

“In the morgue,” I said. “Somebody—not me by the way—buried a hatchet in his head.”

“That guy?”

“Randal Talon. He was on the Community Service crew with the two guys you're looking for.”

“Hardin, you're a goddam fatal disease!”

Someone knocked on the door and I turned to see a grim-faced Sergeant Franklin and Lieutenant Emmery standing on the porch. “Gentlemen, you're welcome to come in,” I said.

They opened the door and shuffled up the stairs.

“Coffee?” I asked.

Franklin took a cup.

“Fuck you and your coffee, too,” said Emmery. “You work in our town every day and then go weasel to the feds. Why didn't you give us a chance to clean our own house?”

“Maybe you were too busy trying to clean mine.”

“You interfered with our investigation, and don't think that's just going away.”

“Finney and I will be at the warrant office tomorrow.”

“I don't want Finney,” said Emmery. “I want some answers.”

“Can't have it both ways!” I said.

Franklin fished out a Camel straight and tamped it on the counter. “Art talked to me two days ago,” he said.

“What?” said Emmery.

“He told me what he suspected,” said Franklin. “I told him to muzzle up until he had some proof, but I filed a field contact report with the detective bureau.” He lit up his smoke. “He gave us Arnold Fay on a platter.” Franklin took a long toke and exhaled with satisfaction.

“Seems to me that you know Arnold Fay. Don't you, Lieutenant?”

Emmery's right shoulder dropped as he spat out, “And I knew Randy Talon, too.”

I juked to my right just in time for Emmery's freight-train right fist to brush past my left ear. I put my left hand on the top of his head and snapped my right hand up under his chin. I gave a little twist and pull as I spun to my left and Emmery followed his fist into the kitchen. He slid on his back across the linoleum and his head banged into the cabinet under the sink.

“Lieutenant, I think it's time for you to leave,” I said. I poured myself a cup of coffee. My hand shook a little but I didn't spill any.

Franklin and Dunsel brushed by and helped Emmery off the floor, but held onto his arms and shoulders. They walked him around the counter through the dining room.

“Fuck you, asshole!” said Emmery, his face contorted. “Your fucking plastic badge is history! We're going to pull your permit to carry! I hope some lowlife does the world a favor!”

They took him down the stairs and out the door. Ron and the marshal walked back in from the deck to see about the commotion.

“What's going on?” asked Ron.

“Jurisdictional dispute,” I said.

“State and county?” asked the marshal.

“Me and Emmery. He doesn't want to share the planet.”

Ron went for the coffee. Harlan walked over to the window to watch Emmery roar out of the driveway in his unmarked sedan. I discarded the grounds to start a new pot. I'd loaded the new filter with fresh coffee when Dunsel and Franklin walked back in the door and up the steps.

“You want to press charges?” asked Franklin.

“For what?”

Franklin nodded once and then looked at Dunsel. “We came out here to see if you would let us try to talk them in.”