Private Heat (36 page)

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“All we got is a pay phone,” he said. He stood up and started searching his pants pocket.

“It's on me,” I said and plumbed out a quarter and a dime.

“Detective ought to pay for the call—told him that when he left his card.”

I followed the guard out to the short hallway. He walked with a pronounced limp. I held out the change.

“Just put it in the telephone,” he said.

“How'd you hurt your leg?”

“Tet of sixty-eight,” he said, “epidemic of lead poisoning.”

“Mac V,” I said and stuck my hand out.

“Air Cav,” he said and took my hand. “And don't want to hear nuthin' about the line between the horseshit and the bullshit.” He laughed. “Jack Simpson.”

Jack took a business card out of the breast pocket of his shirt. He held it out at arms length and squinted his eyes, jockeying near and far until he turned it to me and said, “Here, you got your glasses on—see if you can read that.”

I took my glasses off. “Don't need 'em to read,” I said, “just street signs, license plates, and the like.”

“Anything bigger than a bread box,” he said.

“Exactly.” The card had a police department logo on it. The name was Philip Emmery, Lieutenant. I read Jack the number and put my glasses back on.

He picked up the handset and said, “They won't take collect calls up there. I suppose I could just dial nine-eleven.”

“Nah,” I said, “everybody'll just get excited.” I pumped the change into the phone.

He pecked out the number and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. “Yeah,” he said, and looked back at the telephone, “this is Jack over at the impound yard. Lieutenant Emmery told me to call him if anybody asked about that burned-up car. … He ain't? What am I supposed to do? There's a guy here from the insurance company who wants to take some pictures. … Okay.” Jack handed me the phone.

“This is Detective Shephart,” said the voice on the line.

“Hi, Shep,” I said and winked at Jack. “This your pal Art Hardin.”

“Don't call me Shep,” he said. “What the fuck do you want?”

“Mostly, I want you to pay for having the frame of my pistol buffed and blued. In the meantime, the insurance company wants pictures of a burned-up automobile that's in the yard here.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I saw it on the news last night. What happened? You miss a payment and have a fire sale?”

“Like I'd tell you.”

“Give the phone to the guard and don't ever call me Shep!”

Jack took the telephone. “Yeah,” he said and then he held the telephone away from his ear and turned it toward me so that I could hear the profanity that Shephart yelled into his end of the connection. When Shephart started saying “hello” and “is there anybody there?” Jack put the telephone back to his ear. “Listen,” Jack said, “there ain't no reason to be rude to me. … My job, that's what I'm doing. … That's right … because, the lieutenant told me to call. … Okay, you're a detective, so what? That ain't license to be rude.” Jack hung up the telephone. “You can take all the pictures you want,” he said.

Jack pushed the door open with his shoulder as he fished a wad of keys out of his pocket. We made slow progress down the steps. Jack had to lean heavily on the rail. Wendy sat in her Cadillac near the foot of the stairs. She ran down the window.

“We're running out of time,” she said. “I still have to drop you at the office and then Karen has a meeting with Pete.”

“Just take a second,” I said. Karen sat in the back seat with her head leaned back and her eyes closed. A white adhesive bandage covered the half-dozen stitches required to close the cut on her neck. I pursed my lips and shifted my eyes from Wendy to Karen and back.

Wendy nodded. “Just hurry up,” she said. “I'm tired and I want to get home and rest.”

Jack rattled the keys, the chain fell loose, and he gave the gate a shove. It swung free for a couple of feet and then hung up on the uneven gravel drive. I didn't see my car.

“Over here,” said Jack, “under the tarp.” He led me behind the building—really more of a clapboard shack—to a tarp-covered car about half the size of what had been my ominous dark sedan.

“Must have been a hell of a fire,” I said.

“Hell is a good description,” said Jack. As he hauled the tarp off the vehicle, the heavy, sweet smell of burnt bacon and gasoline wafted forth. “I guess you've smelled that before.”

“Yes, I have,” I said.

Wasn't my car—I kept that fact to myself because it was the charred remains of a Ford Escort. I got the camera working. I discovered a nine-millimeter-sized bullet hole in the rear hatch just above the vacant spot where the license plate was supposed to be. Wendy started honking the horn on her old Cadillac.

“Guess your ride's in a hurry,” said Jack.

“Who was it?” I asked.

“So far they're working on ‘what was it,' least that's what the lieutenant told me when they dragged the car in here. The head and hands was burnt clean off. So was the private parts, you know, if there was any.”

Wendy laid on the horn again. I pulled the gas cover door open. The cap had melted in place. Around the fill pipe were traces of red paint. I walked up to the sagging remains of dash and tried to sort out the jumble in my mind.

“VIN plate's gone,” said Jack.

“Guess I got what I need, then.”

“Go ahead on out,” said Jack. “I got to cover this.”

I rounded the corner and discovered a tow truck and an impatient driver. Hoisted to the rear of his truck was my charred automobile. The back of the car rested on a two-wheel dolly. Behind the tow truck a flatbed car hauler sat with its diesel engine knocking at idle and the ski boat and trailer from Karen's garage loaded on the back. The tires on the boat trailer were still up and what looked burned on the boat was probably soot that would wash off.

“What's the deal?” the driver asked, chewing on the remains of a cheap fat cigar anchored in the corner of his mouth.

“Jack will be out in a minute,” I said. I got into the Cadillac and let my window down.

“Well, don't you want pictures of the car?” asked Wendy.

“Sure,” I said, “just get us out of here now.”

Wendy pulled the car into gear and swiveled her head the rest of the way back to watch as she backed out toward the street. I took a couple of quick shots of my car through the window. The insurance company wasn't looking for great art. I snapped a couple of pictures of the boat just to finish the roll.

“Don't have to worry about Chuck Furbie,” I said.

“Why not?” said Karen.

“I think they found him,” I said.

“What happened?” asked Wendy.

“That red Escort he and Paulie Milton drove is back there in the impound yard burned to a crisp. The guard said that they found a body in the car.”

“I wondered what you were looking at back there when they pulled up with your car.”

“Poor Chuck,” said Karen. “He wasn't mean, like Paulie.”

“He should have walked away from this at the start,” I said.

“So should I,” said Karen. “I don't know how I'm going to get through this, now.”

“A day at a time,” said Wendy.

“Sure, but there are things I never thought of—like I never took Randy's name. Now how do I handle the title on his car and the insurance and things?”

“Maybe you can use your marriage license,” said Wendy.

“It was in the house. It probably burned up in the fire last night. Without the license, how are they going to know who I am? My driver's license says Smith.”

“There'll be a copy on file with the county clerk.”

“We got married at a chapel in Las Vegas.”

“Oh,” said Wendy.

“You can use the death certificate,” I said. “It will list you as Randy's next of kin. The county clerk will have a copy.”

“Don't worry,” said Wendy, “I know my way around downtown. We women have to stick together.”

Wendy dropped me at the office. I found a blue government sedan lurking
in the handicapped slot. Maria Sanchez, Matty Svenson's rookie partner, sat alone with the window down.

“To what blessing of the fates do I owe a visit from two such stunning guardians of the law?” I said and leaned on the side of the car to be eye to eye with Maria through the window.

“Don't touch the car,” said Maria.

I backed up and showed her my palms. “I guess I can hear it from Matty.”

“You have an office here?”

“Yep,” I said. “The least-kept secret in Grand Rapids.”

“We didn't come here to see you.”

“Now,
I am
cut to the quick!”

“Eat poison and die.”

I gave her a wink. “You shouldn't be so tactful. Just blurt it out—tell people what you think—that's the ticket.”

Maria started digging in her purse.

I went in the building and met Marg inside, on her way up the steps from the office.

“I'm going to get my hair done,” she said. “I have half a day in already, unlike some people I know.”

“Going to see Mr. Pat?”

“He's very good!”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. “Your hair is always stunning.”

She stopped mid-stride and fixed me with suspicious eyes. “The photo lab,” I said, “the one-hour place, it's on the corner by Mr. Pat's Salon.”

“Yes, it is.” Marg held her hand out.

I gave her the film. “It's just that I don't have a ride.”

Marg dropped the film cartridge into her purse and held out her hand again.

“There's only one roll—a short roll—just twelve shots.”

She wiggled her fingers. “Money,” she said.

“I was hoping you could float me until I could get a check.”

“I gave you a check for tires,” she said. “So how come you don't have a ride?”

“My car burned up. It was on the news.”

“And the tires?”

“They burned up, too.”

Marg laughed and touched my arm. “I talked to Wendy.”

“She ratted me out.”

“Like lemmings to the sea,” she said and started up the stairs. “I guess you'll be here when I get back.”

Women must have a union. One of them gets the tiniest little slice on her throat, and the rest of them are on you like hyenas. “Yes, ma'am,” I said. Little did I know.

Marg had locked the office and turned off the lights. Through the front door glass I could see the single red eye of the answering machine promising that it would catch the phone. I headed down the hall to answer the call of nature.

The door to the stairwell, usually open, had been closed. On the one hand, the fire department had tagged it to have a door closer installed. On the other hand—well, it never hurts to look. I found Matty sitting behind the door on the stairwell. She wore a navy blue blazer with black suede collar and epaulettes over a white blouse and a night-watch tartan skirt.

“Matty!” I said. “What brings you here?”

“You. We need to have a talk.”

“Be right with you,” I said. I turned and started into the men's room. Matty's shoulder caught me in the middle of the back. I ricocheted off the door and spun into the men's room with Matty hot on my trail.

“God's sake, Matty!” I turned to face her and used my hand to sweep my hair out of my face. “What on earth is this about?”

“We need to have a private talk. I've been standing in that hallway for an hour waiting for you to come and hit the head. You quit drinking coffee or what?”

“I just got here,” I said. I walked over to the stall, closed the door behind me, and flushed the commode to cover the sound of two cups of coffee making bail. Music from a transistor radio echoed off the tiled walls.

“You know how many racketeering cases there are in this one-horse town?” said Matty.

I stepped out of the stall. Matty had her shoes off. She leaned her backside on the washstand but otherwise stood with her arms folded. She had a cigarette stoked and hanging from the corner of her mouth. The pack was lying on the sink.

I rinsed my hands from the side of the sink. Matty didn't move. “One less than there was yesterday?”

After I dried my hands, I motioned to the cigarettes.

She looked at the cigarette pack. “Knock yourself out.”

I took one and tamped it down on the sink. “Pall Mall straights—just a guess—you're not a Wellesley girl.”

She took the cigarette out of her face and exhaled a cloud of smoke containing the words, “Worked my way through law school as a Metro Dade Police officer.”

“So why didn't you graduate to the courthouse?”

“Because I graduated to the bureau.”

“And you end up in Popsicleville, in a men's room, with a sleazy gumshoe.” I fished out my lighter and lit the smoke.

“I don't think you're sleazy, Art. You just don't know when to butt out.”

“Hey, I handed off the Karen Smith case yesterday.”

She flicked her ashes. They hissed and dissipated in the urinal. “And now I'm as dead in the water as that right there.”

“You got Paulie,” I said. “Cops are great confessors.”

“Really? You want to know what Paulie said right after, ‘Ouch, what happened?'”

“Sure.”

“He said, ‘Who am I and what am I doing here?' Your wife scrambled his brains with that goddam frying pan.”

“Saucepan, and I think that sounds a little convenient.”

“Right! But guess what? The locals have him in the John Doe ward up at County General with his leg chained to a bed and his arm in traction. What the hell did you shoot him with?”

“Forty-five,” I said. “You should've seen what it did to my silverware drawer.”