Private Heat (41 page)

Tractors cranked to life all over the lot. Five acres of eighteen-wheelers jockeyed for an opening. The sound of air horns and racing diesel engines drowned out the sirens.

“I got arrested,” I said, “but I sued them.”

“I love this country.”

“Some comedian says that.”

“I never liked him,” he said and turned his head to look straight at me, “or you, but now I owe my life—a debt is hard to pay. Maybe is better to kill you.”

“Give me Karen Smith,” I said, “and we're even.”

“It should be something else,” he said and wiped some of the soot from his face with his hand. “I place high value on human life, and I am already
paid for hers.” He tried to wipe his hand on his pants but discovered all he had for trousers were tatters hanging from his belt. “The lieutenant of police will have long to think about this before it occurs to him to die.”

“Emmery?” I asked.

Rosenko didn't speak. He stared at me with a puzzled face. Finally, he said, “Here is my bargain. You kill Karen Smith and I will leave you and your family in peace.”

I swooped the Colt out of my holster in an arc that ended at the bridge of Rosenko's nose. He folded into a pile. Ron nodded toward the room. The flames inside licked toward the shot-out glass slider door. I nodded back.

We dragged Rosenko by his arms and from the belt. By the time we got him to the opening, he had his knees under him and wedged his hands on the door opening. His palms hissed on the metal door molding but he held steady.

“I am feeling a debt of honor,” he said.

“He's a backslider,” said Ron.

I put my knee in the middle of his back and pushed. “Talk's cheap.” I had to squint and turn my head from the heat.

“Yes, I am thinking to lie to you,” he said and turned his head from the door, squinting his eyes. “But I now swear on my honor as an officer.”

From out in the parking lot came a sharp crack and then a whoosh. Franklin's black Chevy leapt into the air in a ball of flame. It seemed to linger in the air for a moment, then came down on the passenger side.

“Sasha,” said Rosenko.

“Yeah, he's entertaining the local police.”

“If you kill me, he is angry.”

“I say we shoot him in the knees and elbows, then throw him in,” said Ron.

“So sorry, Sasha,” I said in a mock Russian accent. “We are never getting out poor Volody. Big tears! I send fuck-kink flowers.”

Ron drew his K-frame.

The two Kentwood cars raced by, driving backward. Franklin sat in the back seat of the nearest one pulling the door shut with both hands as they went by.

“You did Campbell,” I said and leaned on my knee.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Business, he stole money.”

“From his customers?”

“From—you call—Mafia. New York.”

“They sent you?”

“They pay good.”

“You'll tell the cops you did Campbell.”

“Since you insist.”

“Emmery?”

“He was angry about Officer Chuck. He hit me on head and chained me to sink—he poured petrol on me and took my passport.”

We dragged Rosenko away from the door and laid him on the cement near the edge of the pool to escape the heat. Most of the deck furniture had blown into the pool over the winter. Rosenko's hands were blistered from holding the door frame, but the rest of his burns—while bright red—seemed less severe.

“Fay stole the money,” I said.

“Yes, but I'm sent for Campbell.”

“Why didn't you just make Campbell disappear? With him and the money gone, it would have stayed a very neat package.”

“Yes, we both know that is better, but this is business. These people you call Mafia—they thought of make example. Something to keep in mind about their money.”

“Didn't work,” I said. “Emmery just about retired you and you seemed to be playing so nice together, earlier this evening.”

“He is a clever man. He loaded bullets shot from your pistol into a shotgun—a little one—and left your cartridge. You will have a nice long time in jail for our work tonight. I like the lieutenant of police until he make to kill me.”

“I don't think so,” I said and wiped my face with my hand. Sweat had collected soot. My hand was black. “Emmery has the money. Your boss is going to be pissed.”

“He can piss pants. He acts crazy, in his nightclothes in the park—but his is not. I think he is just stupid. Too stupid to be my boss. I think I go back and show them about the Romans.”

“You're going to give them a history lesson?” said Ron.

“Da, a history lesson.” Rosenko managed a laugh that turned into a cough. He wiped black phlegm from his mouth and said, “When Romans find barbarians at door, barbarians wear Roman clothes.”

“You have a previous engagement,” I said.

He asked, “Where will they take me?”

“To County General first. You're toasted pretty crisp.”

“Good! This is a place Volody must go.”

“With what you know, you could probably be a celebrity guest of the U.S. government.”

“I never betray my countrymen.”

“I don't want to hurt your feelings, Colonel,” I said, “but I don't think they give a shit about that anymore. The current administration has already sold or given the Russian Republic the technology you were trying to steal for the Soviet Union. As far as they are concerned, you're just a common criminal.”

Rosenko laughed. “They only ask about American gangsters?”

“That's all they'll care about.”

“Good, then I tell them after they only beat me a little. It is good to trick the police.”

Sergeant Franklin rounded the corner and approached us walking backward with a shotgun at port arms.

“You're under arrest for the murder of Wayne Campbell,” said Ron. He covered Rosenko with his K-frame. I followed Ron's lead with the Colt.

Franklin backed up past Rosenko so that he could look out between the ends of the building, and asked, “What the hell is going on? Who the hell is that?”

“Colonel Volody Rosenko,” I said. “Late of the GRU and currently in the employ of certain New York gambling interests.”

“What's the GRU?”

“The GRU was Soviet Army Intelligence.” I looked down at Rosenko and said, “Colonel Rosenko, this is Sergeant Franklin of the civil police in Grand Rapids.”

“At your service,” said Rosenko. “I kill Wayne Campbell.”

“These guys tell you to say that?” asked Franklin.

“Yes,” Rosenko said. “I am promised to say this.”

“In this country you have certain rights.”

“Yes, I know. I shot him in his head and had his body delivered to the airport in the trunk of his car.”

“That's common knowledge,” said Franklin.

“A small white rodent was in his mouth.”

Ron snapped his eyes to mine. I nodded.

“You're under arrest,” said Franklin. He produced his handcuffs and knelt down. “What's this?” he asked and pointed at the cuff that remained
on Rosenko's right wrist.

“Emmery's hardware,” I said. “The rest of it is hooked to the plumbing in the motel room. He cuffed Rosenko under the sink, poured lighter fluid on him, and set the motel room on fire. Emmery—”

“We chased the other one around the parking lot, and it sure as hell wasn't Lieutenant Emmery.”

“Sasha Solutzkof, this man's partner. He wanted to lure you away so he could get Rosenko out of the fire. You catch him?”

“Still looking for him,” said Franklin. He hooked up Rosenko. “How about it, pal? You do that little job over at the warehouse? Who was with you?”

“I am so much in pain,” Rosenko said. “I am afraid if I not say as you wish, you will not take me to hospital.”

“You could die,” said Franklin. “If you'll give me a statement now, and you die, we can use it as evidence against the man who did this to you.”

“I will not die,” said Rosenko. After that it was screams and moans until they took him away in the ambulance.

We retired to the corner of the parking lot to watch the fire department work while we leaned on a Kentwood patrol car with a cheese-grater nose clip. It was a balmy sixty-five degrees—shirt-sleeve weather for Michigan natives.

News vans popped up like mushrooms. Patrol cars and police from surrounding communities showed up for the shoot-out but ended up directing traffic. A local pizzeria sent over pizza for the police and fire personnel. We had a few slices left in a box lying on the ventilated hood of the patrol car. Franklin worked on a string of Camels.

Detective Van Huis had been summoned from his bowling league. He appeared wearing a bright red bowling shirt—Kentwood Keglers—that hid some of the spread that developed with a desk job. He grilled me on how to spell the names “Rosenko” and “Solutzkof” and bitched about how smoky Ron and I smelled.

“Look at this,” said Ron.

A tan government sedan rolled up next to us with Matty Svenson and Maria Sanchez in the back seat. Detective Shephart rode shotgun. John Griswald, the Special Agent in Charge of the Grand Rapids office of the FBI, drove. I'd met him once or twice at ASIS meetings, but he never had much to say to me.

They all got out, but only Griswald walked up to us. He stood maybe
five-ten and was federal-weight-standards thin. He wore a cheap suit with an expensive tie. He flashed his credentials. Everybody nodded.

“You come to take charge?” asked Van Huis. He seemed pleased at the prospect.

Griswald shook his head. “Local matter,” he said. “I want to talk to Hardin.”

“How can I help?” I asked.

“I need to speak with you privately.”

“Privately, you get me and my attorney. He does all the talking and he doesn't know shit about the questions you want answered. If you want to have a friendly chat, you get everybody up here—Matty, Maria, Detective Shephart—the whole crew. Sergeant Franklin, Detective Van Huis, and Ron Craig stay here.”

“I don't think that's prudent.”

“Suit yourself. I'll call my attorney.”

I watched his face. He couldn't make up his mind whether to use the I'm-from-the-government-and-I'm-here-to-help-you approach or to just fall back on the basic I'm-going-to-make-your-life-a-shit-storm. He snapped his credentials together and put them away.

“All right,” he said. “But I've got a dead assistant U.S. attorney. If I don't get the answers I need, we do it my way.”

So I'm thinking,
call the park police,
but I kept it to myself. We got everybody gathered around the car, and I made sure everybody was introduced. “Okay, Matty, you start,” I said.

Matty dog-eyed Griswald and he nodded back. “Like what?”

“Like we had a little powwow this afternoon, and—”

“And I went back to the office and called Arnold Fay. I told him I knew about the Russian. He said he'd come in and talk, but he didn't. He wasn't at his office. I went to his house, but there was no answer at the door.”

“I want the names of the Russians,” said Griswald.

Van Huis opened his pad and read, “Volody Rosenko and Sasha Solutzkof.”

“Vladimir, on the picture I gave to the U.S. attorney, Ralph Sehenlink,” I said. Everyone looked at Griswald. Griswald looked at his shoes.

“Rosenko, Vladimir—whatever his name is, and believe me we probably still don't know—anyway, he says he'd be interested in giving up New York Mafia gambling types, so long as you don't ask him about his period of service in the GRU,” I said. “But I think you should talk to him soon. His other idea is to go back, kill them, and take over the business.”

A firefighter walked up in full turnout gear. She had a single handcuff in her hand. Her eyes swept over the group.

“Hi,” I said. “I'm Art Hardin, what's your name?”

“Cassidy,” she said. “They told me to bring this up here.”

“What is it?”

“Looks like one handcuff.”

“Where was it?”

“Clamped on the sink plumbing in the unit where the fire started.”

“Accidental fire?”

“Smells like accelerant to me, but that's not my job. Who wants this thing? I got work to do.”

“Give it to the fed,” I said.

“Here, you look like the salad-bar-and-light-beer-lunch type,” she said and handed Griswald the cuff. Everybody laughed but Griswald.

Cassidy left.

“What the hell is this?” asked Griswald.

“Evidence,” I said. “It belongs to Lieutenant Emmery, according to Rosenko.”

“Every heavy metal head banger in the city has a pair hanging from his rearview mirror,” said Shephart.

“Where are we going with this?” said Griswald.

“Right to the guys who shot Neil Carter,” I said. “Detective Shephart, who got the warrant for the wire and had you set up the time and place for our meet tonight?”

“Lieutenant Emmery.”

“Sergeant Franklin isn't your partner?” I said.

“No. We asked Franklin to work on this because you seemed willing to talk to him about the Talon murder. Cox was going to do it, but he had a wedding or a graduation or something like that. I volunteered because I was looking to jam you up.”

“So these two Russian hoods shot Neil Carter?” asked Griswald.

“No, Rosenko and Emmery shot Neil Carter,” I said.

Griswald held up the handcuff. “You need a lot more than this to tie Emmery to the shooting.”

Van Huis fished a piece of pizza out of the box. “Ah, green pepper and onion,” he said. “Still warm, too!”

“I was a half-hour late to the meet with Sergeant Franklin. Emmery wanted to establish a time line with me in town. I try not to arrive late, anywhere,
but tonight I was late, and it screwed up Emmery's timing.” I took the pictures and documents out of the breast pocket of my coat and handed them to Griswald. “Emmery is married to the daughter of Van Pelham's law partner, and her maiden name is listed as a partner on the DBA for Alton, Burns, and Fay.”