Private Heat (42 page)

“Which one was that?” asked Matty.

“Carolyn Timmer. The other woman was Brenda Clemments. I never got that tracked down.”

“Oh my God,” said Matty. “Carter's wife! Her name is Brenda, but I don't know her maiden name. I checked the Social Security numbers on both those names, and they were fraudulent.”

“That's why I figured the names had to be correct,” I said.

“You think that their wives are involved in this?” asked Griswald.

“No, I think that they used their wives' maiden names to cover their involvement and still have a conduit to the laundered gambling money.”

“Too thin,” said Griswald.

“Rosenko's your man. Make him a deal. He knows it all, including the New York mob connection and how Emmery manufactured and planted evidence to set me up to take the fall for the festivities in the warehouse tonight.”

“So where are these two Russian hoods now?”

A uniformed Kentwood police officer walked up to Van Huis and handed him a folded piece of paper. Van Huis had to twist and turn to get some light on it.

“Rosenko is on his way to County General,” said Franklin. “He got burned up pretty good in the fire. He confessed to killing Wayne Campbell. He said that Campbell had a rodent in his mouth.”

Griswald snapped his head to look at Matty and Maria.

“We never told anybody,” said Matty.

“I guess the shooter knew,” said Ron.

“So where's the other Russian?”

“Don't know,” said Van Huis. “He just shot up a bunch of our cars, blew up a Grand Rapids car with a rocket launcher, and hauled ass. We found the pickup he was driving across the street at the mall with some truck driver knocked unconscious and lying on the seat.” Van Huis looked at me and smiled. “I always wanted to say this: Hardin, you're under arrest.”

“What for?”

“Open murder on the persons of Arnold Fay and Neil Carter.”

“That's a crock,” said Shephart. “He was with me and Franklin when it went down. We chased the doers from the warehouse.”

“Whatever,” said Van Huis. “But this here is a real warrant, and what Patrolman Breton is holding there is a real Glock forty-caliber pistol, and good old Art, here, is really busted.”

I leaned on the car. Officer Breton walked around behind me, grabbed the collar of my suit coat, and kicked my feet apart.

“You gotta excuse Officer Breton, Art,” said Van Huis. “He's a little miffed because you didn't jump the thug that hosed his cruiser when you had the chance.”

“Man had a Mac-ten,” I said, “and wasn't bashful about using it, but I think Officer Breton probably noticed that.”

Breton took the Colt off my hip, cleared it, locked the slide to the rear, and put it on the shot-up hood of the cruiser. He stood the loose round from the chamber on its flat end next to the magazine. “Carries one in the spout,” he said and started working my pockets.

“Jeez, Art,” said Van Huis, “that's a goddam antique you're carrying. Even the schoolyard bullies are carrying fat nines.”

“Just makes for careless marksmanship and a sloppy trigger.”

“He's wearing a vest,” said Breton. His attitude went from grumpy to surly when he discovered my arms wouldn't come together behind my back. “I need an extra set of cuffs, Lieutenant.”

“Case you didn't notice,” said Van Huis, “I was bowling when they paged me.”

Breton turned to Shephart.

“Hardin was with me when those men were shot. This is a hummer bust. You ain't using my cuffs to hook him up.”

I looked at Shephart. Whatever was on my face—he wouldn't look back.

“I got paper,” said Breton. “The rest isn't my concern.”

“So, Hardin's an ox,” Van Huis said. “So, hook 'em up in front so you can watch his hands.” Breton gave me a nasty face but installed the hardware in front. “How many cars we got that haven't had their radiators shot out and tires hosed flat?”

“Two,” said Breton. “One in the shop and the one Gonzales drove over with the warrant. If we call Grand Rapids, they'll probably send a car.”

“Not a chance,” said Van Huis. “We busted him here, we book him here.”

“We book at county on this shift,” said Breton.

Van Huis told him, “Call the patrol car and have them transport Mr. Hardin back to the station.”

“It's locked.”

“We both have a key. So does Gonzales.”

“The desk doesn't come on until six-thirty.”

“And your point is?”

“Yes, sir,” said Breton. He made the radio call.

“Where's our car?” said Shephart.

“We gotta talk about that,” said Franklin.

Some of us laughed.

“What?” Shephart's eyes darted around the group.

Franklin said, “It, ah, took a few rounds.”

“It took a LAWS rocket!” said Ron.

“I'm fucked!” said Shephart. “That was the assistant chief's car. He's on vacation. They told me not to scratch it.”

“Look at it this way, Shep,” I said. “When he gets back, he'll have a brand-new car, and only you to thank for it.”

“Don't call me Shep!”

Agent Griswald and his FBI crew departed with Detective Shephart.
They agreed to drop Ron at his van on their way to County General to quiz Rosenko.

I got my ride down to Kentwood. Franklin rode with me. Van Huis followed in his burgundy minivan with fake wood paneling.

The Kentwood Police Station is located in the same building as the fire department, city offices, and district court. The exterior is made of cement poured into a form that gave the building a gray corduroy finish and very few windows.

Van Huis led us past the public entrance and around the corner to the north side of the building. A narrow sidewalk led to a door near the rear of the building. He used his key to let us into a tiled anteroom with a long row of wooden pegs for coat hangers and a rack for boots. He locked the door after us.

The next door opened into the rear of the police department. While the city had grown, the space allotted to the police department had not. File cabinets lined the back wall, end to end, providing a display area for bowling, baseball, and shooting trophies. A dozen desks shared barely adequate space. On the wall opposite the file cabinets was a row of gray office-divider cubicles.

I had to use the pay phone in the public hallway because all the police lines, except for the fax line, were routed to voice mail until the station opened in the morning. Nine-eleven calls were diverted to the county dispatcher.

“Yes,” said Wendy, “I'll accept the charges.”

“Wendy, I need you to call Pete. His home number is in my address book by the telephone.”

“It's after midnight.”

“I got arrested.”

“I knew that. If you're calling collect, you've been arrested. What jurisdiction this time?”

“Kentwood.”

“Are you at the county lockup?”

“No. I'm actually at the Kentwood Police Station.”

“What's the charge?”

“Open murder, twice.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I don't kid about open murder.”

“Tell me what Finney needs to know.”

“Tell him Arnold Fay and Neil Carter are assuming room temperature as we speak. I was with two Grand Rapids police officers when the shooting took place. Lieutenant Emmery got the warrant. Tell Pete he'll need the stuff I asked him to lock up in his safe.”

“Who were you with? Wait a minute. Let me get a pencil. This pen won't write.”

“Sergeant Franklin and—”

“Not yet. Okay, go ahead.”

“Sergeant Franklin and Detective Shephart.”

“Him again? Who's the arresting officer?”

“Detective Van Huis, Kentwood.”

“Why did he arrest you?”

“Grand Rapids faxed them a warrant.”

“You'd think they'd be too busy after that terrorist attack on the police. It's all over the TV. They said it was a miracle no one was killed. The mayor of Kentwood said there was no loss of life, due to the training and experience of his police force and fire department.”

“I was there—no doubt in my mind that it had everything to do with training and experience. I'm going to let you go so you can get hold of Pete.”

“Okay. Stay where you're at.”

“Funny,” I said. Wendy hung up.

Franklin took the telephone as soon as I hung it up. Van Huis had me follow him to his office—he had a desk in one of the cubicles. His desk placard read, “
LIEUTENANT GERALD VAN HUIS, CHIEF OF DETECTIVES
.” He pulled a rights notification form out of his desk drawer and flopped it down in front of me.

“This is just a formality,” he said. He read me my rights and asked me if I had any questions.

“Yeah, just one. Does that ‘this is just a formality' line ever work?”

“You'd be surprised. A lot of guys will tell me to screw off and then spill their guts.”

I signed and handed the paper back.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “If you sign the waiver affidavit at the bottom of the sheet, your rights won't keep us from being able to discuss this. I can probably help you out here.”

“That ever work?”

“Sometimes,” Van Huis said.

“I thought we were pals.”

“That ever work?”

“Never,” I said.

“It's going to be a long night,” said Van Huis. “Your life is in the hands of three feds and Detective Shephart.” He took a deck of cards out of his desk. “Let's go up to the break room and play cards. You know how to play
You Bet Your Life?”

“That's not a card game.”

“Indulge me.”

“Okay. I answer your questions and if I say the secret word, a duck comes down with fifty bucks in its mouth.”

“No. If your Russian pal doesn't say the magic words, they strap you to a gurney and pump poison in your arm. Whacking an assistant U.S. attorney is a federal beef. Maybe you better talk to me.”

“Hearts,” I said.

Franklin hung up the telephone and joined us as we passed him in the hallway. The break room was really just the dead end of the second-floor hallway—furnished in wrought iron and orange plastic. Vending machines lined the end wall.

Van Huis shuffled the cards and dealt a hand of hearts.

Franklin said that he had called the desk sergeant at Grand Rapids. He said they'd been hot to get his arrest report on Rosenko until the feds moved in on the case. Emmery had shown up at the warehouse right after Cox and just before the feds. The feds got muscular about having a dead assistant U.S. attorney—something about Carter being a covered person under the new antiterrorism legislation. Emmery called in a carload of forensic people. The Grand Rapids police chief showed up, and when the dust settled, they had agreed to share jurisdiction, because of Fay. When they got the news that the shit had hit the fan over at the Crest Haven, Emmery designated Shephart to come over with Griswald.

I said, “You tell them Emmery was the shooter?”

Franklin had “Are you nuts?” written on his face, but he said, “You read Hardin his rights?”

“Signed the affidavit but doesn't want to discuss it with us,” said Van Huis.

“I got to see a man about a horse,” I said. “I know where it's at.”

“Don't get lost,” said Van Huis.

When I came out of the restroom, they were waiting for me in the hallway. Van Huis had my Colt in his hand.

“This your regular carry piece?” he asked. “It's been fired.”

“Talk to my attorney.”

We went back to the break room and played cards in silence. I stuck Van Huis with the queen of spades, took one heart, and Franklin got the rest.

“Look,” said Franklin. “I know this isn't your regular carry piece because it's not the one you wag in and out of the Hall of Justice. The desk sergeant told me that they picked up some forty-five-caliber brass at the warehouse. The feds matched the bolt face and firing pin marks with brass left over from when you got busted on the Talon beef.”

“I was with you when the shooting happened,” I said.

“I didn't hear any shots,” said Franklin, “your partner was talking about them on the radio.”

“You chased the shooters when they came out of the warehouse,” I said.

“I saw them running, not shooting,” said Franklin, “and you're the one who hauled the Russian cocksucker out of the fire.”

“Any slugs?” I asked.

“Deformed in the floor; the brass is good enough.”

“You're looking for a .410 shotgun,” I said.

“I want to know where your carry piece is,” said Franklin.

“Talk to my attorney.”

We worked on another silent hand until someone started pounding on the door downstairs. Franklin volunteered to be the greeter. It took him twenty minutes. Just about the time Van Huis got antsy, Franklin walked up the stairs with Ron Craig.

“What took so long?” asked Van Huis.

“I asked Mr. Craig to show me his surveillance van,” said Franklin. “He's got better shit than we do.”

I fixed hard eyes on Franklin. He glared back.

“I'm ever the optimist,” I said. “I'm driving a rental car, but it's still over at The Chance. It's a black Mustang convertible. Maybe you could give Sergeant Franklin the keys, and he and Ron could go pick it up.”

“Coffee and it's a deal,” said Van Huis. “The coffee in the machine here is crap.”

“It's almost warm enough to put the top down,” I said. “You can leave the windows up and run the heater. Look around the glove box and trunk. The instructions are there somewhere.”

Van Huis had my property in a large brown envelope on the seat next to him. He sorted out the keys and handed them to Franklin. “And donuts,” he said.