Dead Bang Page 8

  By the time I turned into the parking lot behind my office, the oldies had morphed into Motown. Those songs didn’t sound particularly old to me either, but then I’d bought a lot of them brand-new on 45 RPM discs—back when vinyl was king, people honored their parents, and home robbers had the decency to call when you weren’t home.

  Workmen stood next to a pickup truck, watching a forklift unload lumber from a flatbed truck and pile it up near the steps to my office building. The shrubbery had been torn out from the side of the building to make way for concrete footings.

  “They’re putting in a wheelchair ramp,” said Marg. She hadn’t looked up from her desk as I walked into the reception area. Marg, the widow of my old partner, Peter Ladin, ran her own accounting business from the reception desk, and we shared the rent and utilities. I paid the bigger share, but Marg took messages, typed my reports and invoices, and kept my books.

  Maroon cashmere was the order of the day for Marg—sweater and matching skirt. She’d done her brown hair in a flip and sprayed it in place so that the curl at the bottom seemed to ricochet off her shoulders as she moved her head.

  “They’re building it in front of my window,” I said.

  “Burglars will have to beat down the door now,” said Marg, still making entries. “I thought you were on the lam.”

  “Do I need to be?”

  “Van Huis was here about a half hour ago with a couple of economy-sized patrol officers. Said he wanted to see you.”

  9

  “ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!” said Wendy.

  You just can’t argue with that kind of logic. I paused to take a quick inventory of my recent transgressions and came up blank—she couldn’t possibly know about the flyer I took on the ten dollar instant lottery ticket after I stopped at the ATM.

  “Doll, you’re absolutely right,” I said and rocked my chair back to rack my boots on the corner of my desk. The telephone cord splashed the contents of my pencil cup into the low tide of paperwork flotsam on the top of my desk. “I’m just not sure which ‘enough’ we’re talking about.”

  “The state police. They were at the door a half hour after you left.”

  “What did they want?”

  “Well, it wasn’t me they were asking for,” said Wendy.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “Who was it?”

  “A detective and two uniform types,” said Wendy. “Hang on a sec.” The line went silent for a moment, then Wendy said, “Archer Flynt.”

  “Now, I really don’t know,” I said. “Flynt works out of the Michigan State attorney general’s office. He’s a shoofly.”

  “A what?”

  “Think of him as an internal affairs office for small-town police forces. He fans the flies—kind of a fixer.”

  “He’s camped out on the road in front of the house,” said Wendy. “He tried to push his way into the house, but I told him to get a warrant.”

  “He give you any idea what this is about?”

  “Just wanted to talk to you.”

  “I don’t know, doll,” I said. “They don’t send three guys for a chat.” I stood up, looked out my window into the parking lot, and saw only parked cars and the construction crew. If the construction crew was a surveillance operation, I’d already be up to my wrists in handcuffs.

  “You have to get them away from the house,” said Wendy. “Some of the neighbors have already called.”

  “Give me the number from Flynt’s card,” I said. She did. I wrote it down. “Van Huis and a couple of uniform types were here at the office looking for me this morning.”

  “That could have been about the shooting at the restaurant,” said Wendy.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, “Van Huis would have called Finney and arranged for me to come in before showing up with muscle to scoop me up.”

  “I have a call on the other line,” said Wendy. The line clicked silent. I walked around the desk and peeked around the door and said, “Marg?”

  Marg looked up from her entries and cast me a sidelong glance over the top of her half-frame reading glasses.

  “Van Huis say what all this was about?”

  “Most people wouldn’t have to wonder about that,” she said.

  “I had a big day.”

  “Detective Van Huis said I should call him if you came in,” she said.

  “You call him?”

  “Slipped my mind,” said Marg.

  “All I can think of is the Shatner woman thing. That was in Kentwood.”

  Marg set down her pencil and swiveled her chair to face me. “That was you? The news said it was a security guard.”

  “Yeah, I got a break there.”

  “What happened?”

  “I had lunch with Mark Behler,” I said. “Some crazy woman shot up the restaurant.”

  “Did she shoot at you?”

  “She winged one in our direction. I didn’t wait for her marksmanship to improve.”

  “So, what’s the mystery?” asked Marg. “Shoot somebody and the police will want to talk it over.”

  “We talked it over yesterday.”

  “The man the woman shot died,” said Marg. “I don’t think you’re in trouble.”

  “That’s my point,” I said and showed her the telephone. “Wendy said a couple of state cops and a detective from the attorney general’s office are camped in front of the house.”

  “They have jurisdiction out there,” said Marg.

  “So does the county sheriff, and the Shatner shooting is a local matter.”

  “What about your little adventure in Wyoming?”

  “All I did was run away. They can’t charge me with fleeing for my life. Besides, smart money bets the feds will glom on to that case.”

  “Smart money would call Farm Mutual,” said Marg. “They’re forty-five days late on two thirty-day invoices, and one of them is the four-day film job you did in White Cloud.”

  “I’ll call ‘em,” I said, “but I have couple of pressing issues here.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Marg. “My advice is, don’t forget that you have a business to run.”

  Wendy came back on the line.

  “It’s Karen,” said Wendy. “They picked her up at her house. Apparently the crime scene tape was still up.”

  “What was she doing there?”

  “She said she wanted to pick up some clothes.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

  “I told her to keep her mouth shut,” said Wendy. “But she’s having a shit-fit, screaming about being arrested for being in her own house.”

  “Great. I’ll call you back. State police still on the road?”

  “Watching the house with binoculars.”

  I took the Colt off my hip and laid it on the desk. “If they had a warrant, they’d already be in the house.” I set my spare magazines next to the Colt.

  “Art, we have to get on top of this. The neighbors are going nuts, Ben is home watching all of this, and Daniel is supposed to be home tonight.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I stood, unbuckled my belt, and slid off my holster and magazine pouches. “I’m stumped.”

  “Call me.”

  “Sure,” I said. “The cops always give me a telephone call.”

  “Not funny,” said Wendy.

  “One more thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Carnations?”

  “Nope,” said Wendy. She hung up.

  Peter Finney, Esquire, was out. I left a message, pecked the disconnect once, and got Van Huis on the line while I walked over and unlocked the equipment closet. “I just got in,” I said. “Marg left me a note to call you.”

  Van Huis said, “Yeah, right. Ah—”

  “I was hoping they were done with my sidearm,” I said, and stowed my pistol and magazines in the closet. “Can I come down and pick it up?”

  “Sure. Right. Yeah,” said Van Huis.

  “I got to make a couple of stops,” I said. “But I’ll get there.”

/>   “See, that’s the thing,” said Van Huis. “I’ve got to go out.” He paused and then added, “I won’t be back in the office until after the weekend.”

  “Okay,” I said, and picked a pair of radios from the battery charger. “I’ll see you in a little bit, or Monday. I’ve got to go, the other line’s flashing.” I clicked off, parked the radios on the desk, and locked the closet.

  “You don’t think he bought that, do you?” asked Marg.

  “I think it’ll take about fifteen minutes for him to round up a couple of blue bruisers and be standing right here.” I dialed up the number Wendy had given me for State Police Detective Archer Flynt. They told me to wait, and I got a series of clicks.

  “Flynt,” a voice growled.

  “Archie, my man. What’s the haps?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Art Hardin. My wife called and said you left a card.”

  “Where are you?”

  “My office. I think you’ve been here.”

  “Stay there,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

  “You brought the beef trust along just for a chat?”

  “You’ll find out when I get there.”

  “Look,” I said. “I’ve got shit to do. I’ll be in and out. I’m going down to the Kentwood PD. I might be back by the time you get here.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “You’re parked in front of my house. It’s about forty-five minutes to get here. Traffic’s not too bad this time of day.”

  “Just stay right there.”

  “I have to tag up with Detective Van Huis or he’s gone till Monday.”

  “He call you?”

  “Stopped by this morning. My secretary left me a note. Van Huis wants me to come down right now.” I looked at my watch—eleven minutes.

  “Yeah,” said Flynt. “Just wait at his office. I asked him to look you up.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Tell you when I get there.”

  “Like I said, Detective, I’ve got a busy day here. If you can’t tell me what this is about, call my attorney. Peter Finney. He’s in the book.”

  Flynt hung up.

  “If you’re going to scram,” said Marg, “you better get your hat.”

  “One more call, and I’m out of here,” I said. “Karen was arrested this morning. She went back to her house, but the Wyoming Police still had it sealed as a crime scene. I have to try to get her loose and me to Pete Finney’s office before I get scooped up. Anyway, you’re off the hook with Van Huis.” I looked at my watch. Nine minutes.

  The Wyoming Police passed my call around until I got Ryan Kope. He said they were working closely with the FBI on Karen’s case. “I have a couple of questions you may be able to help us with,” he said. “I have a Rotary meeting at noon, but my calendar is open until then.”

  “Thanks, but I have to go down to Kentwood on another matter,” I said. “I just need to know if you have Karen Smith so I can call her attorney.”

  “You’ll have to talk to the FBI. They sent someone to pick her up.”

  I looked at my watch again. Eight minutes.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Really,” said Kope, “I can help you out with this. This could all work out better than you think.”

  “Maybe, when I’m done at Kentwood,” I said. “Where’s your Rotary meeting?”

  “Beltline Bar,” said Kope. “The food’s great. Be there at one, and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. We can bury the hatchet.”

  “Sure,” I said, and my mind flashed to the scene in the original Stagecoach movie where a cowboy peeks into the back of a covered wagon and turns around to reveal a tomahawk buried in his forehead. “If I’m done at Kentwood,” I told him.

  “Great,” said Kope. “See you there.” I heard him chuckle as he hung up the phone.

  Seven minutes.

  I scooped up the radios and shrugged into my jacket while I headed for the door. Marg sat, spreading her lunch on her desk—diet soda, turkey sandwich, and carrot sticks. I dropped a radio in her in-box.

  Marg glowered at the radio and said, “Why not take your cell phone?”

  “I don’t want the police harassing my clients because I have their numbers in memory.”

  “I have an appointment this afternoon.”

  “Don’t answer it unless you’re here.”

  Marg let out a sigh that she finished with, “Fine.” She picked up the radio and deposited it in the top drawer of her desk.

  “You know what kind of flowers Wendy likes?” I headed for the door.

  “If you have to ask me that, I’m not surprised you’re in trouble.”

  I grabbed the door handle and turned back to Marg. “I know what I usually get her, but nothing seems to be right.”

  “Trust me,” said Marg. “When a man thinks flowers will help, it’s usually too late for flowers.”

  I opened the door. “Thanks.”

  “Try not being a jerk.”

  I said, “Too late,” as the door fell shut behind me. I ran up the stairs and shouldered open the door. In my car, I looked at my watch again. Two minutes.

  I scooted out of the lot, turned right—east—onto Forty-fourth, and watched for Van Huis’s fake-wood-paneled minivan on the way. At Breton, I turned into the bank parking lot and backed into a space.

  After sixteen minutes, I looked up from my watch. Van Huis and a marked Kentwood cruiser steamed up Breton and stopped in the left-turn lane. I couldn’t see them. The bank blocked my view—and theirs. I pulled out of my spot and eased up to the apron onto Breton. They made the left, west on Forty-fourth. I turned south down Breton.

  At the Kentwood Municipal Building, I hustled up to the police desk and asked for Detective Van Huis. He was out. Fancy that. “You can take a seat and wait,” said the officer on duty.

  “That’s all right,” I said. “I talked to him on the phone, and he said if I missed him he wouldn’t be back until Monday.” The officer searched his clipboards and looked confused. I popped a card on the desk and said, “I’ll be back Monday.”

  He shrugged.

  I left.

  Back in the parking lot, my radio squawked. “Five-six, this is Five-zero base. Over.” Marg. I clicked twice. “Lieutenant Van Huis was just here.” I clicked back and turned off the radio.

  From the parking lot, I turned south and caught the first left over to the Beltline and headed north, mindful of speed, turn signals, and amber lights. At the Woodland Mall, I stopped at the Sears Autocare Center and left my car for an oil change. I told them, “Take your time. I’m going to shop.”

  I caught a cab. Twelve bucks to the federal building—more than the ride is worth. For once I didn’t have to waltz my sidearm up to the fifth floor for a stop at the security lockers. I headed straight for the FBI office on the seventh floor. On the elevator I chuckled—with half the police agencies in western Michigan looking for me, I’d gone to a lot of trouble to wander, uninvited, into the office of the FBI. I hoped the plan was so stupid that no jury would believe a charge of fleeing and eluding.

  The directory at the elevator supplied the room number—no signs are posted on the offices. In a back hall a video camera hung from the ceiling above a solid metal door. Next to the door a keypad and a buzzer were mounted on the wall. I buzzed.

  “Yes?” asked a man’s voice.

  I looked up at the video camera and said, “Art Hardin for Matty Svenson.”

  “You have an appointment?”

  “I was at that house in Wyoming that got shot up last night.”

  The door buzzed at me, and I pulled it open to find an agent at the reception desk, an imposing fellow at nearly six feet, with a broad frame and weighing a lean and athletic one hundred eighty or ninety pounds. His olive skin and neatly trimmed black hair framed piercing black—and accusing—eyes. He said, “Agent Svenson is bringing in a witness.” His blue suit coat hung from the back of the chair he’d pushed aside to stand at the d
esk. He wore a Beretta nine millimeter in a high-ride holster on his right hip. He added, “You may take a seat,” but his tone and assertive body language made it sound more like, “Sit down and shut up.” Nonetheless, I liked the “witness” part of what he said.

  A plastic plant separated the two metal folding chairs in the cubicle that made up the reception area. I took the one closest to the door because I could get an oblique view of the monitor on the reception desk. The screen provided a split view: one of the elevators and the other of the hall and door. The hall-and-door picture didn’t come from the camera hanging from the ceiling outside, so it was a dummy. They probably had a chip-cam in the exit sign at the end of the hall.

  From a wicker flower basket on the floor, I chose a year-old copy of Grand Rapids Magazine with the address label torn off the cover. The agent watched me settle into the chair with the magazine before putting his pen to work on something out of sight on his desk. We’d shared a few minutes of uneasy truce when someone in the hall hit the buzzer. I looked up to the monitor. Detective Van Huis.

  10

  “KENTWOOD PD,” said Detective Van Huis.

  The agent hit the buzzer. I hauled in my feet to give the door room to swing and hoisted my magazine to cover my face.

  Van Huis pushed the door open. “I need to talk to Special Agent Svenson,” he said, without coming all the way in.

  “Agent Svenson is bringing in a witness for a statement.”

  “How long ya think?”

  “From Wyoming,” said the lean agent with the fat nine. “Half hour, maybe a little longer.”

  “She bringing in Karen Smith?” Van Huis stepped in and let the door settle against him.

  “You need to talk to Agent Svenson.”

  “If it’s about that home invasion in Wyoming,” said Van Huis, “I need to talk to her about one of the witnesses.”

  “You’re welcome to wait.”

  Van Huis took another half step. I could see his shoulder and elbow past the edge of the door. “No,” he said. “Thanks, but I need to go down and talk to the marshals—that’s who’s doing security on the front door downstairs, right?”

  “That’s right.”