“They’ll make me for whacking that asshole Campbell.”
“Gee,” said Ron, “you’re a policeman, just tell them you didn’t do it.”
Randy turned his head to the side. “Karen, honey, I’m sorry,” he said. His voice broke. “I’ve been a jerk. I didn’t know how out of control I was until I was shooting those stupid pillows in the hot tub. It was like I was watching someone else do it. I threw the gun and ran. I was standing in the bushes and I heard the sirens and I was glad that they were going to get me—glad that it was over and you were okay. I’m not mad about any of it anymore. It was my fault. All of it. I love you.”
“An epiphany, right here, in front of God and everybody,” I said. “We got to let him go, now.”
“He’s toast,” said Ron.
“He didn’t do it,” said Karen, her chest heaving either with emotion or from her recent exertion. “He didn’t kill Wayne.”
“Who did?” I asked.
Karen shook her head.
“He’s toast,” said Ron.
“Except,” I said, “he’s not supposed to be toast right now. He’s supposed to be dead or fleeing from a double murder.”
A pair of black-clad officers launched themselves toward the front of the house. One had a fireman’s tool for breaking windows, and the other carried a satchel. They broke a window at each end of the house and threw in tear gas grenades.
“Maybe,” said Ron, “he’s supposed to be fleeing from a double murder and then, also, very dead.”
Sergeant Franklin was on the horn again. Same message. Nobody came out. The black-clad officers, now in gas masks, set to the front door with a battering ram. Two officers went into the garage. Chuck and Paulie with black assault gear strapped on over their street-mufti disappeared behind the house.
“Son of a bitch,” said Randy.
“I take it your deal with the U.S. attorney is in the toilet if Randy takes the fall for Wayne Campbell,” I said to Karen.
“Uncle Martin is giving them the name to get me a deal.”
“Sehenlink may be the U.S. attorney, but he’s going to have a hard time making a murder witness out of somebody who was at Lake Tahoe when Wayne Campbell got whacked here in Grand Rapids.”
“I know who did it. It’s something big, way bigger than just Grand Rapids. Sehenlink wants it bad.”
“Sehenlink is going to be stone deaf if there’s a good case on Randy,” said Ron, “but that’s not our problem. We just signed on to keep Karen alive, not guarantee her a wonderful life. With Randy and his pals locked up, who’s left to spoil our day?”
“Yeah, that’s the question,” I said. “None of these guys have the kind of style that eleven million bucks could buy.”
“It wasn’t Chuck or Paulie,” said Karen, “but they know about it and some other stuff that I don’t think Randy knows. There’s something that hasn’t come out yet and Paulie told me about some guy that was sent here by the Mafia in New York.”
“Paulie!” said Randy. He twisted himself toward Karen.
I hauled on the seat belt. “Back, Fang,” I told him.
“It’s your fault,” said Karen. She leaned forward.
I wedged myself between them. “No,” I said. “Both of you quit.” Randy settled back with a sullen face. Karen started wiping her eyes with the heels of her hands.
“Okay,” I said. “The guy? What guy?”
“I can’t say any more. Uncle Martin said I shouldn’t talk about it to anyone, unless he said so. I already said too much.”
Ron made a sigh and shook his head. He turned toward me and dragged his index finger across his throat. I nodded. He reached up and hit the switch that shut off the tape recorder.
“We’ve only got a couple of minutes before they roust us, too. Here’s the deal. We score Randy here a walk,” I said and gave the seat belt another tug. “You get some rhythm on this one.” I waited for any nay votes, but heard none. “You do that with criminals all the time, don’t you, hotshot?”
Randy didn’t answer. Another tug expelled a “yes” from him.
“This is the way we tell it,” I said. “Randy’s pals drop him off, and he’s feeling really remorseful. So Randy knocks on the door and says, ‘I know I’m a jerk, and I’m sorry, and I’m going to straighten up.’” I gave the seat belt another tug.
“I know I’m a jerk, and I’m sorry, and I’m going to straighten up,” said Randy.
Karen smiled.
“So Karen says”—I made a sappy sweet smile, tilted my head side to side, and said in falsetto—“Okay, let’s talk about it.”
Several flash-bang bag grenades shook the house and flashed in the darkness.
“Your tax dollars at work,” I said and nodded at Karen.
“Oh, my God,” said Karen. “They just blew up my house!”
“They’re just trying to protect you and your property.”
“And it’s on fire!” she said. Flames from the tear gas grenades had begun to lick up the curtains.
“Try to think of it as the IRS’s house,” I said. “The flames will seem rosier.”
“You’re supposed to protect me!” she said.
“You’re fine,” I said. “Now I think we need to focus a little, because they’re not going to call the fire department until they’re done with the assault and search of the house.”
Karen made a fake dimple in her cheek with her index finger and said, “Okay, let’s talk about it.”
“Then I said”—I made my voice gruff—“‘Oh no, that’s a bad idea.’ And then Karen said …” I nodded at Karen.
“This is my marriage,” she said in a mocking sweet voice, “and I want to talk about it.”
“So we let Mr. Randy in, all friendly like,” I said. “I went to the telephone to order a pizza to nibble on while we talked because Randy here is drunk.” I gave him another little tug. “Then as the line is ringing, the telephone goes dead. While I’m playing with the phone, someone starts pounding on the door to the kitchen from inside the garage. So we all retreat to the bedroom and barricade the door.”
“I’d have let the fucker in and kicked his ass,” said Randy.
“I’m sure you would,” I said, “but tonight you’ve already had enough trouble and you don’t want any more. Tonight you feel that you’re too drunk to defend yourself. You decide to leave the trouble to the police—officers who are sober, on duty, and not suspended or deprived of their firearms.”
Randy made a glum face and stared at his lap. He started mumbling, something about “Paulie” and “rotten son-of-a-bitch.”
“So,” I said, “we retreated to the bedroom and barricaded the door. Someone—we don’t know who or how many—started working on getting through the bedroom door. We didn’t see anyone, because we didn’t hang around. We made it out the slider and to the street. Some good Samaritan calls nine-one-one on his car phone for us.”
“It’s not nice to lie to Officer Friendly,” said Ron.
“Right,” I said. “That’s why I want you to leave us here and go up and wait for us at HoJo’s on Twenty-eighth and Division. If the constabulary ever asks you about this job, you answer their questions straight. When we’re done here we’ll get a cab and meet you.”
“I have to stay here,” said Karen.
“You can’t stay here,” I said. “The doors and windows are smashed, the house is full of gas, and if they don’t get the fire out pretty quick, this place ain’t gonna be here.”
“But the guys from the Marshal Service?”
“We’ll call them in the morning,” I said. “But if you prefer we can insist that the police take you into custody.”
“No,” she said and shook her head.
“Randy,” I said. “You done mumbling? You get all of this? I have to know what you’re going to do.”
“I’m cool,” he said.
“You have to stand up on this.”
“I just want to make this up to Karen.”
“I’m going to let up on you now,” I said. “If you come at me, or if you go at Karen, you don’t get your base on balls. You’re headed for a shit shower.”
“I’m cool,” said Randy.
I thumbed up the safety and racked my heat. Ron didn’t. I let up on the seat belt, opened the slider, and eased out. Karen followed. I tucked my hand into the side pocket of my sport coat and palmed the gas canister.
Ron unlocked the door.
Randy opened the door and stepped out. He squared his shoulders, inflated his chest, and glowered at me.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.
“I wanna look sober,” he said. He bent over and retched.
Karen made a face and then looked at me and rolled her eyes.
Ron slid over and pulled the passenger door shut. The door clipped Randy on the fanny and he went down on one knee.
“You’re not very convincing,” I said. I took my hanky out with my left hand. Randy straightened up and got to his feet. I offered it to him, but he waved it off and produced a blue bandanna the size of which would have made a farmer proud.
When he had mopped up, I said, “Okay, Karen in the middle, put your arm around his waist. Randy, put your right hand on Karen’s right shoulder.”
Karen glowered at me. “I don’t want to touch him.”
“That doesn’t match the lines you just practiced. Make up your mind whether you’re going to help Randy out here,” I said and nodded, “or have a little cat snit.”
Randy cracked the first grin I had seen on him.
She put her arm around his waist and Randy followed directions. They both looked like they’d been dying of thirst and had just found a cool, clear mountain spring.
“Now,” I offered Karen my elbow, “we’re off to see the Wiz.”
7
“That about tears it,” said Sergeant Franklin. He stood hatless in the open door of his cruiser with a bullhorn cocked under his left arm, and a Glock nine millimeter dangling in his right hand. His car sat stopped at an angle to the street, idling, with the rollers on. “Right. Now, you’re all pals?”
The assault teams fled the burning house. Chuck Furbie and Paulie Milton came out the front door, grabbed the garden hose, turned it on to full whoosh, and dragged it into the house.
“What are those two hot dogs doing?” said Franklin. “Get out of the house,” Franklin said into the bullhorn. “The fire department is coming up the street.”
“Policeman’s house,” someone answered loudly.
Franklin said, “Yeah, you argue with the fire union steward.” He looked at us. “I can hardly wait to hear this.”
The red rollers of the first arriving fire truck washed across us. “Everyone out of the house,” Franklin announced on the bullhorn. A fireman in full turnout gear ran up to us. The question on his face showed through the shield of his air mask.
“Perpetrator has fled,” said Franklin. “Put it out.”
The fire department turned to it. Chuck and Paulie stumbled out the front door choking and pulling off their gas masks. They were led to the fire truck for a shot of oxygen. Randy’s sofa crashed out through the front window and tumbled to a stop. The television set and stereo were saved in the same manner.
“All right,” said Franklin, “give me a description. Who? How many? What did they look like?”
We shrugged.
“Bullshit!” said the sergeant.
“Randy Talon is drunk, Karen Smith had her eyes closed, and I ran like a dog and didn’t look back,” I said.
“Don’t talk to me unless I ask you a question,” said Franklin. “Okay, let’s find ’em,” he said into the bullhorn. Car doors slammed and patrol cars shined their spotlights through the shrubbery. Cyclone fences rattled as officers began searching back yards with flashlights. Franklin keyed up the radio, “Dispatch, call and see if you can get us a dog.”
Karen and Randy told him the story. Sergeant Franklin kept circling back. If I started to speak, he shook a finger at me.
“Got a ski mask from the lawn of the house directly behind on Paris,” the radio informed Franklin. He mellowed a little.
“Paulie picked up a piece in the bedroom,” someone informed from a gaggle of the blue suits stowing assault gear.
“Paulie!” Franklin summoned.
The white member of the salt-and-pepper crew pushed the air mask off his face and shambled over from the fire truck. Less the do-rag, he had blond hair that shagged down to his shoulders. His face was muscular with a bushy blond mustache. Six feet tall in designer running shoes, he weighed at least two-fifteen, and walked like a bear wading upstream.
“Sorry, Franky,” he said, “I kicked my backup loose.” He lifted his pants leg, revealing a five-shot hammerless revolver in a black canvas ankle holster. “Guess I need a new rig.”
Randy cast threatening eyes on Paulie. Franklin took note.
Chuck Furbie had pulled the air mask off his face and walked up close enough to hear. Taller than Paulie, but chunky, he was clean shaven—including his head—except for a dime-sized patch of bramble under his lower lip. Shaving bumps speckled his round face and trailed down his neck.
“Maybe you and your partner need to see if they have any openings in the fire department,” said the sergeant.
“We would have done the same for your house, Franky.”
“Feel free to stay the hell away from my house.”
“You’re gonna hurt our feelings, Franky.”
“I’m gonna have the detectives route me a copy of your report,” said Franklin.
Paulie walked back to his partner. A fireman appeared with a carpet satchel big as a diaper bag—Karen’s purse. “In the bedroom,” he said.
“Oh, God, thank you,” said Karen. She took the purse.
Franklin looked me and said, “You have enough tires to move your car?”
“Need a cab,” I said, “but I’d like to put my duffel bag in the trunk; it’s lying on the lawn there.”
“Sure,” he said and ordered a cab through the dispatcher.
Forty minutes for the cab. Sergeant Franklin kept digging—made it sound like idle conversation. Karen stuck to her story. Talon kept apologizing for being a jerk and telling Sergeant Franklin how much he looked up to him.
“All right,” Franklin said to me, when the taxi arrived. “What have you got to add to what these two have said?”
“I don’t have anything that adds to what they’ve said.”
“And?”
“And, when the shooting started we ran.”
“You discharge your weapon?”
“No, sir.”
“The lieutenant may want written statements, so stay available. Any more shit tonight, and I know a place where you can all cool off and sober up,” said Franklin.
Randy nodded.
“She’s on a federal beef,” Franklin said, pointing at the tether on Karen’s leg. “She’s in your custody?”
“I’m a civilian,” I said.
“She’s out on bail. Her family hired you to watch her?”
“I’ll make sure the U.S. attorney knows where she is.”
Franklin said, “I’ll put that in my report.”
I shrugged and the three of us started for the cab.
“I don’t think so,” said the sergeant. “Randy, you definitely have an appointment with the lieutenant in the morning. I’ll drop you at the YMCA and you can walk over to the station in the morning.”
“I love you, Randy,” said Karen. “We’ll talk in the morning, I promise.” She turned and threw her arms around him. Her head only came up to his chin.
“Karen, honey,” he said, his voice choked, “I love you. I want you to be careful, real careful.” He kissed her.
Franklin rolled his eyes and then looked at me and nodded at the cab. “We got to go,” I said. Karen whispered something and peeled herself loose. Both of her cheeks were wet to the chin.
“You keep her safe,” said Randy.
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“You know that you can count on me,” I said.
The ride over to Howard Johnson’s lasted like a trip to Chicago. Karen sobbed and blew her nose for the entire ride.
“I want my own room,” said Karen, as I paid the cabbie.
“Not a problem,” I said.
Ron Craig pulled up and dropped his window. “Where to?”
“We’re working on that,” I said.
“Aren’t we going to get a room?” she said.
“Chuck and Paulie can flash their tin and turn the cab driver and desk clerk in a hot second.”
“Pick another motel,” said Ron. “The trail ends here.”
“They’ve got a telephone and a copy of the yellow pages.”
“Check her in as Miss Jones,” said Ron.
“I can see some assistant prosecutor saying that she was fleeing and eluding by using a false name. Besides, some of the bad guys have badges. We need to be on private property.”
“We were just on private property.”
“Someplace with good lighting and a clear field of fire.”
“Your house?” said Ron.
“No way,” said Karen.
“Look,” I said, “I really am married. I have plenty of room. I’m suggesting that you share lodgings with my wife, two teenage boys, and an old Frisbee-getter dog. You’ll have your privacy, and you’ll be able to get a good night’s sleep.”
“You think that’s safe?” asked Ron.
“They’re already trying to kill her,” I said. “How much more trouble could she be in?”
“I mean Wendy and the boys.”
“The boys are crashed out by now, and Wendy will give us an extra gun and another set of eyes. There’s only about five or six hours of darkness left. I don’t think they’ll try again unless we’re a close and easy target. Tomorrow the U.S. attorney and her uncle can work something out.”
“What’s your call?” I asked Karen. “I’ll get you a room, if you want. Nobody’s taking you anywhere you don’t want to go.”
“Your house,” she said. “I think I want to meet Wendy.”
She started around the van. “I get to ride shotgun.”
“How did it go with the police?” Ron wanted to know.
“The good sergeant had his doubts, but I don’t think he liked the other distractors,” I said as I climbed in the back.
Private Heat Page 8
