Private Heat

by Robert E. Bailey

  “I haven’t seen any key stations for a guard patrol.”

  “There’s a security sign on the booth over there, the one with the revolving yellow light.” She slipped out of her blazer and laid it flat on the back seat of the car. Shrugging into the sweater, she flipped her hair up over the collar.

  “No windows,” I said.

  Wendy took a long drag on her cigarette and looked around. “The police station is only about half a mile up M-57,” she said.

  “They lock it up at night and use the county for dispatch.”

  “You’re trying to say that it’s just us and the bad guys.”

  “Bingo,” I said. I slapped a magazine into the Colt and put it in the right pocket of her sweater. She took it out of her pocket and held it out for me to take.

  “I’m just here to take notes,” she said.

  “Still mad about that?”

  “You were rude.”

  “You know we can’t work together,” I said. “Too many chiefs and not enough Indians.”

  “In this case, chief, you’re the better shot.”

  “You beat me at the range once.”

  “That was over who was going to wash the dishes, and the silhouettes weren’t shooting back.”

  I slid the Colt in my holster but it rattled around in the space meant for a heavy caliber auto-loader. Even with the strap in place I wondered if it might shake loose in a scuffle. I stashed the frame of my Detonics in Wendy’s gun case and put it back in the trunk. “Maybe we’ll have a quiet night,” I said. Wendy’s hand found mine and we headed into the hospital.

  A Valkyrie in white, nearly six feet tall and one hundred and eighty pounds, stood watch at the nurse’s station in Karen’s ward. She had silver streaked flaxen hair bundled ornately at the back of her head and woven with a black felt ribbon. She surveyed us with scalpel-sharp ice blue eyes as we approached. Her name tag said “RHONDA WRIGHT, RN.”

  “Rhonda!” said Wendy. “I’m surprised you’re still on duty. How’s Karen?”

  “I like to stay until I’m sure the night shift is off to a good start,” she said. “Karen is holding her own. She’s reactive to light and speech. I wish they would leave her for a day or two, but they’re coming in the morning to transport her to a private facility.”

  “Where are they taking her?”

  “I’d have to look it up,” said Rhonda. “It’s a rest home. One of those places where they warehouse human vegetables.”

  “Wait a second,” I said. “She talked to the police when they were here this afternoon.”

  “Sometimes people take a flutter of an eyelid or hand movement for more than it is,” said Rhonda.

  “She made some rather specific statements.”

  “Honey,” said Rhonda, “if she was talking to them she sure as hell isn’t talking to any of us.”

  12

  “The police took you out of here in handcuffs this morning,” said Rhonda Wright, RN.

  “They hadn’t thought that through.”

  “They thought that you had killed her husband with an axe,” she said and flopped the afternoon edition of the Grand Rapids Press onto the counter. The headline was: “POLICE OFFICER VICTIM OF AXE MURDERER.” The tag line was: “Local PI Arrested.”

  “Can’t believe everything you read in the newspaper.”

  “Too bad,” Rhonda said. “We found a torn rotator cuff, old fractures on both sides of Karen’s rib cage, and the poor girl has her nails chewed down to a nub. I was starting to like you.”

  “We just want to make sure she’s safe,” said Wendy.

  “Ed Fenton would have kittens,” Rhonda said.

  “Fenton didn’t have any problem with the marshals,” I said.

  “I suppose we could call him,” Rhonda said.

  “He could say no,” said Wendy. “Karen needs us tonight.”

  Rhonda picked up her telephone and dialed. Wendy’s face drooped. “Edward Fenton, please?” she said. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said and smiled at Wendy and me. “Just tell him the people are back to watch Karen Smith. Oh, he knows what people. Tell him Rhonda called. Thanks,” she said and hung up.

  “I hope this doesn’t get you in any trouble,” said Wendy.

  “Ed Fenton knows better than to screw with me,” said Rhonda. “Just try to stay in the room and read to Karen, or talk to her, hold her hand maybe. That kind of thing sometimes helps a lot. She hasn’t had any visitors since her uncle left.”

  “Thanks a ton,” I said. “There’s another fellow coming by to help us stay awake. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Karen’s in a double room, but the other bed is vacant. The marshals insisted,” said Rhonda. “You could rest in shifts.”

  “I’ll get something to read from the waiting room,” I said.

  Rhonda chopped her index finger at me. “Don’t let me down. I’ll call Squeaky and have him toss you out.”

  “No ma’am,” I said and smiled. I filed the “Squeaky” tidbit away for future fun at an ASIS dinner.

  “I’m going to call the boys,” said Wendy.

  Rhonda departed with a chart in one hand and an ominous coil of black tubing in the other. “I have things to see to,” she said. “Karen’s the third door on the left.”

  I found Karen propped up on pillows, wearing one of those cotton hospital gowns that are long on access and short on modesty. An IV line led to her left wrist and a catheter snaked from under the covers to a collection bag. Half-opened eyes gave her a dreamy appearance. Her hands lay palm up on the blanket that covered her lap, the fingers curled, limp and lifeless. She faced the TV set that hung over her bed.

  “All right, Karen,” I said, “quit screwing around. I know you talked to Neil Carter from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You lied to him or you lied to me. In any case you’ve lost your deal and your protection. What the hell is going on?”

  Karen’s face turned slowly and slightly toward my voice. Her chin made a small deflection but she made no sound.

  I tucked the “new language” Bible I had picked up in the waiting room under my arm, walked around the bed, and took her free hand in both of mine. “Come on, Karen. You in there?” I patted the back of her hand and rubbed it warm. “This is your four-eyed old geezer, Art, talking here.”

  Her hand twitched but not like an answer, more like she was asleep. Her head edged back toward the TV. The picture rolled in need of adjustment. I let go of her hand and fixed the picture, the wildlife channel, lions alternately chasing zebras and lying in the shade. I turned down the sound.

  “Karen,” I told her, “if you’ve talked to anybody since you took those pills I’ll eat this book. Cover says it’s the ’new language’ Bible.” I parked my backside in the chair next to the bed. “The wording is supposed to be up to date. I think it’s obnoxious. I’m going to start reading at Genesis, if they still call it that. Just tell me to quit and I’ll shut up.”

  I began reading clearly and slowly. Wendy came in and rubbed my shoulders. “The boys will be fine,” she said. “Daniel is at work, and Ben is going to spend the night with a friend. Your sister called the boys and said that she saw your arrest on the six o’clock news. She said your mother had a conniption fit. I called your sister and filled her in on the current situation.” Wendy gave me a little peck on the growing tonsure that I understand is a genetic gift from my mother’s father. I droned on and wished that Karen would sit up and yell, “Enough already!”

  Ron made his appearance an hour later, claiming an emergency trip to the grocery store. The night ticked by slowly to the tones of the ’cheap talk’ Bible. Karen didn’t cuss me out or beg for mercy. Ron slid out of his coat, loosened his tie, and took the first shift on the spare bed. I was supposed to wake him at one. I didn’t. Sometime after Noah and before the Tower of Babel, he rolled out on his own accord and we left Wendy reading while we went outside for a smoke.

  “I thought she was up and talking,” said Ron.

  “She h
asn’t said a word to us and the head nurse said Karen hadn’t talked to them either.”

  “Neil Carter said that she talked to him.”

  “And to Emmery and her uncle,” I said. We arrived at Wendy’s car. I opened the door and picked my radio up off the seat. The battery was dead.

  “Somebody told a fib,” Ron said and produced a pack of cigarettes. He offered me one. I took it.

  “Hospital hasn’t got anything to gain by lying.” I plumbed a lighter from the depths of my pants pocket, lit my smoke, and handed the lighter to Ron.

  “That leaves Carter, Emmery, and Van Pelham.” Ron lit his cigarette and returned the lighter.

  “Emmery and Van Pelham both have some connection with Arnold Fay. And Karen is scared to death of Arnold Fay.”

  “What about Carter? Ralph Sehenlink was supposed to be hot to trot over some big deal that nobody knew about yet and some out-of-town heavy hitter—serious U.S. attorney stuff.”

  “The only one talking about Sehenlink was Van Pelham,” I said. “He told me they were working a deal, but when we went to the federal building we saw Carter. Nobody mentioned Sehenlink.”

  “You trying to say that Carter is in some kind of deal with Van Pelham, Emmery, and the ever present Mr. Fay?”

  “Not an idea I’m in a hurry to try out on the authorities. But you eliminate everything else and it’s all that’s left.”

  “Karen can’t say any different as long as she’s out of it or locked up in some sanitarium.”

  “Or dead,” I said.

  “Maybe they’re just waiting for us to walk away.”

  “If she stays under, there’s no rush.”

  Ron said, “You think that they’ll take that chance?”

  “If it was me,” I said, “I think that I would err on the side of caution.”

  Ron looked at his watch. “It’s a shade after three.”

  “If someone’s going to make a move, they’ll do it right most ricky-tick,” I said, “or not tonight.”

  Ron nodded in the affirmative, dropped his butt on the asphalt, and ground it out with the leather sole of his wingtip. “I’ll sit out here,” he said, “and get the low-light video equipment up and running. I’m going to park over in the employee lot. Looks like I can get a good angle and have a little cover.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said. We walked over to his van and I got the spare battery. We checked the radios. They worked on the “talk around” channel. We were too far out in the sticks to hit the repeater. I went back inside.

  A young fellow in hospital whites sat on the stool behind the nurse’s station. He scowled at a file on his computer screen and typed notations. A gold-post earring studded his left ear and a stethoscope lay draped around his neck. He looked up as I approached. His name tag read, “FLOYD LPN.”

  “You that private eye on the news tonight?” he said.

  “I missed the show,” I said. “What did they say?”

  “That you had been arrested and released, but the investigation is continuing,” he said. “What’s it like?”

  “Being arrested sucks,” I said. “I don’t suppose that you have one of those really fat rubber bands back there.”

  Floyd, LPN dug around under the lip of the counter between us. “Not that,” he said. “I mean being a private eye.”

  “Every day is different,” I said. “Some days are boring. You search court records, and a lot of surveillance time is spent watching nothing happen.”

  “But you get to carry a gun,” he said.

  “The larger agencies put you on the street unarmed.”

  “Why?” He held out a wide rubber band.

  “Firearms training is expensive, insurance is crippling, and frankly it’s cheaper for your employer if you just get waxed.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I took the rubber band and said, “Well, suppose it’s a ’good shoot.’ You were entirely within your rights to defend your life. Then the shootee’s family sues you for wrongful death. That’s a lot of time spent wrangling and a lot of money spent on legal fees regardless of the merits of the case. It’s cheaper to train a new employee than it is to defend an old one.”

  He shook his head. “I just thought that it would be more interesting, you know!”

  “Every day is like playing hooky,” I said. “Go down to the local community college and get an associate’s degree in law enforcement. You’re young enough for the police department. Maybe that’s what you really want to do, anyway.”

  “I spent a lot of time and study on nursing,” he said.

  “So you’re good with books and study,” I said. “Law enforcement isn’t an easy curriculum.”

  “I just don’t know if they’d take me.”

  “So far you’re the only one telling you no.”

  Floyd, LPN smiled.

  “In the meantime, has anybody called about Karen Smith?”

  “Just her uncle, about an hour ago.”

  I looked at my watch. “Up late. What did he ask?”

  “He wanted to know if she had regained consciousness.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him that she was still in a coma.”

  “He mention that she talked to him and two other guys this afternoon?”

  “Not possible,” said Floyd. He dug through the charts and selected Karen’s. Running his finger quickly down the page, he shook his head. “Nothing like that here.”

  “My mistake. You told him we were on the job?”

  “He didn’t ask,” said Floyd, LPN, “and Rhonda said to answer only direct questions about you guys.”

  “I think you’ll find that you have a natural talent for the police department.” I held up the rubber band, said, “Thanks,” and walked slowly down the hall. The rooms on both sides were occupied. About halfway down, maybe fifteen or twenty feet before Karen’s room, I found an unlocked closet. Inside, cleaning supplies lined the shelves and a mop and pail stood in a low cement sink. The door lock worked but had not been set.

  A short distance past Karen’s room the corridor turned left. On the wall a lighted exit sign featured a glowing red arrow pointing left. I followed the arrow and found a short hallway—no more rooms—just a door to the outside with a panic bar handle. On the window a sign warned that opening the door would set off the fire alarm.

  I took the pistol out of my holster and wrapped the rubber band snug around the grip. I slid the pistol into my waist band just behind my right hip. The rubber band would keep it from sliding down into my trousers and I wouldn’t have to worry about it falling out of a loose holster in a scuffle.

  Back in the room, I took a turn at reading, but moved the chair so that my back was to the wall and I could watch the door. Wendy pulled the curtain and crashed on the spare bed.

  Around a quarter to seven, Moses parted the waters and Ron called me on the radio. “There’s an ambulance out here in the drive,” he said, “and you’ll never guess who the attendants are.”

  “I give. Who is it?”

  “Chucky Wucky and his pal Paulie.”

  “Stand by.” I stood up, plopped the book on the bed tray, and shook Wendy. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” I said. She had her sweater draped over her like a blanket. I pulled it off and folded it over my arm.

  “They’re coming in the door with a gurney,” said Ron.

  Wendy sat up, not quite focused. “What?” she asked.

  “Come on, come on,” I said and scooped her off the bed onto her feet. I grabbed her purse and hustled her out the door. Karen’s eyes were closed. She seemed to be sleeping.

  “Just a minute,” said Wendy. Her voice took an edge.

  We started up the hall, but I heard the elevator rumbling. We stepped into the mop closet. A thin wedge of light came in between the door and the frame. I twisted the lock on the door.

  Wendy hung her arms around my neck. “What’s going on?” she wanted to know. Her bosom nestled softly into m
y chest. She’d removed her bra when she’d laid down to sleep.

  “Shh,” I said and keyed up my radio. “Ron, back your truck up to the front of the ambulance and prop up your hood.”

  “Roger-dee.”

  “I’m going off the air,” I said. “I’ll be out in a minute.” I turned off my radio and put it in my coat pocket. I could hear them coming down the hall.

  “I guess they’re gone,” said Floyd, LPN.

  “That’s just as well,” said a gravelly male voice. “He’s a pain in the ass anyway.”

  “I’ll look around,” said a third male voice. “Maybe they just stepped out for coffee. They’ll want to say goodbye.”

  “I can help you load her on the gurney,” said Floyd, LPN.

  There were quick heavy footfalls in the hallway. The third male voice said a series of, “oops,” “sorrys,” and “excuse-mes” and then the door to the mop closet started rattling. I took the .380 off my hip, reached my arm around Wendy, and pointed the muzzle up at about chest level on the door.

  It occurred to me that police officers often moonlight in other public service jobs. Chuck and Paulie would make a good job of claiming they were legit. If I got busted, Ron was on his own and outgunned.

  “That’s the mop closet,” said Floyd, LPN. “The only one who has a key is the janitor.”

  “Where’s the coffee room?”

  “Back down to the lobby and turn left.”

  “Thanks.”

  Fast, heavy footfalls faded down the hall toward the fire door. I reached over to twist the lock but the footsteps were on their way back. The door rattled again. After a pause and a rustle of clothing, the edge of a credit card came though the crack of the door. I put the barrel of the gun across the crack above the lock to stop the card from sliding down.

  “Shit,” said the third voice. Chuck—I could make out a slice of his face through the crack in the door. He wore some kind of blue coveralls, latex gloves, and a two-day growth of beard—no doubt trying to let the shaving bumps heal. He scowled and pursed his lips around his protruding tongue as he sawed the card across the front sight of the Colt.

  “Is there something you want in there?” asked Floyd, LPN.