Private Heat

by Robert E. Bailey

  The warehouse had no rear exit. A six-stall truck dock faced the street at the south end of the building. Fay would have to drive out the door that he went in or walk out over the truck dock to leave the building.

  Ron parked north of the warehouse. I took the south side. I could see through the windows that the second-floor lights had been turned on. Fay did not leave and no other visitors arrived. At a quarter after eight I left Ron on the job alone and departed for my meeting with Sergeant Franklin.

  The Chance is one of those bars that prominently features a green neon shamrock on the sign. It fills up at the end of each patrol shift with police groupies and off-duty cops trying to drown adrenaline in beer.

  It’s a peaceful place. Most everyone is armed. Absolutely everyone is polite. If good-natured jibes get out of hand, the patrons take the trouble elsewhere, or at least into the bathroom or out the back door. No one goes to watch or remembers hearing anything.

  The inner door banged shut behind me and gaveled the crowd to silence. Shephart sat perched on a stool about halfway up the bar. He was the only one not looking at me. An empty shot glass and a brown longneck beer bottle were removed from his spot on the bar and replaced with fresh ones. Sergeant Franklin, in civilian attire, sat alone in a booth in the dim corner past the pool table.

  “Hardin,” said Franklin. He beckoned me over. “Glad you could make it. You’re a half-hour late.”

  The low din of chatter returned to the establishment. I stopped at the jukebox and pecked out a couple dollars’ worth of tunes, including “One Shot of Happy and Two Shots of Sad.” A shame Sinatra hadn’t ever recorded it.

  I walked over and joined Franklin. “What are you having?” he asked. He had a fresh but untouched beer in front of him.

  “Nothing, I’m working,” I said. I slid in opposite him.

  Franklin waved at the barmaid. “Coffee,” he said. “Cream and sugar on the side.”

  “So? You called the meet,” I said.

  “So why didn’t you clue me in on Furbie and Milton?”

  “I did.”

  “Not by name,” said Franklin. “And not like they were in shit up to their eyeballs.”

  “How many guys picked up a gun at the scene? What do you want from me?”

  “I want to know who else.”

  The coffee arrived. “Cream and sugar on the side” turned out to be a shot of cognac. I poured it in and stirred. Franklin smiled. I waited for the barmaid to leave.

  “What makes you think that there’s someone else?”

  Franklin’s mustache drooped. I picked up my coffee cup and held it out for a salute.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I gotta let it warm up a little.” He rubbed his jaw with the palm of his hand. “Fresh filling—still a little sensitive.”

  I put my coffee down. “Too hot,” I said. “Wanna trade?”

  “I want to know who else, because right after I pushed Cox and Shephart to check the hot tub, Randy Talon’s house burned down. And somebody has to be hiding Furbie or at least keeping him one step ahead of the department.”

  “Furbie’s dead,” I told him and watched his face. He didn’t know.

  “You’d better be lying,” he said and grabbed my coat by the lapel.

  I stared at his hand until he let go. The crowd should have been staring at us. They weren’t. Franklin raised his beer, but then set it back down without taking a drink. I tapped my index finger on my ear.

  Franklin shrugged.

  I took out my notepad, found a blank page, and wrote, “YOU’RE WIRED.”

  Franklin took my pen and wrote, “BULLSHIT.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said. I stood up, fished out a five, and dropped it on the table.

  Franklin backhanded the five off the table and beckoned, waggling his fingers at me. I handed him the pad and pen. He wrote, “Step into my office.”

  It was my turn to shrug. Franklin handed me back the pad and pen, got up from the table, and headed for the men’s room. I picked the five back up, put it on the table, and followed him.

  Franklin turned the water on full force in both sinks, then turned to me and said, “This is bullshit.”

  “Furbie’s body was found in the burned-out city plain wrapper that he and Milton drove on duty. His head and hands are missing, and what is left of his body is burned beyond recognition. Lieutenant Emmery had the car covered with a tarp down at the city impound yard.”

  “Son of a bitch!” he said. I watched his face while he thought about it. Then he asked, “How do you know it’s Furbie? How do you know it’s the car?”

  “The VIN tag and plates are gone, but I recognized some of the body damage on the car. Two people drove that car. One of them is in custody and one’s missing. Why would some stranger turn up roasted in Furbie’s ride? This ain’t rocket science.”

  “Maybe Furbie did it so he could hide.”

  “That’s a little complicated for a man who’s well known and should be running and not looking back.”

  “I want to see the car.”

  “Impound yard is closed and full of nasty bow-wows. I got something better to watch tonight. If you want to meet the players, this is your shot.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The boat.”

  “Emmery said fire burned off any prints or residue. What’s left to watch?”

  “Emmery lied,” I said. “Randy’s blood was all over the transom.” I showed him the picture.

  “Transmission fluid that was stored in the rafters,” said Franklin. “Emmery gave Shephart the lab report.”

  I fished out the printouts I got from Bernie and the DBA on Arnold, Burns, and Fay and gave them to Franklin. He studied them, but the light didn’t go on.

  “So what’s this supposed to mean?”

  “It means that Lieutenant Emmery is married to the daughter of the late Martin Van Pelham’s law partner.”

  “This is a small town.”

  “His wife’s maiden name was recently added as a partner at Arnold, Burns, and Fay.”

  “Maybe it’s someone else.”

  “FBI says the Social Security number is fraudulent. Fay pulled the boat out of the impound yard today, washed the evidence off, and pulled it into a warehouse off Fulton. He’s there now. You think that this town is that small?”

  “I knew when I ran you that you were some kind of fucked-up, sneaky-ass fed! I’m not doing a thing until I talk to somebody.”

  “I’m a retired fucked-up, sneaky-ass fed. So who sent you here tonight? Who set the meet for eight o’clock? Who got you the warrant for the wire?”

  My radio came to life with Ron’s voice. “Five-six, this is five-seven, we got shots fired up on the second floor of the warehouse, over.”

  “Lieutenant Emmery,” said Franklin. “Let’s go.”

  24

  Sergeant Franklin straight-armed the door, turned left—and left again—and we made long strides down a short hallway toward the rear exit door. Franklin stuck his hand down the neck of his shirt and came up with a body mike in his fist. He talked to it. “Meet us at the car, Shep. Hurry!”

  A black patrol-sized Chevy sedan lurked in the parking lot, at the rear of the building, among a half-dozen civilian vehicles that were more pulled up and stopped than parked. I walked around to the passenger side of the vehicle. “In the back,” said Franklin. He took the wheel and rolled the window down.

  Detective Shephart crashed out the back door and hustled to the driver’s door. “What’s this about? We don’t have enough.”

  “We got shots fired,” said Franklin. He stuck his hand out the window, palm up. “This is the assistant chief’s car.”

  “And I’m signed for it,” said Shephart.

  “And you had a shot and a beer. Give!”

  Shephart delivered the keys and a sullen face. “That low-rent cocksucker ain’t setting behind me.” He ran around the front of the car to the passenger door.

  Franklin screwed the keys into th
e steering column and cranked up the engine. “Humor him,” he said.

  I slid over to the seat behind Franklin and hooked up my seat belt. Shephart climbed in, and Franklin picked up the hand mike to the radio.

  “Dispatch, this is David-eleven, we have shots fired on the second floor of a warehouse. …”

  “Lincoln, north of Fulton, east side of the street,” I said.

  Franklin told the dispatcher, hung up the mike, and roared out of the parking lot. He hit the lights and siren. The rollers must have been in the grill because I could see the light reflected, red and blue, on the traffic as the street came apart in front of us.

  “Five-six, five-seven, over.”

  “This is seven, go.”

  “I’m on my way with the cavalry,” I said. “Anybody depart the warehouse yet?”

  “Negative that,” answered Ron. “We have two vehicles and three visitors. Vehicle number one is a black Beamer with Connecticut plates. It got here first. White male driver carried in what looked like a toolbox. I got film, but he mostly had his back to me. The second car got here about half an hour ago. It’s a subcompact with Michigan plates and has an airport rental decal—two white males, not young guys, and both in coveralls. They carried a large brown sack inside, over.”

  Shephart watched me with his mouth open. Franklin roared down Burton to Division Avenue and turned north.

  “You have any police on the scene yet, Five-seven?”

  “Negative that, but I can hear sirens, over.”

  “Tell him to stay clear. We’ll handle it,” said Franklin.

  “Sergeant Franklin says stay clear for the locals, over.”

  “Roger that—big time. Seven, out.”

  “Six, out.”

  “What the fuck is this, Looney Tunes?” said Shephart. He looked at me. “You unzip that suit and you turn out to be a big gray rabbit eating a carrot?”

  “No, Shep,” I said, “I’m a big white rooster with a long wooden paddle and a southern drawl,” I said. Franklin made a skidding left onto Fulton.

  “I told you not to call me Shep.”

  “This is five-seven, we have more shots fired,” said Ron. “A couple of small-caliber pecks and then somebody cut loose with a cannon. Sounded like the first shot.”

  “Hang tight, seven, we’re almost there.”

  “The two white male subjects from the subcompact just came out carrying the brown sack. They’re in the car.” The radio fell silent for a moment before Ron continued. “The car is eastbound on the first street north of the warehouse. Should I pursue, over?”

  Franklin shook his head. In front of us, on Fulton, the rail warning lights and bell went off. The gates started down. Franklin turned north along the row of furniture factories.

  “Negative that, seven. Hold your position and we’ll have them between us.”

  Franklin cranked left on the wheel and we were westbound.

  “The car is headed directly for an approaching police vehicle, over,” said Ron.

  Red warning lights flashed at the rail crossing. The oncoming car hit its brights. Our car leapt the rail grade. The approaching locomotive laid on its air horn a block south. The oncoming subcompact crossed into our lane and came on. Shephart groped for his seat belt.

  Franklin hit the brakes and spun the wheel. The car skidded sideways, filling the street. The oncoming car climbed the left curb and passed on the sidewalk behind us.

  “Jesus, Franky, that was my side!” said Shephart.

  Franklin backed up over the curb, cut the wheels of the cruiser toward the fleeing suspects, and floored the gas pedal. The subcompact stopped on the tracks and stood bathed in the headlight of the approaching train. The locomotive hit the brakes and the train couplings banged in rapid-fire succession. The engineer laid on the whistle in short, rapid bursts.

  The driver of the subcompact threw the shift lever into park and the doors flew open. The men abandoned the vehicle. The passenger had short white hair, and a brown burlap bag in his hand. The driver stood taller and thinner than the passenger. He had dark hair and kept a hand over his face. They stepped east off the rail grade. A long whistle blast announced the launch of the subcompact as the train plowed it down the track bent around the front of the locomotive and sowing a cascade of shredded parts along the right of way.

  “Two white males in blue coveralls fleeing east on foot from the rail crossing one block north of Fulton, toward the furniture complex,” Franklin transmitted. “Wanted for questioning concerning the shots-fired call on Lincoln Avenue.”

  “Damn!” said Shephart. “They got away.”

  Franklin stood on the brakes and lurched the big Chevy into a nose-dive stop. He pulled the shift lever into reverse, threw his right arm over the seat, and nailed the gas. “The hell they did,” he said.

  “Jumping Jesus, Franky!” said Shephart. “You ain’t the only cop on the police force. You did what you could. I’m signed for this goddam car!”

  We slid out onto Lincoln Avenue and Franklin got us going north in a cloud of tire smoke. “Christ Almighty, we got a civilian in the car,” said Shephart.

  The train slowed but had already passed the next street north. Franklin wasn’t looking. The next street revealed the locomotive pushing the now-burning wreckage in front of it. Franklin bet it all on the last street before the viaduct. He cranked a hard right. The left front tire rubbed the wheel well. The right rear hiked high in the air. We were in a northbound four-wheel power slide but facing east. Franklin straightened the wheel and stood on the gas. We launched east down the street with Franklin cutting the wheel a little left to catch the drift of the rear of the vehicle. Lights flashed at the rail grade.

  “Franky, we ain’t gonna make it!”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Stop this car and let me out,” said Shephart.

  “On the other side of the track.”

  “Franky! On the left! The lady in the station wagon is backing out!”

  On the north side of the street, a giant mid-sixties green Dodge station wagon backed down the drive. The driver, a woman with her hair in rollers, looked down toward the rail crossing.

  “We got it,” said Franklin. “We’re by her!”

  We weren’t. She clipped the left rear of the cruiser and we were east-bound doing flat spins. The rail grade came up and so did the locomotive, pushing flaming wreckage in front of it.

  “Sweet Jesus!” said Shephart. He said it over and over, once per revolution. We were backward approaching the crossing. The front of the car drifted around to challenge the oncoming locomotive and crushed sub-compact head on. We slid sideways across the rail grade and then all the flames, whistles, and noises were behind us. Our car came to rest facing north.

  “You fucking crazy Mick!” said Shephart. “You nearly killed us!”

  The cruiser engine had stalled. Franklin cranked the starter and stared at Detective Shephart. The locomotive was out of sight but coal-hopper cars slowed to a walk speed as they passed us ten or twelve feet to our left.

  “I thought you were getting out, Shep,” said Franklin.

  “What’s the point?” said Shephart. “Besides, I’m signed for the car. Why the hell did they leave their car on the track?”

  “They knew their car was made,” said Franklin. “They couldn’t outrun the radio, so they wanted to stop the train with them on one side and us on the other.”

  “We have to put the civilian out,” said Shephart. “That broad in the station wagon is probably going to sue the department for whiplash.”

  The engine caught. Franklin pulled the shift lever into drive, spun the wheel to the right, and stepped on the gas. “Can’t put Hardin out,” said Franklin. “Right now he’s the only one who knows what’s going on.” The rear of the cruiser started a rhythmic hula dance, but it pretty much quit when Franklin got it up to sixty or so.

  The train had come to a complete stop by the time we got down to Fulton. Westbound traffic stacked up and som
e fire rigs came screaming toward us in the eastbound lane.

  “I don’t see shit,” said Shephart. “I especially don’t see our two monkeys.”

  Franklin got on the radio and found two approaching patrol units east of the rail crossing. He had one search north of Fulton and the other search south. We did a slow rumba through the factory complex, with Shephart jumping out occasionally to check dumpsters. We came up empty. So did the patrol units.

  Franklin ordered up the dogs to search the factory complex. Shephart’s pager came to life and he called dispatch over the radio. They told him that he had just caught a double homicide at a warehouse on Lincoln north of Fulton.

  “I’m in David-eleven with Sergeant Franklin and a witness,” said Shephart. “We’re east of the rail line.”

  “You’re the only homicide detective on duty,” said dispatch. “You and Cox are up next on the roster, anyway.”

  “Take me over to the rail crossing at Fulton,” Shephart told Franklin. “I guess I can crawl under the train.”

  “Climb over,” said Franklin, “you won’t get your knees dirty.”

  “Thanks,” said Shephart.

  “Call your dispatch,” I said. “Have them ask the rail company to part the train at Fulton in order to facilitate the search, clear traffic, and allow fire and rescue units access until they can get the train back under way.”

  Franklin called the police dispatch but learned someone else had already set the plan in motion. We approached the rail crossing in the empty oncoming lane. A black Chevy Blazer with rail security markings and red rollers loitered at the blocked rail crossing. A couple of rail cops stood alongside the vehicle as a brakeman worked on the south side of Fulton to uncouple the cars. One of the rail security officers walked over to the cruiser.

  “You Sergeant Franklin?” he asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “Two guys ran south along the top of the train,” said the rail dick through Franklin’s open window. “They jumped off about a mile down and ran west across the overpass toward West Chicago. Patrol officers said that we should tell you about it.”