Private Heat (15 page)

The door exploded open. Shephart and Lieutenant Emmery grabbed
Cox, jerked him upright, and pulled him back.

Emmery stood just over six foot, looked to weigh a lean one-eighty, and, in his mid-forties, probably already had twenty years on the police force. His face was cleanly shaven and he wore his dark brown hair short and brushed back without a part. The rest of him was a study in contrasts. He wore sharply creased wool trousers and a wash-and-wear polyester white shirt. He carried a bright chrome magnum revolver with a snubbed nose and wore an expensive watch on a cheap leather band.

“The camera was on, you fucking meathead,” said Shephart. They grappled Cox back toward the door.

“You're out of your league!” said Cox, his face a bug-eyed crimson glower. He twisted his torso and lurched his shoulders in an attempt to free his arms from the grip of his lieutenant and his partner. “You fucking plastic badge wannabe,” was the last thing he managed to say before Emmery and Shephart got him into the hallway and pulled the door closed.

I figured the same was probably true of overpaid parking enforcement, but I kept it to myself. In the hallway they got loud. I wiped Cox's sweat and spit off my face with my hand.

Pete Finney headed the short list of defense counsels who forced the antacid tablets into full bloom at the County Prosecutor's Office. He had sharp legal teeth, and juries fell in love with his English accent.

Pete shambled in wearing a rumpled suit and took the chair that wasn't bolted down. A man of average height, he was sliding into his fifth decade and losing the battle of the bulge. He had a close-cut beard and a full head of hair, both jet black despite his age, either by chance or design. I had never asked.

“Well, Arthur,” he said, “you have them in quite a state.”

“This place is wired.”

“Believe me, Art,” he said and rummaged a yellow pad from his satchel, “they wouldn't dare.”

“They're pretty desperate.”

“You seem fairly calm, considering the circumstances.”

“Oh, hell, I didn't shoot the dumb bastard!”

Pete raised his head to study me with raised eyebrows.

After a moment of assessing my face he said, “I doubt that bloody matters. It's not a question of guilt. It's a question of whether or not they have an adequate case.”

“Even Bert and Ernie, out there, can tell that my weapon hasn't been fired.”

“Officer Talon was murdered with a hatchet. A hatchet that bears a palm print and a thumb print they purport to be yours.”

I leaned back in my chair. When I got my jaws back together, I said, “It probably is. Karen tried to part my hair with a hatchet. I took it from her and threw it back into the garage.”

“Someone did part Randal Talon's hair,” said Pete, “quite nearly down to his shoulder blades, and left the handle sticking out like a fucking wooden ponytail.” He flopped the yellow pad onto the desk and produced a ballpoint pen from the breast pocket of his coat. “We'll need to speak with Karen Smith.”

“You are particularly well read in,” I said.

“I've been here for two hours,” said Finney.

“Karen took a handful of sleeping pills when she heard that Randy was dead,” I said. “She's out at Mount Hollowview Hospital in Greenville. Marg said that she hadn't come around yet.”

“Not good,” said Finney. “When did you last see or speak with Randal Talon?”

“It was at the house on Union Street at about one in the morning. He was in the company of Sergeant Franklin when we left. I put Karen in a cab and we went to HoJo's.”

Pete gave me a sly grin. “Well, there's hope for you yet.”

I laughed. “It wasn't like that at all. I'd arranged for Ron Craig to pick us up there.”

“That's even better,” said Pete, smiling and scribbling on his pad. “A ménage à trois.”

“I think you may be hopeless,” I said and chuckled. “Ron worked the outside on this job. He gave us a ride out to my place because my tires had been slashed earlier in the evening.”

“Just what job was this?”

“I thought you knew because you mentioned Karen Smith.”

“Humor me.”

I groaned. “Karen Smith worked for Wayne Campbell, Wayne Campbell—”

“Is that where your involvement with these people began?”

“No.”

“The short version,” he said.

“It all boiled down to a divorce. Martin Van Pelham is Karen Smith's uncle. He hired me to protect Karen.”

“You were at her residence pursuant to those duties?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Craig was also there?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I was inside the house. Ron watched the outside.”

“Officer Talon came to the house while you were there?”

“Twice,” I said.

“The first time was to pick up his personal property?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm told that you had some kind of altercation with him.”

“He went nuts. I hosed him down with pepper spray.”

“Why?”

“He knocked down the sergeant and tried to get to Karen.”

Finney's eyes snapped up briefly from his pad and then he looked down and scribbled. “Sergeant who?”

“Franklin,” I said. “Did they leave that part out?”

Finney smiled without looking up. “Perhaps they didn't feel it was relevant. You said he was there twice.”

“Yeah, later, he kicked in the door and shot up the place.”

“He was the intruder?”

“Yes.”

“What time was this?”

“Shortly after eleven,” I said.

“What, exactly, did he do?”

“He cut the telephone line, smashed his way into the house from the garage, and shot the place up.”

Finney rolled his eyes up from his pad and said, “You could have shot him at that point but you did not.”

“No sir, I did not,” I said. “Karen and I fled the residence and were picked up by Ron Craig. Ron called the police.”

“How did you come to be in Officer Talon's company after the police arrived?”

“Ron and I apprehended Officer Talon after he fled the residence when the police arrived.”

“Why wasn't he taken into custody?”

“Karen covered for him.”

Finney flopped his pen onto the pad and sat up. “You're putting me on,” he said.

“I guess you had to be there.”

“That is asinine, Arthur.” He put his hands flat on the desk. “What exactly did you say to the police on the scene?”

“Nothing. Sergeant Franklin was in charge of the scene and he told me not to speak unless he asked me a question.”

“Did he ask you for a statement?”

“He asked me if I had anything to add.”

“And you said?”

“I said that I couldn't add anything to what had been said.”

“Arthur, you can't testify,” said Finney. “Just what do you want me to do?”

“Defend me.”

Finney shook his head and picked up his pen. “What about Mr. Craig?” he asked and tapped his pad with the end of his pen. “Did he participate in this little charade?”

“No, sir,” I said. “I had him drop us off and leave before he could be questioned.”

“He made no statement to the police on the scene?”

“No, sir.”

Finney let a smile creep onto his face again. “What time did Mr. Craig pick you up at Howard Johnson's?”

“One-fifteenish,” I said. “He was waiting for us.”

“What time did you arrive at your residence?”

“Little after two. It's about forty-five or fifty minutes out to my place.”

“When did Mr. Craig depart?”

“Ron didn't leave until around four-thirty. I fixed everyone a little early breakfast.”

“Then what did you do?”

“Collapsed,” I said. “I'm getting old.”

“What time did you get up?”

“Marg called at about a quarter to ten,” I said. “The feds were looking for Karen.”

“They were looking for Karen at the Union address at seven in the morning,” said Pete. “All they found was Officer Talon.”

“That little weasel!”

“Which weasel would that be?”

“Neil Carter,” I said. “He knew that Talon was dead and never said a word.”

“Yes, he did,” said Finney. “He just said it to Detectives Cox and Shephart. The marshal called in your location. That's how you got your ride to the Hall of Justice. And, by the way, you are not out of the woods with Mr. Carter yet. He said you as much as dared him to arrest you.”

I shrugged. “He pissed me off,” I said. “I only did what I had to do to protect my client. The house was no longer habitable, and I didn't think she would be safe there.”

“We can take that up with Carter,” he said. “Was there anyone who saw you at your house and would know what time you returned and left again?”

“My wife was up when we got there, but she crashed out before two-thirty. She was already up when I got up to take the call from Marg.”

“You sleep with your wife?”

“Of course.”

“How provincial,” he said with a little merriment wrinkled at the corner of his eyes.

“It's the right-wing politics,” I said. “It leads to aberrant behavior.” I waited for him to finish his note. “What do they figure as the time of death?”

“Officer Talon appears to have been murdered in the garage and then dragged through the house and deposited, fully clothed, into the heated Jacuzzi. The pictures are frightful, and they're having the devil's own time computing a time of death.”

“Sometime between one
A.M
. and seven
A.M
.,” I said.

“Actually, it's a bit narrower than that. Officer Franklin dropped Talon off at the YMCA at about a quarter to two, but I'm afraid that doesn't help you much. This may well turn on what time your wife got out of bed. Hal Flowers is the assistant prosecutor on this, and he's hot to get you arraigned.”

“He running for judge again?”

“He'd like a little ink,” said Finney.

“Christ,” I said, “between political ambitions and professional jealousies, Lady Justice needs a blindfold just to keep from throwing up.”

“What professional jealousies?”

“It's been a carnival all day,” I said. “They started with a snitch in the holding cell, and then Cox told me that he didn't care if I was guilty or not so long as I took the fall.”

Finney fell back in his chair and studied me with knitted brows. “You can't be serious!”

“You always look at me like that,” I said.

“What did you tell this person, the person you thought to be an informant?”

“That I got busted for mopary and I thought he was a snitch.”

“What did you tell Detective Cox?”

“I told Cox I wanted to speak with my attorney.”

“And he said he didn't care if you did this?” Finney's face had not improved.

“He said I was good for it and that I could rot.” I shrugged. “I cued their video recorder. The pedal is on the floor here.”

Finney looked under the table. “How does it work?”

“Step on it once,” I said, “you turn it on—step on it again, you turn it off.”

“Where's the camera?”

“From the commotion, I'd say it was in the room next door, on the other side of that one-way mirror.”

“And while the camera was on he said that he didn't care if you were guilty.”

“Yeah, when he stuck his face in mine and called me a ‘low-rent cocksucker.'”

“And you know this is on film?”

“They told him the camera was on when they came in here and peeled him off me.”

“Who?”

“Detective Shephart and Lieutenant Emmery.”

“I'll be right back,” said Finney.

He wasn't, he stayed gone for a very long time.

“I don't work for you and I don't give a fat rat's ass what you think,” said Detective Shephart as he walked in the door with Pete Finney.

“I'll bear that in mind and address myself to your lieutenant from now
on,” said Finney. He turned to me and said, “We have this matter straightened out. The prosecutor has directed that you be released.”

“Great,” I said. “Who killed Officer Talon?”

“We don't know that yet,” said Finney, “but the authorities are satisfied that it was not you.”

“Mr. Hardin,” Shephart said, “I'm sorry about the inconvenience, but you could have saved yourself a lot of trouble if you would have just talked to us. All we're doing is trying to find the truth here.”

I looked over at Pete. He held his satchel of a briefcase in front of himself while studying the ceiling with upturned eyes and pursed lips.

“Detective,” I said, “your partner and I have reached an agreement. He's going to call me Art, and I'm going to call him Jim. If you could give up calling me a ‘low-rent cocksucker' in private, you wouldn't have to call me ‘Mr. Hardin' in polite company.”