Dead Bang (12 page)

“I didn't kill him.”

Pete's face thawed a little. “Do you know who killed John Vincenti?”

“No,” I said. “Couple of guys drove up and dropped his dead body in the middle of a surveillance I was on. I just took some pictures.”

“So you called the police?”

“Yeah.”

Pete poised his pen over his yellow pad. “Which department?”

“The City of Hamtramck and the City of Detroit.”

Pete made a note. Without looking up he said, “Flynt and Van Huis are in the hallway with a photo of two men supporting John Vincenti between them. Your fingerprint is on the photo.”

“I handled the photographs,” I said with a nod, trying for the ring of sweet innocence.

Pete looked up and dropped his pen on the pad. “What is the part you are not telling me?”

“I knew who it was.”

“And?” asked Pete.

“I called my detail commander. He said it was a local law-enforcement matter—told me to break off and do the surveillance after the locals had tidied up.”

Pete wrinkled his forehead. “What is a detail commander?”

“I was still working for Uncle Sam.”

“And so?”

“And so I signed a piece of paper that said I would keep my mouth shut for fifty years, or they could lock me up at Fort Leavenworth, without a trial.”

“Does that have anything to do with the death of John Vincenti?” asked Pete.

“No,” I said.

Pete rocked back in his chair. “So you gave your name to the police?”

“Not exactly.”

“Why?” asked Pete studying his pad.

“I couldn't tell them I was watching a dead-drop mailbox.”

“A what?”

“See,” I said. “That's the deal. Cops ask questions like that. So, I called the Hamtramck Police and told them there was a drunk passed out on the bus bench on Dunn Road.” I felt myself shrug. “The buses don't run after six at night and the air was pretty chilly.”

“Do you remember the name you used?”

“Jesus Christ, Pete,” I said. “No, I didn't give a name. It was, like,
anonymous.
Like when you don't give ‘em a name, Pete. Same, like, when I dropped off the photos. Anonymous.”

“You should have given them your name,” said Pete.

“I didn't.”

“You said you called the Detroit Police,” said Pete.

“Yes, I did. And no, I didn't give them my name.”

“Why did you call the Detroit Police?”

“Very long story.”

Pete glanced at the door. “Perhaps, just the salient points.”

“Hamtramck cops showed up and dragged the body across Dunn Road to the bus bench on the Detroit side.”

Pete gave me the big-eyes-and-blank-face stare he uses in place of yelling, “Bullshit, sailor!” Finally he said, “They did what?”

“They dragged the body across the street and parked it on the bus bench.”

“Rubbish!”

I planted my left palm on his desk and raised my right palm over my head. “I was there, counselor.”

“Why on earth would they do that?” asked Pete, his face still undecided.

“Pete,” I said, “it's like Dunn Road is the border between Hamtramck and Detroit. It was dark. And this is just a guess, but, you know, if they left the body on the Detroit side, it wasn't their problem anymore.”

Pete rested his bearded chin in his hand and said, “So you sent the pictures to the Detroit Police?”

“No.”

“I can hardly wait,” said Pete.

“Well, I told the Detroit cops the same story I told Hamtramck.”

“And I suppose they came and dragged the body back across the street to Hamtramck.”

“Wasn't a ‘they,'” I said. “Just one guy. Like, maybe, the patrol sergeant, something like that.”

Pete closed his eyes. I could see his eyeballs moving around as if searching for notes written on the inside of his lids. After a moment, he inhaled sharply, opened his eyes, and asked, “What do the numbers and letters written on the back of the photograph mean?”

“That's the license plate number of the car that dropped off the body.”

“Rubbish!”

I shook my head.

“One last question?”

“Sure,” I said.

“To whom were the photographs given?”

“I left them with the desk sergeant in Hamtramck,” I said. “He said the detective was Helen, Harriet, something like that. It was thirty years ago. I don't recall the last name—probably come to me if I don't think about it.”

“A Helen or Harriet at the Hamtramck Police?”

“Yes.”

Finney slipped his notepad into the top drawer of his desk. “I think we are ready for the detectives,” he said. “Keep your answers to ‘yes' and ‘no.' I will do the explaining. And do not wander into the part about dragging the body across the street.”

“I didn't want to tell the story at all,” I said. “Mark Behler is the one stirring up the stink on this one.”

“And how much did you tell Mark Behler?”

“Stonewalled him—except about the nickname, Jack the Lookout, but he already knew that.”

Pete rubbed his palms together on the way to the door. He swung the door wide and said, “Gentlemen, please come in.”

Van Huis and Flynt swooped through the door, their overcoats on the flap and fly like the capes of comic book heroes. Van Huis's face glowed red over tight jaws. Flynt played a game face and insisted on patting me down.

“Where are your shoes?” he asked.

“By the sofa,” I said.

They declined to sit down. Flynt searched my boots. Van Huis produced a pocket-sized tape recorder and played Mark Behler's tape.

“Look,” said Flynt. “Cooperate with us on this matter, and things may
work out a lot better than you think. We can tell the judge how much you helped.”

I looked at Finney.

Finney said, “Frankly, gentlemen, unless you have more tape than you have played for us, you simply haven't a case. Mr. Hardin conveyed information that was, as he said, available from public sources and probably common knowledge in Detroit in those days.” He smiled. “Thirty years ago.”

Flynt's hand shot to the breast pocket of his suit coat. He produced a clear plastic evidence bag and smacked it on the desk. It contained the photo I'd taken of the two men carrying Jack the Lookout Vincenti to the bus bench. The picture had not faded and framed a thumbprint that had been dusted white.

“Maybe Mr. Hardin would like to explain how his fingerprints got on this picture.” He bent at the waist and pushed his face in front of mine. “Like to keep a little trophy, do you?”

I backed my head up as far as I could. “Whoa,” I said. Flynt's breath would have poleaxed an ox at ten paces. “What did you eat for lunch?”

Finney turned the bag and photo over. “I think that you will find that the handwriting on the back of the photograph is Mr. Hardin's as well.”

Flynt snapped his head to look at Finney and then straightened up. “Wha-what?”

“Yes, I believe this is a license number. The license number of a vehicle involved in the matter you are investigating.”

“Oh,” said Flynt.

“Yes,” said Finney. “This is one of several photos Mr. Hardin provided the Hamtramck Police.” He grinned. “Do you have the rest?”

Van Huis fixed his hot glower on Flynt.

“Who did you give the pictures to?” asked Flynt.

“Mr. Hardin cannot be precise due to the intervening thirty years but recalls the detective's first name to be Helen or Harriet.”

Flynt produced his pocket notepad. “I'll look into that,” he said, his face beginning to glow red.

“Tell me, Detective Flynt,” said Finney, sounding casual, “do you often use a journalist as a stalking horse in your investigations?”

Flynt left a card.

• • •

The elevator door opened, and I walked straight into Detective Van Huis's pointed finger. He said, “You played me.”

“Archer Flynt played you,” I said.

“Flynt's a good cop. You're a smart ass.”

“Jerry, I did everything I said I was going to do. You left your office. The desk sergeant expected you back, but you told me you'd be gone until after the weekend. I left a card.”

Van Huis jerked the card out of his shirt pocket and flicked it at me. “Cute!”

I pinched the card from the floor and had to put my hand on the elevator door to keep it from sliding closed. “I suppose you're going to tell me my pistol isn't ready to pick up,” I said as I stepped into the lobby.

“State police still have it. They're shooting it for ballistic tests today.”

“So everything I told you was true, and everything you told me was a lie—and you're pissed?”

“It's not lying,” said Van Huis. “It's a permissible deception.”

“Ah!” I said. “Technique.” I started toward the door.

“Don't get smug, Hardin.” Van Huis took a couple of quick strides to catch up and fell in step. “So what did you do, sit in the parking lot till I left?”

“In the bank parking lot on the corner there on Breton.”

Van Huis shook his head. “Hardin. Honest to God.” He laughed, and we took a couple of steps in silence. Van Huis shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “You have any idea how much time I wasted looking for your sorry ass?”

“How'd you get involved in this, anyway?”

“Your office is in our jurisdiction,” said Van Huis. “Flynt touched base with us, the chief mentioned the Behler tape, and here I am chasing my tail.”

“You were at the FBI.”

Van Huis stopped. I turned to look at him and said, “I was in the chair behind the door at the FBI. You didn't tell the agent who you were looking for. If you'd have come all the way in the door, all I could have said was, ‘Gee, I thought you were out of town.'”

Van Huis's face deflated until his cheeks drooped.

“Come on, Jerry,” I said. “You were walking on my heels all morning. I never thought you'd look for me at the Federal Building.”

We started for the door again. “Ryan Kope, over at Wyoming PD, had a copy of the state police bulletin on you,” said Van Huis. “He called me after your little chat on the telephone. Said you asked about someone they'd turned over to the FBI.”

“Shoulda known.”

“One question.”

“Trade you,” I said.

“I don't know,” said Van Huis, tilting his head and squinting his eyes.

“Grease for the goose.”

“Off the record,” said Van Huis.

“Sure you trust me?”

“If nothing else, you're good at keeping your mouth shut.”

“Shoot,” I said. “One question.”

“You have anything to do with whacking that Mob guy?”

“Nope,” I said.

Van Huis closed his eyes and paid me a couple of nods.

“Okay, my turn,” I said. “There were more than two people on the Shatner woman's hit list?”

“Yep,” said Van Huis.

“One last question,” I said.

“Wasn't the deal,” said Van Huis.

“Follow up question, like on TV,” I said. “Behler gave up the tape, right? I didn't hear that he got locked up for obstruction.”

Van Huis nodded. “Prosecutor heard the tape. You're off the hook. You didn't need me to tell you that.”

“What did the Shatner woman say to Behler? I mean the last thing, before she tried to plug him.”

“Wasn't on the tape.”

“Erased?”

Van Huis showed me a vacant face. “Maybe didn't get recorded. The prosecutor didn't think it was important. We heard the bang, though.” He turned his face to me and leaned closer to add, “If you'd shot her after she was on the ground you'd be handcuffed to a table for this conversation.”

“What on earth did you guys eat for lunch?”

Van Huis shrugged. “Flynt took me to a Korean joint—some kind of pickled cabbage,” he said. “He likes it. I'm not gonna hurry back.”

“If I'd been handcuffed to the table, I'd have told.”

Van Huis gave up a grin. “Told us what?”

“Same thing I told you,” I said, “just a whole lot sooner.”

As we approached the entrance, a mid-thirties fellow with a polo shirt, leather sandals, and a ponytail chasing a bald pate stepped through the door with a cameraman hard on his heels. “Hey,” he said.

“Chet,” I said. “How's the hammer hangin'?”

“Can't seem to miss my thumb,” he said. “Who's this?”

“Detective Van Huis,” I said. “Kentwood Police.”

“Chet Harkness,” he said and offered Van Huis his hand. “I'm Mark Behler's producer.”

Van Huis gave Chet's hand one quick pump and asked, “You just get in from Florida?”

“Hell,” said Chet, “I'm from Marquette. This ain't cold.”

“Cold enough for me,” said Van Huis.

“What fantastic luck,” said Chet. “The shooting at the Woodland Mall is Mark's wrap-up story for tonight's show. If both of you could come on the show live—”

“Ho, no,” said Van Huis, showing both hands in surrender. “See ya.” He scooted out the door, pulling his overcoat together.

“I'
D HAVE TO BE BRAIN DEAD,”
I said.

“Mark is pretty tough,” said Chet Harkness. He made his lips taut and then said, “You got him once—on air.” He shrugged. “Probably just a fluke.”

“Has zero to do with Mark Behler.”

“What then? It's free advertising. You'd be in a hundred and fifty thousand households, not to mention the radio teaser spots. I can get ‘em on the hour and half hour, right into the heart of the afternoon drive time. Who knows how many people?”

“Including the county prosecutor. The Shatner shooting is still under investigation. The prosecutor would be hanging on every word.”