Dead Bang (3 page)

Van Huis snapped his pad shut and squared his shoulders. “You trying to tell me that tiny woman pulled off another round after you shot her with that pocket Cuisinart you carry?”

“She let one go on the way down, but she had already racked the hammer
for that one. She was strong as an ox. I had to stand on her hand to break her grip on the weapon. I think she was dusted.”

“Horse tranquilizer?”

“Just a guess,” I said. “She was zombied out. No expression and rock steady while she reloaded the weapon.”

“Why didn't you jump her while she was reloading?”

“The guy in the tan suit tried that, and they wheeled him out of here in a ziplock bag.”

“While she was reloading?”

“No, I think she was still unloading,” I said. “She was fifteen feet away, and after she had the first bullet in the cylinder, the gun was loaded good enough to kill me.”

Van Huis gave me a prune face but looked over at Patty Oates and asked, “We still have Behler's tape recorder?”

“The tape recorder went to the state police crime lab with Hardin's sidearm,” said Patty, hunched over her camera as it flashed. She lowered her camera, turned to face us, and said, “It was pretty much exploded, but there was no tape in it. I nicked my thumb checking for the cassette.”

“You know if Behler is still here?” asked Van Huis.

“He was outside with his camera crew at one of the ambulances,” said Patty.

“C'mon,” said Van Huis, with a nod toward the mall.

I followed him to the yellow police tape at the front of the restaurant, and he lifted it for me to duck under. “You didn't tell me if you had your weapon out,” he said.

“No sir, I didn't.”

Van Huis followed me under the tape. “I didn't care for that ‘unloading' crack.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, right,” he said.

“I try to keep that stuff to myself.”

“It's written all over your face. You're lucky I can't charge you with possession of a crappy attitude.”

A gaggle of newsies and cameramen had formed at the back of the ambulance. Bright spring sun warmed the temperature to the low sixties. We found Mark Behler sitting in his shirt sleeves on the rear step of a Life Anchor ambulance. A lady med-tech wearing a white shirt with sewn-in military creases and black cargo pants wrapped Mark's hand in gauze. His face had been spackled and his toupee combed in place.

“How bad is that?” asked Van Huis.

“Just a nick on his thumb,” she said. “I gave him a Band-Aid, but he wanted me to wrap his hand for the cameras.”

“That's as big as a boxing glove,” said Van Huis.

“This is the third take,” she said.

A male voice in the crowd of newsies said, “Mark Behler, Woodland shoot-out. Take three.”

Mark Behler looked at the camera, and the med-tech wound gauze. He said, “Mark Behler, Channel Six News. We are at Woodland Mall, where the easy access to firearms has caused yet another tragedy here in greater Grand Rapids, Michigan. A young mother is fighting for her life and the life of her unborn child. One man was killed, and three were injured, including this reporter, in a shoot-out between a surly off-duty security guard and a sad and very troubled woman.”

R
ANK HATH ITS PRIVILEGE
. For Detective Lieutenant Gerald Van Huis, privilege yielded a small cubicle of precious space in the windowless—and Tokyo-subway-crowded—Kentwood Police Department. Van Huis could usually be found with his collar loose and his sleeves rolled a turn or two to keep the cuffs clean. Today, he sat at his desk wearing his suit coat with his tie cinched up to his Adam's apple. He folded his hands atop the yellow pad on his desk and, by way of announcement, said, “The prosecutor is talking ‘vigilante.'”

Pete Finney, my attorney, sat to my left across the desk from Van Huis. A faint smile bloomed on his face while he stared at his notes but wilted before he looked up to speak. He said, “My client was in fear for his life.”

Van Huis patted the yellow notepad on the top of his desk and said, “Your client identified himself as a police officer.”

“Mr. Hardin,” said Pete, his English accent making it sound like
Hah-din,
“never represented himself as a police officer.”

“I have three witnesses who say he did,” said Van Huis.

“Mr. Hardin tells me he announced himself as a detective,” said Finney.

“He's a
private
detective. And the prosecutor is still talking vigilante.”

“Mr. Hardin's license reads ‘Detective,'“ said Finney.

“Counselor, you're making this harder than it has to be. I haven't read Art his rights. At this point he's a witness. I need his statement.”

“You transported Mr. Hardin in handcuffs,” said Finney.

“Policy,” said Van Huis. “I took them off and let him talk to you in private and unescorted in the lunchroom.”

“The lunchroom is the end of the upstairs hallway,” said Finney, “hardly what I would call private. Not to mention that three of your officers developed a sudden need for coffee while we were conferring.”

Van Huis rocked his chair back, thumping the divider wall. “When we get into the new building, we'll have more room,” he said with a shrug downsized to a small tilt of his head. “Right now”—he pointed a finger at me—“I need to know why Art said ‘detectives.' Plural. With an ‘s.'“

“Clearly Mister Hardin felt that she would surrender if she were opposed by more than one person,” said Pete.

“I want to know if any of Art's people were there and what his relationship was to the woman who did the shooting.”

“Mr. Hardin has told me that he did not know the woman.”

“Let me refresh his memory,” said Van Huis. He thumbed up a page in his notepad. Squinting his eyes, he backed up his head until he read, “Peggy Shatner,” then shot me a hot glance.

I made big eyes and showed Van Huis my open hands. Pete patted the desk in front of me so I'd look at his hand and Van Huis wouldn't be able to read my face. Van Huis let his shoulders go round and said, “She was a retired accountant. Worked as a temp at Merchant's Insurance.”

Pete watched me play my best poker face, then took his hand back. I had done work for Merchant's Insurance, but I rarely went to their office and had never seen the woman before she shot up the pizzeria.

A door banged against the wall. A policeman said, “Ma'am, you can't go in there.”

I heard Wendy snap, “Take your hands off me!”

I said, “Uh-oh!”

“You said my husband was not under arrest, and I want to see him right now.”

I started out of my chair, but Finney tugged on the sleeve of my suit coat. Van Huis bolted to his feet as Wendy appeared in the doorway. She wore a scowl, a burgundy sweater and slacks, and a uniformed policeman's hand on her shoulder.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” said the officer as he placed his other hand on Wendy's opposite shoulder.

Wendy let her tooled leather handbag drop to the length of the strap and straightened her arm. She made a half turn toward the officer and focused a hot stare on the tip of his nose.

I said, “Oh, shit.”

Pete said, “Wendy!”

Van Huis raised both hands in surrender and said, “Wait!” loud enough to be heard in the courtroom next door.

The officer removed his hands. I stood in time to catch Wendy as she threw her arms around me and buried her face into the space between my neck and shoulder. She said, “Thank God.”

I kissed the side of her head and said, “I'm okay, Kiddo.” She hugged me tight. I rubbed her back. “Everything is going to be all right.” I rested my cheek on the side of her head and found her hair stiff with lilac-scented hair spray.

“It's okay, Ted,” said Van Huis. “You're right. She shouldn't be in here. But, Mrs. Hardin owns Silk City Detective Agency. I needed to ask her a couple of questions.”

“Boss, I'm sorry. She just—”

“Really, Ted. It's okay,” said Van Huis.

Ted walked off, his heel cleats clicking the tile floor.

“Mrs. Hardin—” said Van Huis.

“It's Silk City Surveys,” said Wendy.

“Mrs. Hardin hasn't anything to say,” said Finney.

“We're investigating a homicide, Counselor,” said Van Huis.

Wendy exploded out of my arms. “Homicide?” she asked.

“Wendy,” said Finney, “anytime a person is killed, it's a homicide.”

Wendy turned her scorching eyes on Finney.

“Thus far,” said Finney with a glance at Van Huis, “no one has suggested that Art is criminally liable.”

“I need the answers to some questions,” said Van Huis.

“You have no evidence of wrongdoing on the part of Mr. Hardin,” said Finney.

“Until the bullets have been recovered from the victims, I can't say who shot who.”

“You cannot say Art shot anybody,” said Finney.

“Art's weapon had been fired. I can hold him for seventy-two hours for investigation,” said Van Huis.

I eased Wendy into my chair, rubbed her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. The rolled turtleneck of her sweater concealed the chain of her gold butterfly pendant. She straightened the chain and centered the butterfly.

“Mr. Hardin has not been charged,” said Finney.

Van Huis said, “We're working on that.”

“Mr. Hardin will not be making any further statements,” said Pete, “and he is not a flight risk.”

“Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of,” said Van Huis. “He'll stay here. And every time he gets on a tear, the entire department ends up on overtime.”

“I'll keep Art with me,” said Wendy. “We have to pick up a friend at the airport. How much trouble can we get into there?”

• • •

“I've always wondered something,” said Pete Finney as we strolled into the fading light and growing chill of the parking lot outside the Kentwood Municipal Building. “If it is not too personal?”

“Really?” I said. My right hand fell into Wendy's left, our fingers indexed, and I gave her a little squeeze. She squeezed back. “Over the years you've asked me about my religion, my sex life, and my politics. What on earth could be too personal?”

“That was business,” said Finney. He made a start as if he felt a chill and hauled a buzzing cell phone out of his pocket. “Finney,” he said, knitting his eyebrows. “I am sorry, but we already have a client in the matter.” His shoulders squared and turned his back to me. “I don't bloody care. … Refer them. … Carl Norton. … Carl was with the prosecutor's office.” He snapped the phone closed and said, “Sorry for the interruption.”

Wendy shrugged.

Pete showed me the telephone before he put it away. “Threw the last one in the dustbin,” he said. “Started buzzing in my pocket while I was summing up.” He stashed the phone in the pocket of his Savile Row suit coat while we took a few silent steps toward his red Miata convertible.

“You had a personal question?” I asked.

“Right,” he said. “I always wondered why you two ran separate detective agencies. Seems like a natural for you and Wendy to work together.”

We laughed. I raised Wendy's hand to my mouth and kissed it. Still holding hands, we turned to Pete and said, “No!” like a pair of two-year-olds asked to share our toys.

Pete said, “Oh.” He made a nervous scratch at his beard with the tips of his fingers. “Well, there you have it.” He opened the door of his Miata and deposited his satchel of a briefcase behind the seat.

“Sharp car,” said Wendy.

“Not much on the snow,” he said. “Lincoln's in for service, and my wife has the Explorer to take the boys to band practice.”

“Guts it out,” I said.

Pete slid off his suit coat, revealing red and green striped suspenders,
and said, “The telephone call I just received was from my partner. They are holding Mark Behler. Something about a missing audio tape.”

“Maybe wearing jail scrubs will refresh his memory,” I said.

“Van Huis released you based on witness statements. That could change, depending on what the tape reveals.”

“I told the woman to put the revolver down. She thumbed the hammer. I shot. She shot. She said something to Behler and cranked off one more. Behler screamed like a wench,” I said. “And that's what's on the tape.”

“The prosecutor is mumbling about obstruction charges for Behler if the tape doesn't turn up,” said Pete. “And if it does, and there is any indication that you knew that unfortunate soul, things will get dicey.”

• • •

Wendy drove and stared glumly out the windshield. I broke the silence at the corner of Breton and Forty-fourth. “I had to go talk to Behler. Really wasn't any choice.”

Wendy allowed me one sidelong glance before turning right onto Forty-fourth Street.

“You've seen his show. Behler says, ‘Art Hardin declined our invitation to come on the show and air his side of the story. Here are the facts he didn't want to defend,' and then he dumps a load of manure.”

Wendy let the steering wheel spin until the wheels straightened and then clamped her hands on at two and ten. “I want to know what happened,” she said, paying pained attention to the traffic.

“I met Mark Behler at Sbarro's. We sat down for lunch. A crazy woman came in and started shooting people.”

“And that's it?” asked Wendy, punctuating the question with a nod of her head.

“Honest to God, hon.”

Wendy shook her head at the traffic. “You know her family is going to sue us, whatever the prosecutor does.”

“I guess my funeral would have been cheaper.”

“That's not what I meant,” said Wendy. She took her right hand off the steering wheel and started digging into her purse on the seat beside her.