Dead Bang (33 page)

“Karen?” asked Wendy.

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess the entry didn't go so well. Matty wants us down there.”

I ran through the shower, not altogether sure I got wet everywhere, and hurried back into the room still drying off. Wendy scurried into the shower. I pulled on a pair of jeans and installed my rig—holster and ammo pouches—onto my pistol belt as I threaded it through my belt loops. That done, I ran into the bathroom, shot on some deodorant, and combed my hair.

“Towel,” said Wendy.

I handed one in and went back to the room for a blue broadcloth shirt. I shrugged into a black herringbone sports coat as Wendy came out of the bathroom wearing a ponytail and a towel. She slid panties over her naked pubis.

“Good enough to eat,” I said.

Wendy blushed. “I hope it grows back. I didn't have much to sacrifice.”

“I thought it grew back in thicker.”

“Not at my age,” said Wendy, as she shrugged into her bra.

“I'll set up a chart on my new computer and post the progress.”

Wendy rolled her eyes up to me and said, “I knew I could count on you, hon.” Wendy made short work of donning black slacks, a cream-colored shell, and a light jacket.

At the door to the room, I said, “It could be a pie chart.”

Wendy said, “You're going to get hit.”

Silent, we walked hand in hand down the hall, kissed in the elevator, and in the lobby discovered that the Camaro had been stolen.

“I went out for food,” said Jamal. Shawna, the desk clerk, grazed happily from a bag of White Castle hamburgers. “When I got back your car
was gone.” He offered me the fifty I'd fronted him to watch the car. I took it. He looked sad.

“Your idea to go for food?”

“No,” said Jamal.

“You got played,” I said, and walked up to the desk. “Telephone.”

Shawna smiled, mean, and said, “You gots to use the payphone.”

I walked around the counter and picked up the telephone. Shawna tried to take it out of my hand, and I turned my back to be out of reach and dialed 911.

“Police emergency.”

Shawna grabbed the telephone. I twisted it out of her hand, put it back to my face, and said, “My car's been stolen.”

Wendy came around the counter and squeezed herself between me and Shawna. Shawna put her hands on her hips and stared at Jamal. Wagging her head back and forth for each word, she asked, “You just gonna stand there?”

“Do you have a pencil?” asked the emergency operator.

“You paid for the burgers,” said Jamal, his face a sinister deadpan. “And you never pay for the food.”

The desk had a notepad and a pen. I said, “Yes.”

The emergency operator said, “Write this down.”

I copied a telephone number she gave me and read it back to her. She said, “Call that number during normal business hours. They will give you an appointment to come in and make the report. Give them this reference number.”

The number had five digits. “You mean I have to make an appointment to report my car stolen?”

“Are you behind in the payments?”

“No,” I said. “The car has no liens on the title.”

“Call the number during normal business hours,” said the operator. She hung up.

I clicked the telephone once, got a dial tone, and pecked out Matty's cell number.

“Who you callin' now, fool?” asked Shawna.

“FBI,” I said.

“Agent Svenson,” answered Matty.

“I can't make it to your party,” I said. “I just got downstairs and found out my car's been stolen.”

“Get a cab and get down here now,” said Matty. “Report the car later.”

“How long to get a cab, Jamal?”

“Half hour if you want to go to the airport,” said Jamal. “Anywhere else, call 'em when the sun comes up.”

“I heard,” said Matty. “You're at the Crest Park?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I'll get you a ride,” said Matty. “Be in the parking lot.”

She hung up.

I tore my notes off the pad and folded them into my pocket.

“That's twenty dollars for the telephone,” said Shawna.

“Put it on the bill,” said Wendy.

“I don't put nothin' on the bill, and you ain't suppose to be back here.”

“You think I'm in your space now?” I asked. “Wait until I get back! Your space will be at thirteen hundred Beaubien.”

“Where that?” asked Shawna.

Jamal laughed. “Detroit Police headquarters.”

“Fool!” said Shawna.

A black Chevy sedan, red and blue lights flashing from the grill, bumped up the apron from Jefferson and whisked into the portico. “Day-yam!” said Jamal. “You see the number on that car? That's the police chief's car.” He squinted at me. “You a cop?”

“Nope,” I said. “Just an old gumshoe.”

Wendy and I scooted around the counter. As I pulled open the door to leave, I looked back at Shawna. Her eyes were brown BBs in a field of white, and her mouth hung open like the loading ramp of a cargo bay.

“Tell your friends to bring my car back before this gets too ugly to fool with,” I said.

“I don't know 'bout your car,” she said.

“That's the way I'm telling the story if my car's here when I get back.”

Wendy pulled on my hand. We stepped into the lot. A uniformed police sergeant stood in the open door of the sedan.

“You Hardin?” he asked. He had ginger hair that curled around his hatband and pale Celtic face.

“Yes sir, I am. This is my wife, Wendy.”

He pointed with his thumb. “In the back. Let's go.”

We piled in. He said, “McNeal. Do up your belts. This is an ‘E' ticket ride.”

McNeal flipped on the siren, roared backwards, and spun the car end for end. We skidded left onto Jefferson and pulled about two G's bolting under Cobo Hall onto M-10, the Ditch. Ahead of us patrol cars with lights flashing kept the left lane clear.

“I need an appointment to report a stolen car?” I asked.

McNeal, both hands on the wheel and not looking back, asked, “You behind any payments?”

“No liens on the title,” I said.

“It's already parts,” said McNeal. “Don't worry about it. Insurance company will buy you a fresh one.”

The joints in the pavement clicked under the car like a clock ticking at double time. “My son's car,” I said. “An '86 Camaro with a LT1 crate engine, custom headers, and a tuned exhaust. Not like we can buy another one.”

“I don't think they'll chop that one,” said McNeal. “Probably paint it and use a scrap VIN plate to get tags.”

“What're the chances of getting it back?”

“We'll do the best we can,” he said.

I asked, “What're the chances of getting it back?”

“Slim to none,” said McNeal. “Sorry.”

We popped out of the Ditch onto Southfield Road with a loud
foop.
At Nine and Ten Mile roads, the intersections were held clear by suburban police cruisers. We went right on Eleven Mile and north on Marshal toward a dome of white light circled by helicopters that looked like mosquitoes with long white stingers. McNeal keyed up his radio and announced our location. Cruisers blocking the intersections moved to clear the way.

We eased past two ambulances and a fire truck. Matty stood in the middle of the street wearing a Windbreaker emblazoned with “FBI” in large white letters. She beckoned us with her arm and then stuck out her hand to halt the car. We piled out.

“Art, you don't have to do this,” said Matty.

Wendy held onto my arm with both hands. “Don't have to do what?” she asked.

“Khan thinks he and his son are going to get the money and drive away,” said Matty. “He insists that you personally hand the money over.”

“What about Karen?” asked Wendy.

“Karen is duct-taped to a chair and wired with plastic explosives. When Khan and his son drive away, we go in and disarm the explosives.”

“You're just going to let them drive away?” asked Wendy.

“The car is rigged,” said Matty. “We can turn it off and lock the doors when they're clear.”

“How do you know they won't detonate the explosives with a cell phone?”

“We shut down the local cell towers,” said Matty.

“Satellite phone?”

“Nothing's perfect,” said Matty. “This is our best chance to get Karen out. You walk to the door, hand over the suitcase, and walk back. You going to do this or not?”

“I have to talk to my wife,” I said.

Matty tapped her watch with her finger. “Khan's son has been awake since the kidnapping—doing uppers. The psychologist says he's borderline and not improving.”

Wendy and I stepped into the shadow of an ambulance. “Art,” said Wendy, “Karen is a friend but we still have two sons who need us now. They need their dad.” She threw her arms around me. “And I need you.”

I hugged back and said, “If I hand them the money, that restores their honor. They think they're going to walk away winners. I just hand over the suitcase.”

“You think it will work?” Wendy asked into the shoulder of my sports coat.

“I think it can work,” I said. “And I think it can go to hell in a heartbeat. I think if we walk away and Karen dies we'll waste years recriminating and making each other unhappy.”

Wendy let go of me and took a step back. She patted my chest with her hands. Her eyes red and face tormented, she said, “Do it, do it.” She threw her arms around me and strangled out one more, “Do it!”

I rubbed her back and kissed the top of her head. Matty started calling us. Wendy let go. I took my Colt out of the holster and tucked it into my waistband at the small of my back.

“Gimme your pistol,” I said.

Wendy fished it out of her handbag, and I snapped it into my holster. Wendy and I stepped back into the light holding hands. She wiped her eyes with her free hand.

“All right,” I said to Matty. “We're ready.”

Matty held out a fat gold fountain pen with an onyx jewel on the clip. With her other hand, she held her headset tight to her ear. “This is our guy,” she said. “See him? Oh-two, see him?” She nodded at me. “Don't shoot him.” She clipped the pen to my hanky pocket. “Mike and chip-cam in the clip,” said Matty. “Now the entry team sees and hears the same as you.”

A gray Lexus pulled into the drive and stopped behind the white SUV. The driver, wearing an FBI Windbreaker, stepped out of the car, leaving the motor running and the door open. He hustled into the nearby darkness with his hands in the air.

Matty handed me an earplug with a hoop to hold it on my ear. “Put this in your right ear. Keep Khan on your left. You will hear me,” she said. “Do what I tell you, when I tell you.”

I slipped it on. Matty clicked her headset. “You hear me?”

Her voice had a ghostly presence in my ear. “Yes, ma'am.”

Matty tapped her headset. “Don't shout. I get your voice from the fountain pen mike. Let's go.” She stopped and put her hand flat on my chest. “Wait, I gotta have your sidearm.”

I held out my coat. Matty took Wendy's Maverick .380 off my hip. “That's not your regular sidearm,” said Matty, her face doubtful.

“Kentwood has the Detonics,” I said. “The Shatner shooting. I plan to pick it up when I get back.”

We walked to a white van with an open sliding door. Inside, men in shirt sleeves manned video screens, wearing headsets like Matty's. One of them handed me a black suitcase, a very heavy suitcase.

A sedan pulled up, and Khan stepped out of the passenger-side rear door. His neck brace teed up a smug face, and the black and blue of his bruises had shifted in spectrum to yellow and brown with the occasional hint of green.

“How smart are you now?” asked Khan. “Where is your joke for this?”

I tried for my best deadpan and said nothing.

“You will learn respect,” said Khan. He spread a sneer around for everyone. “All of you.”

Matty said, “Take him the money.”

“I want to see the money,” said Khan.

“You saw the money,” said Matty.

“If this is not a trick, you can show me the money,” said Khan.

“Put it on the ground,” said Matty.

Kneeling beside the bag, I zipped it open. Damned if it didn't look full of money—twenties in bank wrappers, but stacked a little too close and a little too neat. Khan reached for the stacks. I slammed the lid.

“You can play with it later,” I said.

“You will put your money from your pocket in there,” said Khan.

From my pocket, I added Jamal's fifty, some small bills, and the Canadian change I had left from the coffee I purchased at 7-Eleven in Windsor.

“Why do you have Canadian money?” asked Khan. I could see wheels turning in his head.

“I was at the casino in Windsor when they called me to come down here and play bellhop for you.”

“I am glad you had some money left,” said Khan. “It is not enough for too many bullets, but I can buy gasoline to burn infidels in their beds.”

I zipped up the case and said, “Aren't you just a bundle of charm?” We started for the front door.

“You should not gamble with money that is not yours,” said Khan. A half dozen steps toward the house, he yelled something in Arabic. A shot shattered a window and thudded into the ground in front of me.

W
E STOOD IN A PETRI DISH
of icy white light, a half dozen steps from the door of the house, without a bush, or even a shadow, to offer sanctuary. With Kafkaesque calm, Matty Svenson provided the translation of Amed Khan's outburst in my earplug. She whispered, “'This is a trick. Explode the woman. Send me to Allah. God is Great.'”

Khan lurched forward. I dropped the suitcase, grabbed him by the neck brace, and pulled him in front of me. A kick to the back of his leg dropped him to his knees. I snatched the Colt from my waistband and wedged the muzzle in Khan's neck brace. “Show me Karen Smith alive, or I'll show you Amed Khan dead!”