Dying Embers (12 page)

In the middle of the terminal floor red velvet theater ropes guarded a stark white Lexus convertible. A placard on the roof of the car announced the name of a local car agency.

I lifted the camera to my face, swallowed some air, and framed up the Lexus in the viewfinder. As my bearded buddy stepped into the frame I belched, Fidel snapped his face toward me, and I touched off the shutter. The flash caused Fidel to make an ugly face. He started toward me with long quick steps.

I leaned to the side as if to shoot around him, but kept him centered in the viewfinder. I got a good three-quarter shot before he planted his hand on his face, pretending to rub his eye.

“What the hell are you doing?” he said in a ripe baritone and midwestern accent. His eyebrows were holding hands.

“Howdy,” I said. “Don't it beat all what folks will pay for half an automobile?” I stuck my hand out. “Jubal Jackson, Toop'lo, Miss'sippy.”

“What?” he said, his face growing red.

“Well, I sure am sorry if I give y'all a start—just wanted a pitcher of this here car.”

Junior stopped short. He looked at the car and then back at me. “Lexus is a fine automobile,” he said. “Maybe you ought to rent one and give it a try.”

“Sure don't have the money fur that, but it'd be right neighborly for y'all to take my pitcher by it.”

“Sure,” he said. He put out his right hand palm up.

I snatched his right hand into mine. “What'd y'all say your name wuz?”

“Andy,” he said. His eyes narrowed and his grip tightened.

I squeezed back until his eyes widened. “That's what I like,” I said, “a feller with a man's grip.”

“You wanted a picture?” he asked. The question sounded a little urgent.

I released my grip, planted the camera in his hand, and walked over by the automobile. When I turned around he snapped the shot, lobbed the
camera toward me in a high arc, and walked off. I snatched my new straw hat off by the brim and caught the camera in the hat.

“Hey, Andy,” I called after him, “d'ever anybody say as how y'all look like that there Castro feller?” Good old Andy made a dismissive wave without looking back.

“Andy,” I said to myself and looked at the camera in the hat. “A lot of Andys. Can't tell the players without a program.”

I watched Fidel, a.k.a. Andy, wander out the door and walk down the outside of the building to where he could watch the baggage return through the front window. He set his bag on the ground.

I sat at a bank of telephones where I could watch him, set the hat with the camera in it on my lap, and dialed up Wendy, collect. She had it in two rings and said she would accept the charges.

“Hi, Hon,” I said.

“Now what?”

“I'm in Brandonport, at the airport.”

“Oh, I thought … ”

“No, I haven't been arrested, not yet. I'm calling because I need to sit here and watch a fellow I saw at Yesterdog when I met with Scott. Now he's in Brandonport. He took the same flight I did.”

“Grand Rapids is a small town,” said Wendy. “Maybe he wanted a hot dog.”

“I thought of that.”

“You are supposed to be looking for Jack Anders.”

“There's a little glitch here,” I said. “Your pal Dunphy gave me a credit card for expenses but didn't authorize the bank to let me use it.”

“I've never met Dunphy.”

“Don't you report to him?”

“He doesn't know we have people in.”

“Ho-lee shit!”

“You didn't tell him, did you?” Wendy's voice took on the edge of panic.

“No! But I could have. How on earth did you get your people in?”

“Through the temp service they use. Scott told me what kind of experience to have them write on their applications. The temp company never does backgrounds.”

Alias Andy knelt by his bag. He was still watching the baggage claim area through the window. He unzipped his bag and took out a pack of cigarettes.

“Call Lambert and tell him I've run aground here.”

“I left a message at his hotel this morning, but so far he hasn't called back.”

“How much money is in our checking account?”

“Around eight hundred, but we have to keep a minimum balance of five hundred to keep our free checking.”

Alias Andy shook out a cigarette and stuck it in his face, then dropped the pack back into his bag and extracted a cell phone.

“That'll be enough to hole up, but I don't think that they'll rent me a car on the debit card. Call Marg in the morning and have her deposit something in our personal account.”

“How much?”

“Tell her I need a grand; that way I'll get at least five hundred.”

“Try the card again in the morning,” said Wendy. “Could be that your authorization just hasn't been posted yet. If it doesn't work, then I'll put the money in from Silk City. It's our case anyway.”

The unlit cigarette in Alias Andy's face levered up and down in spurts as he spoke into the cellphone. He dipped a wind-proof lighter out of his bag.

“Listen, I'm going to call Dunphy,” I said. “I'll let you go.” Wendy hung up. I watched Alias Andy, Alias Andy watched the baggage, and Dunphy's secretary wouldn't accept a collect call. I tried to charge the call to my office telephone, but the answering machine picked up. At that point I remembered my calling card and got through to Dunphy's secretary. She said that he was out and not expected to return. I told her I'd call back when I had a local number where I could be reached.

Mine was the only baggage left on the carousel—still no green suitcase. Across the lobby an electronic bank teller advertised one of the wire services that my bank used. I rummaged a used, mostly dry, soft drink cup from the waste can next to the line of telephones, tipped the camera out of my hat into the cup, and snapped on a lid. With my hat back on my head I walked over to the ATM and popped my card into the machine. Alias Andy was at long last lighting his smoke. I punched up three hundred dollars. I could hear the machine cycling my cash when the building heaved a sigh and went dark.

“I
T'S LIKE
I
TOLD YOU
, O
FFICER
!
The lights went out. I was trying to get my debit card out of the teller machine. I looked up and saw this guy running toward the door with my luggage.”

Deputy Fairchild wore a brown Smokey Bear hat and a khaki uniform. He kept his head tipped down so that I couldn't see his eyes—just a nose nested in a bushy guardsmen's moustache.

“Then what happened?” he asked, his pen poised above his pocket-sized notepad. He'd already written down my name and address and summarized my statement in a sentence or two. This was our third trip through the story.

I rested my butt against the rear bumper of the brown and gold patrol car and folded my arms against the evening chill. “I tried to catch up to him.” An ambulance pulled out with its lights rolling and another one backed in to take its place.

“So what did you do when you caught up with him?” asked the deputy.

“That's when someone yelled ‘Fire!' The crowd at the door swallowed him up. In the panic and the crush of people I never got near him. I had to struggle to keep my feet while I backed out of the crowd.”

“Why didn't you try to get out?”

“I didn't smell any smoke or see any fire. Where's my luggage?”

“Lieutenant Ross took it downtown.”

“I don't have a car.”

Deputy Fairchild snapped his notepad shut and raised his head to look at me while he clicked his ballpoint pen and put it away. He wore the smug smile of a man who had just filled an inside straight. “As it happens,” he said, “that's exactly where I'm going. You can ride with me if you like.” He opened the back door of the cruiser.

“If you don't mind,” I said, “I'd rather ride in the front.”

“Policy,” he said.

I climbed in. The car had those hard plastic seats that are cast to look like upholstery, but handy to hose out in the case of a sloppy drunk. The deputy had nothing to say on the way into Brandonport. As we parked he got on the radio and asked the dispatcher to tell Lieutenant Ross that we had arrived. He parked and let me out of the back seat.

“Wait,” he said, then he searched the rear compartment of the cruiser.

“Policy?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said and pointed at the side of the car. “Lean on it.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No.”

“Then
you
lean on it.”

Fairchild shrugged, but his eyes gave away a little heat. “Policy,” he said.

“Good,” I said, “I have a policy too. It's called the Fourth Amendment.”

“The Lieutenant wants to talk to you.”

“Fine,” I said and looked around. The gray dog station was across the street. “Tell him I'll be at the bus terminal at the lunch counter. I need a cup of coffee.”

“Don't you want your luggage?”

“Sure,” I said. “I'll send my attorney to pick it up.” I hadn't taken a step when the deputy clamped a hand on my shoulder. I looked from the hand to the glower on his face.

“Deputy Fairchild,” I said, “that much alone is misdemeanor assault.”

“The Lieutenant just wants to talk to you.”

“That's not what's at question here, Deputy.” I looked back at his hand. “What's at question here is US 42.”

“You some kind of lawyer?”

“No, I'm some kind of detective.”

“Then as a professional courtesy?” He made the question sound like a statement and let go of my shoulder.

“I'll be having a cup of coffee across the street here,” I said and walked off. I went all the way to the corner and crossed at the light.

I can remember when bus terminals had grand diners—no chandeliers, but lots of chrome and Naugahyde, and the menu featured a daily special like open-faced roast beef or meatloaf sandwiches with loads of mashed potatoes and gravy. This one had a row of pick-your-poison vending machines guarded by a phalanx of sticky benches.

Next to the coffee machine stood a row of gray coin-operated lockers. I fished out a quarter and deposited my cupful of camera. I had to pump in another quarter before the lock would release the key.

The coffee machine dispensed cups printed with poker hands. I got a busted flush. Before the coffee was cool enough to drink, the lieutenant hard-heeled the boards into the bus terminal with Fairchild and another deputy in lockstep.

Lieutenant Ross was black and slim with one of those ageless, clean shaven faces that, just now, was a mask of determination. He wore a blue serge three-piece suit. His unbuttoned jacket breezed about as he approached, revealing a gold watch chain on his vest, a gold detective shield on his belt, and a fat nine millimeter on his hip. Five or six strides away he started talking. “Mr. Hardin, I'd like you to come over to the sheriff's office.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“I'll arrest you if that's what you want.”

I stood up. “Well, if I'm under arrest, let's go.”

“You're not under arrest,” he said.

I sat back down.

“I just want to review your statement,” Ross said.

I patted the bench next to me. “Sit. Talk. I explained what happened to Deputy Fairchild, but if there's something you don't understand—I'm your guy.”

The lieutenant worked up a serious scowl. “It would be better to do this across the street. More private. Just one detective to another.” The detective part came off on the ragged edge of a short ration of civility.

“Lieutenant Ross,” I said, and waited a couple of beats while I tried for a sympathetic face. “What you want to do is take me across the street and jerk me around. You want to run a tape recorder while you ask me a lot of
questions that you already know the answers to. You hope that I will lie to you, say something stupid—maybe even incriminating. Let me assure you, I haven't broken the law, and I have nothing to hide. I'm just not in the mood. If you have some questions, sit! Ask!”

The lieutenant put his hands in his pants pockets, rose up on his toes and studied me with his lips pressed into a taut line. When he rested his heels back on the floor he said, “All right.”

I sipped my coffee. “Buy you a cup?”

“Keeps me up,” Ross said. He nodded at the deputies. They left. “I want to know about the gun.”

“Detonics .45 caliber auto loader, serial number 6117—belongs to me. But you know that. You already ran the registration.”

“Why do you have a gun?”

“Second Amendment.”

“Why did you bring a gun to Brandonport, Iowa?”

“I came here to work. I'm a detective.”

“You're a detective in Michigan,” said Ross.

“I'm pursuing a case that started in Michigan. Iowa has reciprocity with Michigan on both my private ticket and my permit to carry.”

“I'm not so sure about that.”

“Call the State Police. I did.”

“You have to check in with us,” said Ross.

“Had a little problem at the airport,” I said and took another sip of my coffee.

Ross smiled. “You know a woman by the name of Betty Simmons?”

“There was a lady by the name of Betty at the shop where I bought this hat and shirt. Don't know her last name.”

“When did you buy the hat and shirt?”

“When I got off the airplane.”

“How long after?”

“Immediately.”

Ross sat on the bench across from me, folded his hands in his lap, and studied me. Finally he said, “Here's my problem. I ran the pistol, like you said, then I ordered an NCIC. While I was waiting, I teletyped for your DMV information. I got your date of birth and your height and weight. Now I'm looking at you. I had a different picture in mind.”