Read Online Private Heat by Robert E. Bailey - Free Book Online Page A

Carlo, a patrol car pulled up with the rollers on. Franklin dispatched them with a rough nod of the head.
    â€œGive me your keys,” said Franklin.
    Randy provided him with a stream of profanity.
    â€œNot a problem,” said the sergeant, “I can open your trunk without them.” He started back to the patrol car.
    â€œFranky,” said Talon, “I got the keys.” He pulled them out of his pocket and started on the handcuffs.
    â€œI wouldn’t do that,” said Franklin as he rested his hand on the can of mace on his belt.
    Randy stopped and looped the keys to the sergeant in a gentle arc. Franklin snatched the keys out of the air and looked at me. “Bring that stuff down here,” he said.
    When I got the first load down to the curb the sergeant was examining a shaving kit he’d found in the trunk of Talon’s car. “That piece of shit planted that crap on me, Franky.”
    Franklin shook his head, zipped up the bag, and threw it back into the trunk. “Just set it on the ground,” he said, “I don’t want you putting anything in this vehicle.”
    Two more trips and I had it all piled on the lawn at the rear of the Monte.
    â€œGo back up to the house,” said Franklin.
    I went. Franklin loaded the trunk like he was stoking a boiler and slammed the lid.
    At the driver’s door Sergeant Franklin did a lot of finger pointing and slow talking. Officer Randal Talon did a lot of slow negative head wagging. Finally, Franklin handed Randy his keys and watched as he released himself. Randy got the Monte started and held out an empty palm to the sergeant. Franklin shook his head. Randy drove off, slowly.
    Sergeant Franklin went to the trunk of his cruiser and rummaged. A minute later he was at the porch with a plastic evidence bag and wearing a pair of latex gloves. He collected the pharmaceuticals and syringes and put them into the bag. After looking at his watch, he made some notations on the bag. He carried the bag and the shirt box back to his patrol car.
    He came back to the porch with his pad and pen in hand. “Hardin, come on out here,” he yelled into the open screen door.
    I heard the bathroom door squeak open. “Randy’s gone,” I said. I went out onto the porch with the sergeant. He gave me a card and said, “You may be contacted by a lieutenant from our Internal Affairs department. If your fingerprints are found on any of the contents of that box, you’ll hear from someone else.” He clicked his pen and put it in his pocket. “How long are you going to be on this job?”
    â€œNoon, day after tomorrow.”
    â€œI’ll ask the shift car to give you an extra pass-by,” he said. “If you have any more trouble, the number is nine-one-one. Can you give me a copy of the restraining order?”
    I gave him the one from my inside pocket. It wasn’t much drier than the one in my hanky pocket.
    Franklin started back to his car. After a few steps he stopped. He said, “You only squeaked by.”
    I nodded. He left.
    When he was out of sight, I walked out to my car and extracted the duffel bag from the trunk. As I returned and stepped through the front door, I heard Karen hang up the telephone in the kitchen. She walked into the living room, parked her fanny on the sofa, and shot me a grin like the Cheshire cat.
    â€œWho’s the weasel now?” she said.

5
    â€œI gotta call my wife,” I said and dropped the duffel bag on the chair. “All right if I use your phone? It’s local from here.”
    Karen sat smug and happy on the sofa. “Sure,” she said.
    In the kitchen I picked up the telephone. I poised my finger to peck out my home number, but hesitated. Karen’s very dangerous husband—by her lawyer’s account—whose nasty temper I’d just experienced, had been gassed, grappled out of her living room, and allowed to simply drive away. Honest relief