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

is one thing, but Karen sitting there all grins and snappy repartee is quite something else. I had to know who could inspire that kind of confidence. I punched the redial button.
    â€œAlton, Burns, and Fay Securities,” announced a young lady in a come-hither alto.
    â€œHoney, if I had any money you could have it,” I said. “You folks sure stay open late.”
    â€œWe serve financial markets worldwide,” she said, “but we close in fifteen minutes. How can I help you?”
    â€œThis is Bernie down at Continental Towing,” I said. “We just picked up an emerald green Corvette from a tow-away zone. This number was in the glove box.”
    â€œOh, no,” she said. “That would be Arnold Fay. I’ll connect you.” She added a heartfelt, “Good luck!”
    Karen unassed the sofa when she heard me mention the emerald green Corvette. She charged into the kitchen and tried to reach around me to disconnect the telephone. I didn’t let her.
    â€œYou bastard!” she screamed. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She started flailing my back with both fists.
    Arnold Fay’s line was still ringing, so I turned around and showed her the pepper spray can. She fled toward the door to the garage, ducked, and covered her head with her arms. I set the telephone down, reached around Karen, and opened the door. She tried to step away, but it was too late. I pushed her into the garage and locked the door after her.
    Karen jerked on the knob. Pounded and kicked. It didn’t help. “Arnie! Arnie!” she yelled. “I didn’t say shit, Arnie!”
    I picked up the telephone. Good old Arnie’s line was still ringing. Karen quit pounding. I thought maybe it was to listen, but then I heard her slide down the door. “I didn’t say shit,” she murmured softly, her voice at once a plea and a sob.
    Arnie picked up his line. Karen’s phone had one of those long cords. I’ve got one on my kitchen phone so I can yak and still putter around. You just never know who’s listening to one of those cordless telephones. I walked to the extent of the cord in case more was heard from Karen.
    â€œArnold Fay,” he said in a confident baritone, “and my car is in the lot. I just checked.”
    â€œA little joke,” I said. “I’m a friend of Chuck’s. He said I should call you about rolling over my IRA.”
    â€œChuck who?”
    â€œYou know,” I said, “Chuck Furbie with the cops.”
    Silence. I could hear Arnie breathe. Finally, he said, “What’s your name?”
    â€œBernie,” I said, “Bernie Harper, at Continental Towing. I drive a truck. We pick up cars for the city. Chuck and Paulie—Paulie Milton? They said you were a good guy.”
    â€œI’ll connect you with an associate who handles IRA accounts,” saidArnold Fay. He ditched me on hold and I got a nearly fatal dose of elevator music.
    â€œBetty Krieger,” a chipper voice, at long last.
    â€œHi, this is Bernie,” I said. “I was supposed to be speaking to Arnold Fay.”
    â€œPerhaps I can help you.”
    â€œIt’s about his car.”
    She tried to transfer me back, but good old Arnie’s line was busy. I told her I’d call back and hung up.
    Suffice it to say, there is no Continental Towing in town. Bernie Harper is not any real person that I know of, albeit there are a lot of Harpers in town. I did, however, learn the name of Karen’s playmate. The City Index would provide a thumbnail sketch of Arnold Fay and his activities.
    Mr. Fay did not deny knowing Chuck and Paulie, but an honest man—well, any salesman—might have played along to make a sale. Nonetheless, he took too much time with his answer. More to the point, Arnold Fay was a man who frightened Karen Smith.
    I stepped up to the door and listened. I could hear heavy breathing on the other