Dead Bang by Robert Bailey

“That was you? The news said it was a security guard.”
    â€œYeah, I got a break there.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œI had lunch with Mark Behler,” I said. “Some crazy woman shot up the restaurant.”
    â€œDid she shoot at you?”
    â€œShe winged one in our direction. I didn’t wait for her marksmanship to improve.”
    â€œSo, what’s the mystery?” asked Marg. “Shoot somebody and the police will want to talk it over.”
    â€œWe talked it over yesterday.”
    â€œThe man the woman shot died,” said Marg. “I don’t think you’re in trouble.”
    â€œThat’s my point,” I said and showed her the telephone. “Wendy said a couple of state cops and a detective from the attorney general’s office are camped in front of the house.”
    â€œThey have jurisdiction out there,” said Marg.
    â€œSo does the county sheriff, and the Shatner shooting is a local matter.”
    â€œWhat about your little adventure in Wyoming?”
    â€œAll I did was run away. They can’t charge me with fleeing for my life. Besides, smart money bets the feds will glom on to that case.”
    â€œSmart money would call Farm Mutual,” said Marg. “They’re forty-five days late on two thirty-day invoices, and one of them is the four-day film job you did in White Cloud.”
    â€œI’ll call ‘em,” I said, “but I have couple of pressing issues here.”
    â€œSuit yourself,” said Marg. “My advice is, don’t forget that you have a business to run.”
    Wendy came back on the line.
    â€œIt’s Karen,” said Wendy. “They picked her up at her house. Apparently the crime scene tape was still up.”
    â€œWhat was she doing there?”
    â€œShe said she wanted to pick up some clothes.”
    â€œI’ll see what I can do,” I said.
    â€œI told her to keep her mouth shut,” said Wendy. “But she’s having a shit-fit, screaming about being arrested for being in her own house.”
    â€œGreat. I’ll call you back. State police still on the road?”
    â€œWatching the house with binoculars.”
    I took the Colt off my hip and laid it on the desk. “If they had a warrant, they’d already be in the house.” I set my spare magazines next to the Colt.
    â€œArt, we have to get on top of this. The neighbors are going nuts, Ben is home watching all of this, and Daniel is supposed to be home tonight.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” I stood, unbuckled my belt, and slid off my holster and magazine pouches. “I’m stumped.”
    â€œCall me.”
    â€œSure,” I said. “The cops always give me a telephone call.”
    â€œNot funny,” said Wendy.
    â€œOne more thing.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œCarnations?”
    â€œNope,” said Wendy. She hung up.
    Peter Finney, Esquire, was out. I left a message, pecked the disconnect once, and got Van Huis on the line while I walked over and unlocked the equipment closet. “I just got in,” I said. “Marg left me a note to call you.”
    Van Huis said, “Yeah, right. Ah—”
    â€œI was hoping they were done with my sidearm,” I said, and stowed my pistol and magazines in the closet. “Can I come down and pick it up?”
    â€œSure. Right. Yeah,” said Van Huis.
    â€œI got to make a couple of stops,” I said. “But I’ll get there.”
    â€œSee, that’s the thing,” said Van Huis. “I’ve got to go out.” He paused and then added, “I won’t be back in the office until after the weekend.”
    â€œOkay,” I said, and picked a pair of radios from the battery charger. “I’ll see you in a little bit, or Monday. I’ve got to go, the other line’s flashing.” I clicked off, parked the radios on the desk, and locked the closet.
    â€œYou don’t