Dead Bang by Robert Bailey Page A

think he bought that, do you?” asked Marg.
    â€œI think it’ll take about fifteen minutes for him to round up a couple of blue bruisers and be standing right here.” I dialed up the number Wendy had given me for State Police Detective Archer Flynt. They told me to wait, and I got a series of clicks.
    â€œFlynt,” a voice growled.
    â€œArchie, my man. What’s the haps?”
    â€œWho is this?”
    â€œArt Hardin. My wife called and said you left a card.”
    â€œWhere are you?”
    â€œMy office. I think you’ve been here.”
    â€œStay there,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”
    â€œYou brought the beef trust along just for a chat?”
    â€œYou’ll find out when I get there.”
    â€œLook,” I said. “I’ve got shit to do. I’ll be in and out. I’m going down to the Kentwood PD. I might be back by the time you get here.”
    â€œHow do you figure?”
    â€œYou’re parked in front of my house. It’s about forty-five minutes to get here. Traffic’s not too bad this time of day.”
    â€œJust stay right there.”
    â€œI have to tag up with Detective Van Huis or he’s gone till Monday.”
    â€œHe call you?”
    â€œStopped by this morning. My secretary left me a note. Van Huis wants me to come down right now.” I looked at my watch—eleven minutes.
    â€œYeah,” said Flynt. “Just wait at his office. I asked him to look you up.”
    â€œWhat’s this about?”
    â€œTell you when I get there.”
    â€œLike I said, Detective, I’ve got a busy day here. If you can’t tell me what this is about, call my attorney. Peter Finney. He’s in the book.”
    Flynt hung up.
    â€œIf you’re going to scram,” said Marg, “you better get your hat.”
    â€œOne more call, and I’m out of here,” I said. “Karen was arrested this morning. She went back to her house, but the Wyoming Police still had it sealed as a crime scene. I have to try to get her loose and me to Pete Finney’s office before I get scooped up. Anyway, you’re off the hook with Van Huis.” I looked at my watch. Nine minutes.
    The Wyoming Police passed my call around until I got Ryan Kope. He said they were working closely with the FBI on Karen’s case. “I have a couple of questions you may be able to help us with,” he said. “I have a Rotary meeting at noon, but my calendar is open until then.”
    â€œThanks, but I have to go down to Kentwood on another matter,” I said. “I just need to know if you have Karen Smith so I can call her attorney.”
    â€œYou’ll have to talk to the FBI. They sent someone to pick her up.”
    I looked at my watch again. Eight minutes.
    â€œThanks,” I said.
    â€œReally,” said Kope, “I can help you out with this. This could all work out better than you think.”
    â€œMaybe, when I’m done at Kentwood,” I said. “Where’s your Rotary meeting?”
    â€œBeltline Bar,” said Kope. “The food’s great. Be there at one, and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. We can bury the hatchet.”
    â€œSure,” I said, and my mind flashed to the scene in the original
Stagecoach
movie where a cowboy peeks into the back of a covered wagon and turns around to reveal a tomahawk buried in his forehead. “If I’m done at Kentwood,” I told him.
    â€œGreat,” said Kope. “See you there.” I heard him chuckle as he hung up the phone.
    Seven minutes.
    I scooped up the radios and shrugged into my jacket while I headed for the door. Marg sat, spreading her lunch on her desk—diet soda, turkey sandwich, and carrot sticks. I dropped a radio in her in-box.
    Marg glowered at the radio and said, “Why not take your cell phone?”
    â€œI don’t want the police harassing my clients because I have their numbers in