Dead Bang by Robert Bailey Page B

memory.”
    â€œI have an appointment this afternoon.”
    â€œDon’t answer it unless you’re here.”
    Marg let out a sigh that she finished with, “Fine.” She picked up the radio and deposited it in the top drawer of her desk.
    â€œYou know what kind of flowers Wendy likes?” I headed for the door.
    â€œIf you have to ask me that, I’m not surprised you’re in trouble.”
    I grabbed the door handle and turned back to Marg. “I know what I usually get her, but nothing seems to be right.”
    â€œTrust me,” said Marg. “When a man thinks flowers will help, it’s usually too late for flowers.”
    I opened the door. “Thanks.”
    â€œTry not being a jerk.”
    I said, “Too late,” as the door fell shut behind me. I ran up the stairs and shouldered open the door. In my car, I looked at my watch again. Two minutes.
    I scooted out of the lot, turned right—east—onto Forty-fourth, and watched for Van Huis’s fake-wood-paneled minivan on the way. At Breton, I turned into the bank parking lot and backed into a space.
    After sixteen minutes, I looked up from my watch. Van Huis and a marked Kentwood cruiser steamed up Breton and stopped in the left-turn lane. I couldn’t see them. The bank blocked my view—and theirs. I pulled out of my spot and eased up to the apron onto Breton. They made the left, west on Forty-fourth. I turned south down Breton.
    At the Kentwood Municipal Building, I hustled up to the police desk and asked for Detective Van Huis. He was out. Fancy that. “You can take a seat and wait,” said the officer on duty.
    â€œThat’s all right,” I said. “I talked to him on the phone, and he said if I missed him he wouldn’t be back until Monday.” The officer searched his clipboards and looked confused. I popped a card on the desk and said, “I’ll be back Monday.”
    He shrugged.
    I left.
    Back in the parking lot, my radio squawked. “Five-six, this is Five-zero base. Over.” Marg. I clicked twice. “Lieutenant Van Huis was just here.” I clicked back and turned off the radio.
    From the parking lot, I turned south and caught the first left over to the Beltline and headed north, mindful of speed, turn signals, and amber lights. At the Woodland Mall, I stopped at the Sears Autocare Center and left my car for an oil change. I told them, “Take your time. I’m going to shop.”
    I caught a cab. Twelve bucks to the federal building—more than the ride is worth. For once I didn’t have to waltz my sidearm up to the fifth floor for a stop at the security lockers. I headed straight for the FBI officeon the seventh floor. On the elevator I chuckled—with half the police agencies in western Michigan looking for me, I’d gone to a lot of trouble to wander, uninvited, into the office of the FBI. I hoped the plan was so stupid that no jury would believe a charge of fleeing and eluding.
    The directory at the elevator supplied the room number—no signs are posted on the offices. In a back hall a video camera hung from the ceiling above a solid metal door. Next to the door a keypad and a buzzer were mounted on the wall. I buzzed.
    â€œYes?” asked a man’s voice.
    I looked up at the video camera and said, “Art Hardin for Matty Svenson.”
    â€œYou have an appointment?”
    â€œI was at that house in Wyoming that got shot up last night.”
    The door buzzed at me, and I pulled it open to find an agent at the reception desk, an imposing fellow at nearly six feet, with a broad frame and weighing a lean and athletic one hundred eighty or ninety pounds. His olive skin and neatly trimmed black hair framed piercing black—and accusing—eyes. He said, “Agent Svenson is bringing in a witness.” His blue suit coat hung from the back of the chair he’d pushed aside to stand at the desk. He wore a Beretta