Buddy was on his back, snoring. Hess stood over him, pouring beer on his face. Buddy thrashed and flipped over, and sat up rubbing his eyes.
“What the fuck’s going on?” Surprised, angry until he saw Hess standing over him. “Mr. Klaus, that you? Jesus H Christ, you scared the shit out of me.”
“Were you successful?”
“Was I successful?” He smiled. “Let me put it this way — there’s one less coon you got to worry about.” He yawned, rubbed his jaw. “What’re you doing here in the middle of the night? Got another job you need done?” Buddy coughed. “Hey, hand me my smokes, will you?”
“You don’t have time.”
“Yeah. Why’s that?”
Hess raised the Walther and shot him in the chest.
The sun was coming up when Hess arrived at the scrap yard. Levin’s silver Mercedes was parked behind the building. He drove past the yard and parked on Luce, a side street, and crossed Mt. Elliot. He walked through the entrance past the scales into the empty yard. A semi rumbled in behind him, turning around, backing up next to the mountain of scrap metal.
The door to the building was unlocked. He opened it and walked through the entryway and through another door, and down a short hallway, two small cramped offices on one side, an office and toilet room on the other side. There was another office at the end of the hall, this one appreciably larger than the others. It had a desk and furniture grouping behind it. The room was dark, shades drawn over the two windows. His eyes adjusted and he noticed someone asleep on the couch. Hess pulled the Walther, flipped the safety off, crossed the room and stood over Harry Levin on his stomach, asleep. He heard a car drive by, raised the weapon, finger squeezing the trigger.
A woman’s voice startled him. “Harry, what are you doing here so early? Harry—”
It came from the intercom on the desk behind him. Hess walked out of the office and moved down the hall. He heard the woman’s voice again and stepped inside the toilet room. He heard footsteps in the hallway and ducked against the wall, and saw the woman walk by. He closed the door, opened the window and hoisted himself up and through it to the ground.
Hess was in the car when he heard the siren.
Thirty-four
“My God, Harry. I thought it was you,” Phyllis said when he came in the office, 6:30 in the morning.
“What happened?”
“Somebody shot Jerry.” Phyllis started crying. “He wanted to be you, Harry. Even dressed like you.” She dried her eyes with a tissue. “What was he doing with your car?”
“We traded. Jerry was supposed to take it in for a tune-up. Lives right near the dealership. He was doing me a favor.”
“Police want to talk to you, the Eye-talian detective with the hair.” There were two Detroit Police cruisers and an unmarked Plymouth sedan in the lot when he pulled in, wondering what the hell was going on. Phyllis handed him a black coffee. He sipped it and walked down the hall, two uniformed cops standing outside his office. Went in, shades up, bright sunlight coming through the window on the east wall. Somebody was taking photographs of Jerry Dubuque dead on the leather couch, blood pooled on the beige industrial carpeting under him, two shell casings on the floor. Harry felt bad, he liked Jerry, felt responsible. Knew Hess had done it. Who else?
“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were the intended victim, Mr. Levin,” Detective Mazza said, standing on the other side of his desk in the tan wash-and-wear suit he’d had on last time.
“You sound disappointed,” Harry said.
“You going to tell me what’s going on?”
“If I could,” Harry said.
“Why don’t you try.”
“Want me to make something up? ’Cause that’s what I’d be doing.”
“First an acquaintance of yours, Cordell Sims is shot and now one of your employees.” Mazza took a pen out of his shirt pocket, squatted and picked up a shell casing with it, holding it up so Harry could see it. “But you don’t know anything.”
Mazza smelled like a smoker and had nicotine stains on the index and middle fingers of his right hand.
“What was Jerry Dubuque doing in your office?”
“By the look of it, sleeping one off,” Harry said. “It’s happened before. Jerry occasionally hits the bars in Hamtramck after work. Has a few too many, comes back to the office. It’s the only couch in the place. I’d rather have him sleep here than get on the road.”
“Mr. Dubuque have a drinking problem?”
“He did, he doesn’t any more,” Harry said.
“No sign of forced entry.”
“Jerry wouldn’t have worried about locking the door. Wouldn’t have crossed his mind. The gate out front is locked at night. I’ve got a security man who keeps an eye on the yard, sits in his car and listens to music.”
“What’s his name?”
“Columbus Fletcher. Phyllis, Miss Wampler can tell you how to get in touch with him.”
“What time’s he leave?”
“Between six fifteen and six thirty.”
“What time do you usually get here?”
“Seven.”
“Shooter must’ve parked in front or on a side street across Mt. Elliot, waited for your security man to go. Came through the gate saw your Mercedes in the lot, saw Mr. Dubuque on your couch and shot him. Miss Wampler said she arrived at six fifteen, and I believe the perp was still here. Heard her and went out the bathroom window. It was still open.”
The photographer finished and nodded at Mazza. “All set.” He put the camera in a black bag with a strap, and walked out of the room.
“You keep money around, Mr. Levin?”
“There’s ten thousand dollars in the safe. I told you the last time you were here, it’s a cash business.”
“Do me a favor, check and make sure it’s all there.”
Harry had a vintage Mosler bolted to the floor behind his desk. He turned the chair around, sat leaning forward and opened it. Saw banded stacks of fifties and hundreds. “Looks like it is.”
“So,” Mazza said, “we can rule out robbery as a motive.”
“Unless whoever it was tried to open the safe and couldn’t.”
Mazza took out a pack of Camels, tapped one out, put it between his teeth and lit it. “I think it was planned. Perp comes here sees your car in the lot, sees someone on the couch in your office, thinks it’s you. Same type of gun used on Cordell Sims. There’s something you aren’t telling me. Quite a bit I’d say.” Mazza paused, taking a deep drag on the Camel, blowing out smoke. “This a dope deal gone wrong? You and Cordell in business together?”
“Not even close.”
“Laundering money through the scrap yard?”
Harry frowned, let that one go.
Mazza ran his tongue over his teeth and spit out a loose piece of tobacco. “Where were you last night?”
“Home watching TV, Columbo and Johnny Carson.”
“Anyone with you?”
“Why?”
“Mr. Sims decided to check out of Detroit Receiving about midnight,” Mazza said, stubbing his cigarette out in an ashtray on Harry’s desk.
“Can’t say I blame him. Whoever shot him was probably coming back to finish the job.”
“Know anything about it?”
“Why would I?”
“Security guard described you in detail.”
“I doubt it.”
“Then we’ll have you come down, appear in a line-up. How’s that sound?”
“Like you don’t have anything and you’re trying to force it.”
“Any idea the penalty for harboring a fugitive?” Mazza said, pushing his hair off his forehead.
“No, but you’re going to tell me, aren’t you?”
Harry did have one thing going for him. Hess thought he was dead.