7 - Rogue: Ike Schwartz Mystery 7 (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-six

Ike stared at his second cup of coffee, oblivious to the sounds and mixed aromas of the Crossroads Diner. On a normal day, if any of a policeman’s days can ever be considered normal, those olfactory stimuli would be comforting, a good beginning to the day. But not this morning. Frank Sutherlin eased into the bench opposite and waved at Flora, who rolled her eyes and brought him his cup of tea.

“Any progress on your dead hay thief, Frank?”

“The news is, there is no news, well, nearly none. The drug-sniffing dog did not find a trace of marijuana or anything else. Not even an aspirin. Our guy and his accomplices—we assume there were more involved—were actually stealing hay. Is that weird or what?”

“Maybe guys like Duffy who are attempting to go straight have to do it gradually. Going ‘cold turkey’ may not be possible, so they move from risky drug felonies with major incarceration consequences to dealing items that can bring punishments approaching misdemeanors, like a smoker and his nicotine patches.”

“It’s a thought. Not a good one, I think, and it does not explain the ‘big score’ he bragged about. I guess I should follow your other scenario. He saw something that he believed would net him some money.”

“Or, if he’s a partner as you surmise, he got cut loose for some reason.”

“There is that, too. We, that is the dog, did at least find a wallet buried in the hay. ID and money intact. Probably dropped. Could be the colleague or a customer.”

“Whose?”

“A guy named Smith—tricky name—and he lives over in Buena Vista. I’m heading out there today to see if I can determine which of the two he is, thief or customer.”

“If he turns out to be one of the hayseed gang and, God forbid, he’s an associate of Jack Burns, do not tell Essie or Billy. Please.”

“Got it. How’s your search going?”

“Badly. There are too many people, too many places to look and, in taking the long view, an unlikely scenario to boot. If I had the FBI’s resources on the case, I might be able to wind it up in a month. As it is, if I am going to catch this guy, it will be as much a matter of luck as skill.”

“Umm, about that, I…So what’s next?”

“I’m thinking a trip to Dallas, but I’m not looking forward to it, I can tell you. Long run for a short slide. What were you about to say just now?”

“Well…There’s something else I need to tell you. The mayor has tumbled to the fact that we are talking and he’s guessed about that van behind Lee Henry’s. He’s declared you absent without leave and has declared your office vacant by virtue of desertion. He’s aiming to appoint Jack Burns as acting sheriff. If we do anything with you, including having conversations like this one, he says we’ll be fired. So, this will probably be the last time we talk—sort of.”

“You know, of course, he can’t do that. But this close to an election, and given what I’m dealing with, he knows I won’t take action, so don’t risk it, Frank. I will be available on that cell phone number I gave you earlier if you need anything. Thanks.”

Frank left for the office and Ike resumed his concentration on his now-empty coffee cup. The crowd at the office had not been doing much to help his search anyway, but he did enjoy their moral support. Now that had been taken away, and Charlie had run off to Chicago as well. Flora cruised by and refilled his cup.

Ike felt alone. He’d been fighting the feeling for days. Stiff upper lip and all that but…Ruth was his anchor, the job was his ship. Now the anchor had slipped and the ship had started to sink. What next?

He opened his store-bought phone and called Charlie, who once again was not answering. Ike lifted an eyebrow at that and left a message.

“Charlie, I only hope you are not answering because you are gainfully employed and are about to strike a blow for peace and freedom. If not, shame on you. Listen, I have the data for the list of names associated with LSD. I extorted it from the executive officer of Let States Decide. I have no doubt that the minute I left his office he was on the horn to the people he’d just given up, and warned them away from me. I think it will require someone no one knows is in the hunt to flush them out. Maybe you could do that or persuade one of your colleagues looking to get out from behind a desk for a few hours to do it for you. One of the men Yeats gave me is near where you are, or where you said you’d be. With you it’s never a certainty. Here’s the list and what you need to know. The last is supposed to hang out on the South Side near the university. Oh, and where in the hell are you, really?”

Ike read him the information, spelling the names that might pose a problem, and hung up. He left his coffee on the table and headed out the door to the hospital. If he had to fly to Dallas, he was going to get in some serious time with Ruth first. Was any of this making any sense, or was he simply yielding to a combination of anger and the need to do something, anything to stay sane?

***

Ida Templeton had spent the previous week in Roanoke and today marked the first time she’d worked the ICU at Stonewall Jackson since her run in with Harris’ doctor. The head nurse greeted her, and ran through the new admissions and alerts.

“So how is Ms. Harris doing? Did I tell you, I met her doctor? What a good-looking man. He was trying to fix her IV.”

“He was? Harris’ neurologist is Doctor Neena Patel and she’s a woman. I don’t know who you saw, but it wasn’t her.”

“Oh, then he must have been in to visit another patient.”

“You’re sure it was a doctor?”

“Yeah, pretty sure. I’ve seen him in a hospital, I know, but I can’t remember right now which one. I’m in and out of so many, but yep, he’s a doc.”

“Good. The trouble with this business is you put somebody in a white lab coat and nobody questions if they belong in the corridors or not. You did see his ID badge?”

“He had one, yes. Anyway he didn’t stay long. Maybe he’s the new intern I heard was coming.”

“Tall lanky guy?”

“Yes.”

“That’s him. You can’t be too careful. Like you said—guy in a lab coat, who’s going to question? Okay, Harris had a bad night so keep the visitors to a minimum today, okay?’

“What happened?”

“Oh last night that silly woman Miss Ewalt brought in a bunch of her co-workers, from Harris’ office, I think, and it must have gotten loud or something. Her BP and heart rate shot up, the alarm went off. The attending showed up and shooed them all out. Stupid. I don’t know what the night shift was thinking about.”

“She’s okay now?”

“Peaceful. We need to keep her that way. Next week she will be evaluated, and if she has slipped into a vegetative state, Doctor Patel will recommend she be moved to hospice.”

“Gee, that’ll be rough on the sheriff, won’t it?”

“You know what they say, ‘Life’s a bitch, then you die.’ Oops, speak of the devil. Good morning, Sheriff Schwartz.”

“Good morning. How is she?”

“About the same. She had a bad night so go easy with her today, okay? No parties, loud singing, or dancing.”

“No problem. What caused the bad night?”

“Too many visitors at once, we think. Miss Ewalt brought some university people by to cheer her up and it had the reverse effect it seems.”

“Or maybe it was a good sign.”

“Mmm-mmm.” Ike hated it when nurses and doctors assumed a we-know-it-and-you-don’t attitude. “How do you figure that, Sheriff?”

“She is responding to whatever is going on around her—reacting. That’s good, right?”

“Well, you have a point but that sort of reaction we would like to have in smaller doses. So be easy with her today.”

“Got it.”

Go easy? For God’s sake doesn’t anyone get it? Easy for whom?

Chapter Twenty-seven

Ruth remained stable, so that was good and it wasn’t. She should have shown some changes by now. Either way, Ike spent a sleepless night. He skipped the Crossroads and made his own breakfast. Charlie still wasn’t answering his phone. He couldn’t call Frank and he wasn’t sure what he should do next. Would Charlie pick up on the names he’d sent? Did flying to Dallas make any sense at all? If he went and if he found the people he was seeking, what then? They obviously wouldn’t confess and he had no evidence. He could beat it out of them, but he’d always avoided that approach. It worked for others but he didn’t see it working for him. He realized he might have to revisit that notion someday. He hoped not soon.

In the first hours after the wreck, he would have gladly shot anyone he was convinced had something to do with it, and done so without a second thought or remorse. That was then. This was now. He’d cooled down and maybe had a better perspective. Yeats did not have any direct culpability in it, but if you counted his rhetoric into the mix, he had to shoulder some of the blame. His speeches riled the crowds. One of them would only think he was doing the king a favor. Henry II: “Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?” Oh, he’d have no qualms in tossing the elegant Byron Yeats in the slammer if he could. But he couldn’t. And on calmer reflection, wouldn’t.

So what now? No Charlie, no Frank, and he’d received a call from Lee Henry that the van had pulled out, so no tech support. No word, no explanation, no warning, nothing. Yeats had said Ike could be considered a rogue. Now, he guessed he really was one. Start over again. Look at the data, the meager evidence, as though he’d never seen it. The problem with sifting through data is that once you’ve made up your mind how it is to be interpreted, it is difficult to nearly impossible to see it any other way.

Was his notion of a crazed zealot even a remote possibility? In the heat of the moment it seemed self-evident. Even Yeats didn’t completely discount it. He stared unseeing at the wall. It didn’t really work, did it? He had been clutching at straws. Better start over.

He moved into the dining area and popped open his laptop. He plugged in the flash drive and went through the pictures, the statements, the e-mails, everything. He brewed another pot of coffee and repeated the process twice more.

He stopped at the video of the accident scene. He studied the truck still. The truck. Why did that seem important? Who would drive a truck to pull this off? People drove cars. If they were contemplating a felony or a job like this one, first they stole a car. What sort of person would steal a truck? Not a professional. Probably not one of the possible suspects on his list. So, who? He stared at the screen again trying to make out the masked face behind the wheel. He couldn’t see anything except a dab of white, which he took to be the uncovered part of the face. It seemed to be low behind the wheel. A short person or one leaning forward?

He sifted through the papers again. One of Scott Fiske’s doctored résumés fell to the floor. He bent and picked it up. He should toss it and any others like it. That job was done. His eyes caught one line and his hand froze in its transit toward the trash can. He read it more carefully. He found the two other examples and read them as well. He wished he’d taken Marge Tice up on her offer to make him a copy of the report from Donnie the Snoop. He needed to know if this was an addition cobbled up to pad the résumé or the real thing. Could Colonel Bob help him? Probably not. He said all his friends in the DoD were dead. Still, he could ask. He picked up the phone book and searched for: Twelvetrees, Robt. Col. USA Ret.

***

Frank Sutherlin figured the only way he could deal with the mayor’s efforts to insert Burns in as acting sheriff, would be to stay away from the office entirely. He told Essie he would be in Buena Vista checking out the owner of the wallet they’d found in the hay barn and she had better not let him catch her or Billy out there again.

Frank decided to slide by Jack Burns’ old neighborhood on the way. There was a luncheonette nearby and he’d stop, purchase a cuppa, and ask some questions. Billy and Essie were way off base thinking Burns could be involved in Ruth Harris’ accident, but there were things about him, like why quit a job in Buena Vista to take one like it in Picketsville? That suggested something that needed looking into.

Ballard’s Luncheonette was marginally clean and nearly empty. The counterman, who turned out to be the owner, swatted a fly and wiped the carcass from the counter with a suspiciously gray rag.

“Mornin’, Mister, You’re a cop, right? You here about them two people raised a fuss up to the bar? Said they was reporters, but I didn’t believe them even a little.”

“A cop, yes I am, but not interested in phony reporters today. Real ones are bad enough.”

“You got that right. So what can I do for you?”

“Thought I’d stop by for a cup of tea and a sinker.” Frank hoped he had his lunchroom slang down.

“A what? A sinker? This ain’t no bait shop. Don’t have no sinkers.”

An old geezer in the corner looked up from his day-old paper and said, “He wants a donut, Tank. That’s what we used to call `em back when them USO gals came around. Sinkers, yep. That would be in WWII of course. Did I ever tell you—”

“Yeah you did, Jock. So sinkers is donuts? Shoot, never heard of that.” He shoved a cup of hot water and a rumpled tea bag across the counter at Frank and went to a plastic-enclosed case to fetch a donut. “Whatcha want, I got glazed, powdered, honey dip, and one chocolate covered left over from Wednesday.”

“Plain will do.”

“Did I say plain? Anybody hear me say plain? I said, we got the chocolate covered, the glazed, and the powdered. That’s it. Which?”

“Glazed. Do you have cream and sugar?”

The counterman shoved a saucer with the donut on it at him, walked to the other end of the counter, and returned with a handful of creamers and four dingy, paper-wrapped sugar cubes.

“Tea’s a buck, donut eighty-five cents.” Tank waited while Frank dug two dollars from his wallet and laid them down next to the donut. He stood and left. This had been a mistake.

“Hey, don’t you want your eats? What about your change?”

“Keep it.” Frank let the door slam. Fifteen cents well spent.

Bob Smith lived three doors down from Jack Burns’ previous and as-yet-unsold residence. Frank found him in a toolshed in the backyard inspecting the underside of a lawnmower.

“Bob Smith?”

“That’s me.”

“You happen to lose a wallet, Mr. Smith?”

Smith turned bleary eyes on Frank, saw the uniform, badge, and gun, and let the mower drop flat on the work bench. Frank wondered if he might make a run for it. He hoped not. Frank never fared well in foot chases.

“I might have. So what?”

“I have it. I came to return it.”

“Yeah? Well, thanks. I was wondering what happened to it.” Smith’s eyes clouded over momentarily. “Where’d you find it?”

“That’s why I came by, Bob. I wanted to talk to you about that…where we found it, I mean. Do you by any chance own a gun?”

Smith rubbed the three-day stubble on his face and thought a moment. “I don’t see what that has to do with my wallet. Sure, I hunt a little, sometimes. I got me a deer rifle and, well, a deer rifle.”

“And a handgun, your record says. I know, it’s legal, you have a permit. I was wondering if I could see it.”

“Hey, you said you found my wallet and brought it over to return it. So I’ll have it and then you can clear off.”

“I could take you in and finish this in jail.”

“For what? Hell, you ain’t even local. You’re from Picketsville. You’re out of your jurisdiction, Mister, so just hand it over and shove off.”

“We found your wallet in a barn over in Picketsville. That barn was at one time filled with hay. And the hay was stolen from some very angry growers in the Valley. That barn puts you in my jurisdiction, Son. You are either—you take your pick—in possession of stolen goods, a participant in a petty theft ring working in the valley over the last several weeks, an accessory to murder, or any and all of the above. Which shall we talk about first?”