7 - Rogue: Ike Schwartz Mystery 7 (16 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

As they made their way into the Crossroads to meet Frank, Colonel Bob grabbed Ike’s sleeve. He rifled through a rucksack he’d duct-taped to the steering mechanism of his scooter, withdrew a thick envelope, and held it out.

“Here’s what I found for you, Sheriff. I called Saint Louis and talked my way into the main records section. Had to pull rank. Damn, but that felt good! It turned out the major in charge of the unit is the grandson or maybe the great grandson, hard to keep ’em straight, of Chesty MacDaniels. You know General Mac?”

“Sorry , no. He a buddy of yours?”

“Chesty and I fought all the way from North Africa, Italy, and Europe together. One time we liberated a whole wine cellar in France and after about three hours of sampling, Chesty decided to steal Patton’s six shooters. See, it was…sorry, off the point, never mind. I got through and the major, nice fellah, asked me what I wanted and so on. Well, I didn’t really know for sure so I had him fax me a list of everyone who served in that unit you asked about during the years you told me. T.J. printed it out for me. There’s a hell of a lot of names, I think. With my eyes on terminal leave, I can’t read it, but if your guy was there, he’ll be on the list.”

“Thanks, Colonel Bob. So, did you actually steal the general’s pistols?”

“Nah. By the time we’d generated enough Dutch courage from the wine to do it, we were falling down drunk and our master sergeants had to scrape us up off the floor and cart us back to HQ. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if we had done it, though.”

“Thanks for the list.” Ike found his usual booth occupied by some travelers on their way to Tennessee and had to settle for a table close by. Charlie, who had remained silent through the colonel’s story and the exchange, sat opposite.

“Can you imagine what General Patton would have done to him and the other guy if they’d tried it? What’s with the list?”

“Just a hunch. You know, no stone unturned and all that. I saw on Doctor Fiske’s highly fictionalized résumé that he claimed to have served in a military police battalion. I wanted to find out if it were true or not.”

“Because of the pursuit maneuver, I take it. Did he?”

“Yes. Give me a minute.” Ike slit the envelope open with a butter knife and spread the sheets of paper it contained out on the table. “We’re in luck, I think. The lists are for each year Fiske claims to have been assigned. They are in alphabetical order by year and by rank, so…checking the F’s…nope, nope, nope. He didn’t serve as an officer as he claimed, nor did he give himself a promotion on his paper and really serve as an enlisted man either. My guess, he didn’t serve in the military anywhere.”

Ike read through the list of names again, frowned at one and underlined it, then returned the sheets to the envelope and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Frank joined them a few minutes later. If a smile can light a room, his would have powered the Las Vegas strip.

“You seem happy, Frank. Do you want to share?”

Frank filled them in on the morning events, the mayor’s hasty retreat from the office, and Burns’ difficulties stemming from his nephew’s arrest.

“So far, Smith isn’t talking beyond repeating that he didn’t have any part in the death of Marty Duffy, and he wants a lawyer. I think our wannabe sheriff is arranging that for him now.”

“Have we got anything on him that we can make stick or will keep him close until we can dig a little deeper into the Duffy killing?”

“I think so, yes. I managed to have the judge hand down a search warrant before I came over. I’ll take Billy over to Smith’s place and we’ll toss it. He has a permit to carry a nine millimeter. Whoever shot the dog used a nine and I’m pretty sure it’ll be his. It’s not much, but it will do for the time being. We can also put him in the barn. The couple who leased it to Duffy said they can ID his partner, too. So, yes, I think we can keep him for a while.”

“That’s good work, Frank. And you’re telling me that the office is quiet? Amos Wickwire still lurking?”

“He is but he looks a little lost and confused. His line to the mayor seems to be shut down.”

“Poor Amos.”

“Grace found one of Sam’s old programs that she used to track cell phones and calls. She’s locked it on the one you’re looking for. If it is turned on, she’ll know when and where. If a call is made, she thinks she will be able to monitor and maybe even record it.”

“Clearly you do not need me or Kevin anymore.” Charlie waved to Flora, who made a point of ignoring him. “How does one order lunch here if you are not on Ms. Blevin’s A-list?”

“She’ll be by in a minute. She is punishing me for allowing you into her bailiwick. But, she makes money selling what passes for food, so she will be along soon enough, never fear.”

“What I want to know is, why me? What have I done that she finds so reprehensible that she would blacklist me?”

“It’s your looks, Charlie. She was once left at the altar by a man who looks remarkably like you.”

“No.”

“Could be. Entering and then exiting a black hole is easier than delving into Flora’s psyche.”

“You could come back to the office now, I think, Ike. There is no way the mayor or his mafia will bother you now.”

“I appreciate that, Frank. Not today, but maybe later. There are some things I need to do first. Charlie, I never asked. How did you find out about the will?”

“Oh, no big deal. You know I have a habit of picking up business cards when I can. Never know, and all that. When I was in, that is, when I was away this week, I found one in the parking lot near where I was headed at the time. It hadn’t been stepped on and seemed in reasonably good shape so I picked it up. Using a found card is always better than one which someone might later remember giving to you.”

“So you were who?”

“Franklin Barstow. Isn’t that a lovely name? I think it fits me, don’t you? Very presidential, very imposing. With a name like Franklin Barstow, nobody would dream of asking for anything more.”

“What do you do if and when Mrs. Saint Clare tumbles to your snooping?”

“Let’s hope she doesn’t. Either way…”

“I guess this is a conversation I am not supposed to be following.”

“Sorry, Frank. No, it isn’t. Maybe later.”

“Right. Well I’m off to the office to pick up Billy and head out to Buena Vista again to search Bob Smith’s house.”

“Good hunting.”

“You feeling any better, Ike?”

“Marginally. My chief concern now is protecting Ruth. As long as I thought the idiot who forced her off the road was ‘out there,’ I didn’t worry. Now it occurs to me that he could be closer and maybe will try again.”

“Try again? Why?”

“If—this is hypothetical, you understand—if the intent wasn’t to intimidate, then it must have been to kill. If we rule out the lone nutcase intent on making a statement for the moment, then we are looking at a new set of parameters. I have been so obsessed with one solution, I have not really considered others, and that has been very careless of me.”

“You have an alternative in mind?”

“No.”

“I think I know you, Ike. I’m waiting.”

“What if…”

Chapter Thirty-two

Scott Fiske opened the top-center desk drawer and slipped out a small mahogany box. He bought cigarettes from an import house in Washington. He’d only recently refilled it with Balkan Sobranie Turkish Ovals. Fiske wasn’t a smoker, not in the usual sense. He hoarded the finely rolled Turkish imports and only lit them on special occasions. Sometimes in his office when he’d had a particularly good day or pulled one off when they didn’t think he could. Sharp. The trick was to be sharp all the time—stay a step ahead.

If he were honest with himself he’d admit the cigarettes were an affectation he’d acquired after reading a thriller; he couldn’t remember by whom or what it was titled, but it featured a protagonist who had been described as sophisticated, worldly, and hugely attractive to women, and who smoked Sobranie Turkish Ovals. Today did not meet his criteria for a victory smoke; it had been anything but a success. Where did these Liberal Arts types get the idea their disciplines were important enough to require more money? Who hired artists anyway? A degree in English literature got you a job as a barista, for crying out loud. He would light one up anyway. An anticipatory puff. Ruth Harris could not last much longer.

He walked to the door to close it. This wing of the building was nominally non-smoking. A pink call slip on Sheila’s desk reminded him to check his messages and mail. He walked to the stand with its rows of pigeon holes. His was jammed with notes and papers. He sorted through them, retaining the ones which seemed important, dropping the rest in the trash container placed next to the stand. He turned with a handful of papers in his hand and returned to his office. Sheila probably wouldn’t notice the singe mark on her desk top, and if she did…well, a little polish would fix it up.

Back at his desk, he smoked fitfully. Smoking did not come easily to him, as it happened. He pulled the drawer open again and removed the phone. He studied it carefully. It was a flip phone, very compact, very neat, and a convenient aquisition. He liked well-designed things. How many hours, he wondered, remained on the chip or whatever it was inside that kept that record? He hit the red power button and waited while it booted up. The face lit and briefly told him he had fourteen hours left. Not bad. He could always go to the drug store and buy more hours, of course. Should he call someone? He’d call Sheila, find out what she was up to. He punched in her number, waited, nothing. The call went to voice mail. He decided not to leave a message. Where was she anyway?

He did not like it when she took off like that. Sure she was entitled to take off personal days, but what if he needed her to take notes or…something? He worried about that, especially now with his new and probably permanent responsibilities. He’d call her later and ask her to come in early for some dictation. He’d have to think up something to dictate, though.

He used his index finger to twirl the phone on his desk. Its slightly bowed back allowed it to spin like a top. It skittered toward the desk’s edge. He managed to snatch it back before it fell to the floor and placed it, no longer spinning, back on the desk. He shut the phone down and put it away with his box of Turkish Ovals. He finished his smoke, snuffed out the butt, and emptied the ashtray into a trash can. Ordinarily, he would have also sprayed the room with an odor disperser, but he let that go.

He would drive to Roanoke, have dinner, chat up some girls at the mall, and call it a night. He paused, reopened the drawer, removed the phone, and dropped it into his jacket pocket. You never knew.

***

Bob Smith, with the aid of his uncle and the Picketsville mayor, pled not guilty on three different charges and the hearing magistrate released him on his own recognizance. “Not sufficient evidence,” the judge announced, glancing sideways at the mayor for confirmation. Who had the decency to maintain an expression of innocence, that is to say, a blank.

An irate Frank Sutherlin took his frustration out on the box of donuts Essie had brought to the office to celebrate Amos Wickwire’s departure.

“At last,” Essie had declared from her post at the dispatch desk, “things can get back to normal.” She had the phone at her ear, attempting to call Ike and urge him to come in, when she saw Frank scoop up two plain and one with sprinkles.

“Hey, those are for everybody. One at a time.”

Frank ignored her, scarfed the sprinkle, and washed it down with the tepid tea remaining in his cup. “You have Ike on the phone?”

“Not yet. What’s the big deal, Frank?”

“I need to talk to Ike.”

“We all need to talk to Ike. Cripes, Frank, what’s your problem?”

“Where’s Grace?”

“Her husband had to go to the emergency room or something. Piece of machinery fell on his foot. She’ll be out for a while. Billy’s taking her shift. He’s run over to the lab to get the ballistics on that nine millimeter you all took from Smith’s house.”

“Too late for that now. They let the horse out of the barn. He’ll be long gone before we can do anything with it. Burns undoubtedly told him to get lost, at least until after the election.”

“Can’t you, like, tail him or something?”

“Forget it, we’re temporarily screwed here. You any closer to making that call?”

“Woo, snarky, snarky.”

“Just get me Ike.”

***

Ike watched Ruth’s steady breathing, wondering how much longer he could do this. If she didn’t come back from wherever she was, the doctors would start talking about sending her to hospice. Doctors, he’d decided, were not known for their patience. Either the person recovered, died, or was shoved out of sight. Too many new and more exciting patients to attend to. But hospice? He could not wrap his mind around it, could not imagine the silence, could not imagine life without her, could not imagine a life alone.

“You need to wake up, Ruth. Come back to me in whatever shape you’re in. Even just a small part of you would be better than nothing.”

Did he hear a moan? No way to tell. Sometimes her breathing moved to the back of her throat and caused that little rumble. Like a snore, almost.

“Nnngh.”

“Are you trying to say something?”

There was that sound again. Should he call the nurse? What would he say to her? What would she say? Sit tight. If she’d really tried to speak, she would again and again until it was certain. Too soon. He needed to keep his expectations low. Better a surprise than a disappointment.

“You are a heartbreaker, kiddo, did you know that?”

“Nnngh!”

“Would you like to know how the day went? Okay. It was pretty exciting yesterday but all the forward movement seemed to go into reverse today. Did I tell you about the guy we collared for stealing hay? He steals hay, for crying out loud. Turns out he’s Jack Burns’ nephew. Frank is mad enough to chew nails and spit tacks.”

***

Bob Smith possessed a low cunning that more or less made up for his limited intellect. He realized that he would not stay free for long. Eventually the Picketsville cops would make their case and he’d be back in the slammer. And when that happened Jack Burns would not be able to save him. In fact, he’d been pretty specific about what he wanted him to do.

“Scram, Bob. Get out of town and stay there until after the election. I can fix us up later, but I can’t if they find you first. We’d both go down, so beat it.”

Bob had no illusions what the future held if he stuck around. They could just bust him for doing the dog if they wanted to. He had to move on. But that would cost money and Uncle Jack only had a Benjamin to spare. A hundred bucks wouldn’t get him far or last long. He needed more cash. He returned to the shed where he’d been looking at Duffy’s book before that cop showed up. He’d slipped Duffy’s notebook under the lawnmower then. The dopes hadn’t thought to check it out when they searched the place, and hadn’t found it. Somewhere in that book, Smith thought, would be his ticket out of town. Duffy kept records. He recorded all the hay they moved and who bought it, when they bought it, and how much they paid. Possession of stolen goods could be embarrassing. Those jerk-water hobby farmers and horse people might pay for not having their names mentioned in an anonymous phone call to the State cops. Duffy had been clear about the names. That way, he’d said, if anybody messed with them, they had dates and times when the troublemakers had received stolen goods, so there wouldn’t be any comeback from them. Just in case, he’d said. Duffy was careful. Well, maybe not careful enough.

Bob wanted to know if Duffy had written anything else in his book. He was on to a big score, he’d said. Maybe he could figure out what it was. Duffy wasn’t going to get that pay-off now, so maybe he could instead. If, one way or the other, he could round up enough cash, he could head for Nashville and nobody would ever find him. He rifled through the pages, ignoring the columns and numbers, until he came to the Sunday Duffy didn’t show up with the truck. Then he stopped and read. He flipped through the remainder. In the back Duffy had paper clipped some newspaper articles. Some were old, from before he came to town, some were later, and one or two were about him. What the…? But one was more recent. He read it, too. Duffy had scrawled a phone number at the bottom.

It took him another three hours to unravel what Duffy had discovered, but when he did, he smiled. Big score for sure. He’d use Duffy’s old phone, make the call, set up a meet, and be in for some money, maybe a lot of money. But he’d need to be more careful than Duffy.

Duffy was dead.

***

Grace White was not at her desk when the computer program dedicated to tracking the mysterious cell phone beeped. The software logged in as much as it could without her input, then reverted to watch mode. It would go through this series of responses and defaults twice more before Grace could retrieve the information it collected. That would be two days and one additional murder later.