The Vulture (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-two

The new kid tapped on Frank's door. He was either about to explode or he had developed a severe rash in that place where no one wants one.

“Come on in. Steady, son. What's on your mind?”

The words poured out of the young man. Spewed, you might say, like lava from a B volcano movie except, as everyone outside Hollywood knows, lava generally flows slowly, inexorably, destroying everything in its path. The kid said he had managed to tap into some of the more sophisticated software installed years before by Sam before she left for NSA. He'd been able to enhance the residue left from the damaged bumper sticker. He said he discovered where the car had been leased. He had checked with the rental car agency and they gave him the name of the person who'd rented it the afternoon Frieze was shot. As he spoke he shifted from one foot to another. Pranced would be a better descriptor.

“That's good work.” Frank held up his hand to slow or stop the rush of words. He glanced at the slips of paper on his desk. “The name, was it this one?” Frank tapped one of them and slid it across the desk. The kid read it and his face fell.

“Yes, sir, him.”

“Don't look unhappy, kid. You just cracked the egg. We needed a solid reason to haul this guy in here. You found it.”

“I did?”

“You did and I'm not sure anyone else would or could, so chalk up one for you. Now, go tell Essie to call in Billy and then tell them both to meet me here ASAP.”

“Yes. Sir. Ah…who is this guy?”

“Big-time bully, braggart, and small-time thug. And it appears he just made a big mistake.”

“Sir?”

“You don't have to call me sir. This guy? His mistake was to use his real name. What kind of idiot on his way to commit murder does that? Anyway, who is he? He's a man who hires steroid-pumped misfits to provide security at rock concerts and things like that. Where his people work, there is always trouble. Sometimes I think his roidheads pick the fights themselves. Luckily, there haven't been that many events in the area lately, but when there are, all the cops within fifty miles are put on notice. I've always wondered where people like him got their money. Now I know. It looks like he's muscle for someone bigger. That's good work, kid.”

“Thanks. So how come you needed this? I mean, what else did we have on him that finding this helped clinch the deal?”

“He showed up on some security footage as the probable guy posing as an FBI special agent over at the ME's office. We couldn't be sure, though. The image wasn't so hot. Now we have something solid. The important thing here is, if we pick up someone like him, and if we can get him to talk, we might get at the top. Nobody believes he's working alone. With a little persuasion he just might crack a door wide enough to give us a chance at ending this mess. One way or another, I think we have the first piece to put together a case for murder one and put one more skell away for good.”

Frank put out a BOLO for Jack Brattan, wanted as a suspect in the murder of a police officer. He should be considered armed and dangerous.

***

Ike had launched the Vulture early and the tape of that flight was running on the screen in front of the group. Everyone squeezed together and stared at the diminutive screen on the Vulture's monitor.

“You see these people? They're going and coming from this one building. They are carrying towels and small bags or something similar in their hand. That building is the bathhouse or I'm crazy.”

“If you say so, Ike. Why is that important?” Ruth asked.

“Okay, wait a second while I boot up last night's recorded run.” He switched the settings and fast-forwarded the recording to a spot he'd apparently marked earlier. “Now, here is a night view at…” He checked the time stamp. “Eleven thirty-two. Watch this house and then that one.”

Against the dark background, greenish silhouettes moved across the space between the two buildings.

“This one is the location where I believe Pangborn and his guest are staying. So, out come two people. By the stride and relative size, I'm saying they are adults. Connors and Pangborn, most likely.”

“So?”

“So, I don't know. It's just nags at me. They go to that one which I am sure is the bathhouse.”

“Okay. So what? Sure, it's little late for a shower, but lots of people do that before going to bed.”

“Indeed. If that's what's happening. Pangborn doesn't have a private bath? You think? The interesting part is what happens next. Watch.”

They watched as a single figure entered a second building and a few moments later two others emerged and went to the presumed bathhouse. What might have been the first returned to his original destination.

“What do you see?”

“No idea. People going to the bath place. Potty break?”

“I don't know. I need eyes on the ground. The drone is nifty, but at an elevation of one hundred feet or even at fifty, we are missing too much. Spencer, where are those IDs? Your gang has work to do. Where's Sam? Time is wasting.”

“You're in a hurry?”

“Have you forgotten? There's a memorial service for me any day now. I don't want to miss it.”

“In a mahogany box or an urn, which? Never mind, what happens next?”

“You up for some acting?”

“I am the president of a moderately good university and I have chaired at least three dozen board meetings. Does that qualify? Also I am married to you and if that doesn't take a creative spirit, I don't know what does.”

“That last is not quite the role I had in mind. But the first…I need a bitchy bureaucrat.”

“I can do bitchy.”

“I know.”

***

Martin Pangborn was not happy. No one could tell him anything about the missing agents he'd sent to track the woman. If that weren't bad enough, his source at the FBI reported that the Picketsville Sheriff's Department had issued a BOLO for Jack Brattan. They had him identified as the prime suspect in the killing of a Rockbridge County deputy. The source suggested it would be a good idea to find Brattan before cops did. Pangborn told him that that would be his job. The voice on the other end of the line stammered a few words and then said he'd see what he could do.

Oswald Connors studied Pangborn with the look that one will sometimes see on a man eyeing his wife while considering whether to have an affair with another woman. Pangborn did not miss it.

“I own you, Senator. Don't you forget it.”

“Yes, as you so frequently remind me. I think you have bigger problems to deal with than what I might or might not do, don't you think, Martin? You're right, I can't turn on you. That would be like playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded revolver. But the thought crossed my mind that you might be better served in the short run by putting some distance between us. The last thing you need is for both of us to be together if people start asking embarrassing questions.”

“There will be no questions asked of me, embarrassing or otherwise, I assure you.”

“Of course not. You are insulated, I know that. I merely thought that for both our sakes it might be prudent for us to be in different places for a while.”

“You have a point. Okay, tomorrow, you're out of here. We still have a little business to transact tonight.”

“Tomorrow, then.” Connors looked relieved.

***

Frank Sutherlin glared at Special Agent O'Rourke. The sun had been up less than an hour when the Feds in the person of O'Rourke, had arrived in town and begun pushing. Interference by Federal agents was nothing new. Local police expected it. The attitude in Washington seemed to be that anything occurring outside the Washington beltway must be hopelessly inept and uninformed and in dire need of a guiding hand. He knew that, but why was this officious Bureau wonk sitting in Ike's office telling him that the FBI would assume the total responsibility for the search and apprehension of Jack Brattan?

“It's way out of your jurisdiction, O'Rourke, and since when did a BOLO, become limited to one agency's enforcement?”

“It's Special Agent O'Rourke, Deputy. Technically speaking, interstate is our jurisdiction. It is out of yours. The dead cop was shot over near Buena Vista. That's not even close to Picketsville.”

“It's close enough. Okay, you're right about who owns the perp when he is finally caught, but we popped the lead. We want to follow it. It's our BOLO, after all. Every law enforcement operation can and should pursue and arrest. So what's your interest that makes it so special? This is local, right?”

“It was a cop killing. The Bureau has launched a new program. We are concerned with the rise in attacks on police and other law enforcement personnel. We have made it our business.”

“That a fact? Is the FBI telling every other police department this? I'm just asking because that seems a big undertaking. There are something like fifteen thousand taxing districts in the USA and I reckon each one of them has a police department in one form or another as part of it. Hell, I ain't even counting the federal units, the armed services, and you guys. How in the name of everything holy do you figure to keep them in line, O'Rourke? I don't want to believe we are the only one you're going to be talking to. We aren't, right? Okay, now I am committed to interagency cooperation and all that. Always have been, unlike some of my colleagues. See, I'm your friend in this.” O'Rourke sat back and frowned. “But what you're forking out here is bullshit and there is no way I am going to have you horn in on this. You pull whatever strings you have and try and stop me, but we're going after Brattan and if we are there first, he'll be ours.”

O'Rourke stopped smiling. “You'll regret this.”

“Yeah, maybe. See you around, Special Agent O'Rourke.”

When the main door to the offices slammed shut behind O'Rourke, Frank had Essie call the FBI and then get Billy on the line. He wanted to know all about the new program directed at investigating attacks on law enforcement personnel from the Feds and alert Billy of this new wrinkle.

The race was on. They had to find Brattan before the Feds did and started a game of hide and seek with their killer. And who the hell was Special Agent O'Rourke, anyway?

Chapter Thirty-three

Charlie put down the phone and shook his head. He felt like a marionette master whose puppets had gotten their strings crossed. Or maybe he had it wrong and he had never had them in hand to begin with or maybe they were the handler and he was the puppet. Frank's news that Jack Brattan had been identified as the probable driver of the car used in the cop killing came as a surprise. Not that the driver was Brattan, but that the Picketsville Sheriff's Office had managed to make the identification. His people had used every bit of computer wizardry they had on the dash cam tape and come up empty. Frank's people had it in an hour. Then, if that wasn't enough, Frank had jumped the gun and issued the BOLO before checking with him. That didn't sit well either. Too many agencies rabbiting around could only lead to confusion and a possible screw up. Then there was someone who claimed to be an FBI agent horning in on the BOLO. The way Frank described their meeting didn't sound right either. The puppets were not behaving. He put a flag on the wire. If Special Agent O'Rourke was real and bent, they'd find out soon enough.

The director called and said that all kinds of horseshit had arrived on his desk and continued to do so and what the hell was Charlie up to?

“I thought you told me the Agency's presence in this mess would be so thin it wouldn't even cast a shadow. What's going on?”

“I think the problem you're about to have to deal with may have to do with the goons put on Ruth Harris-Schwartz's trail. We picked up that pair of rotten eggs and put them on ice in a Gitmo holding facility. Their boss just discovered they've been busted and is annoyed he can't find them. He's probing, that's all. If his contacts in the FBI say they don't have them and the several Maine LEOs say they don't, he figured we must.”

“Do we?”

“Director, deniability is the key to longevity in your position.”

“That's horse hockey, Charlie, and I don't like it. It puts us in the frame and we can't be. You can play with this thing all you want to, but you can't get caught doing it. Cut them loose or find a better solution. If the word gets out, I'm toast. If I'm toast, you can guess what you are, Charlie.”

The director rang off before Charlie could answer. Just as well. What would be worse than toast in that metaphor anyway? Burnt toast? Hot buttered toast? French toast?

He called Ike and told him he didn't have much time and if they had anything on Pangborn, they had better move fast. Ike replied, “Today is the day and tonight is the night.” Charlie said he had no idea what that meant, but the last part sounded like the punch line from an old joke. Ike said he was close and hung up. Charlie turned his attention to the chart Alice had drawn with the players and personnel of the Fifty-first Star, as far as they had been, or could be, identified. Charlie called her in.

“Alice, good work. Excellent, in fact. Now, what I really want to know is who isn't on this chart but has enough drag to heat up the phone lines to the Agency and the Bureau. Can you get someone on that?”

“I can after I have my coffee, Charlie. Deprive me of my coffee and I turn into the equivalent of the Hulk with PMS.”

“The Hulk is a man.”

“If you say so. Coffee first, then I'll start turning over rocks
.
”

Melba toast?

***

Sam arrived and was told she had half an hour to collect and dismount the surveillance clothes hooks scattered around the cottage, convert them from record/retrieve to record/transmit and set up the monitors to capture the transmissions.

“You're not asking for much, are you? Do you want to tell me why?”

Ike explained what he had in mind.

“You're serious? You're going to go into the ranch and plant them?”

“Not me, you and these fine folks on loan from Charlie's farm, and yes, that's the general idea.”

“I won't ask how you think you can breach that security system. But why?”

“There are two things I believe we need and we need right away. The first is access to the ranch. Obviously, daylight is out. There are way too many yahoos out there with guns to make a daylight appearance. However, the nighttime video shows that it is quiet, very quiet, at night. I want eyes in there so I can map an entry.”

“And the second reason?” The man called Josh appeared nervous.

“Something is just not kosher over there and I think I have an idea what that is, but can't be sure until I see for myself.”

“That's all of it?”

“For now, it is. Okay, your faces have been erased from any facial recognition programs that we know of. I suppose it is possible that these people have assembled one of their own, but I doubt it. It is also possible they have somehow already connected you to Silver Gulch. Again, I don't think so but you never know, so when you go in, change your appearance if you can. Nothing obvious, but glasses, wigs, things like that.”

“Okay, you're the boss. Do you want to tell us why and where?”

“I want you to be County Health inspectors and go scour that ranch and plant surveillance equipment and bugs wherever possible. Since you have a role to play, start in the kitchen. Health inspectors always do the kitchen, right?”

“Right.”

“Also the bathhouse and, if you can, spot some near Pangborn's door.”

“Because?”

“I want to hear what he has to say. I doubt you can get in the house, but you might try. Anything is better than always guessing.”

“It's a long shot, Ike, but we'll try.”

“Bitchy bureaucrat might get away with it,” Ruth said.

“You be careful with that. They will raise hell when you push in there, you know. Pangborn will insist the ranch is private and above regulation. I am certain they all believe it to be and they will insist it is so, even if they know the opposite. They are rabid anti-governmental types and will get their noses out of joint at the thought a government official of any sort has invaded their space. Nevertheless, you are to flash your credentials, badges, whatever, and bull your way in. You should have enough time to plant some hardware before they bring enough pressure to get you out of their hair.”

“You're sure about this?” Mary Jean asked.

“I am about as sure as I am about anything, given the amorphous nature of the situation we find ourselves in. Okay, Ruth, switch to a blond wig and purple lipstick or something equally distracting. Wear those horn-rimmed spectacles, too. You will be the annoying and officious chief inspector. The rest of you head to the kitchen, the hallways, bathhouse, wherever, and plant the hooks and cameras in as many places as you can and where the view is the widest.”

Karl walked in and reported that a BOLO had gone out for the suspected killer of the cop and that Frank had issued it. He also said that there were other players in the game including at least one from the Bureau and that it didn't look good.

Charlie called back and said that they had identified the loose cannon in the Agency and he was now being fed misinformation, which should keep Pangborn guessing for a few more days. He hoped the Bureau would turn up one or two as well. Pangborn had deep pockets and a long reach. He said he also worried that the BOLO on Brattan might spook their guy. Ike said he hoped not, but what was done was done.

“Maybe it will force him to make more calls, which we can trace. So far we know he's having a double duck fit over what's happened and Sam can give you a half dozen phone numbers and the content of the calls that he and Senator Connors made. You might want to put them in the FBI's inbox. It's looking like a lock on Pangborn. I'm not sure how deep Senator Connors is into this.”

The four “employees” of the Silver Gulch Realty Company were called in. When they and Sam, Ruth, and Karl were ready, he sent the “health inspectors” off to New Star Ranch. The government was about to meddle in the affairs of private citizens and the residents of the ranch would not be pleased. Ike just hoped that he had it right and that the hooks would be located in places that would give him what he wanted.

Of course, they had to avoid the tire spikes at the entrance, but he assumed their credentials and a little bullying would do the trick.

It did.

***

Pangborn's phone woke him from a post-breakfast nap. He was told that somehow, people claiming to be county health inspectors had managed to talk their way through the security at the gate and were crawling all over the place. He told them to deal with it. A knock at the door revealed a particularly disagreeable woman leaning against his doorframe and who insisted she need to inspect his kitchen.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Angie Pederakis, County Health Department, is who. Are you the owner of the ranch?”

“Yes, now get off my property.”

“You are operating an institution and as such, all health regulations must be kept. I need to inspect your kitchen.”

“Not in this lifetime, woman. Now get out of here.”

“Very well, but you realize your refusal to cooperate with our inspection will be in my report.”

Before he could respond, the woman wheeled about and stalked away. He called his security people and told them to get the damned busybodies the hell off his ranch. Half an hour later, they confirmed that all the intruders had been escorted off the premises. One woman, who seemed to be in charge threatened to come back with the local police. She was, the reporter said, “a five-dollar bitch.” Pangborn said they'd met, thanked him, and sat back wondering who he should call.

“Connors,” he yelled, “you're the senator for this goddam state, who do you know who can keep these idiots off my place?”

“What idiots would that be?”

“One of your county suits decided I was running a camp or something out here and sent in the Health Department to snoop around.”

“What? People are inspecting the buildings?”

“Kitchens, bathhouse, and some of the bunkhouses. They think because we have some kids here we're running a camp.”

“Well in the first place, this county does not have a health department. You must mean the state.”

“I'm sure that awful woman said county, and so did the man at the gate.”

“An easy mistake to make. I'll call some people. You don't have to worry. Even if they find something, we can make it go away. By the way, by bringing your Young Pioneers here for ‘educational purposes,' which you insist is the reason they're here, means you are running a camp and, therefore, you may be liable for Health Department regulation. I thought I warned you about that.”

“Maybe you did and maybe you didn't. It's my property and they are trespassers. It's another example of government over-reach, by God, and something I expect you to do something about next term. Call whoever is in charge and make sure they don't come back. I don't like people wandering in here and I especially don't like having pushy women on the premises. I don't want anyone I haven't personally invited here on any day and definitely not state bureaucrats. I don't want anyone in here who doesn't belong, dammit.”

“Come on, Martin. No biggie. Calm down. I'll make a call. No probs.”

Martin Pangborn had a list of expressions he wanted erased from the language. High on the list was, “no probs,” which was closely followed by “no biggie.”