The Vulture (5 page)

Chapter Eight

Ruth scooped fried potatoes and eggs from the pan onto Ike's plate and then hers. Breakfast any time of the day saved more marriages than sex, she thought. She hitched the flannel robe she kept at the A-frame tighter and sat. She had no idea why this breakfast epiphany occurred to her at that particular moment. It certainly did not carry much in the weighty intellectual department and she wondered if it were even true. Another thought popped up to displace it.

“What did you do with what's-his-name…Holloway's…car?”

“It's under a tarp parked in front of the Jeep. I was waiting for you to get here for a chance to get rid of it.”

“You said one of the goons who wanted you dead was here. Wouldn't he have seen it?”

“Figured that was a possibility, too, and rigged it, just in case.”

“Rigged it? How?”

“I shook the vacuum cleaner bag on the dash and seats and then all over the car. I switched the tags to some old ones that used to be on one of my father's old clunkers, covered it with the tarp and emptied the remainder of the dust on top. It looks like that buggy has been in storage for years.”

“Jesus, Ike. Are you always this devious?”

“Only when someone with real chops tries to kill me.”

“Okay, we get rid of the car. How and where? Wouldn't it attract a lot of attention, no matter where you put it?”

“Not necessarily. I thought that tonight we would drive down to Roanoke Airport and I would put Holloway's plates back on and leave the thing in Long Term Parking. It's where it would be if he was off somewhere. You would follow in your car or the Jeep. Are you up for a midnight ride?”

“I don't know, Paul Revere. Let me get this straight. You are proposing that we drive down to the Roanoke Airport in two cars, dump the dead man's Buick in a parking lot, and drive back here tonight?”

“Isn't that what I just said?”

“At midnight?”

“Or thereabouts, yes. We'd be less likely to run into state cops.”

“Ike, I am beat. Three days of unending chaos and then finding you. Can we do this tomorrow night? What I really want right now is a hot bath and a cuddle until I drop into unconsciousness.”

“That bad? Okay, tomorrow then. Go take your bath. I will light a fire and we can sample some vintage vintage.”

“A classic redundancy. Great. I will prepare my ablutions. You are not…repeat…not invited to join me. Tub's too small and I am too tired to engage in soapy intercourse, verbal or otherwise. Do you like breakfast for supper?”

“I do. Every man does. Why do you ask?”

“It occurred to me that you might.”

“I see, I guess. Okay, give me a five-minute heads-up when you're about to de-tub so I can have the wine open and breathing. White or red?”

“Your choice.”

Ruth retreated into the bedroom with its adjoining bath. Ike retrieved a bottle of white he'd been assured was indeed “vintage.” He heard the water running. Ruth's hot baths, the sort needed to un-kink muscles and untie mental knots, required no less than a half hour. He laid a fire and got it going and settled back to wait. He must have dozed off because the next thing he saw was a wet and naked Ruth pointing at the land line telephone which was ringing.

“I thought that thing had been disconnected,” she said and wrapped a towel around her waist.

“It was, over a month ago. Crap.”

“It's ringing, Ike.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to explain?”

“I'd rather pull the towel off you.”

“I mean it, Ike. The damned phone is ringing. It's supposed to be dead. What's going on?”

Ike sighed, resisted the urge to yank at the towel, and stood and stared at the phone. “I know of only one person that could be on the other end of that line.”

“Someone is there? Oh, crap, it's Charlie Garland, isn't it? The bastard has found us—found you.”

“Charlie, I don't know.” He hesitated. “Either him or there is another group with the same capability of remotely reconnecting a telephone. Considering the magnitude of that bomb, I'd guess my man with a hard-on for me might be able to.”

“What do we do?”

“We listen.” He stood staring at the phone and seemed to count. “Okay, it's not Charlie.”

“You know that, how?”

“Tell you later. So consider, it's entirely possible that you did not know the phone was disconnected. It is possible that other people did not know that either. They may have discovered or guessed that you are here. If you answer, it will not seem unusual. If you don't answer and it is an innocent mistake by someone thinking the line is live and expects you to answer, that might cause alarm. So, we don't have many choices here. You'd better answer. Be the grieving widow and get rid of whoever is on the other end. Oh, and either wrap up all the way or drop it. You are driving me crazy.”

“Wow, decisions, decisions…drop or rearrange, drop or rearrange…what to do? Okay.” Ruth rearranged the towel in a marginally more modest fashion and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

***

The last person to see Felix Chambers alive, albeit through a shattered bathroom window, listened to the woman's hesitant voice. The wife?

“Hello?”

“Hello. Yes,” he glanced at the script he'd memorized earlier. “This is Bill Montgomery calling from the
Washington Post.
Could I speak to Sheriff Ike Schwartz?”

There was a pause. Was she alone and consulting someone?

“Excuse me, Mr. …?

“Montgomery.”

“Montgomery…how did you get this number?”

“It's in the book.”

“Sorry, but it is not. Why are you calling?”

“I want to speak to the sheriff.”

“You obviously have not heard.”

“Heard?”

“My husband is dead. Killed in an explosion. This is a very bad time to call. Since this is an unlisted number, I insist you remove it from your files.”

“I am sorry to hear about your husband's death. Can you tell me any…?” The line went dead.

He turned to his companion. “She hung up.”

“Did she say anything?”

“She confirmed that Schwartz is dead.” He snickered at his words.

“What's so funny?”

“The old joke. You know…‘Schultz is dead…' only now it's, Schwartz is dead.”

“I don't get it. What old joke? Never mind. Anything else? Did you get the impression someone else might have been in the room?

“Nothing certain. There was this hesitation like she might be looking at someone or something. But then, she might have just been caught off guard, you know.”

“Nothing else? Maybe a click on the line like another person picked up an extension to listen?”

“The sheet says there's no extension in the house.”

“Doesn't mean shit. Any jackass who isn't color blind and owns a screwdriver can install an extension nowadays. Did you hear anything?”

“Maybe a click. I don't know. If there was someone else there, it don't mean it was Schwartz. Cops could have tapped the phone.”

“The cops don't tap phones that are disconnected, Manny. There's no reason to. They would do her mobile.”

“Well, at least we know where she's at now. I'll pass that on.”

“Yeah. Jack said the guy in town lost her and the people at the top weren't too happy about that. So, confirmation Schwartz is dead, but still need to see a corpse.”

“The boss sent Brattan to the ME's office. He should call in soon.”

“Yeah, still…see, the car wasn't going in the right direction and that got the boss thinking. You know how he is with details.”

“You and me both…and what's-his-name…Chambers.”

***

Ruth dropped the phone's handpiece back into the cradle and turned to Ike. “What do you think?”

Ike shook his head. “I don't like it. That wasn't Charlie. I'd bet my firstborn that it wasn't the
Washington Post
either. Someone with the same kind of resources as the CIA managed to reconnect the phone. I guess that just confirms it. I thought the guy watching the house—”

“He just watched?”

“Actually, he came in and searched the place. Before you ask, I was in the rafters. I have a way to get up there and—”

“Of course you do.”

“Right. Anyway, something has got them doubting. I don't know what or why. The damned bomb was big enough to have qualified as one of Bush's ‘Bunker Busters.' Surely they don't think I survived it. What's bugging them?”

“I guess they tried the phone for the same reason Charlie would, don't you think? They were hoping the fact that the phone rang would lure you into picking up. Since they had already been here, they were double-checking.”

“Yeah, probably. There is another possibility, of course.”

“Another…what?”

“Could it be that they, whoever
they
are, might be looking for you, not me?”

“Me? Why would he/they care about me?”

“I don't know. But if they were convinced I was dead, there is no other reason to open this line and call. If it is you they are after, now they know where to find you. Either way it is definitely not good news, but useful news nevertheless.”

“Not good, but useful how?”

“Not good because if it's me they are looking for, they must still have doubts. Useful because it means we know that whoever it is that wants me dead is not your garden variety mook. That fact clears Charlie and his playmates at the Agency. This guy has resources and power. Finding him won't be easy, but at last we can eliminate all of the bottom-dwellers with a grudge. So, who the hell, with that kind of power, did I piss off enough to bring this on us?”

“Don't look at me. Piss me off and you sleep alone. I am definitely not into bombs.”

“That is very reassuring.”

“I don't rule out castrating shears in extreme circumstances.”

Ike was about to reply when the phone rang again.

“What do I do, Ike”

He held up his hand and mouthed numbers—
one, two, three.
Silence. He kept counting.
Four, five, six,
ring, pause.

“I'll take this one.” Ike reached for the phone.

Ruth passed him the receiver. “What just happened here?”

“Hello, Charlie. Before you say anything, put a trace on the last call made to this phone and call me back.” He hung up. “That was Charlie.”

“How did you know that before—?”

“Three rings, a three-second gap, and one more ring equals Charlie. It's something we worked out back in the day.”

“And he can control the rings?”

“If you know how, anyone can.”

“Really? How?”

“NTK.”

“Oh, ‘need to know.' What? I don't need to know? I think I do. Listen, we're in this together or not at all, Ike. Anyway, I think I need one of those secret code ring things too.”

Chapter Nine

Tom Wexler tapped the papers on his desk into a neat pile, snapped off the desk lamp, and stood. It was late and he wanted to get out of the office and climb into a tall whiskey and soda. Between a bus rollover on I-81, a suspicious death in Lexington, and the Schwartz business with its incessant interruptions from cops from all jurisdictions, not to mention reporters, his patience had worn dangerously thin. As for the Schwartz thing, the DNA results had come back and there was no way he could hide the fact. Now, he faced the problem of finding another excuse to delay Ike Schwartz's interment. He wished he'd never agreed to this charade. He picked up his briefcase and turned to leave. A stranger stood in the door.

“Excuse me,” the stranger said. “Are you the county medical examiner?”

“That's what the title on the door says.”

“I can read. I'm asking if the title on the door is yours.”

“And you are…?”

The guy reached into his coat. Tom had a permit to carry a gun. It came with the job, although why a medical examiner would need to pack was unclear, television depictions of the job notwithstanding. When he lived in Detroit he'd often carried a weapon, but not because of his job. It was Detroit, after all. Rockbridge County, Virginia, was not Detroit, so his Glock, still in the box it came in and coated with Class C Cosmoline, sat perched on the top shelf of a closet in his bedroom. Right now he wished he hadn't put it there. Tom reached for the alarm button on his desk instead. The man paused and held his hand palm out, and then produced a wallet. He flipped it open.

“Franklin, FBI,” he said and snapped it shut again. Quickly—too quickly, but the shield looked legit.

“Okay, Franklin, FBI, what can I do for you? And yes, I am the ME.”

“I just need to double-check. Is the stiff from the explosion…is it Schwartz?”

“Dental records say it is.”

“I already heard that. I need something better. DNA?”

“Just arrived. See for yourself.” Tom pulled a sheet from a manila folder and handed it to the agent.

“I can't read that. What's it say?”

“The DNA sample from the body matches a sample on file.”

“It's Schwartz?”

“Like I said, the samples match. Is there anything else?”

“Nope, that's all I need.”

Franklin turned and left. Tom waited until the door swung shut and picked up his phone and called the security office.

“This is the medical examiner. Do you have surveillance footage for the last hour?”

“Yes sir.”

“How often do you overwrite the tape?”

“Unless we get a request not to, every three weeks or so. Depends on the tape and if the system is down or something. I don't know, so, yeah about three weeks.”

“Okay, I need a secure copy of everything from an hour ago until my last visitor leaves. Got it?”

“Well, yeah, I can do that. Is there a problem? The guy just walked out the door. Do you want me to apprehend him?”

“No, not necessary. I just need a copy made and locked up in a safe place for a while.”

“Sir?”

“It's okay, son. Maybe I worked the big city for too many years. I have a feeling. If I'm wrong, we'll dump the copy later.”

“Yes, sir. Copy will be made.”

Franklin, FBI, he says…flips open the badge wallet and closes it. Nothing else…What's wrong with this picture?

Tom was a belt and suspenders man. You can never be too sure. You make a copy of everything.

***

Ruth and Ike stared at the phone willing it to ring and maybe hoping it wouldn't. It did. Three rings, pause, one ring…Ike picked up.

“Hello, Charlie, what have you got?”

“Nice to hear from you, too, Ike. I can assume that since it is you and not Ruth that answered the phone, that the reports of your death were grossly exaggerated?”

“You can, but you may not.”

“Ah, English 101. Got it. You are officially dead. I may not deny that, yes. Good. Would you like to know what I discovered about your most recent call?”

“Of course.”

“Well, unfortunately there is a difficulty. Whoever contacted you definitely did not want to be traced. We were able to connect the dots that bounced all over the grid and all the way to Idaho and there the path ended. It seems the line ended at a radio translator near the Idaho-Montana border. We couldn't get past that. The people in the trace group said they will have to do some analysis of the tower in question to see if its signal is directional and determine its strength. Also it likely scrambles the signal. Right now that isn't a problem because we aren't into tapping the line, but we might be later. So, depending on what they discover about direction and strength, we might be able to narrow down the general area and ultimately the sender.”

“Idaho? What's in Idaho except for Boise State football, skiing, and movie stars on the lam?”

“Much more,
mon frère
.
Rich plutocrats with their—you should pardon the expression—‘hunting camps.' How two hundred acres can be considered a ‘camp' boggles the imagination. Then there are the McMansions with stables of expensive ponies, some very nice scenery, and a smattering of survivalists of the ultra-conservative stripe, and oh, mustn't forget it's the Potato State.”

“So, eliminating the possibility of an overcooked French fry, you're suggesting an irate movie star, a ski bum, a plutocrat with an itch to shoot elk out of season, or a survivalist is out to see me dead?”

“How many movie stars have you annoyed in your lifetime?”

“None that I know of. Many have annoyed me, but not the other way around.”

“Okay, we eliminate Hollywood. See how easy this is going to be?”

“Cut the crap, Charlie. What have you got?”

“Beyond the radio tower in Idaho, nothing. Oh, wait, maybe one, no two other things. The FBI picked up a suspect at Dulles the morning after the attempt on your life. They couldn't hold him forever so they kicked him loose. They did keep him under what they called ‘close surveillance' but didn't bother to watch the alley behind the motel and—”

“He slipped the noose.”

“Not quite. Someone popped him through the bathroom window. It was an eight-by-ten-inch window. That's why the feds neglected the alley. He had a portly physique and they figured he couldn't squeeze through it. They only watched the front door. By the time they heard the shot or shots and hustled around the back, the shooter was long gone.”

“Embarrassing for them.”

“Indeed. Ike there is only so much I can do here. The Agency has its limitations when it comes to domestic stuff.”

“Yeah, yeah, like you care. Charlie, even you don't believe that. If this was a known terrorist organization, your people would be all over it, jurisdictional niceties or not.”

“Well…okay. Listen, you should know this. Your old buddy, Samantha, is in Picketsville and working the wire, so to speak. So, that is good news. We have communicated. Both of us are looking for a phone.”

“What phone?”

“The FBI dumped the dead suspect bomber's phone. There was nothing on it, which means somewhere out in the countryside there is a burn phone with stuff on it that could lead us to his employer.”

“And you know that even if you find that needle in a haystack, it will probably lead to that tower in Idaho.”

“Maybe, maybe not, but it would at least be a confirmation. Leave the tower to me. The larger question is: Do I tell Sam and the rest that you are alive?”

“I will have to give that some thought. Lord knows I need a blanket, but how and who to tell?”

“While you muddle over that, what did you do with the dead guy's car?”

“It's parked out here under a tarp. Ruth and I were planning on whisking it away to Roanoke tomorrow night.”

“Bad idea. Leave it to me. I will send a cleanup crew tomorrow. You wait for a wrong number on Ruth's cell phone and then take a cross-country jaunt in your little Jeep. Ride some trail where no one ever goes—at least this time of year no one does. Where was your contact headed, by the way?”

“Norfolk.”

“Then that's where the car will mysteriously appear. Okay, think about the ‘who and how.' I will check back later—on Ruth's phone. This one is going dead again.”

Charlie hung up.

Ike replaced the receiver and looked at Ruth. “You finished your soak?”

“You got the wine?”

“I do. Ditch the towel?”

“Maybe later. Pour and tell me what the ‘Evil Genius of the Potomac' had to say.”