“You can leave a message at this number.” Charlie scrawled the number of an answering service and the address of the restaurant on a piece of paper. “Just ask for Garland. They will find me. Must run, see you at seven.”
He left Eden Saint Clare in the wash of travelers flowing to the street and into waiting cabs, cars, and busses. He found his rental and headed north to Skokie and Hank Baker. Why Skokie of all places?
Chapter Twenty-one
Kevin handed Ike the completed list of names which met his first criteria for scrutiny. They had to have a history of overt political activism, have a possible arrest on file, and have served in a law enforcement capacity at some time. Ike studied the list of twenty or thirty names, unsure where he should begin.
“I guess Mr. Garland told you about the headquarters of the organizations you wanted to screen being in the DC area. Four of those names are affiliated with one in particular.”
“Really? Yes he mentioned the DC connection. Do you have the names and executive officers of the organization in question?”
“Interesting that you’d ask. This guy,” Kevin tapped the paper with his index finger, “is the head honcho of Let States Decide. It’s the biggest of the groups, and he also used to be a cop in Houston, Texas, fifteen years ago.”
“You’re kidding—the organization is called Let States Decide? Do you suppose they are aware of the irony in the name?”
“Sir?”
“Let States Decide—LSD? Do you think they are hallucinating up there in Washington?”
“Oh, you mean the drug hippies used in the olden days. No…yes, I don’t know.”
“Olden days. My God, son, how old are you anyway?”
“Twenty-five. Is there a problem?”
“No, sorry. Growing older can sometime be painful, especially when your doctor looks like she, emphasis on she, is maybe twelve and your adolescence is described as ‘the olden days.’”
“Gee, I’m sorry if I—”
“It’s not important, Kevin. Okay, so the LSD is headquartered in Washington, DC.”
“Not quite. They are in Arlington. That’s across the river from the—”
“I know where Arlington is. You have the address, I suppose. I think I will start with the number-one guy and see where it leads. What’s his name?”
“Byron Yeats.”
“You’re kidding. That’s his real name? Someone named Byron Yeats heads up the LSD. That sounds more like a Beatles’ song than a suspect.”
Kevin nodded. Ike felt certain he’d missed the juxtaposition of two romantic poets in the executive officer’s name. Apparently literature no longer received the attention it used to in college. Kevin’s face brightened.
“Oh, I get it. His name is from a couple of guys who wrote poems or something and you’re thinking he maybe made it up because of the LSD.”
“More or less. Give me the address and get on that machine of yours and dig up everything you can on Let States Decide. I want names, the date it incorporated or received its 501.C.3 status, the works.”
“I’m on it. Oh, I forgot, someone named Don T. S. sent Mr. Garland a fax but I think it’s for you.”
“Donte? I don’t know of many Dontes and none personally. Let me see it.”
Kevin handed Ike a sheaf of papers. The last had “from Don T. S.”—Ah, Charlie’s contact, Donnie the Snoop. He studied them first in order and then one page a second time. Agnes had been right. Doctor Fiske was an academic fraud. How had he managed it for so long? Ike guessed he knew. People were generally trusting of the claims made by others and academics dangerously so. Ruth would not like this at all. But Ruth wasn’t in any position to receive or respond. He would have to talk to someone on the board. While he considered his next step, Marge Tice walked up to the back door of Lee’s and smiled a greeting at Ike.
“Are you here to set up your massage therapy room?” he asked.
“Just a preliminary look-see. Lee tells me you have commandeered the space.”
“Very temporary, Marge. We can be out of there anytime you want. But now that you’re here, I have a problem for you.”
“Me? What sort of problem? Do you have a sore back, stiff neck? What?”
“All of the above and others not mentionable in polite company places as well, but that is not the problem I want to hand off to you. Your new avocation hasn’t taken you away from the serious life, has it?”
“You mean, am I still married to the town’s most important banker?”
“Maybe, but what I need to know at the moment is, are you still on the Board of Directors for Callend?”
“Just for another month. I turned down an offer to serve another term. The school isn’t the same since it grew into a university and it needs a more experienced board, I think. So, what’s the problem?”
Ike filled her in on what he suspected about Fiske’s CV. He left Agnes’ name out of the conversation. Right or wrong, whistle-blowers rarely fared well in the aftermath of a scandal, and this one promised to be a doozy. He explained why Charlie Garland—though he did not mention him by name either, but for different reasons—had at Ike’s request, commissioned an inquiry into Fiske’s credentials, and then handed her the report.
“The guy’s a fake?”
“Let’s say he’s exaggerated his experience more than a little.”
“Exaggerated? How?”
“It appears in small, and occasionally, big ways. For example, according to this report several of the publications he lists on his bibliography were authored by a different person with the same initials, S. Fiske, here.” Ike pointed to the list, “And there is a Susan Fiske, a woman who dropped out of the academic world years ago. Since her papers are in Fiske’s field of study, who’d notice? Then there are fellowships listed that were actually visits. Things like that.”
“This is serious.” Marge scanned the papers and frowned. “Who is Don T. S.?”
“A friend of a friend. Very reliable, I am told. I did not have the patience to follow up on my own, so we, that is, I, had it done outside the office.”
He didn’t tell Marge that he couldn’t have done it in-house in any event. Not with Amos Wickwire’s annoying presence hovering over the department computers making his life more complicated.
“Do you want a copy?”
“No, Marge, I haven’t the time or the interest to pursue it. It’s in your bailiwick and I have no doubt you will do what needs to be done.”
***
Charlie found Hank Baker sitting alone in the Starbucks at the Old Orchard shopping center. A copy of the Chicago Sun-Times completely obscured his face. Charlie recognized the orange-and-black backpack on the floor at his feet. He ordered a tall vanilla latte, which he considered a “chick drink” and so would only sip but not consume. He pulled up a chair at an adjoining table. Baker glanced his way and nodded imperceptibly. After five minutes during, which Charlie attempted the read the exposed back page of Baker’s paper, he cleared his throat and leaned toward him.
“Excuse me,” he said, “But are you finished with your paper?”
“No, not quite. In a minute or two, perhaps. You are welcome to it when I am. Do you work around here?”
“On occasion. I travel. Sales, you know.”
“Ah.” Baker turned away and continued to gaze at his paper. When he spoke he did so very softly and did not take his eyes off the newsprint. Charlie never looked his way but instead watched three baristas busily scalding milk and making endless cups of strong coffee behind the hissing espresso machinery. He had no idea how that thing worked and did not wish to, but he admired those who did. He fine tuned his ear to Baker’s murmuring.
“I have scoured the activities of not only the members of the organization I monitor, but any others I could hack into. I a
m afraid I don’t have much for you. I can tell you that at the lower levels of the organizations, where the zealots and crazies lurk, there is general jubilation at the news the woman was racked up, but no indication that any of them knew beforehand of any attempt being made or who might have made it. Most wish they knew who did it, however. I guess they want to send him a card.”
“That’s it? No names, no suspicions, nothing? A wild guess would make my trip out here worthwhile.”
“Sorry. No, it’s not a complete blank. My particular organization, as are others like it, is funded by what we believe is a front for a smaller group of extremist individuals who support other less-than-savory and/or more dangerous undertakings. That is why I am on their membership list.”
“I gather the boss believes the agendas of fanatics on the far left and those on the far right sometimes intersect. So who are these baddies that I need to check out?”
Baker stood and put on his coat. He folded his paper, turned to face Charlie, and spoke to him in a normal voice.
“Here you go, friend. I’m done with the paper. Sorry about the crossword puzzle. I’m afraid I started working it but didn’t finish it.”
“Not a problem.” Charlie thanked him and watched him leave. He opened the paper and began reading at the business section. He sipped his coffee and leisurely turned pages, folding the paper and eyeing its contents with studied attention. At the same time he kept tabs on a tall man in a rumpled Burberry hunched over his cup, who had not removed his gloves the whole time he’d been there. It was chilly out, but not inside. Gloves? Charlie eventually turned to the crossword and memorized the information Baker had scribbled in the blanks. After a minute, he proceeded to fill in the remaining blanks, erase, or overwrite Baker’s earlier entries. He stood and left. He dropped the paper in a trash can outside the store, crossed the street, and waited at the corner to see if Burberry would retrieve it. He did. Baker must really be close to something. The director needed to know that. Baker might soon be in need of backup or even be extracted. Before the paper retriever could spot him, Charlie climbed on a bus and let it take him four blocks south on Skokie Boulevard. He would wait another ten minutes and then walk back to his rental in the parking lot. This could get dangerous. Ike needed to know.
Chapter Twenty-two
Ike finally yielded to his father’s pestering and attended a small luncheon of businessmen and potential supporters. He spoke briefly about how he viewed his position and what he hoped to see in the sheriff’s office in the future. Picketsville was, he said, a growing community. He wasn’t entirely sure he liked that, but it was a fact and the town and its citizens needed to keep that in mind when they discussed budgetary issues. He hoped he sounded thoughtful and sincere. The truth was his mind went wandering halfway through his speech and he had no real idea what he’d said or if it made any sense. The rapt expressions on the faces of his listeners suggested he had.
He then answered questions about why he should be re-elected over his opponent and what he would do differently if he were. The questions were predictable, his responses, perfunctory. He did manage to hang on to his temper when the questions devolved from the obvious to the inane. Traffic patterns on Main Street did not interest him and he was not aware the town experienced a “rush hour,” and if so, certainly not one that needed his attention. But he scowled thoughtfully and said he’d look into it.
When asked what other changes he would make, he brightened a bit, thought a moment, and suggested one or two of the town’s other municipal offices might be areas needing scrutiny. He’d had some complaints, not substantiated of course, but where there’s smoke, and so on. When pressed he shrugged and muttered something about possible instances of undue influence from the administrative branch being brought to bear on the employees of some other departments. He was careful not to use the word “mayor.” He imagined the person thus not mentioned would hear about what had been said within five minutes of the meeting’s conclusion. His father’s expression did not alter during this last musing, but Ike did notice the blood vessel on his temple begin the throb. He received polite, but not enthusiastic applause when he finished. So much for campaigning.
***
He spent the next half an hour working his way through the phone system at Let States Decide to make an appointment to meet with Byron Yeats. Then he returned to Charlie’s Comcast van to find out what Kevin had gleaned about LSD’s Chief Executive Officer. Kevin handed him seven pages, eight-point type, single-spaced. His name really was Byron Yeats, born Byron Shelley Yeats, in fact. His mother once taught English literature and poetry at a community college in western Kansas, which doubtless explained the name. His father was a painter—of houses, not canvases.
Ike retreated to the Crossroads for a BLT, coffee, and a place to read. He had settled into his booth with his sandwich, fresh-brewed coffee, and only a small dose of nagging from Flora Blevins when Agnes called for an update on Acting President Fiske.
“You were right, Agnes. Your temporary boss has padded his résumé over the years, and in more than one area.”
“Oh dear, what should I do now?”
“You should do nothing, Agnes. I have turned the documents over to a member of the Board of Trustees and they will deal with it. You do not want an angry Doctor Fiske or any of his friends, if he has any that are involved, after you for blowing the whistle. Take some advice and forget about it.”
“Oh, do you really think they would be upset enough to do something vengeful?”
“It’s not likely, but you should be cautious anyway. Academe can be a jungle and nobody likes a whistleblower.”
“Well, thank you. If the Board needs to interview me or Sheila, I’m sure it would be appropriate. She’s not in today, though. Doctor Fiske asked me where she was, as if I would know. Imagine!”
“Thank you, Agnes, I’ll pass that along.”
Ike closed his phone and promptly forgot Agnes and her problem. Enough already with the peregrinations of the academic set. He needed to focus. He spread the sheets of paper on the table in a disorderly array. Periodically, he underlined or jotted a note in the margin of a passage he thought might be useful. Byron Yeats had been busy in his fifty-four years.
***
“I’ve got to run up to DC, Kiddo, so I may not find a way to visit you tonight. Your mom had to go out of town and Charlie is AWOL as well. Sorry about that. I think we are digging up some useful information on who pushed you into the pole but it is still scattered and not too clear just yet.”
Ike gazed at an inert Ruth, unsure what if anything he should tell her. Fiske could wait. That problem was in Marge Tice’s hands. So what to talk about then?
“I wish you could talk to me.”
He tried his best to sound cheerful. He doubted he succeeded. God, she could slide into a vegetative state and then…not again! Where are you, God?
“You were always able to figure out where I needed to cast my net. Well, not all the time, but just talking to you seemed to help. So…” Ike’s voice trailed off. It wasn’t the same, somehow, just talking. He needed a sentient, wise-cracking Ruth to make it work.
***
In spite of Ike’s warnings and Frank’s direct orders, Essie and Billy left the house, put Junior in the care of Billy’s mother, and set out for Buena Vista. Burns had to be up to something. A person didn’t just walk away from one police job and shoot for another without a reason. It seemed obvious to them that Burns must have been up to something and they aimed to find out what it was.
Their first stop was at a coffee shop close to where he lived. The counterman had all kinds of things to say about Burns and none of them were complimentary, but by the same token, none were suggestive of criminality either.
“So,” Essie said, sipping a very bad cup of coffee, “What’s he really like? I mean, didn’t he used to be your to
p guy in the police department?”
“You heard that?”
“That’s what he says.”
“He’s county. He was assigned to us, is all. He ain’t no big-deal cop. Only thing I ever found him good for was to fix a speeding ticket once, and that cost me twenty-five dollars. Shit, it’d been cheaper to pay the fine.”
“Write that down, Billy. We can use that. What’s your name, Sir?”
“You writing stuff down? Who are you?”
“Umm, we’re newspaper reporters. We’re doing a story about corrupt policemen.”
“Fixing a traffic ticket ain’t my idea of corruption and if’n you want that, go to Detroit or Washington by-damn, DC. That’s where you’ll get a story. Say, what paper you with?”
“Thanks for your help, I reckon we better go, great coffee. Come on, Billy.”
“You didn’t get my name. It’s Ballard. Edd, that’s with two D’s, but people call me Tank on account of my size. What’s yours?
“Umm, Wickwire, Amos and…Darlene Wickwire. Thanks again.”
They tumbled out the door and dashed to the truck.
“Wickwire? Essie, what are you thinking?”
“It was the first thing that popped into my head. You weren’t no help.”
“You don’t look like no Darlene, that’s a fact.”
“Well thank you for that, anyway. Where do we go now?”
“I saw a bar up the road a piece. Best place to get information is bars and barbershops. We’ll do the bar and then I’ll get me a haircut.”
“Okay, but only one beer, you hear?”
“I know what I’m doing, Essie. Who’s the cop here, you or me?”
“One beer, that’s final.”
Chapter Twenty-three
The next morning Ike stopped in the hospital cafeteria for a quick cup of coffee and a moment to jot some notes before taking off for Arlington and tackling Byron Yeats. Frank, Billy, and Essie Sutherlin found him there.
7 - Rogue: Ike Schwartz Mystery 7 Page 11