7 - Rogue: Ike Schwartz Mystery 7

by Frederick Ramsay

  “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.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Frank and his brother, Billy, drove back to Buena Vista to re-arrest Smith, this time on a cruelty to animals charge. The dog had been shot with Smith’s gun and because the ballistic evidence more than supported the warrant, and this was Virginia, after all, still resonating from the Michael Vick business, Frank believed the judge would not be so lenient when they brought him in this time. Smith had to know something about Duffy’s death, if not directly then indirectly. Something said or intimated at least. He had hoped to keep Smith close by and lean on him a bit. Putting Jack Burns on the hot seat made the prospect even better.

  But, as predicted, Smith had skipped town. Both the man and his old Ford 150 pickup were nowhere to be found. His neighbors had no idea where he might have gone, and of course, Jack Burns had nothing to offer either. Frank called in an APB and resigned himself to waiting until after the election for his man to resurface.

  “Billy, I’m telling you this Smith–Burns connection stinks to high heaven.”

  “You know me and Essie been after him for weeks.”

  “Oh yeah we all know that. Look, Billy, forget Burns as the guy driving the truck, okay? That dog don’t hunt.”

  “What then?”

  “He’s got to be connected to Smith, right? I mean, they’re related. He works in a small town. People are tight and everybody knows everybody else’s business. Smith is stealing hay, he had to know.”

  “You want us to like, give up our investigation?”

  “Not quite. I think you can help out better by not playing rogue cops, okay? The last time you came over here—”

  “I know, I know. So what should me and Essie do now?”

  “For a start, call around to all his former colleagues on the local force. You know, say something like he’s maybe going to be your new boss and—”

  “In a pig’s eye he is.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Hey we’re pretending here, Billy. And then you ask ‘what’s he like to work for’ and things like that.”

  “Me and Essie found out he fixes traffic tickets.”

  “Well, that’s a start, but we need some real stuff. I want to nail that guy, Billy.”

  “We’ll get on it.”

  ***

  Ike still refused to come into the office even though the mayor and his dogsbody, Amos Wickwire, had removed themselves from the scene. While he seemed less intent on scouring the country for a suspect in the attack on Ruth and, in fact, had serious doubts about pursuing that approach any further, he hadn’t completely let it go. He’d left Grace a supplemental list of names to scan into the various police and FBI files. He hoped she could determine where they might have been on that Sunday evening. He really didn’t expect much, and since Grace was out with an emergency of some sort, nothing had been done on that project anyway.

  The company that distributed the cell phone he assumed to have been used to call Ruth the night of the crash faxed over information which put the sale in a specific store in the Lexington area. They had managed to establish the time and date as well. Essie took it upon herself to call the store and they confirmed they had, indeed, sold a phone on the date and time the distributor had specified. She asked Ike what she should do next.

  “Ask if there are surveillance cameras in the store and if there are, ask them if they would provide us with tapes for the time and day and from any camera with a view of the cash registers.”

  They’d replied that they did have tapes. It was good the office had called when it did because they usually taped over after two or three weeks. They promised to make them available. Ike then called Grace, commiserated with her about her husband’s accident, and asked her to come in to the office a little early to set up the TV to run the tapes and, also, to check her phone monitoring program. She agreed to be in the first thing in the morning.

  ***

  Eden Saint Clare went to the hospital immediately after her return to Picketsville. She had no idea why someone posing as Franklin Barstow wanted to know about her husband’s will. The young clerk’s description could have been for any lanky past-it middle-aged man—including, she thought, Charlie Garland. But why would he be nosing around her lawyer’s office and asking questions? He had been in town and had, as Ike would say, the means and the opportunity. But what would be his motive? If she saw him again, she would ask.

  S
he waved to the nurse at the desk as she strode toward Ruth’s area. She happened to glance back toward the central desk just as she reached Ruth’s cubicle. The duty nurse was on the phone; her head lowered, half turned away from her. She had Eden targeted with the corner of her eye. What the hell was that all about? A few minutes later, a young man in a uniform took up a position outside Ruth’s door. She frowned. Something did not feel right.

  “Be back in a minute,” she said to Ruth. She marched back to the desk. The guard avoided her eyes.

  “Who’s the kid in the cop suit standing outside my daughter’s door?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Saint Clare, that’s security. It’s…umm…it’s, you know, routine.”

  “How come he wasn’t here before? I’ve been coming to this hospital every day for what, two weeks?” Why now, all of a sudden, I’ve got security? You mind telling me what’s up?”

  “I’m not sure. I think the sheriff asked for it. I understand he’s decided that your daughter might have been a victim of a deliberate attack or something, and is afraid another try will be made.”

  “I see. You know…”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Never mind.”

  She returned to the bedside and sat quietly with Ruth, not daring to speak. Ike had known about the crash not being accidental from the start, so why all of a sudden the need for a guard at the door? Two possibilities occurred to her. The first was that Ike had more information, or disturbing news about the perp. If that was the case, she regretted putting Charlie up to asking Ike to call it off. The second possibility she didn’t like at all. Someone might have told Ike about John’s will. In any paperback novel, that situation would make her a suspect. Did he think she would, or could, do such a thing? It was a scary thought. Did she qualify? Had she the means, opportunity, motive? She thought a moment. Good God, she did. Ike had to call her that night on her cell phone because she was out. If she tried thinking like him, no mean feat, she realized she could have been in Washington that night in a borrowed vehicle. What kind? Did Ike ever tell her? Should she know or had she said what it was?