The director called and wanted to know what Charlie was up to. Charlie smiled and waited until the door closed behind the tech and then briefed the director. He left out the part about his belief that Ike might still be alive. He knew the director was the soul of discretion, but his secretary had been known to gossip and though in the past she kept it to office scandal, Charlie dared not risk it. Not yet, not until he’d actually talked to Ike, assuming he was correct about Ike being alive and he could.
Right, talk to Ike, but would Ike talk to him? By now Ike must be wondering what part of his past had come into play to destroy him. His first guess would be the CIA—that the Agency had decided he might have to be a necessary pawn in some game involving that past. He’d be wrong, but that would not stop him from thinking it and consequently he would, by now, be someplace where he felt certain the Agency could not track him. Or would he?
Ike had survived all his years in the agency and in his latest iteration as rural cop by convincing people they were cleverer than he. “Dumb like a fox,” Charlie’s grandmother would say. Well, he and Ike had played this game of cat and mouse before. Charlie sat back in his ancient oak desk chair and dropped into a coma-like state that removed him from the world and allowed him to focus on the problem at hand. Alice knocked twice, recognized the thousand-mile stare, and said she’d come back when he returned to Earth.
***
“Woof, it’s been a long time since we made sheet music like that, Ike.”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
“It’s only been four days…nights.”
“Nevertheless. Glad to discover you haven’t misplaced your playbook.”
“My what? My playbook? You think? You have no idea. Oh, Lord. I say, you have no…no idea. Listen, Buster, with you presumably dead, I’ve done some research. Just in case you really are/were…dead, that is. A wake-up call, you could say.”
“A what?”
“Take this as a cautionary tale, Copper. There are many fewer hot male catches out there than there are female hunters. I know that’s hard to believe but there you are. Don’t ever tell anyone I said that or that it’s even important, by the way. So, if I have to go back into the lists to compete—you being dead and me a widow and all—I want to be a first-rounder. Keeping up with the next generation, see. Kids these days read the Kama Sutra, for God’s sake. So, I‘m always learning, staying ahead of the curve. Fifty Shades of Gray, the aforementioned Kama Sutra, CineMax, Busty Cheerleaders Camp…I’ve been busy. Hey, a woman can’t just rest on her laurels, you know.”
Ruth grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. “Allergies.”
Ike wrapped his arms around her. “Right. I wasn’t imagining your laurels or you resting on them. Hey, it’s okay…shhhhh. I’m here and I don’t plan on leaving.”
She shook her head and a tear finally escaped and rolled down her cheek. “I was so scared, Ike. I thought, ‘Okay, I know he’s not really dead, but he could be. Cops die LOD all the time, don’t they?’ And I thought what if it was true, you know? What if it had been you in the car? You know it could have been, might have been. Except for a drunk who took the wrong car…I mean identical keys? Two cars and keys? That’s the difference between the now and the what-might-have-been? What are the fucking odds? God! And then the worst part, I thought about what life would be without you and it…and my heart almost broke. Ike, don’t do this anymore.”
“I won’t, I promise. But until I find the person who thinks he killed me, there can be no end to it. And you don’t have to drop the F bomb. You’re the president of a University, not one of your students.”
“Not drop the F…what? Why? You and your high octane testosterone-fueled cops say it all the time and you know it.”
“They do as do the ladies in the beauty parlor, at least half a dozen clergymen I know, editors, school children, and nearly everyone else. Eighty percent of the world’s English-speaking population and probably most of the rest of the world, too, often in everyday conversation, I’m told. I know, but I don’t. I did, but I don’t anymore.”
“You do know how sanctimonious that makes you sound.”
“Yes, I do. I don’t care. Sanctimonious sounds a little pejorative, though. How about prudish? I sound prudish…no, stick with sanctimonious. Prudish is for little old ladies. Sanctimonious sounds more macho, don’t you think? Anyway, why not simply respect a decision made and not judge it at all?”
“Macho? Jesus! Okay, I won’t judge, though you do know that others will. Why have you given up the F bomb, as you say?”
“Well, believe it or not, when every upper-middle class housewife drops it into conversation on the mistaken notion it adds to their sense of relevance, it loses its punch. I mean when it ceases to shock, it ceases to be useful. Also, it has become a word that has lost its meaning. It is now used as an adjective, verb, adverb, object, and noun and often in the same sentence. You might as well say, ‘oatmeal’ or its euphemism, ‘fudge.’ Same impact.”
“Wow, so if it is no longer meaningful, why do you care if people say it?”
“Aside from I find it disconcerting, maybe I just don’t want to be like everybody else.”
Ruth took a deep breath and straightened up. “Surely you kid. ‘Not be like everybody else?’ Jesus, Ike, there is no way in hell you will ever be mistaken for anyone else in this life or the next, assuming there is one. Oh, God, that’s not quite true, is it? Someone already…Okay, no more verbal fucking. Just the actual kind. Gottcha. So, what can we do?”
“First, I have to consider who I can trust and then begin to poke around. I wish I had Sam Hedrick in my back pocket.”
“Well, you don’t. She’s been exiled to Washington, DC, the navel of the Universe. So, except for her, you don’t know who to trust?”
“I am not ready to rule anybody in or out.”
“Frank, Karl. None of your deputies? They’re your friends.”
“Yes, in time…soon. I have to figure how to limit the number of people who know.”
“Because? Never mind. Then, how about Charlie Garland?”
“Nope.”
“Charlie is out?”
“He’s CIA, Ruth. The Agency is a screwy place. They work hard at what they believe is the best interests for everyone at any moment in time, but times change and alliances shift. Today’s friend is tomorrow’s enemy. Their loyalties can be powerful, but at the same time, fickle. Who knows what trade-off might have required me to be the bait in some larger dodge? I have a history, but I am ex and therefore, very expendable. The Agency has few scruples in matters like that.”
“I hate your past.”
“Yeah, well it sucks but it has it perks. Anyway, if Charlie is involved he will react one way. If not, another. I will wait and see which way he jumps. When that happens and I have a line on its direction, as much as you will not like it, he could become a necessary part of our lives for a while.”
“If it gets you out of this, I’m okay with that, but you’re right, I won’t like it. What will you do while you wait for him to, as you say, jump?”
“Catch up. How’s our ward, Darla, taking this?”
“Darla is a ‘Wednesday’s child,’ Ike. Her life has been one of nearly continuous awfulness. For her, this is just one more crappy thing to absorb in a lifetime of crap. I suspect she will take it all in better than any of us. Besides she’s at that GED prep program and I haven’t told her yet. Maybe I won’t have to.”
“Your mother?”
“My mother is the ultimate Drama Queen. She’s in her element. So, again, what now?”
“At this exact moment, I need to realize what I could have lost. You are not the only one who was scared. With that in mind, I think for now I’ll start exploring all the new additions to your playbook you implied you’d added.”
“Dare I say the word?”
“Not say, do.”
Ruth frowned and looked at the man who was supposed to be dead, but wasn’t and who, but for a twist of fate, should have been. Ike Schwartz, her husband. Peculiar word, husband. It means “dutiful manager” or something stupid like that. How many women really think of their husbands as their manager, dutiful or otherwise? How many women would introduce their spouse as their “dutiful manager?” How many in her world could do so and live? She shoved Ike backwards. Some managing might be in order here, but not by the manager.
Ike cocked an eyebrow. “You did say you’ve done some research.”
“Do we have any plum sauce?”
Chapter Five
A dozen frustrated and angry deputies crowded in and around the door of what used to be Ike Schwartz’s office—well, technically, still was. Frank Sutherlin held up his hand in a feeble attempt to quiet them down. Billy, his younger brother, stood in one corner, his wife, Essie, in the other. Where Billy’s face was beet red, Essie’s showed the ravages of three days of steady weeping.
“We have been shoved aside like they think we don’t know what we’re doing, or something,” Billy said.
“That’s because they don’t think we do. They think all rural cops are some version of Buford T. Justice.” This came from a recent recruit fresh from the Police Academy, shiny bright and togged in a too-new khaki uniform, and filled with the confidence that only the young and inexperienced possess. Frank was startled that he knew who Buford T. Justice was. A late night Jackie Gleason movie marathon?
“One of the guys from the State Police said we were the junior varsity and it was time for the first string to step in.”
“Okay, okay,” Frank said. “We all know how the suits from the big city view us. Nothing new there. So what? We still have a job to do and no matter what they may believe to the contrary, this bombing took place in our jurisdiction. The FBI, the state, and the rest of them from wherever they came from, can swagger around all they want, but in the end, it’s ours. Look, instead of bitching and moaning about them, why don’t you all tell me what you’ve got so far?”
The room fell into silence.
“Nothing?’
“The Feds took all the surveillance tape from the store across from the restaurant where Ike was eating, so we don’t have any idea when Ike came or left. Same with the shots of the explosion. Nothing there. No, wait, I think I heard one of them say there were two cars at the store that left about the same time.”
Frank shook his head. “That’s it? No report from the ME? We’re sure the body was Ike?”
“He says the dental records are a match. That’s one piece. Frank, it don’t look good.”
“I know, I know, it was wishful thinking maybe, but the fact remained that until we had positive ID, the death was still booked as possible. I guess we have it now.”
Essie grabbed her box of Kleenex and bolted from the office.
“There has got to be something we can do.” Charlie Picket said.
“There is,” Frank said. “Colonel Scarlet from the State Police told me that it was his understanding Ike was meeting with a guy named Holloway. Holloway works for the state undercover as a NARC and he was supposed to be bringing Ike up to speed on the traffic through the area.”
“So?”
“So, Holloway is missing, too.”
“If he’s undercover, he would be, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes, except this explosion is all over the news. So, why hasn’t he called in by now?”
“Maybe he thinks the hit was drug-related and then he might be dead, too. That way, he’s laying low until he can get a line on who put out the hit.”
“It’s possible. Since the FBI and their buddies have shut us out of the investigation, I think we need to go looking for Mr. Holloway. He had to have seen something, noticed someone.”
“Great. How, Frank? He’s undercover, remember. He won’t be easy to find. Hell, he won’t want to be found.”
“I don’t give a shit what he wants, Billy. I want him. He has a car. The car has a tag. We put out a BOLO and look for it. Wait. Just to make sure the Feds don’t scotch our attempt to get involved here as well, make the BOLO for…a Deadbeat Dad. They won’t even notice. Damn, I wish we had Sam back. She could scour the Internet or whatever for us…at least keep tabs on what everybody else is doing.”
Billy looked at Frank as if seeing him for the first time. “Damn, you’re right. Frank. You know that the Bureau figured that since Karl was so familiar with the town and all, they made him Agent in Place for this investigation. How about, because Sam is his wife and all, maybe we ask if she could drop in like for a visit or something and we could put her on all that computer stuff she assembled and then left behind when she got herself sent to Washington back then?”
“Karl Hedrick is a friend, but he is still FBI. We can’t expect him to compromise his position that way.”
“Well, why the hell not? We got us a frickin’ tragedy here and they are…sorry, they were…both really close to Ike. Why wouldn’t he jump in? It’s not like he would be working for us, just Sam. Come on, Frank. We’ve been dropped into the equivalent of a ten-foot pothole here. We need to climb out. Screw the Feds.”
Frank cocked one eyebrow and smiled. “Right. Why the hell not? I’ll make the call.”
***
Samantha Hedrick heard the news late in the morning. Now, dressed in yoga pants and a bright red hoodie with USMC emblazoned on it, she was on the road headed southwest. She’d driven not quite an hour when Frank’s call came through. She took it on her cell phone just as she reached junction of I-66 and I-81.
“I’m way ahead of you, Frank. I already called your mother and she is expecting me. Karl has to be officially out of the loop on this one and the party line is that I am taking some personal leave time. There may be some flack headed your way and you can bet some close scrutiny of any Internet activity emanating from your office, but I’m on my way.”
“Will there be trouble when they find out you’re attacking their databases?”
“Well, if I know one thing, I know how to keep them from noticing. Hey, I work for NSA, remember? We do this stuff all the time.”
“That part I really don’t want to know. Just get here ASAP. We’re being stonewalled big-time.”
“Give me a couple of hours and time to get the kid settled with your mom, and I’m on it.”
Sam tapped off and stared through the windshield, aware of the traffic and her place in it, but otherwise a thousand miles away. Her mind raced through protocols she would need to establish, the cloaking she would need to do to keep other agencies in the dark, and the excitement of using the skills honed at NSA to go after some local bottom-feeder without needing an order from a supervisor or a warrant from a judge. Except for the horror of losing the nicest man she knew, her husband excepted, this was going to be the best vacation ever.
***
“She’s on her way,” Frank announced. “Now, the rest of you hit the road. I need the witnesses at the restaurant re-interviewed. I don’t trust the reports from the FBI. I want you, Billy and Charlie, to plot the distance to the explosion and then figure where else it might have happened, like, if Ike had headed straight home. Also, get us fresh pictures of the site where the thing went off and the restaurant parking lot. Tire tracks, anything and everything.”
“On it. Anything else?”
“If I were the Feds, I would have put out a BOLO and alert at exit ports within a couple of hours from here in case the bomber decided to skip the country. Check around and see if they picked anybody up in the last day or so.”
Bill clapped his hat on. “Okay, it’s a start. Let’s see if we can out-maneuver these candy-assed big shots from DC.”
Chapter Six
Martin Pangborn acquired wealth the way magnets attract iron filings. At least that is the wa
y he liked to describe his success. His critics were less generous in their estimation, comparing his success to be more like how excrement attracts flies. He made millions from the misfortunes of corporations facing financial collapse. Once he’d spotted them, like a carrion bird, like a vulture, he would circle until his prey’s struggles appeared terminal and then swoop down and devour the flesh. The bones he left to be picked over by other, lesser operatives. Small companies dealing with money problems, companies with credit lines that had become stretched to the breaking point, were his targets. Once acquired, he’d sell off the viable assets, and dump the remains onto the scrapheap of corporate failures. The people left behind faced a future without jobs and pensions. Not his problem. He moved on to the next acquisition, the next corporate dismemberment. Broken dreams and men were detritus in his wake.
He was not a popular man. Popular or not, money, he discovered did buy him a cadre of sycophants and friends eager to bask in the aura of wealth and notoriety. Among them were celebrities—movie stars primarily, and politicians, a great many politicians, all with campaigns to finance—and the shady individuals with indeterminate pasts who possessed certain skills and connections he found useful. Even the President of the United States had been persuaded to have his picture taken with Pangborn and his prospective nominee for a high government position.
Ranked against that array of beautiful and influential people were the legions of broken men and women, their families and, indirectly, their friends whose lives had been destroyed by his financial predation and who had to stand helplessly and watch as their lives imploded. If any man could be said to have more enemies than friends, he would be Pangborn. Also, it should be noted, that there were a few people who had had the audacity to stand up to him, or threatened to expose him. If anyone had been keeping track, had made the connection between them and Pangborn, they would have been struck by how many others like them had died unexpectedly. In accidents, mostly, a few from natural causes. At least that was what their death certificates would say. Pangborn was not a man to be trifled with.
The Vulture Page 3