The Vulture

by Frederick Ramsay

  “For now, yes. I have to look at the tape from our drone.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  It would be unfair to describe Frank Sutherlin as resentful. He wasn’t, but the fact that the Picketsville Sheriff’s Department was not actively engaged in the search for the man or woman who had engineered the attempt on Ike’s life rankled. “Out of the loop,” Billy had said. So, it was a sense of mild annoyance that Frank studied the scraps Charlie Garland had tossed the sherriff’s department. It was to be expected, he knew, but still, you’d think Garland would be more alert to the sheriff’s office’s need to be active in the search for Ike’s presumptive killer, especially since he knew how the attack had affected them. After all, they uncovered both when and where the bomb had been planted in Ike’s car.

  He called in the new kid and told him to see what he could do with the enhanced dash cam images they’d been sent. The kid nodded and dashed off to the computer room as eager as a new puppy chasing a tennis ball. Frank didn’t expect much, but he hoped. Too bad Sam had been called away. If anybody could scrape something off that tape, she could. He spread the lists of names across his desk. Maybe, just maybe one would jump out at him. One did. Now what to do about that?

  Billy dropped into a chair and whacked his Stetson against his knee. “I’m getting tired of all this here chasing our tails, Frank. Everybody else seems to be hot on the trail of something and we’re just sitting here picking our teeth. We got nothing.”

  “You and Essie checked to see if any of Frieze’s fellow officers were in that Fifty-first Star thing?”

  “We did and came up empty. If there’s anybody else in, they ain’t admitting it.”

  Frank turned the sheet of paper around on his desk the put a finger on a name. “What about this guy?”

  “Whoa. He’s one of them?”

  “That’s what they’re saying.”

  “Well, I think we should just haul his butt in for a chat. Do we have anything heavy enough to go after him?”

  “Maybe. The county ME sent me a surveillance tape of a guy posing as an FBI agent. It’s pretty grainy, but I’ll eat my hat if it’s not him. I think we need to do some more digging, but we do have that piece, if we need it. In the meantime, go through this list and see if you or anybody else recognizes a name.”

  “Why don’t we grab him right now and bounce him around a little?”

  “Not yet. We will eventually, but bouncing or not, I don’t think he’d say anything right now. He has backup, or thinks he does. Maybe later we will when we have a full deck to play with. Meantime, get me something.”

  “On it.” Billy scooped up the sheets and banged his way into the squad room to tackle anyone coming in or heading out.

  ***

  Three agents arrived as promised and took up their positions at the newly constituted Silver Gulch Realty office. Karl had been sent separately to Spokane where he was to hire a car and drive in. Too many people arriving at the same place at the same a time could raise some eyebrows. Besides, Ike thought he might need to keep Karl separate from the others for a while. The Agency people and the Bureau’s had a spiky relationship at best and these new arrivals did not know about Karl and his past. They didn’t need to.

  “So, you decided against Western Sky for our name, I see. Where exactly is the Silver Gulch?” Ruth asked.

  “Ask your sister, Trixie.”

  “You’re bad, Marvin. Speaking of Sam, where is she, by the way?”

  “Karl is driving in from Spokane. She’s going to meet him. I don’t expect to see her the rest of the day. That’s too bad because we’re going to be busy and I really would like to know what they’re talking about over there.”

  The four new arrivals cleared the security area. Ike introduced himself and suggested they move to the parking lot before saying anything else. Once there, the woman who seemed to be in charge held out her hand, “Mary Jean,” she said.

  “Last name?”

  “Spencer. I was a Lynch but that went away. There were a whole bunch of us growing up, cousins, uncles, and aunts. We were known as the Lynch Mob. It was funny then. Not so much now.”

  “Political correctness will be the death of civilization as we know it. Which one of you is the public health expert?”

  “That would be me,” a pert brunette who looked more like a high school cheerleader than a trained agent said. “Cristy Clemmons. And this is Josh Daniels and Mark Sipowitz.”

  Josh could have passed for the fullback on Cristy the cheerleader’s team, Mark the right tackle. If Ike needed muscle, he had it.

  “Okay, we need to talk, all of us. In the meantime I have some tape to show you and we need to get caught up with what Charlie Garland thinks he knows.”

  “Mr. Garland said to ask you the same thing and he wants to know how much longer you intend to keep his drone.”

  “One more pass over the ranch at night and after we set something in place and then he can have it back.”

  Ike filled them in on the backstory they were to use to cover their presence. He told them that they would be checked out very carefully and would most likely have the office and their motel rooms searched. They were to leave “evidence” of their secret mission conspicuously hidden.”

  “Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

  “Yes it is. What I mean is you should hide it like an amateur, not an agent, so that if they are any good at what they do—and I think they are—they will find it. They must buy into the idea that we are here to destroy the local water table with fracking. They need to be convinced that is why we are so circumspect in what we do. Then when we do what we do, they will leave us alone.”

  “And what is it we are doing?”

  “For them, real estate speculation. For us, that is where the health inspector IDs come in.”

  ***

  As it happened, the FBI did not have the men Pangborn had assigned to finding Ruth Harris-Schwartz in custody. As Charlie had predicted, they were “lost.”

  Jack Brattan called Pangborn to tell him that and to ask for direction. Pangborn slammed his fist on the table.

  “What do you mean, they’re lost? They were arrested and taken into custody. Either the Maine cops have them or the FBI does.”

  “No, sir. Look, our people inside the Bureau are as confused as we are. They checked with the Maine cops, the local LEOs, everyone. The cops in Maine are under the impression the Feds have them, the Feds say no, the Maine police must.”

  “Goddamit, Brattan, find them and get the lawyers to them. If they talk, remember it’s your ass that’s on the line, not mine.”

  “Yes, sir.” A chastised and shaken Brattan hung up and, Pangborn guessed, screamed at his underlings. He might have also considered turning on Pangborn, but that wouldn’t happen. Brattan knew that one shaky moment on his part and he’d be gone. That was the trouble with bullies. They were useful when it came to shoving weak people around, but useless when it came to planning and execution or someone bigger and meaner shoved back. What Martin Pangborn needed at that moment was the latter. Jack, he decided would be surplus baggage when this was over.

  Senator Connors lifted his gaze over the rim of his reading glasses. “Problems?” he asked. The two of them were having a late breakfast. It had been a long night.

  “Who do you know that you can squeeze on the National Security Committee?”

  “What do you need?”

  “Some of my people were picked up by the police and they have disappeared. I need to know where they disappeared to and I need to get my lawyers to them pronto. The FBI claims they don’t have them, the local police, ditto. So who has them and why are they where they are?”

  “What were they doing that got them arrested?”

  Pangborn swung his head around and graced the junior senator from Idaho with a stare that would be described by a witness, had th
ere been one, as ten miles of ice.

  “Okay, I don’t need to know. I guess I don’t want to know. So, in the wind, are they? That smells of CIA. Would the Agency have an interest in what they were up to?”

  “I don’t see how, but it’s a thought. I’ll put someone on it.”

  He picked up his phone and tapped in a private number, explained his problem, said that there would be the usual compensation for the information and hung up.

  “I should know tomorrow. Maybe you could make a call or two for me.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Just do it.”

  Connors reached for the phone, frowned, looked at Pangborn, shook his head and made the calls. As Pangborn reminded him almost daily, he owned him and Connors knew it. Of course, if he thought about it for a minute, he had Pangborn over a barrel as well. But the senator’s reputation did not include much in the way of deep thinking. That could change if the situation warranted. Connors might be considered slow, but he wasn’t stupid and he had a few friends in high places as well.

  Sam transcribed the calls. If there had been any doubt about Pangborn’s involvement before, it evaporated at that moment.

  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, Mar
tin? 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.”