3 - Buffalo Mountain: Ike Schwartz Mystery 3

by Frederick Ramsay

  “Morning Ike, Merry Christmas and Happy Cha-nooka.”

  “It’s pronounced ‘Hgan-a-kah,’ with a guttural H at the front, but thank you, anyway.”

  “Whatever. Sam wants to see you. By the way, where’s my—” Ike put a fresh Krispy Kreme jelly-filled on her desk. “Oh, good, there you go, thank you, too.”

  “What’s up with Sam?”

  “She’s coping, I reckon. She said she has an idea about the stiff in the morgue. Who is that guy, anyway, and why haven’t we put out the usual—?”

  “Keep it under your hat, Essie. It’s very important. You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir, boss. Lips sealed and all that, but I still don’t see why—”

  “Let it go, Essie.”

  “Oh, right. Where you want the mistletoe at?”

  “The question is where do you want the mistletoe at? I’m not expecting a lot of action, but you surely might.”

  Essie did not blush. She nodded, raised one eyebrow, and pursed her lips. “Well, the party’ll be mostly here behind the counter and the punch bowl will be over there, so I reckon it ought to go about here.” She reached up and marked the spot on the ceiling with a pencil she pulled out from behind her ear.

  Ike headed for Sam’s work area, her cell that housed the array of electronic equipment that both fascinated and frightened him. He stepped through the door. On an ordinary day, she would be hunched forward, eyes glued to one of the screens. Today, she sat sideways in her chair staring at, but apparently not seeing, the stack of files and CDs on her desk.

  “Are you okay, Sam?”

  “I’m good.”

  One look at her red-rimmed eyes and the pile of tissues on the floor next to her made it very clear she wasn’t.

  “Essie said you wanted to see me.”

  “Um…let me think. Oh yeah, Whaite called in. He has some information on Bolt that didn’t sound good and he’s off.”

  “Off? Where and what about Bolt?”

  “Whaite switched shifts with Charlie Picket. He said he had a call from a county policeman down in Floyd about Bolt. Appears someone snatched him from a motel. Nobody knows who or why, but they’re betting he’s dead or soon will be.”

  “This is getting crazier and crazier. Why would anyone want to torch Bolt’s house, snatch him, and then kill him—if, in fact, that’s what happened. What does he know that is so important?”

  “I don’t know. Anyway, speaking of bolts, Whaite’s out looking for a head bolt for his truck. He said he sheared one off yesterday trying to get the head off the V-8. After that, he said he was meeting up with the cop in Willis to track down one of Bolt’s friends. He hopes the guy will start sorting this mess out. So, he won’t be in today at all and he’s driving his Chevelle. He said he’d check in with you if he came up with anything, but otherwise, he’d see you tomorrow.”

  “Good. You said you had an idea. You want to share that?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Sam blew her nose. “Look, I’ve been tracking what we assumed were cash transactions on Harris’, that is, Kamarov’s, various bank and credit cards. Then on Friday or Saturday all but one of them closed out, but before that, they were pumping out money and credit like crazy.”

  “And?”

  “Two things. Why did they shut him down? Did they finally figure he was not among the living? Except the fact they’re after Bolt suggests they don’t know. Second, some ATMs have security cameras, miniature TVs, built into them. They record every person making a transaction and put a time stamp on it. I thought we might see if we can get a bank or two to let us have a peek at the tape and maybe pull a picture of whoever is doing it and, well, at least have a lead.”

  “Cameras. Of course. Good job. Call Whaite and tell him to check that out…” Ike saw the expression on Sam’s face change. “Problem?”

  “I thought I might do that.”

  Ike studied his resident computer geek and realized he’d grown so used to her working her electronic magic, he’d forgotten he’d first hired her as a working deputy. The computer stuff was supposed to be extra and nowhere near as elaborate as it had become.

  “Good idea. I should have thought of it. Thanks. Where did all these transactions take place?”

  “They are all over this end of the state, some close by—that is, in the area south of Roanoke—some as far away as Charlotte, North Carolina.”

  “You don’t need to go that far. Hit the nearest ones. I think it’s safe to assume that whoever made the withdrawals is the same guy at all of them.”

  Sam perked up. He supposed just getting away from the quiet hum of her machinery and a chance to move outdoors would be a welcome change—would help her put Karl out of her mind. She tucked in her uniform blouse, buckled her duty belt, holstered her Glock, and waved good-bye.

  “You be sure to tell Essie where you are going and check in.” He felt like a father seeing his daughter off on her first date. “I’m getting old,” he muttered.

  ***

  Andover Crisp added a terrible weekend to a miserable week. His in-laws descended on him unannounced. That included his chronically unemployed brother-in-law, who declared that work, unless it had something to do with the arts, was beneath him. The fact he possessed an extraordinarily limited knowledge about anything artistic accounted for his seeking but never finding gainful employment. Only a modest trust fund and a foolish, indulgent mother kept him from joining the ranks of the homeless—a class of people, he made clear to anyone who would listen, that he despised.

  By Sunday night Crisp felt the need to hit the brandy bottle pretty hard. This morning his head felt like a troupe of Kumi-Daiko drummers were rehearsing in it. If that weren’t bad enough, his people in Charlotte had missed Kamarov the day before. He knew he must still be in the area but not moving south as they’d supposed. So what was he up to? Kevin knocked and entered.

  “Mr. Crisp, you want the bad news or the really bad news?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The men in Charlotte, the ones who missed Kamarov yesterday, went to the bank, the one he withdrew the money from, and they looked at the surveillance tapes from the ATM. They just sent some stills taken from the tape. Here.” He pushed three grainy photographs across the desk.

  “Who? Who is this guy?” Crisp exploded.

  “Nobody seems to know.”

  He studied the pictures. A man-boy, he would have said, short, small ears, with wispy hair in a forelock, and a blank look on his moon face. He forced himself not to make an odious comparison with the banjo-playing character in Deliverance.

  “God love us, this has to be the guy he hired to watch his stuff.”

  “Could be. I hope so.”

  He studied the pictures again. “The guy is wearing bib overalls, for crying out loud. Do you believe it? I didn’t know they still made them.” He pushed the photos away. “Kamarov is no dope. He wouldn’t be out in the open if he’s trying to jump ship, and he certainly wouldn’t hit the machines by himself. He’d get someone to do it for him. He sent his factotum, what’s his name?”

  “Steve Bolt.”

  “Right. This has to be him. Tell them to start an all-out search for a Steve Bolt, ASAP. If we get him, we’ll have Kamarov. You can take that to the bank.”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “What? But…”

  “If it isn’t Bolt, we’d have to consider another, very different, scenario, I’m afraid.”

  Crisp scooted his chair back until it slammed into the credenza behind. He tilted back and closed his eyes and clenched his jaws. He nodded twice, sat back up, and shot forward to the desk.

  “You’re right. If this isn’t Bolt, then we have to assume the worst and cut our losses. Tell Ops I want a paper on my desk in an hour.” He sighed and tapped his fist on the smooth mahogany desktop. “Kamarov was our only real asset. If he’s dead, Cutthroat is, too.”

  ***

  Essie Falco was aware of Sam at the counter and looking over her
shoulder. Essie was caught up in her copy of Cat’s Eye.

  Sledge looked at the body in the snow. She was as beautiful in death as in life. He hated destroying beautiful things, but she’d earned her bullet. It reminded him of the time he’d knocked his grandfather’s prized Ming Dynasty vase on the floor. The old man had been furious. If he’d known the vase disaster was due to Scot’s attempt to grab Margie the maid, he’d have killed Scot. Granddad kept the pulchritudinous Margie for himself.

  But Kin Tok ee had lured him out to this lonely ski slope so her accomplices could take him down. Well, she learned the hard way that Scot Sledge didn’t go down that easy. The three snowmobiles had caught up with them after they cleared the big mogul run. Scot saw them out of the corner of his eye and had laid down a rooster tail of powder as he cut across in front of the lead machine. Moonlight etched the black tree trunks against a gray starless sky. The gunners in the second unit traced his path with bullets, fresh powder spitting up in little geysers inches from his feet, until, too late, the gun’s trajectory arc caught the men on the snowmobile in front and splattered their custom Columbia white survival jackets with black-red splotches. It was a simple matter, then, to slalom through the dark Austrian pines until the second crashed head-on into the bole of one of the larger ones. Shattered bark and the scent of pine resin filled the air. It reminded Scot of the rosin bag he used when he pitched his no-hitter in the minor leagues. Those were the good days, he recalled nostalgically.

  The last pair of Albanians he’d taken out with two quick, and decidedly deadly, over the shoulder shots from the Beretta he kept in his ski boot. How could they know he’d skied the pentathlon in the last winter Olympics on this very course?

  But she knew.

  Yes, and she knew her buddies didn’t have a chance against him. Yet she’d brought it on anyway. So, why had she gone ahead with this crazy plan? Following orders? Okay, he could see that. It’s what they did in this insane game of dead man’s chess they played. One moment you’re lovers, the next fierce adversaries fighting like bull rhinos to keep the world in balance!

  But then she’d pulled the gun!

  He reached into the snowbank where her last spasm had caused it to fall and turned it over in his hand. The clip was missing. He ratcheted the receiver back—empty. She’d deliberately goaded him into killing her. Why? He looked at the gun again. A piece of rice paper fell out of the clip channel. The words were Chinese but he could make out the childish scrawl, Because I love you .

  “Why do they all end up like this?” He studied the pool of blood spreading through the virginally white snow. Her eyes fluttered and she reached for her ear lobe. She said something. Sledge knelt beside her.

  “What?”

  “Kin Tok ee,” she whispered.

  “Yes, yes, I know who you are, Sweetheart. What do you want to tell me?”

  “Kin Tok ee.” Her fingers seemed to flicker at her ear and then she was gone.

  No more moonlight ski trips for you, kid, he thought brutally. But what was she trying to tell him? Something…but what? And then there was that accent. That was it! She’d been trying to tell him all along but he hadn’t quite figured it out. Tug at the ear lobe—sounds like…Kin Tok ee—sounds like Kentucky, of course. She was trying to tell him that his search would end in Cat’s Eye, Kentucky, the town the Chinese mafia made its own when the tough Mainland Chinese police forced them out of Hong Kong. He pointed his skis downhill. He had a plane to catch.

  “Wow,” Essie gushed. “Don’t you just love Scot Sledge? I think this one is the best ever.

  Sam smiled. “Best ever.”

  Chapter 29

  Best ever. Sam grinned at this minuscule ray of sunshine in an otherwise dreary week—Scot Sledge—best ever! She pulled out of the parking lot and headed to the intersection of Main Street and the Covington Road and turned east toward the interstate. It felt good to be out in the fresh air with something different, something important, to do. With any luck, by the time she finished they’d have a real lead. Traffic was light and she rolled down her window and let in some air. She noticed the decorations on the street and realized she had not even started thinking about Christmas. The thought plunged her back into gloom. She and Karl had had plans for Christmas, but now…She stepped on the gas, to hell with Karl. She’d find plenty to do. She’d fly home and see her parents. No, they’d want to know about her boyfriends, and the last time she’d visited, they wanted to know when she planned to return to her old job at the college. Police work was no occupation for a lady, they said. She’d replied that being a lady wasn’t her ambition.

  As she turned over holiday possibilities, realizing that in her circumstances, she had few, if any, choices, she passed a gray Crown Vic going the other way. No doubt about it, government issue. She glanced sideways as it swished by and for a moment she could have sworn she saw Karl, not driving, but in the passenger seat away from her. At the relative speed the two cars created, her view into the other car lasted less than a tenth of a second. She shook her head and focused on the road.

  “No way.”

  For the next hour she drove south. The first three ATMs she checked out did not have surveillance equipment. She figured out that unless they were attached to a building with access from the rear, ATMs would not be so equipped. At least that was her surmise after the fourth unsuccessful stop. She drove to the first bank on her list and pulled in. The ATM faced the street under a shallow awning. She watched as three people transacted their business. When she looked back at the bank’s front door she saw a man watching her and writing something on a pad. He ducked back into the relative shadows when he realized she’d spotted him. She slid out of the car, tucked in her blouse, and went into the bank.

  Once inside, she walked to the desks at the rear. She noticed the man with the pad now had his cell phone out and poised, ready to make a call. She turned and faced him.

  “Police,” she said and pointed to her badge.

  “I saw you watching the ATM and I thought you might be a mugger.”

  “The uniform didn’t tell you anything?”

  “Well, it could be a fake or…” He put his phone away and took a place in one of the teller lines.

  “Can I help you?” Sam turned but didn’t see anyone. A young man about her age stood in front of her staring at her chest. It wasn’t his fault, he must have been at least a foot and a half shorter than she, and that was the only view available to him. She slouched down a little to reduce the distance and the view.

  “I’m hoping you can help me. You have a surveillance camera mounted on your ATM. How long do you save the tapes?”

  “That would be a question for Mr. Harmon.”

  The young man retreated into the maze of desks to a small office and spoke to someone inside. Sam squinted but could not read the nameplate on the door. She’d need to get her prescription checked. A bulky man in a rumpled checked suit and a bad comb-over emerged from the office. When he caught sight of Sam he whistled.

  “Well now, if you aren’t a tall drink of water. Franklin, here, says you want some information about our security tapes. Can I ask why?”

  “Yes, sir. We are tracking a set of stolen credit cards and a bank card. One of them was used here last Wednesday or Thursday. We’d like to see who that was.”

  “Last week? You’re in luck. We have those tapes in the back room. Sorry I can’t help you look, but we do have a tape deck and a monitor if you’d like to have a go.”

  “Would it be possible to print out a still from them?”

  “Off the TV? Gee, I don’t know how you’d do that.”

  “I have a laptop, cables, and a program that will let me do that. I’d need to borrow a printer.”

  “No fooling? Well, help yourself, Missy. There’s an empty desk next to the tape deal.”

  Sam let the Missy remark go where she deposited the tall drink of water, but she wished, for a split second, she were not a police officer so she could lay this jerk
out. She spent the next hour scanning the tape and downloading images onto her hard drive. She passed on the printer when she saw its condition. She could print out any of the pictures she had when she returned to the office. When she finished she thanked Harmon and drove to the next location and repeated the process. By three in the afternoon, she’d seen enough. She had pictures, but Ike wasn’t going to be happy. There were two people using the cards.

  ***

  Ike sat on the floor of his office, oil can in hand. He swiveled his chair, heard the squeal, and applied more oil on what he believed to be its source. He managed to reduce the volume but not eliminate it.

  “Ike, where you at?” He saw what he assumed to be Essie’s feet at his door.

  “On the floor behind the desk.”

  “You okay?”

  “Fine, fine. I’m just trying to quiet this chair down.”

  “Ike, I do believe that chair was left here by General Jubal Early when he rode through town with his cavalry. Why don’t you spring for a new one?”

  “I like this chair. I just don’t like the squeaks and squawks.”

  “Ms. Harris is on the phone for you.”

  Ike heard the mild disdain in Essie’s voice. He wondered how long it would be before his staff and friends got over their town-gown problems and accepted Ruth. He stood up, spun his chair around, flinched at the squeal it produced, and sat. He pulled out the middle desk drawer, rested his feet on its edge, and picked up.

  “Ike, have you been setting Agnes up?”

  “Come again? I assume we are speaking of the Agnes who sits outside your office.”

  “Who else?”

  “I could make you a list, but go on. Why do you think I’ve set her up? And for what?”

  “She spent an hour and a half in an interview with some federal types who wanted to know about her relationship with Brent Wilcox. I didn’t even know she had a relationship with him—or anyone else, for that matter.”