3 - Buffalo Mountain: Ike Schwartz Mystery 3

by Frederick Ramsay

  He pushed the stiff plastic up. He turned on the flashlight and aimed it under the tool box. The shadows were too deep for him to see anything. He’d have to climb into the bed. The sides were slippery from melting snow and forming ice. He needed to get in and get out before too much snow piled up in the bed—a dead tipoff to Oldham and his lawyer, if he had one, that someone had been in the truck. Whaite heaved himself over the tailgate and he lay on his stomach and shone the light up under the tool box. It was there. He switched off the light and clambered out of the truck. Putting the tarp back in place went more swiftly than removing it had.

  Satisfied he’d done everything necessary, Whaite shuffled back out onto the street and back to his car. Whatever footprints he may have made would be covered by morning. Donnie Oldham would never know he’d been there. He started the car and headed north.

  Chapter 32

  Donnie slipped twice on his way home. His blood alcohol level kept him from feeling the cold as he lurched along the pavement cursing the men back at The Pub. He pictured what they would do when he came back and showed them his pistol. They wouldn’t be laughing then, especially that big guy. He’d shoot him first. As he slogged along, doubts crept into his mind. There were a lot of men in that bar and he was sure some of them also had guns. He stopped in mid-stride and tried to figure out how he could show them up but not get hurt himself. If they only knew what he could do…no, what he’d done in his time. He picked up his pace.

  He reached his house and turned into the alleyway that led to his backyard. Snow muffled his footsteps. When he reached the rear, he stopped. He saw the light first. It came from the pickup’s bed. Then he realized the tarp had been rolled up. Someone was in his truck. He wished he had his gun already. It would be a justified shooting—trespassing—might have to drag the stiff indoors, though. He started forward. A figure loomed up from the bed. The fire police—no, that wasn’t right, the guy was a regular cop and he had climbed up into the bed of his truck. Donnie racked his brains for any idea why a policeman would climb around in his truck.

  He stepped back into the shadows and watched as the cop replaced the tarp and pocketed his flashlight. At that moment all the anger he felt for the men in the bar shifted from them to this man. He’d take care of him and then…it was perfect. All of those dopes in the bar knew the cop had asked about him that afternoon. If something happened to him…then they’d know what Donnie Oldham could do. He flattened himself against the sagging clapboards next to his garbage cans. The cop hurried away and down the street. Donnie made sure the cop got into his car and then ran to his truck and jerked off the tarp. He pulled out onto the street. He saw the red car’s taillights turn the corner. He cranked up the truck’s heater and fell in behind, keeping a hundred yards or so between the two vehicles. Out on the main road, he’d drop back and, in a turn, switch off his head lights, then speed up again. He followed that way for a while, and then repeated the ploy only with the lights on. He’d read about that technique in one of Hollis’ books about surveillance. He figured to take care of him out in the country somewhere. When the word got back to The Pub, there’d be no laughing at him anymore.

  ***

  “It’s started snowing again, Ike. We should be thinking about leaving before the roads close.”

  Ruth wanted dinner, he’d provided it. No gourmet cook, he’d bought Chinese carryout.

  “No interest in spending the night here?” They were sitting on either side of a round wooden table in Ike’s A-frame. He’d built the house years before as a retreat from the grittier aspects of his life. He kept an apartment in town to be close to his work but slipped away to this spot whenever he could.

  “I agreed to come to your hideaway for dinner. I’ve never seen it in the winter. It’s almost as beautiful with the snow in the trees as it is in the spring. But, no, I have things I need to do first thing tomorrow.”

  “You said we needed to talk. You had items on your agenda or something.”

  “The agenda was your idea. You’re right, but I’m worried about that snow. Take me home.”

  “Okay. Five minutes. I have something I need to say and then we can go.”

  “You can tell me in the car.”

  “You know, for a New Englander, you sure are spooky about snow.”

  “It isn’t about me, Schwartz. I’ve seen how your people handle it and if I don’t get home before an inch hits the macadam, I’m screwed.”

  “Five minutes. I promise I’ll get you back to dear old Callend and beddy-byes.”

  “Shoot, but I’m warning you—”

  “The doctor called Pop this morning.”

  “Your mother?”

  “He’s not sure she’s going to make the New Year.” Ruth started to say something but he held up his hand. “Hear me out. Just in case, we’re moving Christmas/Chanukah up. We don’t think she’ll notice. Pop wanted to know if you’d be there, be a part of it. I said I’d ask. So, I’m asking. Will you?”

  “Of course, I will. Give me the days or nights—whatever—and I’ll be there. It’s a little short notice, so if I have to duck out and come back, will that be all right?”

  “That will be fine. Thank you.”

  “Hey, you’re my sweetie pie,” she said and kissed him. “The rest of the dessert will have to wait. Now take me home.”

  “I’m your what?”

  “You heard me. Now move.”

  ***

  Karl Hedrick seethed. His partner sat turnip-like on the motel bed watching re-runs of Survivor. He’d thought to go for a walk but the snow forced him back into the motel room.

  “This whole operation is so bogus,” he said. He didn’t expect to get a sympathetic hearing but he needed to vent to somebody.

  “It’s what the boss wants. It’s what he gets,” his partner said and switched to a re-run of CSI. “I love this show.”

  “There is no reason for us to be here.”

  “Talk to the boss.”

  “I did. He wouldn’t listen.”

  In fact, Karl had more than talked to the division chief. He’d argued, cajoled, and finally lost his temper. In the first place, the great disappearance turned out to be a miscue on the part of a group in the department acting as a bunko squad. The man had, in fact, slipped their surveillance net, but he wasn’t that hard to find. Instead of transferring them back on him, the chief decided he would empanel a “task force” and close the guy down. Karl came to the conclusion his boss needed a big operation, a breakthrough, something positive in his jacket. His last two operations had sputtered out like candles in a hurricane.

  “I picked you,” his chief had said, “because you know the territory. Good thing you put that dame in your book.”

  “I didn’t put her in my book. I don’t even know what that means. You’re right, I know the area better than anyone and I’m telling you, we don’t need to waste time and resources in an operation down there. The sheriff down there is perfectly capable of handling the situation.”

  “Oh sure. Cripes, Hedrick, he isn’t state or even county. He’s sheriff of a two-bit town. He couldn’t handle dog doo-doo with a scooper.”

  “You’re wrong. He’s dealt with some pretty big stuff down there.”

  “Yeah, and we were there to pick up the pieces.”

  “Pick up the pieces? You’re kidding, right? We stood around with our thumbs in our mouths while he tidied up our mess the last time. I know. I was there.”

  “That’s not the way it appears in the report.”

  “Then the report lies.”

  “Careful, son, if you have any notion of staying in the Bureau, you better learn quick—we back each other. The report says the sheriff is a bumbler, that’s what he is. Now you pack your stuff, say goodbye to the woman, and go to work.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, here’s what you need to know—Rule one, nobody knows where you are. Rule two, you shut down your answering machine and forward all your calls to this number. We
’ll take care of your messages. Rule three, under no circumstances do you contact anyone in the sheriff’s office. Do you get my drift or do I have to spell out the rest as well?”

  “I got it.”

  Karl had done as he had been ordered. He discovered when his answering machine had been unplugged. Calls to him had to go through some idiotic answering service. He couldn’t call Sam and she hadn’t tried to call him. He paced up and down in the cramped room.

  “Sit down, cowboy, you’re driving me nuts,” his roommate said. “And you are in my line of sight. Look, they’re showing a close-up of a bullet track through the dead guy’s body. Whoa, that must have been his liver. I love this show.”

  “So you said.”

  “Tomorrow, we drop in on the rest of the eggheads at the college. They ought to be able to give us what we need. Word is he’s hooked about a dozen of them. Why is it that the higher the IQ, the dumber a person becomes for scams like the one he’s working?”

  “No idea. My question is, why is it that the longer you work inside the Washington beltway, the less you trust the wisdom and judgment of those who live outside it?”

  “You keep talking like that and you will never make a career in the Bureau, Karl. You know that? Ever since you went down there to find that guy, you have been preaching this goody two shoes notion of interagency cooperation. It will never happen. So, the only question left is which of the agencies will get the biggest piece of pie. As far as your sheriff is concerned, if he’s so hot, what’s he doing being a sheriff in a jerkwater town like this in the first place? You know what? You need to rethink your career options.”

  Karl thought he might be right. He picked up his cell phone, pulled on his jacket, and moved to the door.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “Out. I need fresh air.”

  “It’s snowing outside.”

  “Snow job out there—snow job in here. What’s the difference?” Karl stepped out into the cold night. He was about to break rules one and three.

  Chapter 33

  Sam’s phone battery failed. She’d had it on the charger for over an hour. The face plate kept spelling C-H-A-R-G-I-N-G but when she unplugged the charger to make a call, the face plate read LOW BATTERY. She didn’t have a landline. She, like thousands of her generation, abandoned hardwired phones and relied exclusively on cell phones. Her phone was a Sheriff’s Department issue. Essie had spare batteries in one of her cabinets. She could run down to the office and pick up a new one. She peered out the window and saw that the snow was coming down harder. She decided to wait until the next day to rejoin the rest of the world. She wasn’t expecting any calls anyway.

  She booted up her laptop and opened the file where she’d stored the pictures of the credit card users. She wasn’t interested in the faces anymore. She wanted to see if there might be something else in the pictures, something in the background that might help. The problem with surveillance cameras, especially the small “lipstick” variety used in ATMs, is definition. No matter what crime shows on TV seemed to be able to do with their technology, in reality, a small fuzzy image could only become a large fuzzy image when blown up unless you had some pretty exotic, intuitive software. You couldn’t make new pixels, but you could make more and, using the laws of probability, recreate what was lost. The clarity of the primary image—the face in this case—was poor and the background almost unrecognizable. She let her program run, and after a half dozen passes she could make out a truck. If there were other pictures like it in the file, she might be able to pull a license plate. She checked her watch. Whaite should be in the office or out on the road. She picked up her phone to call him and looked at LOW BATTERY. It would have to wait until morning.

  ***

  Except on holidays like Christmas and Thanksgiving, or when someone dropped by, Connie Platt sat by her window every night, her TV on, volume up full. She spent the time watching cars whiz by and old movies. When she was younger, she’d had a life—children, a husband, and friends. But they’d all died or drifted away, and now, in her seventy-fifth year with nagging arthritis, hearing problems, and failing eyesight, she faced life alone. Watching the road and its comings and goings gave her a sense of belonging.

  Her road served as a shortcut to I-81 out of Willis. It started with four lanes close to town but by the time it passed her house, it had narrowed to two. Beyond her house were a few clusters of cottages, a small development of what the city folk called townhouses, and a pocket park.

  Dusk comes early in December, so this evening she mostly watched headlights and listened as automobiles swished by. Her cat, Precious, attempted a jump up onto her lap. Given its size, which was obscene, and age, which in cat years approached hers, he missed, tumbled sideways, and upset her teacup and saucer. Her attention momentarily distracted, Connie did not notice the pickup, headlights off, passing a bright red car, but she heard a crash. She jerked her head up at the sound of a second one. She peered out the window but the snow blocked her view. She could barely see the road. She thought she saw lights over by the big oak tree across the road, but when she looked closer they winked out. She rubbed her eyes and looked again—nothing. She glanced over at her old black and white TV blaring away in the corner. Steve McQueen had just turned over a race car. Well, she thought it was McQueen. Or was it James Garner or Paul Newman? She couldn’t remember. The TV had a snowstorm, too, but then that had nothing to do with the weather. Her granddaughter, Dolores, promised she’d buy her a new TV last year, but she never did. Never would, silly tramp. A car’s horn sounded for a moment and then it went silent just as she shut the television off. She mopped up the mess the cat had made and tottered off to bed.

  ***

  Darcie Billingsly sat straight up in bed, eyes wide and staring, heart pounding. Something bad was going to happen. She often had her “mountain moments,” when she saw things, felt things, when she just knew that she knew. It was a gift. Like her husband, she’d grown up on Buffalo Mountain and she knew better than to ignore the signs. When she’d given her life to Jesus at an altar call in her eighteenth year, she’d become a strong believing Christian. She thought she’d put away the superstitions and practices she’d learned as a child back in the hollow. Immersion in an ice cold creek should have washed that away. But neither it, nor daily Bible reading, nor her single-minded devotion to her church and faith had affected the gift in any way.

  She thought when she left the mountain and moved north, it might leave her. But it didn’t. She never told her new friends in Picketsville. They were not mountain folk and they would not understand. She never told Pastor Jim either. She feared his take on the gift would be either painful or humiliating, so she kept those moments to herself. But Whaite understood and would listen. Sometimes he’d tell her about a police problem and she could help him. Tonight, it would be the other way around, if she wasn’t too late. She pulled the phone off the hook and dialed his cell phone, then stopped. He couldn’t be reached that way anymore unless he was off duty or parked somewhere. A call to his office revealed he was out of radio range as well. She began to cry. If only they didn’t have that stupid rule about cell phones. If only Whaite had decided to ignore it.

  If only…

  Chapter 34

  Ike believed there were two kinds of people in the world, morning people and night people. He knew some folks demurred, claiming the divisions were to be found in other more compelling, or socially significant, personality traits, but reduced to the lowest common denominator, he contended it came down to morning versus night. Ike had a roommate in college who would rise fully awake at first light. He would move about with the energy that he’d sustain all day. Then at nine or nine-thirty that night, he would crash. Ike, on the other hand, rarely went to sleep before two a.m. Left to his own devices, he would sleep until nine or ten o’clock in the morning. It wasn’t that he couldn’t function any earlier. His mind worked just fine. It was just that the rest of his body wouldn’t pay attention for at l
east another hour.

  He’d made a promise to himself, however, that he’d be in the office for the seven o’clock shift change at least three days a week, and Tuesday was one of those days. But this morning his phone woke him, not his alarm clock. A full minute passed before he sorted that out and stopped slapping the clock.

  “Hello,” he gargled.

  “Ike? Are you awake?”

  “I am now, Ruth.”

  “I just had the weirdest dream—no, nightmare is what it was—and I had to call you.”

  “Do you have any idea what time it is?” Ruth, he knew, occupied the alternative half of the universe, but still…five-thirty in the morning?

  “I thought you’d be up by now. You should be. Listen, I had this peculiar dream last night. I need to tell you before I forget.”

  Why, Ike wondered, do people insist on telling you their dreams? Almost without exception, they hold no interest to the hearer and, more often than not, do not even make sense. The importance the teller puts on them is rarely, if ever, shared.

  “Shoot,” he said and flopped back on his pillow.

  “Are you listening? This is strange. I dreamed you and I were at this function at the governor’s mansion, or maybe it was the White House. That’s probably not it, is it? Anyway, we were at this big party and they were celebrating your election to the United States Senate—”

  “Whoa. I was elected to the Senate? That sounds more like my nightmare.”