3 - Buffalo Mountain: Ike Schwartz Mystery 3

by Frederick Ramsay

  “But—”

  “An order, Essie. Now go.”

  “Ike,” Sam called through the door, “it will only take me a minute—”

  “Sam, first things first. T.J., what can you tell me about these pictures?” Ike closed the door. Sam and T.J. sat with their backs to it and did not see Essie head for Sam’s office, or return.

  “Well, Sheriff Ike, they are pictures of Donald and Hollis.”

  “You know these two, then.”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “How?”

  “Donald lives in a house that is behind mine. He used to be my friend, but not any more.”

  “Where exactly do you live?”

  T.J. frowned, turning exactly over in his mind. “I live in Willis now but not next week.”

  “You are moving?”

  “Yes. My mom and me are moving to my Aunt Rose and Aunt Minnie’s apartment. We have to leave our house.”

  “Donald is your neighbor. How about this Hollis person. How do you know him?”

  “He is Donald’s friend. He hurt his leg one afternoon at Donald’s house.”

  “He told you that?”

  “No, sir, I saw him fall down the steps and then Donald came out and they drove away. And that night they came back and Hollis had crutches and a big bandage on his leg.”

  “Okay, T.J., that’s very useful. Thank you. Is there anything else you can think of that might help?”

  “No, sir. But I saw the license plate.”

  “He helped me turn up another bit of crime,” Sam said.

  “Really? That wouldn’t be Mrs. Morse and her stolen tags, would it?”

  “T.J. was the one who spotted them.”

  “Well, good job.” Ike’s phone rang. When he picked up, Sam made a move to rise. He waved her back down.

  Karl started talking. “I found him, Ike. There is a Kevin Hedrick in the Bureau, Special Agent Kevin Hedrick. He is listed as on special assignment to Andover Crisp. No details.”

  “Kevin? Okay. I’m going to relay that information to a certain person in a minute, and then send her to you. Is that agreeable?”

  “You bet.”

  “Who’s what’s his name, Crisp?”

  “Not much of a book on him. They call him Darth Vader.”

  “Got it.” Cutthroat, the Dark Side of the Force.

  Ike told Sam what he could remember of Karl’s story and mentioned that Kevin Hedrick was the Hedrick she’d found in her hacking—Hedrick, K. She looked doubtful and then her face softened. It was enough that she wanted to believe. He sent her to her office.

  “T.J., the colonel’s waiting for you. I guess it’s time to go. Thank you for making those IDs.”

  “Would it be all right if I used the bathroom?”

  “Certainly.” Ike pointed T.J. in the right direction and stepped out of the office.

  “Sorry to hear about your deputy,” Colonel Bob said. “How’d it happen?”

  “Ran into a tree on a slippery road. Maybe an accident, maybe not. We’re checking. We have a witness who thinks he might have been run off the road, but…”

  “Not reliable?”

  “Well, she’s old, can’t see too well, is hard of hearing, and her cat knocked over her teacup at the wrong time.”

  “Leave out the cat and I’ve been there, done that. Don’t much cotton to cats. Now you take a dog…sorry, you were saying?”

  “Anyway, she thought she saw a truck hit Whaite’s car. So I’m looking for a pickup with a mashed-in passenger side fender and some red paint on the door. That’s it. So, Colonel, I hear T.J. drives for you. How’s that working out?”

  “Best thing that has happened to me in the last decade, Sheriff.”

  “What I don’t understand is how he managed to get a driver’s license in the first place. I mean, he’s nice, but—”

  “Don’t sell that boy short. He’s slow, but not stupid. He can read and, therefore, with some coaching, he managed to memorize all the answers in the driver’s ed book. He still knows them, by the way, every danged one of them, and he drives to them. If any of your people need a brush-up on traffic law, just call the boy.”

  “Still, it has to be hard—”

  “Sheriff, you need to rearrange your thinking. You are too young to know everything, and one of the things you don’t know is what the world looks like to someone like the Thomas Harkins of this world. He manages just fine. He can work things out. It just takes him more time. Concepts are a struggle for him, but I daresay, over half the senior class at Picketsville High has the same problem. Only theirs stems from plain laziness, T.J.’s from a shortage of gray cells in the right place.” Ike sat on the edge of the desk and started to say something, then thought better of it.

  “Look, in my day, oh…maybe not mine exactly, close…but, anyway, say one hundred or so years ago, most youngsters raised in the country, and what we now delicately refer to as the inner city, never finished high school. As soon as they were able to help put bread on the table, they went to work. If things were bad at home, they didn’t get counseling or a visit from social services, they hopped a freight train and headed west. In that world, in the world of a century, century and a half ago, T.J. wouldn’t seem much different from any other kid. He could harness a team, plow a straight furrow, and work all day—better’n most—no distractions. He could get by as well as the next young man. He could dig ditches, shovel coal—in a non-technical world he could fit right in. When I was in the cavalry I had a horseshoer like T.J., big African-American named Sampson. Worked hard, raised a family, but slow. You see, people like T.J. might be taken advantage of, but they manage. What he wouldn’t do is stand out as strange. He’s loyal, honest, and never has a mean word for anybody. That counts for a lot in my book, and he’s employable. Think about it. T.J. is just a four-cylinder engine in an eight-cylinder world.” T.J. walked in the room. “Okay, T.J., let’s saddle up.”

  “Sometimes Colonel Bob thinks he’s still in the U.S. Cavalry., T.J. said with a grin. “He went to war with General Patton.” T.J. steered Robert Twelvetrees to his car and drove away. Ike stared out the door at the car’s taillights.

  “Did you hear all that, Essie? That’s why other cultures honor their older citizens instead of warehousing them in nursing homes. What you just heard was the voice of experience—the wisdom that only comes with age.”

  “Heard what?”

  “Never mind. Break up the happy reunion in Sam’s office. I need to talk to the two of them.”

  Everitt Barstow flung himself through the door.

  “My God, this must be Act Two. Dr. Barstow, is there something we can do for you?”

  “Arrest Brent Wilcox. He took my money.” The phone rang.

  “I’m putting the well-worn jelly-filled on this being either Ruth or Karl’s boss. Any takers…Essie? No?” He picked up.

  “Ike, what did you do to Brent Wilcox?” Ruth demanded. Ike began to laugh. “What’s so funny?”

  “I just won a bet with myself.”

  “Congratulations. Now, what happened between you two?”

  “You have a source. You are calling at someone’s behest. Let me guess. Agnes is upset. Her sometime beau, Brent Wilcox, has flown the coop.”

  “How’d you know? Never mind, Agnes says that Wilcox told her you threatened him last week. And then the FBI came around asking questions and now he’s apparently left town.”

  “Ask Agnes if he was driving a rental car. A pretty big, fancy one?” A pause.

  “She says she thinks so.”

  “Would it have been from Enterprise?” A shorter pause.

  “She’s not positive, but she thinks she remembers a green E on the bumper.”

  “Bingo.”

  “What? What has this to do with—?”

  “Agnes’ boyfriend has been running a Ponzi scheme in town. You know what a Ponzi is?”

  “Enough. And you put the FBI on to him?”

  “No, that was all their id
ea. I just refused to file assault charges against Flora Blevins for a very graphic suggestion she made to him in my presence.”

  “Agnes is not going to like this.”

  “So what else is new with Agnes? How much money did she invest?”

  “I’ll ask later.” Ruth rang off and Ike turned back to Everitt Barstow.

  “Dr. Barstow, you heard all that?”

  “Yes, but…Wilcox was running a Ponzi?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “Well, why didn’t you arrest him sooner? He took my money.”

  “Perhaps if you and your friends had been a little more forthcoming with the FBI last week, he might have been. It was their investigation, by the way, not mine. Sorry.”

  Barstow opened his mouth to speak, stopped, and slouched out of the room just as Karl and Sam came in. Sam was flushed from the roots of her hair to where her collar covered what Ike suspected was bright red clear down to her knees. He decided not to ask.

  “You two,” he barked, “in my office, now.”

  Chapter 44

  Ike hustled the two into his office. They both unconsciously ducked coming through the door. A pair of giraffes, Ike thought.

  “Ike…” Sam began.

  Ike waved at her to wait and indicated they should sit.

  “Karl, how badly do you want to be an FBI agent?”

  Karl frowned. “Ever since I was a little kid, that’s all I wanted to do. The other kids in the neighborhood all wanted the NBA or the NFL, but not me. I was going to be a G-man. I took a lot of heat for that, especially because of my size.”

  “Do you want to go back?”

  “That’s the problem. Bullock has essentially poisoned the well for me. If he has his way, I’ll have a hearing on my competence soon. I could be sacked or not, but it would be desk duty for me for who knows how long.”

  Ike studied the young man. He certainly had the credentials and, Ike guessed, the smarts, courage, and instincts to be good at anything he put his mind to.

  “Okay, I have something for you that might alter that—some information that could pull your boss’ chestnuts out of the fire. If he bites, he wouldn’t dare have you fired. You want it?”

  Karl frowned and nodded. “Sure. But I don’t understand.”

  “The Bureau’s, shall we say, obvious, clumsy, inappropriate, unprofessional—you pick one or all of the above—presence in this town, and all that interviewing, at your chief’s orders as we know, spooked your Ponzi operator. He’s skipped town, gone, kaput. They may or may not track him down again anytime soon. I can give him to you today, and you can look like the Lone Ranger to your superiors. It may or may not save your boss’ butt. I don’t know and I don’t care. That will depend on how perceptive his supervisors are. In any event, it ought to save yours.”

  “What have you got on Wilcox?”

  “He’s driving a Ford Taurus with stolen plates. Essie has the numbers. He should be easy to track. The Taurus has already been reported as stolen, by the way, so your guys had better move fast before some other country hick cop beats them to the punch again.”

  Karl’s eyes lit up. “Can I use your phone?”

  “You can use that empty desk. And I want to talk to your boss when you’re done.”

  Sam, whose blush had faded in the previous few minutes, stood to leave with Karl. “Hold on, Sam. Sit.”

  Karl slipped into Whaite’s old desk and picked up the phone. Ike turned back to Sam. “I reworked the duty roster this morning and you are off tomorrow. You might want to use the time to help Karl.”

  “Help? Oh, help, right, I got that end covered, Ike, thank you. You say you changed the schedule this morning?”

  “Just anticipating. You never know how these things will work out.” He walked to his office door. “Essie,” he yelled, “you owe me a jelly-filled.”

  “No, I don’t. Now, this here is a fix-up. The bust-up was real and for the reasons I said.”

  “We’ll talk about that later.” The phone rang again. “And this has got to be Act Three. Hello? Tom? What does the mayor of Picketsville want with his ‘ought to remember who your friends are, Sheriff’ today?” Ike listened, smiled, and sat back in his chair. It didn’t squeal. Somebody had finally responded to a work order.

  “Calm down, Tom, the FBI is on it right now and should have your man in custody by nightfall. I wouldn’t be too hopeful about recovering your money, though. He was working a Ponzi and by the time all this is sorted out, there won’t be much left. What? I’m sorry about that…next time check out anybody who wants your money but says you have to keep what you’re up to a secret. It’s a tip-off.”

  Karl wigwagged that he was finished with his call. Ike stepped into the main office and took the phone from Karl.

  “Special Agent Bullock? How are you-all this fine day?”

  Everyone in the room stopped talking and stared at Ike. Never in all the years he’d lived in, worked in, or simply occupied space in Picketsville had he ever spoken with an accent. But today his mouth seemed filled with corn pone.

  “Yessir, well, Special Agent, this here is Sheriff Ike Schwartz down at Picketsville…you remember? Well, that’s mighty fine. See, here’s the thing, your ole boy jest pulled that’n off something fine.” Karl flinched at boy.

  “He’s what? Suspended from duty? Well dog my cats if that ain’t sumpin’ else. Well, now I sure am sad to here that, yessir. Well now, here’s what I’m wonderin’. We have us a federal offense in the act, you could say, and I’m just, as I say, just wonderin” iffen I can borry your boy so he could help us tomorra? Big case—interstate bank fraud. Shore could use some—he can? As long as I like? You’ll do what? Assign him to us on a interagency loan. Well that’s mighty nice of you, Special Agent Bullock. Yessir, mighty nice, and thank yew.”

  Ike hung up and turned to the group. “What?”

  “What was that all about?” Sam said.

  “Dog my cats?” Essie added.

  “Needed to get that bonehead thinking he was doing us a favor. He has to be angry at Karl even with the tip on Wilcox. He was set to fry him and now he can’t. I figured he couldn’t resist cashing in on one of our operations, especially since he would be dealing with good ole Sheriff Hamhocks. Anyway, Karl, you’re going to score some more points with your people before we’re done here. Hell, we might even get you a promotion.”

  The phone rang. “There isn’t supposed to be any Act Four in these plays. Who can this be?”

  “Sheriff?” Colonel Twelvetrees sounded serious. “You have a minute?”

  “Got the rest of the day, Colonel. What have you got?”

  “I found your truck. No, that’s not quite right. T.J. found it. See, we are a team. I am nearly blind—can’t see things worth a hoot, but I can grasp their significance. T.J., on the other hand, can see the things clear as day, but not see the significance, you follow? I told him you were looking for a truck with a crushed passenger side and some red paint. He knew where one was. I asked ‘where?’ and he said ‘at the house of the man Sheriff Ike asked him the questions about.’ He said you should go see Donald. That work for you?”

  “Tell T.J. it works beautifully.”

  “I’ll tell him. Now you understand what I was saying to you earlier? It’s a matter of fitting him in the right slot, not setting him apart.”

  Ike hung up. “We may have our truck. Donald, that’s T.J.’s neighbor, has one, it is banged up on the passenger side and has red paint on the door. Oh, and he’s one of the people we have on the pictures from the ATM cameras. That will help us get a warrant. Can you two be back here tomorrow by two? I could use some help.”

  “We’re going for Oldham?”

  “He’s the one with the credit and bank cards—that’s your department, Karl—and the suspicious truck—that’s ours.”

  “Why two in the afternoon?”

  “It will be one o’clock tomorrow afternoon before I can clear warrants in Floyd County. We’r
e crossing jurisdictions and I need them, and I have some calls to make. We can use probable cause on account of the credit cards to search the house and property. That will get us the truck. We’ll give it a going over, too. We can sweat Oldham a little and who knows where that might lead? Maybe he’s the guy, maybe not. Red paint is red paint.”

  “Not this time,” Sam said. “If his is the truck, we have him cold.”

  Chapter 45

  Most of the snow in the valley had melted or turned to slush, except out in the country. There a thin sheet remained, part snow, part ice, covering fields left fallow for the winter or struggling to produce a crop of winter wheat. In the moonlight, you couldn’t tell anything about the snow except it sparkled and gleamed like an old-fashioned Christmas card. Ruth edged toward Ike. The car’s center console prevented any thoughts she might have had to snuggle. She smiled and wondered when she’d last thought of snuggling. She’d have been in her teens, probably.

  “It really is beautiful, isn’t it?” Ike nodded, and swung the car into his parents’ driveway.

  “Is there anything I need to know about the celebration? I mean, I am not used to Christmas, much less Chanukah. And even then, the commercial version of Christmas is the only one I know.”

  “This is nothing like either. We are not orthodox. Rabbi Schusterman told Abe as far as he was concerned we might as well go to the Episcopal church for all the piety he saw. He said Blake Fisher had a better sense of Judaism than either of us. He’s probably right. He called us ‘bacon Jews.’”

  “Bacon Jews?”

  “Very, very unkosher.”

  She sat back and watched the scenery slide by. The Schwartz farmhouse stood a half mile from the road. The row of trees on either side of the driveway flashed by, creating a changing panorama like a film strip. Ike pulled up to the front porch.

  “Hop out. I’ll park the car over by the barn. There will be others coming and I want to give them room.”

  Ruth stepped gingerly from the car onto crusted snow and climbed the steps to the front door. She hesitated. Should she knock or just let herself in? She did not know what her relationship with Ike entitled her to. Before she could decide, the door swung open and Abe Schwartz, wearing a bright red flannel shirt, held out his hand.