4 - Stranger Room: Ike Schwartz Mystery 4 (14 page)

Chapter 26

Ruth stacked the dinner plates in the sink, poured two glasses of wine, and absently pounded her fist against the counter top. Ike sipped his wine.

“This is nice. What is it?”

“What? Oh, it’s an ice wine. Local. From the Rockbridge Winery up the road in Raphine, I think. Anyway, Agnes found it.” Ruth downed her glass and poured another.

Ike glanced at the label on the bottle,
V d’Or,
and fled into the living room, glass in one hand, bottle in the other. He found a place on the sofa and watched as Ruth stalked in, kicked off her shoes and prowled.

“Ike, you know about things and you can’t be bamboozled. You need to help us with the negotiations.” She put her glass down on a piecrust table, and padded to the window. The temperature outside had dropped when the sun set, and even though the room still held the fire’s warmth, she hugged herself against the chill air sliding off the panes.

“Need to? Not me, Ruth. When it comes to hard-nosed financial maneuvering, I am a babe in the woods. Now if you wanted me to put out a contract on one or more of them…”

“No, be serious, and anyway, it’s not just about the Franklins—”

“Benjamins.”

“You know what I mean, the money. It’s the snotty attitude they bring to the table. Like, ‘We’re here to help you. Trust us. We know what is best for you.’ It’s as if they think of us as slow-to-learn children or something.”

Ruth made a slow circuit of the room and paused by the entryway. She ran her hand along its brocade hanging, fiddled with the tieback, and turned back toward Ike. He rose and stirred the coals in the dying fire. Small sparks leapt out only to be captured and extinguished by the fire screen. He shook his head and studied her as she continued her path back to the piecrust table and her glass.

“Back to the issue—I hate to say it, Madam President, but when it comes to this sort of thing, your faculty often behave as though they were children.”

“I know, I know. Something like half my tenured professors bought into a Ponzi scheme last winter. See, that’s what I mean. You don’t fall for all that stuff. You are a quintessential skeptic…”

“Oh, oh, we’re back to the word builder.”

“Stop it. I need your help. What I mean is, you could sit at that table and they couldn’t fool you.”

Ike resumed his place on the couch and sipped his wine. After a moment he looked up and said, “It’s a thought, Ruth, but not a good one, I’m afraid.”

“Why?”

“I am the sheriff of Picketsville, not a business guru. Your board, your faculty, the committee, whoever, would not take it kindly if you were to wedge me into the discussion, believe me.”

“Again, why?”

“How will it look? President Harris asks good ole Sheriff Ike to come to the table and save the college from a fate worse than death. To them I am Buford T. Justice complete with mirrored sunglasses and…you get the picture. And then, ‘what are his qualifications for the job?’ they ask…hmm…let’s see…well, he’s her boyfriend, no, make that her lover. He has no background in business, mergers, academics, education, or anything whatsoever that’s relevant or needed.”

“You’re smarter than any of them, and you know it.”

“I don’t know it. What’s worse, you’re not paying attention. Ruth, merger or no merger, you and I are ‘an item.’ Your faculty is unhappy about me sneaking into their president’s house and, may I say, bed. They have a low opinion of me and what I do. I have absolutely no credibility whatsoever. They will be so distracted by me and by our relationship, CU will eat them alive.”

Ruth plopped down on the chenille sofa next to him and slouched back, legs outstretched, revealing a very unladylike expanse of thigh. She studied the dregs of the wine in her glass and extended it toward him. He poured another dollop for her.

“Thanks.” She sipped at her wine and puffed out her cheeks. “Then what will I do? As it now stands, I think we will be eaten alive anyway. Your being there can’t make it worse.”

“Perhaps not, but if that were to happen, and if I were in the mix, guess who’d get the blame, and then who’d pay for it?”

“You and then me. Damn!”

“My advice to you is to load your side of the table with some heavy hitters from the business community. You must have alumni, parents of students, friends, people, who can help you out. I’ve seen you work a room full of potential donors and I know you can get them to do almost anything you ask. Go spin your rolodex and bring some professionals in.”

“You think?”

“No question.”

Ruth tugged halfheartedly at her skirt, which had retreated alarmingly close to her waist. She toyed with the top button on her blouse and sighed. A log collapsed into the coals. A shower of sparks crackled and snapped—miniature fireworks.

“Ike, I know this is mean of me. I guess you had plans for later…tattoos and all that…but I am bushed. Will you be very angry if we call it a night?”

“Angry? No. Disappointed? Well, maybe a little. You need your beauty rest, so I’m out of here.”

“It’s not
beauty rest
.”

Ike grinned and stood. “Glad to see you are still in possession of your sensibilities. I’ll call.”

“What’ll you do? I feel awful.”

“I’ll commandeer the rest of this nifty wine and tune in the classic movie channel—my major off-duty pastime.
Casablanca
is on in a half hour. And don’t worry, schweet heart, we’ll always have Paris.”

She gave him a rueful smile and waved him out the door.

***

Sam sat upright, blankets pulled up to her chest, scowling in concentration. “There has to be more to this than just an interview. Look, the man was murdered. That alone tells you something else had to be…”

Karl sighed. The clock read one
AM
. He had the seven to three shift and was not a morning person. “Sam, give it a rest. We have two, no, three, cases running now and not only can the murder wait, it will have to. No matter what Grotz had turned his hand to, who struck John with this or that, as long as we can’t unlock that stranger room door and show how it happened, it won’t matter a lick.”

“Okay. I know, I know. But suppose I’m right. Suppose Grotz knew something about Lydell, like, maybe he’s a blackmailer or something.”

“Who’s a blackmailer, Lydell or Grotz?”

“Well, I guess it could be either one, let’s say it’s Lydell. Those old history nuts are always digging up stuff about people. And, so then Grotz is sent down to put him away only something goes wrong and—”

“Grotz is the bad guy and Lydell shot him in self defense? Come on Sam, the guy is so old he probably couldn’t pull the trigger of that antique pistol, assuming the Webley we have in custody is the weapon. And, if it was self defense, why lock the stiff in a room, assuming he could. Why not just call the cops? Besides, who’d send Grotz?”

“His wife said he had something on the New Jersey Family. Maybe it wasn’t what she thought. Suppose he actually worked for them and his being a writer was a cover. Like maybe they would overlook the stuff he dug up on them if he did them a favor or something.”

“So he spends months in the library studying Lydell’s books and more time at the historical society, and then comes down here to shoot him. Why waste the time? If someone wanted Lydell or Grotz, for that matter, why not just kill them and hot foot it out of town. Same nagging question, why the big mystery?”

“I don’t know. Shoot, I just think there is something really fishy about this whole business and weak old man or not…he could have had someone else pull the trigger, you know.”

“Oh, so now there’re three people involved. So it’s not a spontaneous shooting any more?”

“Maybe Grotz tipped his hand and so he put in a call.”

“To whom?”

“How about George LeBrun.”

“Love it, if it were true. The guy’s a real bottom feeder, but, same problems, Sam, too many dots to connect, not enough numbers.”

“Dots?”

“Yeah. Real connect the dot puzzles have lots of dots. The only way to get the picture is to connect the right ones, in the right order, and to do that you have to follow the numbers. We are long on dots and short on numbers.”

“But what about—”

“Goodnight, Sugar. I’m bushed. Big day tomorrow. Why don’t you come in with me early and sort through all the material that we do have, go over the coroner’s reports, the junk from Ike’s car, all of it, and then see if you can come up with some new dots or, better yet, some numbers.”

“Numbers. Right. Okay, that’s a good idea. Make sure I’m up.”

Sam switched off the bedside light. A new three quarter moon lighted the room. In a week it would be full. She smiled at the thought and dropped off to sleep.

Karl, now fully awake, spent the next twenty-five minutes mulling over what she had said. He got up and pulled the blinds tight. The moonlight, he decided, was keeping him awake. Sam had a point.
Fishy
barely touched what they had their hands on. And what about the other guy—the one who got away—the man who switched places with Grotz. What did they know about him? Where to start?

The stone smashed through the window and scattered most of the double hung glazing on the floor. Sam catapulted from the bed, rolled and came up in a shooter’s crouch, Glock held two-handed, safety off, and cocked. Karl hit the floor.

“Jesus, Sam, hold your fire.”

Chapter 27

When Ike walked into his office he found Karl sitting on the desk’s edge with one leg swinging, the other on the floor, foot tapping.

“I thought you were out on patrol?” he said and dropped into his chair. His hands wandered over the desk, shuffled some papers, and raised one eyebrow at the stone that anchored one small raggedy stack.

“Bad night, Ike.”

“You too?”

“I don’t know…what?”

“Sorry, a little before morning coffee humor. What’s up?”

“That’s up.” Karl pointed to the stone.

“I thought I told Billy to take that over to the lab.”

“He did. That’s my stone.”

“Looks like the one that landed in Essie’s sister’s living room. Where’d you find yours?”

“Came through our window last night. Knocked out the entire pane. Landlady is really ticked, like it’s my fault.” Ike started to say something and thought better of it. Now was not the time. “What? You think it’s my fault?”

“No, no. Go on.”

“Well, it busted through the window and, no kidding, I swear before it hit the carpet, Sam, who is in REM sleep, rolls out of that sack and has her Glock out and cocked and trained on me. I thought I was a goner.”

“She’s quick.”

“Well, yeah. There she is, moonlight streaming in through the busted window, in a full crouch, pistol in both hands. And I swear to goodness, unless she’s part kangaroo, I don’t know where that pistol came from. You should have seen it.”

The image formed in Ike’s mind and he quickly pushed it aside. A picture of a Sam, all six feet two inches of her, naked, crouched in the moonlight, gun at the ready, did not need to get past short term memory, if that. If his brain were a hard drive, that image alone would get him busted for downloading porn.

“Why would somebody toss a rock through my window?”

“I can think of several reasons. But first, check the stone out with somebody at the lab. See if it’s possible it came from the same place as the one tossed at Essie.”

“What reasons?”

“Later.”

“Why not now?”

“I said, later.” Karl must have heard the uncharacteristic edge in Ike’s voice and stepped away from the desk. The scowl on his face did not look good.

“You da boss.”

Ike let that pass. But he and Karl would need to have some words, and soon.

***

“The lab sent back these pictures,” Karl tossed a stack of photographs on the desk. “They’re of the stranger room. Lab guy says they can’t get anything from the rocks except they think they’re from the same place, but quarried limestone is pretty much the same all over this area.” Karl lowered himself into a chair. “What reasons?”

Ike inspected the photographs briefly and set them to one side. “Okay. I said several. How about two?”

“Two will do.”

“First. There is always, in a small town like this, a group of people who, for reasons that defy logic, can’t stand change. In your case, they can’t accept an African-American as a deputy sheriff.”

“You have Charlie Picket. He’s been here, like, forever.”

“Yes, but he is our African-American.”

“Excuse me?
Our
?”

“He’s been around, as you say, forever. Everybody knows him. His family has lived in the area for centuries. This town is named Picketsville, for crying out loud. Does that tell you anything?”

“I thought the town was named after one of those confederate general guys.”

“No, that
guy
spelled his name with two T’s. Charlie’s mother cleans houses for the gentry out on Main Street. Before I took over this office, he was the designated black deputy. His job was to patrol the predominately black neighborhood. People got used to that. In their eyes it made some kind of sense. When I put him on general patrol, the white folks did not like it much, wrote me a few letters, said they’d never vote for me again, but they got over it. As I said, he’s ours.”

“And me?”

“You are…pardon the language…but, you are that uppity you-know-what from up north somewhere, not ours. You might as well be from the IRS. Do you follow?”

“I guess. And since I am that person, some of the ingrained…I almost said inbred…would I be far off on that, I wonder…they want me to go away, and a rock through the window is their way of inviting me to leave town?”

“That’s reason number one.”

“Okay. You’re saying I don’t have a career developing here in ‘one T’ Picketsville. So, that’s no big tragedy. I wasn’t planning on one anyway. You just confirmed what I already suspected. You need to explain that to Sam, by the way.”

“I expect she already knows and also knows that it’s not necessarily true.”

“Not?”

“You could become a citizen, so to speak. Listen, everybody from outside has to work their way into a town like this.”

“Yeah, yeah. Not me. What’s reason number two?”

“Sit.” Karl sat on the only other chair in the office. Ike rolled his chair to the door and pushed it shut with his foot. “I wouldn’t toss Picketsville away so quickly, Karl. Okay, reason number two—Sam.”

Karl got to his feet, planted his palms on Ike’s desk and glared at him. “Oh, I get it, de bad back debbil is asleepin’ wid de nice white gal and we gotta do sumpin’ ’bout it. Time to get out the white sheets and the kerosene soaked cross? Miscegenation, Oh Lordy. ”

“Stop right there, sit down, and listen. This is a nice town. We do not now have, never have had, and never will have Klansmen. The bad guys are pretty much limited to the bozos you’ve already met—the LeBruns and their cousins, maybe a half dozen others. If you just paid attention to the folks on the street, you’d know that.”

“Huh? I know a bigot when I see one, Ike, and here I am in de Ole South where they grow like weeds…”

“Folks lean too much on stereotypes and never check to see if they are accurate. Up north they assume down south is home base for racists and worse. Karl, I’d bet you a breakfast there’s probably as much racial intolerance and violence in your hometown of Chicago, as you’ll find around here. At least we have never had a skinhead march.”

“So, you’re saying…what? It exists everywhere, so it’s okay?”

Ike drew in a breath, counted to ten, and exhaled. Conversations like this one never went well, which was why, he supposed, most people avoided them. There is something in the human psyche that is either reluctant to engage, afraid of giving offense, or riled by the topic, that will lead to ugly confrontations. Either way, he realized this was not going to go down correctly and he would soon be in hot water. He plunged ahead anyway.

“No, what I’m saying is, like it or not, you are going to find it everywhere, not just here, or there. It is pervasive, mean, and unacceptable in a civil society. But at the same time, I am sick and tired of people who can’t seem to live in the here and now without playing their victim card.”

“Their what?” Karl’s eyes flashed dangerously.

“Victims. Everybody, it seems, wants to be a victim of some sort. Victims because of their race, their gender, education or lack thereof, because of abuse suffered as children, low self esteem, restless leg syndrome, or any of the hundreds of sociological catchphrases, buzz words, real or imagined, and psychobabble that hobble progress. It doesn’t matter a rip to people where you come from. It’s where you’re headed they’re interested in.” Ike ran his fingers through his hair. “People draw lines in the sand. They separate themselves from one another for all kinds of reasons. Mostly because they are different in some way—color, language, origin, breeding—all that crap. Greeks and Persians, Muslims and Christians, Algonquians and Sioux, white and black, urban black and…who?”

“Koreans.”

“You see? If you are born in a particular place or time, you acquire all the prejudices of that place and time. It’s a damned shame, but it’s true. Most of us have learned not to respond to those old biases. We sit on them. Some pretend they’re not there, but to do so denies them, and is disingenuous at best. I know it is not politically correct to say so, but most of us
are
socialized early on with all sorts of negatives about all kinds of other people. We are bigots in one way or another. If you come from a place like this you are probably a racist at some level. A few never rise above it. Those are the ones who toss rocks, join the neo-Nazis, shave their heads, burn crosses, burn schools, or become suicide bombers. The rest of us just muddle through as best we can, trying to do and say the right thing, no matter what bigoted thoughts are dancing around behind our eyes.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Bill Cosby, man.”

“I could do worse.” Ike paused and caught his breath. Karl did not look convinced. He had a right not to. “Anyway, returning to your midnight missile. The second reason the rock came through your window, believe it or not, is not so much about miscegenation, but cohabitation.”

“What?”

“Sorry, but folks around here still cling to an old fashioned set of values and one of the things they object to is, what they consider the decline of our social institutions, in your case, marriage.”

“You’re kidding, right? This is the twenty-first century, Ike. It’s what people do. It’s on prime-time, it’s a cultural norm, for God’s sake, it’s—”

“Not acceptable to the folks up on Main Street.”

“Main Street? This is who? Sinclair Lewis?”

“Look, I’m in no position to preach here. My relationship with Dr. Harris is causing both of us a peck of trouble with her people and mine, but the difference is, we don’t actually live together. People can always pretend we’re not…well. It’s not what you are as a man, Karl, it’s how you function as a man in a small town like this one which is, after all, suspicious of all strangers.”

Karl knuckled his forehead and stared at Ike for a full minute. “So, you haven’t offered the deputy position to me because…what? I don’t fit in? Because I’m shacked up with the pretty deputy, or because you don’t like my attitude ’cause I tend to play my ‘victim’s card?’ You’re spinning a whole mess of shit here, Ike. So which?”

Ike shook his head. As he had presumed from the outset, he wasn’t handling this very well. “If you must know, offering you a job is a wholly separate issue. But since you asked—I haven’t offered you the job because I think it’s important for you to go through with your hearing. I expect you will prevail, but even if you don’t, you still must do it. See, if I offered the job now and you accepted rather than face a possible negative result at your hearing, you might regret the decision forever. You’d always wonder ‘what if.’ Could I have made it in the Bureau? If you walk away from a career in the FBI, I want you to do so as a positive choice, not as an escape.”

“You offering me a job?”

“Not yet. Now, go talk to your lady and see what you can do about reason number two. But, just so you know, reason number one is what bought you the rock.”

Karl left, closing the door a little harder than usual.