7 - Rogue: Ike Schwartz Mystery 7 (11 page)

Chapter Twenty

Ike met Frank Sutherlin at the Crossroads for breakfast again. It had become part of his routine. He did not want to go to the office, as much as he missed seeing the staff, because of the presence of the mayor in the person of Amos Wickwire. He also did not want to listen to the phone calls and read his mail, and mostly he did not want to talk about Ruth, to answer the questions, to be reminded. And then there was the election to consider. The job of sheriff seemed distant to him now. He’d stubbornly ignored his father’s pleas to campaign. He’d refused to authorize the expenditure of funds for new posters to replace those allegedly defaced by Jack Burns’ supporters. His father overruled him and the posters now adorned most of the street lights and intersections in and around Picketsville.

Ike sat in his usual booth, soothed by the familiar aroma of diner food—in the morning, bacon and coffee. Around noon it would shift to hamburgers and grilled onions, and coffee, and by evening, mostly just coffee. Frank sat down across from him and took the cup of tea offered by Flora, who scowled her disapproval at the thought of a policeman drinking tea rather than the high-octane variety of caffeine she regularly brewed, which she believed a necessary part of any man’s breakfast generally, and a policeman’s, certainly. Frank was, as nearly as Ike could tell, impervious to Flora’s disapproval, and might well be the only male in town who was.

“What’s new this morning, Frank?”

“Ah, nothing much. A couple in Bolton let an argument about their missing and very expensive pedigreed golden retriever escalate into a smackdown, and somehow the wife ended up sticking a steak knife to her husband’s backside. I put Billy on it and told him to stay on it. That way he may stop harassing Jack Burns’ people.”

“Are they still complaining?”

“Oh yeah, they insist that you have charged your deputies with politicking in your favor, and other things as well. I can’t keep an eye on Essie and Billy twenty-four seven so I can’t say what they’re up to.”

“Can’t be helped, I suppose. What else?”

“Ike, it’s none of my business, I guess, but don’t you think you ought to campaign a little? I came over to the sheriff’s office from the highway patrol because of what I believed you represented here. I’m not sure I can work for Burns if he’s elected. The other guys feel the same way.”

“I know, Frank, and I’m sorry. I’ll try to make an event or rally here soon. But right at the moment my heart is not in it. Anything else besides the Bolton ruckus?”

“Some developments in our not-so-suicide. It seems one of his neighbors down by the trailer park where he lived mentioned that he was ‘on to a big score.’ We received a notice from AFIS that his prints matched a person held briefly in Scranton, Pennsylvania, as a possible participant in a drug-related shooting. I called Scranton PD and a very annoyed narc told me that the deceased received immunity for providing information to the cops and that’s probably why he ended up, and very dead, in our jurisdiction.”

“You believe it?”

“Well, it makes sense. It allows us to shift the investigation back to Pennsylvania and clears one off the books.”

“That’s true, but that is not what I asked.”

“Am I buying it? No, I don’t think so. Movies and TV notwithstanding, my experience tells me if he sold out his pals, they would not, more likely could not, have hired a hit man to finish him off while they lolled around in jail. I mean, how’d they pay for it, and wouldn’t it be more likely they’d wait until they were sprung and do the job themselves?”

“I think you’re right. You probably need to stay on it. See if there is a local connection. ‘On to a big score’—that could mean anything, but with his priors all related to drugs, there might be a connection there. I guess the local dopers need to be pulled in and interviewed. As soon as he’s finished with the Bolton business, put Billy on that, too. I don’t want him to have a life until the election is over.”

“Got it. Are you going to eat that donut?”

“No, go for it.”

Frank stood, scooped the donut from Ike’s plate, and left. Ike sat a few more minutes to finish his coffee and then followed Frank out the door. He needed to talk to Kevin.

***

Charlie preferred entering Chicago by the back door, that is to say through Midway rather than O’Hare airport. Before that mega-airport had been built in Orchard, Midway was
the
entry, but no longer. As he needed as much anonymity as possible in his prowling in “the dark recesses of the Company,” a smaller airport suited him to a T. Eden would doubtless land in the larger and better served O’Hare so he did not expect to run into her at all.

He was mistaken. Her flight had originated from Roanoke, wandered across the south, and finally landed a few minutes before his direct flight from Washington. He almost ran her down in his dash to the car rental desks.

“Why Mr. Garland. What a surprise. What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be helping Ike?”

“I am, you are correct, but duty called me away for a day or two. You are here on a personal matter, Ike tells me.”

“I am. I must tackle a passel of money-grubbing lawyers and their avaricious client, that is to say my sister-in-law, and other things.” Her face fell with the mention of the last.

“Yes. Well if I can be of any help, please call me.” Charlie made the offer knowing that Eden did not have his phone number or know where he might be reached. He was raised to be polite at least, if not always genuinely accommodating.

“I am fine, I believe, Charlie, but then it is a big town and I have no company this evening. If you are not busy…will you be? If you are not, maybe you will join me for dinner. I am staying at the Drake. You know the Drake?”

“I do. Very nice hotel…lots of history. It’s a Hilton property now, I believe. So you’re at the Drake?” Charlie, of course, already knew that, but a lifetime of caution willed him to keep it to himself. “I am not sure how engaged I will be, but I think dinner could work. Not at the Drake, however. I am required to be invisible right now. I know a place on the west side where I can be that way. Perhaps you could meet me there, say sevenish?”

“A place? Invisible? Mercy, you sound like a man of mystery. Are you, Charlie?”

“It is all a front, Eden, but for a few days, I need not to be seen. Sorry.”

“Really? How exciting. Well, I tell you what, give me the address and I will see you at seven. Oh, wait. What if either of us can’t make it. You can call the hotel to tell me, but how will I contact you?”

“You can leave a message at this number.” Charlie scrawled the number of an answering service and the address of the restaurant on a piece of paper. “Just ask for Garland. They will find me. Must run, see you at seven.”

He left Eden Saint Clare in the wash of travelers flowing to the street and into waiting cabs, cars, and busses. He found his rental and headed north to Skokie and Hank Baker. Why Skokie of all places?

Chapter Twenty-one

Kevin handed Ike the completed list of names which met his first criteria for scrutiny. They had to have a history of overt political activism, have a possible arrest on file, and have served in a law enforcement capacity at some time. Ike studied the list of twenty or thirty names, unsure where he should begin.

“I guess Mr. Garland told you about the headquarters of the organizations you wanted to screen being in the DC area. Four of those names are affiliated with one in particular.”

“Really? Yes he mentioned the DC connection. Do you have the names and executive officers of the organization in question?”

“Interesting that you’d ask. This guy,” Kevin tapped the paper with his index finger, “is the head honcho of Let States Decide. It’s the biggest of the groups, and he also used to be a cop in Houston, Texas, fifteen years ago.”

“You’re kidding—the organization is called Let States Decide? Do you suppose they are aware of the irony in the name?”

“Sir?”

“Let States Decide—LSD? Do you think they are hallucinating up there in Washington?”

“Oh, you mean the drug hippies used in the olden days. No…yes, I don’t know.”

“Olden days. My God, son, how old are you anyway?”

“Twenty-five. Is there a problem?”

“No, sorry. Growing older can sometime be painful, especially when your doctor looks like she, emphasis on she, is maybe twelve and your adolescence is described as ‘the olden days.’”

“Gee, I’m sorry if I—”

“It’s not important, Kevin. Okay, so the LSD is headquartered in Washington, DC.”

“Not quite. They are in Arlington. That’s across the river from the—”

“I know where Arlington is. You have the address, I suppose. I think I will start with the number-one guy and see where it leads. What’s his name?”

“Byron Yeats.”

“You’re kidding. That’s his real name? Someone named Byron Yeats heads up the LSD. That sounds more like a Beatles’ song than a suspect.”

Kevin nodded. Ike felt certain he’d missed the juxtaposition of two romantic poets in the executive officer’s name. Apparently literature no longer received the attention it used to in college. Kevin’s face brightened.

“Oh, I get it. His name is from a couple of guys who wrote poems or something and you’re thinking he maybe made it up because of the LSD.”

“More or less. Give me the address and get on that machine of yours and dig up everything you can on Let States Decide. I want names, the date it incorporated or received its 501.C.3 status, the works.”

“I’m on it. Oh, I forgot, someone named Don T. S. sent Mr. Garland a fax but I think it’s for you.”

“Donte? I don’t know of many Dontes and none personally. Let me see it.”

Kevin handed Ike a sheaf of papers. The last had “from Don T. S.”—Ah, Charlie’s contact, Donnie the Snoop. He studied them first in order and then one page a second time. Agnes had been right. Doctor Fiske was an academic fraud. How had he managed it for so long? Ike guessed he knew. People were generally trusting of the claims made by others and academics dangerously so. Ruth would not like this at all. But Ruth wasn’t in any position to receive or respond. He would have to talk to someone on the board. While he considered his next step, Marge Tice walked up to the back door of Lee’s and smiled a greeting at Ike.

“Are you here to set up your massage therapy room?” he asked.

“Just a preliminary look-see. Lee tells me you have commandeered the space.”

“Very temporary, Marge. We can be out of there anytime you want. But now that you’re here, I have a problem for you.”

“Me? What sort of problem? Do you have a sore back, stiff neck? What?”

“All of the above and others not mentionable in polite company places as well, but that is not the problem I want to hand off to you. Your new avocation hasn’t taken you away from the serious life, has it?”

“You mean, am I still married to the town’s most important banker?”

“Maybe, but what I need to know at the moment is, are you still on the Board of Directors for Callend?”

“Just for another month. I turned down an offer to serve another term. The school isn’t the same since it grew into a university and it needs a more experienced board, I think. So, what’s the problem?”

Ike filled her in on what he suspected about Fiske’s CV. He left Agnes’ name out of the conversation. Right or wrong, whistle-blowers rarely fared well in the aftermath of a scandal, and this one promised to be a doozy. He explained why Charlie Garland—though he did not mention him by name either, but for different reasons—had at Ike’s request, commissioned an inquiry into Fiske’s credentials, and then handed her the report.

“The guy’s a fake?”

“Let’s say he’s exaggerated his experience more than a little.”

“Exaggerated? How?”

“It appears in small, and occasionally, big ways. For example, according to this report several of the publications he lists on his bibliography were authored by a different person with the same initials, S. Fiske, here.” Ike pointed to the list, “And there is a Susan Fiske, a woman who dropped out of the academic world years ago. Since her papers are in Fiske’s field of study, who’d notice? Then there are fellowships listed that were actually visits. Things like that.”

“This is serious.” Marge scanned the papers and frowned. “Who is Don T. S.?”

“A friend of a friend. Very reliable, I am told. I did not have the patience to follow up on my own, so we, that is, I, had it done outside the office.”

He didn’t tell Marge that he couldn’t have done it in-house in any event. Not with Amos Wickwire’s annoying presence hovering over the department computers making his life more complicated.

“Do you want a copy?”

“No, Marge, I haven’t the time or the interest to pursue it. It’s in your bailiwick and I have no doubt you will do what needs to be done.”

***

Charlie found Hank Baker sitting alone in the Starbucks at the Old Orchard shopping center. A copy of the
Chicago Sun-Times
completely obscured his face. Charlie recognized the orange-and-black backpack on the floor at his feet. He ordered a tall vanilla latte, which he considered a “chick drink” and so would only sip but not consume. He pulled up a chair at an adjoining table. Baker glanced his way and nodded imperceptibly. After five minutes during, which Charlie attempted the read the exposed back page of Baker’s paper, he cleared his throat and leaned toward him.

“Excuse me,” he said, “But are you finished with your paper?”

“No, not quite. In a minute or two, perhaps. You are welcome to it when I am. Do you work around here?”

“On occasion. I travel. Sales, you know.”

“Ah.” Baker turned away and continued to gaze at his paper. When he spoke he did so very softly and did not take his eyes off the newsprint. Charlie never looked his way but instead watched three baristas busily scalding milk and making endless cups of strong coffee behind the hissing espresso machinery. He had no idea how that thing worked and did not wish to, but he admired those who did. He fine tuned his ear to Baker’s murmuring.

“I have scoured the activities of not only the members of the organization I monitor, but any others I could hack into. I am afraid I don’t have much for you. I can tell you that at the lower levels of the organizations, where the zealots and crazies lurk, there is general jubilation at the news the woman was racked up, but no indication that any of them knew beforehand of any attempt being made or who might have made it. Most wish they knew who did it, however. I guess they want to send him a card.”

“That’s it? No names, no suspicions, nothing? A wild guess would make my trip out here worthwhile.”

“Sorry. No, it’s not a complete blank. My particular organization, as are others like it, is funded by what we believe is a front for a smaller group of extremist individuals who support other less-than-savory and/or more dangerous undertakings. That is why I am on their membership list.”

“I gather the boss believes the agendas of fanatics on the far left and those on the far right sometimes intersect. So who are these baddies that I need to check out?”

Baker stood and put on his coat. He folded his paper, turned to face Charlie, and spoke to him in a normal voice.

“Here you go, friend. I’m done with the paper. Sorry about the crossword puzzle. I’m afraid I started working it but didn’t finish it.”

“Not a problem.” Charlie thanked him and watched him leave. He opened the paper and began reading at the business section. He sipped his coffee and leisurely turned pages, folding the paper and eyeing its contents with studied attention. At the same time he kept tabs on a tall man in a rumpled Burberry hunched over his cup, who had not removed his gloves the whole time he’d been there. It was chilly out, but not inside. Gloves? Charlie eventually turned to the crossword and memorized the information Baker had scribbled in the blanks. After a minute, he proceeded to fill in the remaining blanks, erase, or overwrite Baker’s earlier entries. He stood and left. He dropped the paper in a trash can outside the store, crossed the street, and waited at the corner to see if Burberry would retrieve it. He did. Baker must really be close to something. The director needed to know that. Baker might soon be in need of backup or even be extracted. Before the paper retriever could spot him, Charlie climbed on a bus and let it take him four blocks south on Skokie Boulevard. He would wait another ten minutes and then walk back to his rental in the parking lot. This could get dangerous. Ike needed to know.