7 - Rogue: Ike Schwartz Mystery 7 (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

Ike had finished his call to Colonel Bob and poured his fourth cup when he thought he heard someone outside the door. Who would call on him this early? Most folks had not even finished their breakfast yet. Before he could open the door, he heard a key turn in the lock and the latch snap open. He snatched his service revolver from the lockbox where he normally kept it. Fortunately it wasn’t locked. He had the barrel leveled and the hammer back when a disheveled Charlie stepped through the door.

“Jesus, Charlie, I might have killed you.”

“Your reflexes are better than that, Ike. You would have shot one of your bad guys, a half dozen or so agents still loose in the world who carry your picture in their wallets, but not a friend, not a child, and not a beautiful woman. I know you. You have rules.”

“That is not true. I once shot a very pretty woman.”

“Because she had a flamethrower and was about to incinerate a school with you in it, I know. So, there are occasional forgivable lapses in your rule keeping. Besides, she wasn’t all that pretty and most assuredly not beautiful.”

“Enough. Where have you been, Charlie? I’ve left you messages and received your text. By the way, how did you do that? You never text and then I get the equivalent of a three page report from you.”

“No magic. Half the teenagers in America can type faster with their thumbs than I can with all my fingers, so no big deal, tech-wise. But you are right, I don’t text. I do have access to a very competent, text-enabled aide who tells me her iPad is nothing but an overgrown iPhone. She rigged it to do that and sent the message to you for me. To answer your first question, I visited the greater Chicago metropolitan area, as I told you. I have checked out several of the people on the list and a few not on it.”

Charlie told Ike about the CIA names on the list, the director’s order to treat them outside the box, and what he’d found in Skokie.

“That contact gave me the stuff you read in the text. So what have you been doing while I have been out in the heartland on your behalf?”

Ike filled him in on his trip to Arlington, the recent antics of the mayor, and the hay caper. “The latter do not feature in this job I don’t think, but I never discount anything until it’s a certainty.”

“Of course. Well, in addition to clearing off names, including, by the way, the man on the South Side—he had an iron clad alibi, he’s been serving five to fifteen in Joliet since four months ago. I also did as you requested. I kept an eye out for the lissome Mrs. Saint Clare.”

“And?”

“Did you ever meet Tony Agnelli?”

“You took me to his place once. Did the two of you play mousetrap?”

“How do you know about that?”

“I used to be a spy, remember? So you two had dinner. What else?”

“You say that with a smirk and in a lascivious tone of voice. You should have your imagination washed out with soap. Dinner, period. She is concerned about your health. She asked me to tell you to call it off.”

“That is very caring of her. So, are you going to tell me to call it off?”

“No, but not for the reasons you suppose. She seemed a little too eager. You told me to keep her safe from the sharks, as I recall. I checked out the sharks and discovered the reason she went to Chicago.”

“I already told you why she went, she needed to fight the sister-in-law about the pension and check out funeral arrangements.”

“We shall label that listing as ostensible or in addition to. They were, in fact, two of the things she attended to, but there was a third, and more troubling reason.”

Charlie found a chair, sat, and appropriated Ike’s coffee cup. He sipped it, made a face, and heaved a sigh.

“Charlie, are you going to tell me what’s on your mind or not? What do you think was the third reason?”

“You are not going to like it. I don’t like it. We could ignore it, but then it will sit like the proverbial elephant in the living room.”

“Charlie, out with it. What did you find?”

“John Harris, Dean emeritus of the New Haven School of Law, father of Ruth, and spouse to Paula Harris, AKA Eden Saint Clare, left a will. A recently written and notarized will, to be exact.”

“Is he sufficiently mentally coherent to do that? He’s an Alzheimer’s patient.”

“Indeed, he is. That is the problem for Eden. Can the will pass muster? What will happen at probate? Who knows? But she did not wish to chance it, so she went to Chicago to start procedures for contesting it.”

“That makes sense. Why wouldn’t she have told me that, I wonder?”

“Indeed. And that leads us to the part you won’t like. John Harris wrote her out of his will—totally. She had changed her name, you see, thus denying him his place in posterity or some such nonsense. He doesn’t recognize her anymore. He no longer loves her, etcetera. So, he dumped the wife and made Ruth his sole beneficiary. Eden gets nothing when he dies.” Charlie paused, lifted and replaced the cup, and exhaled. “But, Eden is Ruth’s sole beneficiary. You see where this goes?”

“Charlie you don’t really believe she would…No, that’s not possible.”

“Motive and opportunity, Ike. I hate to do it to you, but you need to see the possibility.”

“This is crazy.”

“Murder is crazy. Our problem, my friend, is that you and I have lived within the culture of death so long we find it impossible to rule out anything even when we desperately want to. Did Eden drive a truck into Ruth’s car? Nah, can’t happen. Or could it? We suffer, Ike, because we were taught by, and ultimately survived the messes the Company put us in, not to trust anyone. It is like a bad tattoo on our souls. Can’t erase it, can only ignore it, but it’s always there.”

Ike collapsed into a chair and reclaimed his coffee cup. He hung his head for a moment. Too much. If he hadn’t learned to suppress them as a child, he would have shed tears. Instead he shook his head from side to side and moaned a quiet lament for life in general and for this moment in particular.

“We are very damaged goods, Charlie, you and I. After living in the…what did you call it…the culture of death? We have lived there for so long, the sun can but intermittently shine on us. I will have to order a watch on Ruth now, especially when her mother visits. Jesus, Charlie, I wish you hadn’t decided to be my friend, just now.”

“You’re welcome.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

Frank’s interview with Bob Smith did not go well. In the end he had to arrest and cuff him and bring him in.

“You are in big trouble, Cop,” Smith snarled. “You don’t have a clue what you’re getting yourself in.”

“How’s that work? You have contacts in the Governor’s mansion, the White House? What?”

“Jack Burns is gonna be your boss and when that happens you won’t have a job. He’ll bust you down to Dog Catcher.”

“Will he now? How do you figure that? You have a crystal ball or something? Or are you just mouthing off?”

“He’s in and you heard it here first. Believe me. It’s all fixed up.”

“Really? That’s very interesting. How is it all fixed up?”

“You’ll see.” Smith shut up and the remainder of the trip passed in silence.

Things became more exciting when Frank escorted Smith into the sheriff’s office. It happened to be the same morning the mayor chose to tour the facility with the very same Jack Burns, his choice to succeed Ike, or so he thought. His efforts to declare Ike absent without leave and his position thereby vacated, had run into a snag with the town council. As with any group of minor elected officials who depended on a day job to subsist, the council first dithered and then sought a second opinion from the town’s attorney, who happened to be in Richmond on a private matter. Accordingly, the motion had been tabled and vacancy not declared. Nevertheless the mayor brought Burns to the office to introduce him to his future staff. He received a decidedly frosty welcome from those few who remained in the building. Many had suddenly remembered things that needed their attention elsewhere and left.

All eyes turned and watched Frank drag/shove Smith up to the booking desk.

“Bob,” Burns barked, “what the hell?”

“Uncle Jack, this bozo has cuffed me and says I’m under arrest or something.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” the mayor said. He could not have missed the “Uncle Jack” and even a slow learner, which the mayor most certainly was not, would realize the potential pitfall created by the arrest of a close relative to his candidate.

“This man is here for questioning, Mister Mayor, in connection with a murder, about which we believe he is aware, a larceny charge, possible cruelty to animals—we’ll know more about that when we have a warrant and can search his house for a nine millimeter handgun which we believe was used to kill a very expensive dog, and—”

“Whoa up there, Deputy. Where is all this coming from?” Jack Burns appeared about as uncomfortable as a Baptist caught by his pastor in a liquor store.

“—and at the very least, he is in possession of stolen property, specifically, hay removed from several nearby farms and barns.”

“I ain’t said nothing, Uncle Jack. I ain’t talking to these people. It’s their job to prove that one way or other, right? And I figure you probably want to do something about that.”

“Mister Mayor, I think we need to talk privately and…”

“Yes, of course. Deputy Sutherlin, I caution you. This had better be a legitimate arrest and not some trick by Ike Schwartz to embarrass his opponent.”

“Oh, it’s real, sir.” Frank turned to his prisoner. “He’s your uncle? How very convenient for you. He’s a cop and you are a thief. I’m sure you two will have a chat and then you will tell us everything we need to know because, unless I miss my guess, Uncle Jackie will insist on it. He pretty much has to.”

Smith muttered something that Frank, had he been paying attention, would have recognized as obscene, blasphemous, or both. He marched him into the back room, booked him, and scheduled an arraignment for that evening. And at that moment, Frank had a brief epiphany. Essie and Billy notwithstanding, Jack Burns needed a closer look. Smith was Burns’ nephew. That had to go somewhere. Coincidences might be the stuff of Russian novels, but in his world, they were rare to nonexistent. All Frank needed was a handle. Something didn’t smell quite right. Maybe he smelled hay. Smith and hay, Duffy and hay, and then Uncle Jack?

Grace White waved at him from the corridor where she’d been hiding from the mayor. “I have something on that phone call Ike wanted to have traced,” she said.

“The call to Ms. Harris the night she hit the pole?”

“Yeah. I don’t understand it exactly, but I’ve traced the origin and identified the phone.”

***

“So when did you make the decision to remove the van, and why?”

Ike made a fresh pot of coffee and Charlie produced the box of Dunkin’ Donuts he’d picked up on his way in.

“The director received a call from your mayor. In fact, he received and ignored several calls from the gentleman. Apparently the mayor then called the governor, who called somebody, who in turn called somebody else, and the upshot was the director received an order from very high up that he should take the call or else. Your mayor wanted to know why the CIA had a van parked in his town and did the director want to answer him or would he rather see this question referred to the
Washington Post
? Since we’d pretty much done what we could with Kevin and his machinery, the decision the director made seemed to be necessary.”

“And expedient.”

“That too.”

“I would like to have known about it, but it’s okay. I have had a discouraging morning thus far and you have not added much in the way of cheer, Charlie.”

“My bad. What might I have said to change that?”

“Damned if I know. My problem is, I have been pouring over all the information we have. There is precious little here and it occurred to me that if our perp is as I have assumed, he’s out there and we will never find him unless we launch a full-scale manhunt. Only the FBI can pull that off, and they can’t do that without some reason or authorization. Neither the attorney general nor the director of the FBI is going to expend assets on Ike Schwartz’s problem, the DC Metro Police are not going to call them in on a routine auto accident, and if I have correctly figured out the hit, and I am having serious doubts about that now, we would either have our man by now, or we will never get him.”

“How do you figure that? You are right about all the rest. The FBI is a no-go and obviously we, that is, my people, cannot operate within the borders, but the rest?”

“Well, you remember my rant about the soldier and the possibilities?”

“Vividly.”

“If that were the case—and it need not be a damaged GI. Anyone with a certain twisted mind set could do it. By now he would have told someone, would have made the person he felt had encouraged him know what he’d done. Doubtless the knights who polished off Beckett rushed back to the palace to tell the king and receive their reward. As much as I dislike demagogues, I do not believe they are stupid. If any of them got wind that one of theirs had done something like that, they’d give him up in a heartbeat. Make an anonymous phone call, at least.”

“And if, for some reason, our guy didn’t run to the king?”

“We’re screwed. Unless he talks about it to someone and we pick up on it, we’ll never find him.”

“So what now?”

“The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced the thing is eccentric.”

“Is what?”

“Off-center, it’s related to Ruth and what she was doing, certainly, but not as we, or I, first assumed.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know, but I might be close. One piece and we will have the puzzle solved. But where do I find that piece?”

The phone rang.

“Perhaps that’s the missing piece calling you now.”

“I’m not that lucky.”

Chapter Thirty

Eden Saint Clare extended her stay an extra day. She wanted to return to Picketsville as soon as possible, but her lawyers were undecided which strategy they should pursue. It appeared that John Harris had executed a series of wills over the last few years. They had to assume that all the will writing and rewriting had been the result of a mind gone gray, but would a court agree? People spoke to him. He understood them or he didn’t. One could never be sure that what he heard had anything to do with what was actually said. At the same time, a will, if it made sense, should stand irrespective of his mental state. It wasn’t as if he’d left his estate to the home for stray cats.

They were in general agreement, however, that the latest will could be successfully contested, but which of the several previous documents would supplant it? At what point during the process would the will in question stand the test of sound mind? Clearly they needed to inspect them all. To do so, they would need a subpoena to get at them, and might never be sure they had them all. The sister wasn’t being entirely forthcoming, they suspected.

“We tried to explain all this to your associate yesterday afternoon, Mrs. Saint Clare, but he seemed only interested in the latest version.”

“My associate? Did you say someone spoke to you claiming to be my associate?”

“Why, yes. He showed me some identification and a letter from you identifying himself as your representative. He did say he did not work for you often but, as you were in his neighborhood, he’d offered to help.”

“In his neighborhood? You mean he works in Chicago?”

“Yes. He had his business card. He is a partner, it seems, with Gavel and Strock. They are a small legal consulting firm located in Skokie, as it happens.”

“What was his name?”

“It was…well here,” the young clerk handed Eden a business card. “You can read it for yourself.”

She glanced at the card. “May I use your phone?”

“Yes, of course. Is there a problem?”

“You better hope not.”

Eden dialed the number and waited for someone to pick up. “Hello, may I speak to Mr. Franklin Barstow, please? What? I am calling about an inquiry he made with this firm, Baker, Baker, and Watts.” She waited another minute. “Mr. Barstow, my name is Eden Saint Clare. Have we ever met? No, I am quite serious. I am standing in the conference room at Baker, Baker, and Watts. I have been informed by—” She covered the mouth piece. “Sorry son, what is your name? By a Mr. Andrew Watts, who, I assume, must be a relation to the Watts. He tells me that you were here in this building asking about some matters currently being handled on my behalf by this firm. Since we have never met, I wonder if you could enlighten me on what that was all about. Yes, yesterday. You were. Thank you, sorry to have bothered you.”

She hung up the phone. “Junior, describe the man to whom you revealed confidential information. Then fetch your dad, or uncle, or whoever or whatever the senior Watts in this firm is. Mr. Barstow and I have never met, and he was not here yesterday afternoon because he was attending a bar mitzvah in Winnetka. We have a problem.”

“Yes ma’am. The original founder of the firm, Hiram Watts, is dead. I have the same name but am not related. I’ll get Mr. Baker, Senior.”

This smelled fishy. Either the devious sister had sent a spy to snoop, or…or what?

“You do that. Then you might want to think about pursuing another profession.”

“Ma’am?”

***

Ike answered the call on the second ring after he’d checked the caller ID. Frank on his private cell needed to speak to him.

“Ike, some news. You need to hear what happened today at the office but it takes time. Will you be at the Crossroads anytime today?”

“I could do lunch. You could join me, that is, if you can keep the Pooh-bahs in the mayor’s office off your case.”

“No problem there. Not anymore. Okay, right now Grace has some news about the phone call Ruth received the night of the wreck. Shall I put her on?”

“Of course.” Ike touched the speakerphone button so that Charlie could listen to what Grace White had discovered.

“Boss.” Grace came on the line. “I was able to do some fiddling with the cell phone you gave me. I know where the call she got that night came from, its number, and where the phone it was made on was purchased.”

“All that? Tell me what you have.”

“It’s kind of weird.” Grace thought most of life in the Shenandoah Valley was weird when compared to her upbringing in Maine. “The call was placed in Washington, DC. You probably already figured that part out. The weird thing is that the person who made it bought the phone in Lexington.”

“Our Lexington? Not Kentucky…the one right up the road?”

“Yes. See, once I retrieved the number, I traced it to the manufacturer, well actually the United States rep. The phone came from Asia somewhere originally and—”

“Skip that part, Grace. So they were able to trace the phone consignment that narrowly?”

“I guess so.”

“Who bought it?”

“That’s the part I don’t know. I am calling all the stores in the Lexington area to find out who bought a phone. If I’m lucky, there’ll be a time stamp on the sales slip and if I’m luckier still, whoever bought it will have used a charge card. Then we’ll have him, or her, but that doesn’t seem likely.”

“Not a woman? Why?”

“It would take a pretty hefty woman to drive a truck, wouldn’t it?”

“You ever drive a truck, Grace?”

“Oh, sure. I sometimes helped my cousin, Rodney, haul logs out of the forest, so sure.”

“Big truck?”

“Oh yeah, that sucker ran…oh, I get it. If I can jockey a tractor and log hauler, someone else could manage a stake body, I guess. I stand corrected. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. I don’t think you will find a charge slip on that phone. The attacker built his plan very carefully. He would have paid cash. But keep looking, you may get lucky. In the meantime, assuming there is a cash register record of the sale, and assuming you can locate it, check the time stamp and then see if any surveillance cameras might have caught the purchase.”

“Right. I’m on it.”

Ike hung up.

“I guess we put the solitary fruitcake as perpetrator to bed.”

“Not quite. I never let something go until I have something better to take its place. That’s not the case yet, so we’ll put it on hold. Lexington could simply be a coincidence. Anyone coming up the valley on his way to Washington might very well have pulled off I-81 and picked up a phone. You’d be pretty stupid to buy it in your hometown, assuming you knew it might be traced.”

“Point taken. Fruitcakes placed on hold, but not discarded. In the real world, discarding fruitcakes is an act of mercy. My great aunt Louise exchanged the same fruitcake with her sister every Christmas for something like thirty years.”

“You exaggerate.”

“Only a little.”