7 - Rogue: Ike Schwartz Mystery 7 (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-five

After an hour of playing phone tag with the DC police, Ike finally located someone who not only would listen to him, but might possibly do something. He explained his situation. He described Ruth’s non-accident and his suspicions and the data he’d amassed. The deputy chief, for that was the person he finally wound up speaking with, pulled up Ruth’s accident report and read it to Ike to make sure they were talking about the same case.

“There’s a note here that says that victim’s fiancé, that would be you I guess, acted aggressively and out of control at the station that night.”

“Actually it happened the next morning. The desk sergeant was off his feed and I was upset, I guess you could say. I’m sorry about that.”

“Understandable, under the circumstances.”

“Yes, well, as I said, I’m sorry if I sounded off to the sergeant. Anyway, that’s the one. Later that morning I reworked the scene when there was enough light to see,” Ike said. He skipped over his opinion of the DC cop’s accident investigation. He didn’t need to annoy them anymore than necessary. He needed their help. He would cut the precinct cops some slack. “I can send you photos and some other data if you want. You should have a record of the traffic surveillance camera tapes I forwarded as well.”

“Okay, I do. Give me a minute to have a look-see.” Ike waited. “Okay, it appears that the truck deliberately hit the car and pushed it off the road into the pole. Is that what you wanted me to see, Sheriff?”

“Exactly. That car belonged to me, Chief, and the driver was my fiancée. I have been busting my butt trying to nail down the why and who of it. I couldn’t talk the precinct into a second look that night but I was hoping maybe you could now.”

“You want us to instigate an investigation?”

“Yes. I don’t think your guys will have the time or patience to do much, but if it’s an open case, then I can work it at this end.”

“Do you have any idea why someone would do this?”

Ike explained the situation at the Department of Education. The threats and his thoughts on political operators living on the fringes of protest groups. He was pretty sure he no longer believed it, but Washington thrived on the dark side of conspiracies and plots against the government. Anything else would be hard to sell. The Deputy Chief didn’t sound convinced, but he bought it.

“Okay, Sheriff. I’ll order a case review. That should hold you for now. In the meantime, send us what you have. I can’t promise anything, but who knows, somebody has to know something and maybe he’ll spill it when he needs a break from the police when he’s picked up for something else.”

“Thanks, Chief. I’ll send you what I have and you can give me a case number.”

Ike hung up. Now he’d have to wait and see what Frank found out in his interview with Fiske, and then he would send Elroy to Roanoke to talk to some kid named Tina who would, in turn and with any luck, lead him to Tammy. She could ID the “Old Perv” and that would be that. He cut a picture of Fiske from the Callend directory and clipped it to the slip of paper with the names and an address of the kid for Elroy. He called Charlie and asked if Kevin, relocated back to DC, had anything new for him.

“Nada, so far. Mostly he’s eliminated possible candidates. Alibis all.”

“How about he adds Scott Fiske to the list. Who knows, maybe he’s a sleeper of some sort.”

“A thought that is not so far-fetched, considering we do it all the time and so does everybody else. There’s no end to spies and spooks lurking in the suburbs, it seems. Old and apparently lost Russian deep plants, Al Qaeda fanatics, and who knows how many North Korean, Chinese, and Venezuelan plants there are.”

“Venezuelan?”

“Alas, yes. Not all border crossers are simple folks seeking a better way of life.”

“Or drug cartel employees.”

“Them too. Then add to the mix your man’s predilection to write fiction in his résumé. Donnie the Snoop wasn’t tasked to dig into his past, only to check the current listings, but now that you mention it, Fiske could be one of us, so to speak, or maybe once was one of…not us specifically, but us, metaphorically…has a past and…you get the idea.”

“I do. I don’t think it’s probable but, if he was burned or deep undercover for some reason, you could be right. It’s much more likely he’s hiding from someone or something else. Shady past, perhaps. We, actually that is you—I don’t live in that murky world anymore—can appreciate that.”

“Never too late to come home.”

“It is for me. That life is now just a very bad memory.”

“How’s Ruth?”

“I don’t know. I’m on my way out there now. The last time I visited, I would swear she tried to make noises, but all she could manage was a little gurgling sound.”

“Maybe you should ask a simple question and say one gurgle for yes, two for no.”

“You should be writing for television, Charlie. The hero asks all the wrong questions, the comatose woman is trying to say, ‘Look out behind you!’ and he wants to know if she needs her pillow fluffed.”

“You saw that program, too?”

“What? No, I…never mind. I’ll take a miss on the dramatics, if it’s all the same to you. I’d rather not ask any more of Ruth than she already has to deal with. All I know is she is trying to talk. That’s a good sign. It means she’s gaining. So, I’ll wait. Will you see if Kevin can dig out anything more on Scott Fiske? He spells it with a final E but he may have begun life without it. As you say, we have what your pal Donnie says he isn’t. I’d like to know who he is, or maybe, who he was.”

Ike hung up and headed to the hospital. Maybe Charlie was right. Should he try one if yes, two if no and three for…for what? And what on earth would he ask her? Yes and no doesn’t help much if you don’t know what you’re after.

***

Jorge Escobar landed the job with the Parks Department three months earlier. He was proud of the fact that in a bad economy, he could find work and support his family. It was part-time and it didn’t offer benefits, but the boss told him as soon as things picked up, he’d be first in line to be taken on full time. His duties involved making the rounds to the town’s park sites and maintaining them. He drove to the first of the day’s jobs, a small park on the west side. He pulled the truck with its trailer full of mowers and tools into the graveled pull-off. Another, older truck sat at the far end of the parking area near an overhanging clump of trees. He scanned toe tables and charcoal pits but didn’t see any sign of activity.

He grabbed his tools. He would police the area first. These picnickers, they didn’t care how they left things. Bottles, cans, trash everywhere. Cerdos. Then he would mow the grass around the tables, empty the big trash barrels, and check to make sure everything was in good working order. Sometimes the kids from the university had parties here and they would leave things in a mess. Once one of the charcoal grills had been torn off its post and left in the spot-a-pot. He was happy that maintaining that little blue building was somebody else’s problemo. This area was small compared to some of the other facilities he had to clean and maintain. It took him a little less than an hour to finish up. He heaved the trash bags into the back of his truck, reloaded the mower onto the trailer, and then went to check out the pickup truck parked at the other end of the lot.

A miscellany of junk and tools filled the truck bed. Jorge decided the owner must be a lazy man to take such bad care of his property. He called out. No answer. No sign of life anywhere nearby. He tried the passenger’s side door and to his surprise, it wasn’t locked and the window had been rolled down. Not so good an idea to leave a vehicle unattended and unlocked. The mess in the interior of the cab rivaled that in the bed. He poked at the mess with a stick. The carpeting was not wet, so the truck had not been here when it rained. He slammed the door, walked to the rear, and jotted down the license number on the back of a work order. The only explanation he could think of for a truck to be left unlocked and abandoned would be that maybe it had been stolen by some kids and dumped when it ran out of gas. He returned to the cab, rolled up the window, shoved the lock buttons down, and slammed the door again.

He would give the number to his boss and he probably would tell the park police. They would know what to do.

Chapter Thirty-six

Ike met Eden on her way out as he walked through the hospital’s lobby. She started to say something, clamped her mouth shut, and sailed away without speaking. He pivoted and watched her leave. What was that all about? When he arrived at the CCU and saw the guard chatting with the duty nurse, he understood. Eden might sometimes act the part of a twenty-first century version of Auntie Mame, but he knew she was no fool. It must be the will business. She knew that he knew. If she figured out the source of his information, Charlie was in for an earful. And so, probably, was he. Too bad, but no helping it. Until he knew the identity of Ruth’s attacker for a certainty, no one got a free pass. He hoped Eden would understand. He doubted she would, but he hoped.

“How’s it looking, Nurse?”

“All quiet on the western front, Sheriff. Her mother just left. This is Brian. He’s from security.”

“I guessed as much. How do you do, Brian?”

“Fine. Um, Sheriff, can I ask you something?”

“Sure. What is it you want to know?”

“Well, there is a rumor. Like, people say you used to be a CIA agent, is that right?”

“I was, a long time ago. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I was thinking I might like to do that, you know. Law enforcement is okay but I’m thinking international stuff would be really cool.”

“I see. Brian, let me explain something to you. First, what you are doing barely qualifies as law enforcement. With respect, security officer at a hospital is right up there with mall cop in terms of measurable risk. Second, the CIA is decidedly not cool. Most of it is either sitting at a desk reading other people’s mail, listening to their phone calls, or guessing at what someone halfway around the world is thinking.”

Brian started to reply, but Ike waved him into silence.

“Or, and this is the part you are fantasizing about, the few field agents we do have, emphasis on few, live in perpetual fear of discovery even when they are home on leave—which, by the way, is rare. James Bond is a figment of one man’s imagination, a commercially successful figment, but a figment nonetheless. In the field you have to deal with extremes, between moving about in a normal, however covert, manner or under conditions of extreme hardship. I once spent a week in a ditch filled with ice water, no food, no blankets, and scared out of my wits. It was cold, but definitely not cool. My advice? Stay put where you are safe, warm, and loved.”

Ike left the young man with his mouth hanging open, confused and a little distraught. Apparently he had hoped for a more encouraging response.

Ike found Ruth much as he’d left her the day before. Someone had jacked up her bed a little. He sat and, after searching for a topic not likely to upset her, started to ramble on about nothing in particular. When she moaned, he simply said, “I’m with you Babe, as soon as you can, tell me something, but take your time. In case you’re wondering back in that dark world you occupy, I have a guard at the door twenty-four seven now so you are safe.”

***

Frank Sutherlin spent an annoying fifteen minutes across the desk from Scott Fiske. First, he had to sit through a rambling lecture by the acting president on the proper way to approach a faculty member if he thought there might be some way he could be of assistance. Frank did not understand a word he said. Then, he had to hear about how busy he was and what a disruption a police inquiry like this created in his schedule. Frank had dealt with stuck-up academics a time or two but they were usually junior faculty still basking in the light of their newly acquired, shiny bright degrees.

“Very fine, okay, sorry to inconvenience you, Doctor, but I still need to ask you a few questions.”

“About?”

Frank paused. He intended to paint the misleading picture about the business of the threats and ask if Fiske could help with identifying possible suspects as Ike had suggested, but the combined tensions of the previous week, when added to the anger he’d been suppressing for the previous quarter of an hour, took over. Instead, he leaned forward and fixed Fiske with his “policeman’s eye.”

“Do you own a cell phone, Doctor?”

“Do I own a cell phone?” Fiske seemed to have been knocked slightly off-center. “Why do you ask? I mean, yes, of course I do. Everyone does. In darkest Africa people have cell phones, though what they do with them is a mystery to me. Certainly I do. So what?”

“May I see it?”

“Why?”

“It may be involved in this case.”

Fiske seemed taken aback. “Case? What case?”

“It is certain that your boss, Doctor Harris, was forced off the road and we are closing in on that someone, we think. Then there is the underage girl at the mall in Roanoke. Tell me about your phone.”

Frank knew he’d stepped over the line and might even have blown the whole investigation. Whatever he learned in this interview, assuming Fiske was their man, might be in jeopardy or inadmissible when it came time to prosecute. But it was too late to Mirandize him now. He would plow ahead and see. Maybe Ike’s idea was right after all. He should just slap the cuffs on Fiske and haul his butt in.

Either his tone of voice or his presence seemed to have cowed Fiske. He dipped a hand into his pocket and produced his cell phone. Frank powered it up and read the number on the face as it booted to life. Not the one he wanted to see. He took a chance.

“Where’s the other one?”

“What other one? I don’t have another one. What makes you think I have another phone?”

Some people can lie, some cannot. A skillful interrogator can usually tell if a person is lying, shading the truth, or telling the proverbial whopper. There are those very few who lie with such aplomb that even a trained observer can be taken in. Fiske, however, was not one of those. He all but broke out in a sweat the instant the words were out of his mouth.

“Would you like to reconsider, Doctor Fiske? We have some indications that a person fitting your description used a phone recently in Roanoke—”

“This interview is over. I don’t know what you are talking about. I wasn’t there.” Fiske stood up so suddenly he nearly lost his balance, strode to the door, and left.

“My, my,” Frank said. “What was that all about?”

He walked around behind the desk, glanced up and, seeing no one close by, took a peek in the desk’s drawers. More inadmissible snooping, perhaps, but worth a peek. If necessary, he could return with a warrant. Fiske had left a notebook on the blotter. He glanced through the door. Agnes was busy at her desk. He risked a quick look at the book’s contents. Some dates and phone numbers seemingly attached to them. Local area codes mostly. Some were, unless he missed his guess, from the Roanoke area. Interesting and possibly useful later. He shut the drawer and put the cigarette in his pocket. He left the office. Agnes Ewalt looked up from her work.

“Where’s the great man’s secretary?”

“She isn’t in today. She’s taking a personal leave day—again.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Maybe not for Doctor Fiske, definitely is for me. I have all of her work plus mine as well.”

He waved goodbye to Agnes, and put in a call to Ike.