7 - Rogue: Ike Schwartz Mystery 7 (22 page)

Chapter Forty-three

Ike shuffled through a fistful of reports from the ETs and two more from the Medical Examiner. He desperately wanted to find a pattern, something, anything to move him off the dime. His case had come completely unraveled. Make that, cases. Charlie Garland knocked, waved a greeting, and set a cup of coffee on the desk.

“Good morning, Charlie, I thought you’d left this sinking ship for safer passage in DC.”

“Now why would I do that?”

“Well, for one thing, to hide from the probable impending wrath of Eden Saint Clare.”

“Ah, that. I did, indeed, withdraw, but not to abandon the field and certainly not to escape a wrathful Eden Saint Clare. I left, but briefly, to do your business. You may recall you had a few loose ends from your search among the radical right or radical left or whichever they are. I can never keep them straight.”

“Depends on whose ox is getting gored, I guess.”

“Precisely. At any rate, with the connivance of the director, and a blind eye cast by our friends in the FBI, we cleared your list of potential bad people as far as we could.”

“Why, Charlie?”

“Why what? Why did we do it?”

“Yes. Why does the director care, why did the FBI accede to all this?”

“Ah, two reasons. First, as much as you would wish it were not so, everybody sees through you, Ike. They know that in spite of your dismissal of the company in the past and your public distain for it currently, you would, if called on, do the same for us. You have in the past and doubtless will again in the future. You are a Boy Scout, Ike. You do your duty to God and your country. Second, you are one of the good guys. Everyone wants you to stay that way, the thought of you going rogue is not a happy one for any of us. Now, as I was saying, we can’t pin this thing on them. That doesn’t mean one of them didn’t do it, of course, but the trail in the surreal world of radical politics has gone cold. But then, you’d already assumed that.”

“I had, but thank you and the director for all the trouble. It must have been a great deal of work. And I am not a Boy Scout.”

“It was. You’re welcome, and yes you are, but I won’t belabor the point. I am not finished here. You asked Kevin to add your man Fiske to the list. That did turn up something.”

“Not in time. Fiske found himself in the path of five small-caliber bullets and didn’t duck in time.”

“He’s dead? How very convenient for him.”

“How do you figure that?”

“He is a person of interest in one or two minor fracases some years ago, when he called himself Frank Scott.”

“Anything I should know about?”

“Not anymore. As nearly as we could reconstruct the man’s past, he had a rocky childhood, scrapes with the law, and disappeared at about age sixteen. He turned over a new leaf, it seems, reformed, changed his name, and completed his education. Not at the places or to levels he listed on his CV, but he did. Oxford, Mississippi, is not Oxford, Great Britain, but the process is approximately the same—he graduated. So, fill me in. Is his death related to Ruth’s wreck and if so, how?”

“I thought he was the guy behind the wheel of that truck. In fact, I thought I had him dead to rights, as they used to say. Frank and I went to his house to arrest him. Instead, we found him sitting at his dining room table with four neat holes in his chest and one really nasty one in his forehead. I had it wrong, it appears. Now I am back to square one, and you tell me there is no use going back and picking up the other line either. Just as well.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, no. Frank has some evidence that the man who would be sheriff was also involved in the business of swiping hay with his nephew and, as we speak, is attempting to raise bail. Strangely, the mayor seems to have forgotten Burns’ name and has been acting nice to me. He said he would like to endorse my candidacy.”

“Lovely for you. You are the man of the hour. And he will do that because…?”

“Frank let drop the possibility he is considering contacting the county attorney to investigate local campaign finances in light of the arrest.”

“Is he?”

“Probably not, but he could. That’s the point.”

Ike’s intercom buzzed. “Ike, Ms. Overton is here like you asked.”

“Thank you, Essie. Put her in the interview room. I’ll join her in a minute.”

“Who is Ms. Overton?” Charlie asked.

“Scott Fiske’s lawnmower. Charlie, you have a good feel for these things. Sit in on this interview and tell me what I’m missing.”

“Lawnmower? She cuts his grass?”

“Metaphorically speaking, perhaps. I don’t know for sure and at this remove, I do not care. Come on.”

Sheila Overton perched on the edge of the oak chair. She wore a simple light gray suit, cream-colored blouse with a dainty, paisley foulard tie at her throat. She apparently had neglected to apply her makeup. Dark circles under her eyes gave her a gaunt and sorrowful look. The white knuckles on the hand that clutched what appeared to be a scuffed Brighton purse were the only indication that she might be nervous. Ike sat across the table from her and Charlie took a seat in the corner, where he could observe her face and body language.

“Thank you for coming in, Ms. Overton. I know this can’t be easy for you. How well did you know Doctor Fiske?”

“How well? We were pretty close, you know. Like, I’m his A.A. and so I had to know lots of stuff…things.”

Ike riffled some papers in front of him and then fixed her with an icy stare. “That’s it?”

“Okay, so yeah, we were very close.”

“You were lovers.”

“No, no we weren’t. Not because I wouldn’t have…you know, but it wasn’t like that. He wanted to wait.”

“He wanted to…wait?”

“It’s hard to explain. We were more, you know, like, engaged, but he didn’t want to move on that right away. Not until he managed to land a big job.”

“How does that work? I thought he had a big job.”

“Scotty was ambitious and he worried that if he was hooked up with somebody like a secretary, you know, someone with no college education, it would hurt him during interviews. You can’t imagine how snobby those academic types are.”

“Oh, I can. I’m curious. Why did you show up at his house yesterday when you did? Did someone tell you about the shooting? What caused you to come by just then?”

“I just had this bad feeling, you know? He’d come by my apartment earlier. He was, like, all shook up or something. I said to him, ‘Doctor Fiske—’”

“You called him Doctor? No first-name basis? I would think, off-duty and away from the office, after the years you spent working together, a Scott would be acceptable.”

“Well, okay, yeah I said, ’Scott, what’s the matter?’ He said something about how the police came to see him. That would be one of your guys, I guess. So I asked what about, and he says he’s done something and there’s this phone and—”

“He said phone? Do you know what he meant by that?”

“No, I’m not real sure. I think he must have bought one of those throwaway things and was using it from time to time. He didn’t tell me why. It was maybe about that, but I can’t be sure. He could be a little crazy, you know? He liked having secrets. I guess the phone was one of them. I didn’t think much about it after that except you guys wanted to know about it. Why did you, by the way?”

“We had reason to believe it was involved in a child harassment case.”

“A child what?”

“Another time. What else did he tell you?”

“No, tell me. Child harassment. He was…?”

“Chatting up teenagers at the mall, we think. It’s only an accusation as of now. You didn’t know?”

Something in the woman’s expression shifted—just for a split second, the tick of tick-tock, a bird flying past the sun—a brief moment of shadow, then—nothing.

“No. He did that? Well, who would have thought? So, okay, then we talked about his CV, you know, his curriculum vitae, and I said to him that I thought he was in big trouble. See, there was this woman from the Board that came asking about it and I happen to know some of the things he wrote on it he made up.”

“Anything else?”

“No, only he really looked worried. I said, ‘Scott, what’d you do?’ because I didn’t think your people would be talking to him just about a private phone. Am I right? I didn’t know about any child harassment stuff then, see? That’s for real? You said child harassment?”

“It’s peripheral.”

“Peripheral? Um, like I said, I asked him what he done…he did. And he says ‘nothing.’ Then he tells me he’ll call me later and he left. I got to thinking about it and I started to worry. That’s when I drove over to see if he was all right.”

“Did he mention anybody who might be after him? You did say he was being blackmailed, I believe.”

“Yeah, I did. The only thing I can think of is whoever he did something to, whatever that someone was, maybe he came after him for it.”

“But you don’t know who or what he did. Any guesses?”

Another flicker behind her eyes. “No.”

“Can you tell me where you were Sunday night two weeks ago?”

“Me? Funny you should ask about that. I was in my apartment waiting for him, but he never showed. Like, it was a sort of anniversary thing and I had this dinner and a bottle of wine open, not cheap stuff either, and he’s a no-show.”

“Did he say why he missed your dinner?”

“He said something came up that he needed to do. He was sorry.”

“This was the next day?”

“Yeah. Monday morning.”

“How did he seem to you then?”

“He was really tired, you know, like he hadn’t slept much, but at the same time he was really excited about something, too.”

“But he never said what he had to do or where he went?”

“No. I didn’t push it. I figured he’d tell me when he got around to it. But I did ask him if he needed his CV updated. He’d said something to me about doing that the Friday before, so I asked him again, and he said, ‘That won’t be necessary anymore.’ I didn’t know what he meant. Then when we heard about Doctor Harris’ accident and, well, I wondered, you know?”

“You wondered what, Ms. Overton?”

“I don’t know. Like, um…like maybe he thought his acting president job would last longer or something like that.”

“He said that before you heard about the accident?”

“Did he? I don’t know. Yeah, I think so. He must have heard before, right? I don’t know, he didn’t seem shocked at the news, so maybe he did.”

“I see. Is there anything else you can tell us?”

“Not really. Am I in trouble?”

“Trouble? No, I don’t think so. Thank you for coming. Mrs. Sutherlin will show you where you can write out your statement.”

Sheila left and Ike watched as Essie placed her at the spare desk and set her to work.

“What do you think, Charlie?”

“Splendid performance. The naked truth mixed in with a few teeny and maybe important lies. Very adroit, is your Ms. Overton. She was genuinely shocked to hear about Fiske’s trips to the mall to talk to teenaged girls. I find that curious, don’t you? And, the smudges under her eyes may be the product of well applied makeup, but without an opportunity for a closer look, I can’t be sure. Also, for the record, she knows very well what Fiske did, but she won’t say. Now why is that, do you suppose?”

“Question for another day. Misplaced loyalty, perhaps. She all but indicted Fiske for Ruth’s accident. So she and the sheriff’s department seem to be in agreement on that. Which then raises the question once again, if he’s the culprit, who would want him out of the way now, and why?”

“Who? Oh come on, Ike, think a minute. Who has been after the person who forced Ruth into that pole like an avenging angel for the last few weeks? You know who. You would. You are the prime suspect in the poor man’s demise.”

“Me?” Ike thought a moment. “I guess you’re right. Lucky for me, I have an alibi for the time of the shooting or I’d be on top of my list of suspects. So, if it wasn’t me, it had to be someone else, and the question remains, who killed Fiske and why?”

Charlie frowned, started to say something, then shook his head and shrugged.

Chapter Forty-four

Ike and Charlie returned to Ike’s fishbowl office. He cleared more space on his desk and piled all the folders and files he’d assembled over the previous three weeks in front of him. After pausing a moment, he discarded the files relating to the various political groups and the suspect names. He arranged the remaining by case and then by date. The answer, he thought, had to be hiding somewhere in that mess. Frank pulled a chair in from the outer office and sat next to Charlie. He held the notebook the ETs found in Smith’s truck in his hand.

“I’m done with this, Ike. Burns is in the slammer and lawyering up. He had to use a public defender, by the way. You still want to see this?”

“I don’t know—maybe later. Where’s our mayor?”

“Last I heard, planning a family vacation to Florida.”

“He should fit right in with the gang at Disney World.”

“Anyway, you did say you wanted to look at Smith’s book after we closed the Fiske case. I guess that’s not necessary now.”

“I guess not. And we haven’t closed it yet, Frank, that’s the problem. He’s dead. Someone shot him. If he was the masked man we saw behind the wheel in that enhanced video, why would someone shoot him now?” Frank opened his mouth to respond. Charlie raised his hand to silence him and shook his head. “Either someone, like me, who was angry at what he did to Ruth, and took it out on him, or—”

“Or you had it backward from the start and have to start over.” Charlie finished for him.

“Exactly, but, I don’t think we should go all the way back to where we started. If that line didn’t work then, it won’t work now.”

“So where do we start, then?” Frank looked puzzled.

“With the obvious: we have not one, but three murders in Picketsville. Three murders, I should say, and an attempted murder. That makes four acts of violence in a little less than three weeks. And, unlike the killings we have had in the past in which, by and large, the victims were from out of town, these are all local. What are the odds of that happening in the first place, and then as three separate and distinct crimes?”

“Don’t forget the dog,” Charlie said.

“Actually, I hadn’t. But I am pretty sure he doesn’t figure into this scenario. The odds, as I was saying, are huge. Picketsville is not Juarez or Detroit. It is a sleepy little town in the heart of Virginia. It’s not Grover’s Corners either, but it’s not close to being a high-crime venue. So, we take a different tack. Up to this point we have pursued the killing of Duffy and Smith separately from the attempt on Ruth, and assumed Fiske was connected to her. What if we have that backward?”

“How’s that?”

“We have several choices. First, they are not connected. Duffy died for one reason at the hands of one killer, Smith at the hands of another, neither is connected to each other or to Fiske and/or Ruth. Possible? Yes. Probable? No. What have we then?”

“I have no idea.” Frank’s forehead began to take on the appearance of an old-fashioned washboard.

“Second, they are connected someway and the connection is in that book of yours, Frank. Much more likely Duffy and Smith are connected. Third, all three murders, Duffy, Smith, and Fiske, and, therefore, the attempt on Ruth, are all connected. Again, possible? Yes. Probable? Well, I admit it’s a stretch.”

“Ignoring Fiske for the moment, how do you connect the murders of two local yokels engaged in petty larceny to an attempted murder in Washington, DC?”

“I don’t know. I’m just saying. Maybe I should have a look at the book.”

“You left out a fourth scenario.” Charlie said.

“What’s that?”

“There is the will business which we can probably discount, but one person has the same cause to be angry, maybe even murderously so, and wish to bump off Fiske, as you do. She also has motive, means, and opportunity, and she listens.”

“Who? You don’t mean…”

“Eden Saint Clare.”

“No, I’m not going to go there again, Charlie. I concede that on paper it’s a remote possibility, an extremely remote possibility, but I’m not willing to even consider it now, thank you. So where are we? We need something to link murder number one to number two, one and two to Washington, and so on. Frank, take us from the beginning. Start on Sunday.”

“Sunday? Well, the attempt was made on Ruth that night and—”

“No, wait. Go back. Monday morning, or was it afternoon? It doesn’t matter. When I called you, you said two things happened Sunday night or thereabouts. A ruckus at the Roadhouse and a truck was reported missing and then not missing. Have I got that right?”

“Yeah, but I don’t see what—”

“I don’t either but we need to put down everything. So Roadhouse—not likely, and a truck reported out of place. Jesus, the truck. Frank, tell me about the truck.”

“What’s to tell? In addition to being used to steal hay, which probably explains why it ended up in the wrong place that morning, we know it belongs to Callend. They use it for general hauling, trash, leaves, deliveries, and so on. In the winter they attach a…oh my God.”

“They attach a snowplow. The bumper of that truck has been modified to accept the low-blade snowplow the school occasionally needs to clear its parking lots and driveway. How much do you want to bet they also painted that bumper with black Rustoleum after they made the modifications?”

“It was black all right, and scratched up a bit. So you think Fiske took the truck to DC and waited for Ruth? But how would he know when and where to find her?”

“Ruth received a call that evening. She didn’t tell me who called or why. It was not like her, but she didn’t. I assumed it had something to do with me and she preferred not to say anything just then. We know from the ME’s report,” Ike shuffled through the stack of papers on the desk and pulled up a sheet, “that Fiske owned the phone or at least had it on him when he died. If the surveillance tapes from the drugstore are to be believed, Fiske bought the phone and had it in his possession that Sunday night. He calls, tells Ruth something she can’t repeat to me, and arranges to meet her at a specific place and time.”

“He waits, sees the car and his opportunity, whacks the car, and hightails it back to Picketsville. In his excitement, he parks it in the wrong place. But why a truck?”

“He needed something that had three things going for it. It was big and heavy. It was available, and it would be the last thing a suspicious mind would think was following him, or in this case, her.”

“So you are back to Fiske. Fine, and that connects to your other two murders, how?” Charlie said.

“I don’t know, do you, Ike?”

Essie stepped into the office and dropped the ME’s reports on Ike’s desk. He glanced at them, started to put them aside, and then looked more closely.

“Well, this is interesting. Ballistics shows that the automatic found at Fiske’s house is the gun used to shoot Smith.”

“We’re getting somewhere—Fiske killed Smith.”

“Not yet. All it says is the gun was the one used. You are assuming Fiske fired it. But, it’s been wiped and then one set of very iffy prints were found on it.” He read further. “Fiske’s. No other prints.”

“So, it could have been a dead hand and drop.”

“Could have. Or not. Let’s see how it fits first. Try this: our hay heisters have been using the truck for a month or so. Duffy goes to collect it that Sunday night and it’s gone. ‘What’s this?’ he says, and calls Smith to see if, by any chance, he’s beat him to it. He hasn’t. Duffy is interested in who else is moonlighting with the school’s equipment and periodically checks to see when and by whom it is returned. He sees our guy. He thinks that’s interesting. He wonders if he can stiff the guy for a few bucks by threatening to report him for unauthorized use of school property. He doesn’t know that the stakes are considerably higher and he discovers that fact only after he’s conked on the head and killed.”

“Very neat,” Charlie cut in. “But you still have to weave in Smith, and even when you do that, you still have a very dead Fiske to explain away.”

“I know, I know. You don’t have to remind me. If Smith went with Duffy, they’d both be killed at the same time. If he didn’t, what put him in harm’s way?”

“Do we start over?” Frank looked weary. He placed the notebook on the desk. “I need a break. Anyone?” Ike waved him off. Charlie shook his head. Frank left and rummaged through the drawer of the credenza holding the coffee urn. “Essie, what happened to all the tea bags?”

Essie looked up from her crossword puzzle. “Amos Wickwire used them all up. I told him we would bill his department, but he only gave me a dirty look. Drink coffee.”

“I hate coffee.”

Ike picked up the reports again.

“They found a .45 shell casing in the woods near Smith’s body with a thumbprint on it.”

“Fiske’s?”

“No, not his. That doesn’t any make sense. Maybe it’s from another time and…no, what are the chances? I mean, how many .45’s are discharged in the woods right where we find a body? Something is screwy here. Someone else had the gun first.”

Charlie scratched his chin. “Which begs the question, does it not? Was the gun found in the house the one that shot Smith? Yes it was. So then, did the gun actually belong to Fiske? Maybe not. We have doubts, yes? And finally, maybe it was his, but someone else loaded it. That opens another door. Do you want to go through it?”

“Later if I have to. There are antecedent things to be considered. Too damn many things to be exact. Let me see that notebook.”

Ike retrieved the book and slowly leafed through it. He paused once and then began again at the first page. “I didn’t make Smith out as much of an organized man, and I don’t think he would keep records like these. This must have been Duffy’s book.”

“That was my thought, too.” Frank had perked up.

“If so, when Duffy didn’t score his big hit, but ended up suffocated in a school vehicle instead, Smith must have wondered. He found the book and, as unlikely as it seems, he figured it out as well. Then he went for the score himself and ended up the same as Duffy, only shot, not asphyxiated. The gun suggests it was Fiske whom he met.”

Charlie tilted back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Smith and Duffy notwithstanding, the real question is, as I have said repeatedly, who killed Fiske? If you don’t unravel that one, you have nothing.”

Ike nodded and sifted through the contents of the notebook. He removed the newspaper clippings and arranged them on the desk. “What are all these about?”