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

Chapter Twelve

Before returning to his office for the first time in nearly a week, Ike stopped by the mayor’s office to fill him in on what he hoped to do over the next few days. The interview did not go well. That may have had something to do with the fact the mayor preferred the candidate running against Ike in the election. He’d decided early in Ike’s tenure as sheriff that Ike was too apolitical and therefore not easily controlled. He wouldn’t admit it, but his cronies reported the mayor wanted a more tractable top cop.

He denied Ike’s request for a leave of absence. He said he expected Ike to be on duty twenty-four seven. Recently, the phrase “twenty-four seven,” had crept into and nearly taken over a substantial portion of the mayor’s vocabulary. It had replaced “give one hundred and ten percent,” which in itself was a small blessing. “Think outside the box” also lingered in the mayor’s speeches but, thankfully, seemed to have fallen slightly out of favor.

Ike waved the refusal off and said that since he had leave time accumulated, he would use it. The mayor said he wouldn’t approve any leave. Ike said he would take it anyway. The mayor said he’d fire Ike. Ike reminded him he had been elected, not hired, and therefore, couldn’t be fired but only recalled. Since there was an election in less than a month, that did not seem to be a worthwhile undertaking. The mayor was not happy. He picked up the phone and, giving Ike a significant look, called the town’s attorney. Ike left.

Essie Sutherlin saw Ike first and let out a whoop. Ike smiled an acknowledgement and headed to his office.

“Yo, Essie, how’s Junior?”

“Growing like a weeping willow on a river bank. How’s Miz H?”

“Holding steady, thank you. Oh, and thanks to everybody for the flowers.”

“Ike, the word around here is you don’t think Miz Harris’ accident was one. Is that true?”

“Yes, I don’t consider it an accident. But it’s not simply a matter of what I think. There is clear evidence that says her car did not skid because of wet streets. Somebody rammed her and made sure she crashed into that pole.”

“Who?”

“No telling. I’m working on it. There’s no dearth of suspects.”

“No dearth? That means a whole lot, right? I bet I know who did it.”

“Really? Who?”

“Jack Burns, that’s who, your opponent in the sheriff’s race. He has a good reason to, doesn’t he?”

“A reason to make Ruth crash? How do you figure that?”

“Not Miz H, Ike, you.”

“Me?” Essie, it seemed, shared Charlie’s concern that the perpetrator of this mess wanted to get at him through Ruth.

“Well of course. It was your car that got sideswiped, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t driving it.”

“He wouldn’t know that. He knows it’s your car and here’s a chance to eliminate you from the race. Look, Ike, you got this election all sewed up, everybody knows that, so what else is that carpetbagger going to do.”

“First, Essie, he’s not a carpetbagger and—”

“He is. He only moved over here from Buena Vista at the invitation of the mayor and just in time to qualify as a resident to get on the ballot. Then he’s walking around town talking trash about how big a cop he was over there, and how professional and all, and he ain’t.”

“Okay, if you insist. But it’s a pretty radical idea, you have to admit. What is the likelihood he drove all the way to Washington in a big truck in the hopes of catching me on a wet street in the dark?”

“You don’t have to make this complicated, Ike. Maybe it was one of them serendipity things. Say he’s up there visiting his old granny or something, and sees your car. ‘Ha,’ he says, ‘I’ll notch this dude right here and now.’ Then—”

“’Notch this dude?’ What does that mean?”

“It’s something Billy always says. I think it means to put you down or something. See, he does have motive and opportunity.”

“Essie, you’ve been hanging around cops too long. First, you haven’t come close to establishing opportunity. Was Jack Burns in Washington Sunday night? Does he drive a truck or even own one? Did he drive it to DC to visit, as you suggest, his old granny? And why in a big truck?”

“I’ll bet he does own one. Everybody in Buena Vista’s got them a pickup at least. What kind of truck are we talking about?”

“It’s a five-year-old Silverado platform with a modified front bumper, definitely not a pickup truck,” Frank Sutherlin said. He’d come in the middle of Essie’s Agatha Christie moment.

Ike had not seen him enter and turned. “You have some news for me from the State forensics lab?”

“Preliminary stuff, Ike, but useful for starters. The truck is what I just said. The front bumper had some sort of projections on it and it was not, as far as the techs could tell, either standard or optional manufacturer’s equipment.”

“A custom bumper then with some sort of hitch, do you suppose? Anything on the paint samples?”

“Not so good there, Ike. Black Rustoleum. Sold in every hardware, paint, and drug store in America. Not even a special order, just your basic black.”

“That’s not much help.”

“Not on the face of it, but then, how many Chevy Silverado platform trucks can there be with modified front bumpers painted with store-bought black spray paint? It won’t help us find it, but it could confirm it if and when we do. The next piece of information is better, maybe. The techs were able to enhance the video images you sent. First, the license plate is unreadable because it had some sort of cover, like a rag over it. Second, there were markings on the door panels of the truck but they were covered as well. Duct tape, the techs thought, because of their slight sheen. And finally, they were able to enhance the driver’s face.”

“We have a picture of the driver?”

“Not really. He had a bandanna over his face like an old-time Western movie bank robber and wore a ball cap low. So, no face, but—”

“But we now know, and without a doubt, that the crash was premeditated. Whoever sat behind that wheel went to a lot of trouble to cover any identifying marks and, it seems, even anticipated the traffic surveillance cameras.”

“It would seem so, yes. Whoever did this took the time to think the whole thing through and plan it very carefully.”

“Essie, would you bring me a coffee? It smells like somebody made a fresh pot.”

“Just this once, Ike, but you know this ain’t in my job description.”

“Lord, Essie, you’re sounding more and more like a federal employee every day.”

“Well maybe I do, somebody’s got to look out for the rights of working women.” Essie put the cup down on Ike’s desk. “Frank, you’re family. You get your own.”

“Thank you, Essie. It appears motherhood has made you feisty. Rights of working women?”

“I’m just looking out for me and mine.”

“Indeed. Frank, Ruth received a phone call just after nine. That’s why I left DC a little early. I found her phone on the floor of the car. It must have been on the seat when she hit the pole. I assume there is a way to retrieve the numbers of anyone who called her.”

“There is. Almost every phone has a call log of some sort built into its memory, but if the guy was careful about covering the markings on his truck, the possibility of surveillance cameras, and so on, what’s the likelihood he’d use a traceable phone?”

“Slim to none, but criminals make mistakes. Sometimes that’s the only way we catch them. I’ll have Grace run the phone log for me.”

“I still think it’s Jack Burns,” Essie said. “Why don’t you run him in here and have some face time?”

“Face time? Who are you hanging around with these days? We will not have ‘face time’ because we have no probable cause, Essie. I’ll make you a deal, you find out if Burns has a five-year-old Silverado platform truck with an odd bumper painted in Rustoleum black and no alibi for Sunday night, and then I’ll run him in.”

“I’ll get Billy to do it. He knows all kinds of people up there in Buena Vista. You wait and see, me and him will figure this out.”

“Knock yourself out. Frank, is there anything new on your suspicious death?”

“I’m still waiting for an autopsy report. Nothing new.”

“Okay. Well, just so you all know, I am in the mayor’s dog house—nothing new there—and plan on using up my accumulated leave time. Frank, you are officially in charge.”

“What will you be doing, Ike?”

“Trying to sort this out on my own, I guess.”

The phone rang. Essie shouted across the room. “Mr. Charlie Garland returning your call.”

Chapter Thirteen

“Charlie. What’s up? Except in the dead of night, in the event of national emergencies, and/or during your rare showers, you always answer your phone, and even then sometimes.”

“Ah, you must not take me for granted, Ike. It’s unseemly, especially when you call my hygiene into question. I have been busy on your behalf, as it happens.”

“Happy to hear it. May I ask in what way you have been busy on my behalf?”

“You may, but I’d rather not discuss it on your very public phone. Meet me for lunch.”

“For lunch? Charlie it’s one hundred and fifteen miles from Picketsville to DC. If I were to leave this instant, and allowing for the traffic on the 66 and I-95, it would take me well close to three hours to get to there and that’s moving some. Lunch will have come and gone before I reach you. You mean an early tea? I never took you for an Anglophile. How about a mid-afternoon snack? I could manage that. Assuming I even wanted to drive to the Monument on the Potomac, which I don’t.”

“How you go on. No, I mean lunch, or brunch if you prefer. I know a place.”

“Yes, I know you know a place. You are one of those people for whom installing a kitchen is both a waste of time and money.”

“Perhaps, but one has to have one’s oatmeal and coffee somewhere, and what better place than in that room with all the interestingly shaped appliances where I keep my microwave and my Mr. Coffee? Now, are you coming to lunch or not?”

“Whatever.”

“Lunch it is, then. There is a woman in this establishment who claims to know you. I imagine it must be so because she described you and your lack of nutritional discipline to a T.”

“Does this knowledgeable woman have a name?”

“I’ll ask…What’s your name, dear?…She says it’s Flora Blevins. Does that ring a bell?”

“You’re across the street at the Crossroads Diner?”

“Wait, I’ll ask…Flora says yes, that is where I am. What a finely honed mind you possess, Ike. No wonder you are such a good detective. You figured that all out in one phone call.”

“Shut up, Charlie, I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Ike shouted to Essie he’d be at the Crossroads and headed to the door. He was met by Amos Wickwire.

“Amos, what brings the number-two man from the accounting office to the Sheriff’s Office?”

“Can’t say, for sure. What have you been up to?”

“Pardon?”

“The mayor called the town attorney who called my boss and said he—that would be the mayor—needed an audit of this office’s use of public property for private use.”

“An audit, you say? Anything in particular or is this just our turn for general harassment?”

“Um…cars, photocopiers, computer time, cell phones, things like that. You know.”

“Do I? I suppose I do. You are in luck, Amos. Unbeknownst to anyone in this office, and for reasons similar to yours, I recently installed GPS tracking hardware in every car in the fleet. You can install the software you need to read them, have someone from the garage hook them up, and you will have everything you need to know in that department. The computers, however, are password-protected. If you present me with a letter from the mayor requesting access to the hard drives, loggers, or anything electronic, you are more than welcome to pry. As for the copier—good luck with that.”

“I don’t need a letter.”

“Actually, you do if you want a peek at what’s in the files. Sorry, but the mayor himself pushed that little statute through back when a Grand Jury requested we look into his correspondence involving the city snow plow contract, if you recall. So, thanks to the mayor’s diligence, you will need one here, now. Excuse me, I have a luncheon engagement and must be off.”

Amos glanced at his watch.” It’s only ten forty-five. It won’t be lunch time for another half hour or so.”

“Amos, bless your flinty little heart, I am on leave. I eat lunch whenever I damned well please. Have a nice day.” Ike stepped through the door and headed to the Crossroads with a grin on his face. The first in days.

Sure enough, Charlie sat in Ike’s favorite booth and had Flora Blevins, the age-indeterminate proprietor of the Crossroads, hovering like a vulture waiting for something to die.

“I’m sorry, Ike, I tried to hold off your order but Mrs. Blevins has already decided that you require breakfast, not lunch, and has put the order in. I’m sure she will change it if you ask.”

“Charlie, if you intend to spend any amount of time in this establishment, learn this: Flora does not take advice, cautioning, orders, or requests contrary to what she deems correct and proper.”

“Really? She sounds just like my boss. Mrs. Blevins, were you ever employed by the Central Intelligence Agency? Or perhaps you have a relative, a son perhaps, who is employed by that organization in a significant capacity?”

Flora shot Charlie a look and turned to Ike.

“Flora, breakfast will be fine, thank you. Now, Charlie—explain.”

“You have friends in high places, it seems.”

“What does that mean? How high, and so what?”

“My director is how high. Somewhere along the way you must have impressed him with your charm, though I fail to see it, and he has seconded me to you for the duration.”

“That’s very nice of him. The duration of what?”

Charlie turned serious. “Ike, we both know you will not rest until you find out who knocked Ruth into that pole. The director, irrespective of what you may think of him, is concerned and he wants to help. He knows we go back. So, voilà, here I am. How are you, by the way?”

“I am managing, thank you. It’s easier with Ruth in a hospital close by. Having her mother here helps, too, and I have to tell you I never thought I’d ever say that. But still…”

“Right. How far have you gotten?”

“Not very. The mayor just shut me down as far as accessing national and international databases to find the people I want using the department’s equipment. It’s the election. He’s backing the other fellow. In a perfect world—his perfect world—I’d go away and not force an election. Sheriff’s elections, most folks think, should be uncontested. Putting the head local law enforcement on the ballot begs political wheeling and dealing and threatens equal treatment under the law and all that.”

“Can’t argue with that, though the lawyers have pretty much suborned that portion of the constitution anyway.”

“Which portion?”

“Fourteenth Amendment, Section one, equal protection under the law clause. Lately Congress has seen fit to pass laws that apply to the general populace but not to themselves. Lawyers have argued that there are times when congressmen and other subpopulations, in the pursuance of their elected or appointed tasks are not, strictly speaking, equal, and so on.”

“Basic tenet in
Animal Farm
, ‘all animals are created equal,’ to which the pigs added, “‘But some are more equal than others.’”

“Exactly. So will you? Resign, I mean?”

“Right now, being sheriff in a town that has an ungrateful mayor at the top and a minority, but still annoying, selection of overeducated idiots on the council no longer holds the appeal to me it once did, but, as it happens, I don’t have to. The election could do that for me, I expect, and also, I’d rather not give the mayor the satisfaction.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would. Never mind the local computer power. We will tap the Company’s if we need to. Tell me what you have so far.”

Ike filled him in on what he’d managed to get from the FBI through Karl Hedrick, the data from the State’s forensic lab, and Agnes.

“Agnes? Indeed. She had useful information for you?”

“Not really. Some e-mails and odds and ends, letters, that sort of thing. Stuff she deemed suspicious. But I will still cross-match them with what the FBI has on their lists. It may be significant or not. Agnes wanted to help.”

“Of course she did. We need to set up a clearinghouse somewhere. I would have suggested your office, but as you are persona non grata there, it seems, I suppose we’d better find another place. How about here?”

“You are joking, right?”

“Yes, but you have to admit, it has a certain appeal, ready availability to sustenance and so on.”

Flora dropped their plates in front of them with what passed for a flourish in the Crossroads and told them to eat up. She needed the booth for a committee meeting of Red Hat ladies in twenty-five minutes.

“So much for commandeering space here.”

“I have an idea. Charlie, we both need a haircut, you more than me. Nothing new there. I think I know a place.”

“That’s my line.”

“Not in this town, it isn’t.”