6 - The Eye of the Virgin: Ike Schwartz Mystery 6 Page 11

  “Does she have a name?”

  “Oh yeah. You ready for this? Lorraine Dakis.”

  “Louis Dakis’ wife, or ex, or whatever?”

  “They didn’t say, but what’s the likelihood it’s a, you know, coincidence? I mean how many people called Dakis can there be in the world? And in the same area?”

  “Dakis is a fairly common Greek name, Essie, like Zaki is a common Egyptian name. Admittedly, not one you hear around this neck of the woods.” Ike started to pour a cup of coffee, caught a whiff of the too-long-on-the-burner aroma, and put the cup down. “But you are probably right. Frank, this is your baby; call the D.C. police and explain to them about the death here. They can notify the lady. They’ll be happy to close a case. Then tomorrow, call her and ask her to come down and identify the body. She can make arrangements for the funeral or whatever. Billy, you set up a meeting with your Dakis for about the same time she gets here. I want to see the reaction when they meet.”

  “You don’t think he shot Sacci/Zaki, do you? What are we going to call this guy?”

  “Let’s stay with Sacci. That’s what he’s known as in the States. If he has ID that will probably be the name—credit cards, the whole business. And, to answer your question, no, I don’t think he killed our guy. Unless, of course, he’s not telling us everything. He may have taken a shot at a retreating figure, maybe. The guy doesn’t realize how badly he’s hurt, gets his buddies to take him to the clinic and…So, if Dakis’ had a gun and if it isn’t registered, he may not have wanted to mention it.”

  “I checked it out, Ike,” Frank said. “He has a Virginia concealed weapons permit. He applied for it when he ran an art store and was transporting expensive things around. It will expire in four years.”

  “Did you get the caliber of the piece?”

  “He had several handguns, but yes, one of them was a small caliber pistol.’ Frank flipped through the pages of his notebook. “A .25 caliber Beretta 21 Bobcat.”

  “That would do it. Do we have any ballistics back?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Let’s get on that. Anything else? So far, Essie, you win the donut.”

  “We have donuts?”

  “Figure of speech. Where’s Sam and Karl?”

  “Um…” Essie gave him the look.

  “Call them and say I want them, well, I want Sam anyway. Karl is on someone else’s payroll. Tell her to come in this afternoon. I want to dig into some Internet sites, and she’s the one to do it. Also, I need her to teach me about electronic encryption and so on.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the case? I guess it is one case now, right?” Billy said.

  “Yeah, I’m afraid so. Unless this Lorraine Dakis is no relation to Louis. The question Charlie Garland and I wrestled with over coffee last night was ‘why?’ Why use this old spycraft, microdots, to transfer information when the Internet is so easy and so available. Sam can help with that. Charlie will call when he gets his people to answer the same question.”

  “We gonna go after spies?” Essie asked.

  “Not if I can help it. That’s the Bureau’s job, or Homeland Security, or some task force. All we’re after is a murderer and a B and E perp. We get them and we’re done. No spies, no international intrigue, no Robert Ludlum. Sorry. I want this business tied up in a neat bundle and all the spooks, spies, and miscellaneous Federal employees the hell out of here.”

  Billy looked disappointed.

  ***

  Charlie Garland studied the papers on his desk. He had a permanent furrow between his eyes, a crease developed from twenty-five years of service in the CIA. He shuffled the papers back into their original order and tapped them into a neat stack. His name was not on the routing slip. It never would be. He was ostensibly assigned to the Public Relations Office and therefore had no need to see its contents. The fact that his office was in the basement, well away from the rest of the PR folks, was noted, but in an organization given to secrets and deception, never mentioned.

  What possessed Tommy Wainwright to go to Rock Creek Park? According to the information in the report he’d been assigned to one of those interagency task forces that were supposed to facilitate communication and cooperation between the several intelligence services. That they rarely worked that way did not alter the practice. Usually, instead of linking Quantico and Langley, they merely created another element in the mix of nonaccountability. It was possible someone in the Hoover Building or out in the wilds of West Virginia knew the answer to the question, but he did not and he needed to. Tommy was one of ours and he went down. The director wanted to know why. Charlie leaned back in his old-fashioned swivel chair and contemplated the water stains on the acoustical tile in the ceiling. One looked like a silhouette of the President, big ears and all.

  Something was not quite kosher here. The task force bit was a cover, he knew. Tommy was after someone inside. He flipped through the papers again. The routing slip. Could that be the missing piece. Who is on it that maybe shouldn’t have been? Who held the papers for an unusually long time? Would the copy center know if duplicates had been made? He checked the time stamps and then sat upright and punched buttons on his phone. He waited and when connected asked the person on the other end of the line for the financials of the Mid-East section, Tony Fugarelli’s bailiwick. The guy was close to retirement and he got a mention in the report. What was he up to? The best way to know a man’s priorities was to look at his balance sheet, his assets to liabilities ratio. The notion that intelligence officers were turned because of political scruples, or moral convictions, was mostly a myth.

  It was about the money. Always.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Two D.C. Metro police stood shuffling their feet in front of the small counter area where customer orders were rung up, inquiries answered, and the day-to-day business of running a high-end boutique were managed. Lorraine Dakis stood frozen in place across from them. She’d received the news but had difficulty taking it in. It couldn’t be true. Franco couldn’t be dead. The police must have made a mistake. He went to New York, got delayed, that’s all. He was never very good at phoning and…No, they had to be mistaken.

  “Where did you say this happened?”

  “Picketsville, Virginia.” It sounded familiar but then she wasn’t thinking straight at the moment. “An officer from the Picketsville,” he consulted his notes, “Sheriff’s office will be contacting you shortly to identify him.”

  “Picketsville? Where exactly is Picketsville?” She ought to know. Virginia wasn’t that big, and she’d attended the College of William and Mary. Picketsville…?

  “Shenandoah Valley, ma’am, near Lexington or Natural Bridge, I believe.”

  She’d been to Natural Bridge, but that was a long time ago. There used to be a big, old-fashioned hotel there, and the huge stone arch that carried Route 11 over it. And George Washington had scratched his initials in its face, near the base…was that right?

  “Someone will contact me?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Sorry for your loss.”

  The cops left, relieved to be finished with the one duty none of them liked. News of death was never easy. To compound that bad news with the possibility of a violent death, accident, murder, or tragedy of any stripe, made it doubly difficult. The bell over the door clanked as they filed out.

  Elaine remained stock-still. Picketsville? Then it hit her, Louis said he was in that place. A school, or college, or something he’d said. She should have paid closer attention. Did Louis—could he have?

  ***

  Louis Dakis’ ears should have been burning. They weren’t. He applied the last coat of Craquelure to one of the two varnished icons of the Virgin. When it dried it would craze. He could have brushed on egg whites to produce the same effect, but the commercial product was quicker and easier. When it dried and cracked, he would swab burnt umber across the surface, wipe away the excess and the paint caught in the crazing woul
d age the icons a century or more. They would not exactly match the original. Those cracks had developed over many years and were deeper and clearly different than these produced artificially. But, either way, to the untrained eye, it would be close enough. He called the rector of the Episcopal Church and told him he would bring his icon around the next day. He was about to call the sheriff with the same news when the phone rang.

  The sheriff’s office was calling him. Nice. Yes, he could come in tomorrow or the next day in the afternoon. He said he’d probably drop the Sheriff’s icon by tomorrow afternoon. Good. Job done.

  He plugged in the hair dryer he kept on his work bench and began to sweep hot air across the icons’ surface, hastening the drying process. Half an hour later he rubbed burnt umber in the new cracks, added a touch of earth red and wiped off the excess. He applied one last coat of varnish to each and put the two icons aside to dry while he made his lunch.

  Louis moved to the back porch to eat. He twisted off the cap of his light beer and lowered himself to the stoop. As he ate his sandwich he wondered about Lorraine and her boyfriend, her boy toy. And he also thought about Annescott Jacobs and what she’d said. It wasn’t fair of her to dump all the blame on him. How else were they ever going to break into the high-end art market unless he worked his butt off? A little gratitude would have been in order. Still, maybe she had a point. Did Lorraine think he didn’t care about her? And a baby…now that wasn’t going to work, surely she must have realized that. But she evidently didn’t. Hormones did that to you, he’d heard. He wondered if Annescott had called Lorraine after all. If she had, what had Lorraine’s reaction been? Two women boo-hooing over martinis, if he guessed right. That wasn’t fair. Well, life isn’t fair. Get used to it. Who should, Lorraine or him? Both. He shook his head to clear it and concentrated on the pastrami and pickle on rye. He wished there was a decent source of feta in town. It would have helped.

  He heard the phone ringing inside, glanced at his watch, and decided to let it go to voice mail. If the call were important the phone would ring again.

  ***

  Lorraine slammed the phone down and looked at her watch. Where was he? Eating lunch in some expensive restaurant, probably, while she had to run the shop with half her inventory gone, and the best half at that. She’d kill him. No, oh my God, no, a figure of speech, that’s all. Did Franco go to Virginia to retrieve some of the icons and maybe the two fought and then Louis shot him? Louis had a gun; several, in fact. Where were they? She stamped her foot in frustration. And on top of everything else, she was late. Finally a chance to…but now, with Franco out of her life, what would it mean? What would she do with that? She suppressed an urge to flop down on the floor and cry. After years of deferring this and that, everything, she’d an opportunity for something and now it was gone. Ashes. Damn men, damn them all.

  She wiped her eyes and looked at the slip of paper the cops had left. The phone number of the Picketsville sheriff’s office was on it. What kind of town has a sheriff? The Shenandoah Valley sat smack in the middle of Virginia, not the Wild West. Sheriff Isaac Schwartz. Isaac Schwartz? A sheriff named Isaac Schwartz. This was getting weirder and weirder.

  She hesitated, picked up the phone, put it down, then picked up again.

  ***

  Charlie Garland paused outside Eastern Vision and checked the address. He had the place. Icons again. That had to be the connection. Ike’s icon? Another? He pushed in and waited for the woman behind the counter to replace her phone. She looked distraught, he thought. But then, she’d probably just found out about her friend’s death.

  “Yes,” she said finally. “I was about to close. Is there something special you want?”

  “Just some information.”

  She blew her nose in an already soggy tissue. “Are you the police? I just now spoke to two policemen. They told me about the murder.”

  “Ah,” Charlie mulled over his options. “I won’t be a minute. I wonder if you can recognize either of these two men?” He withdrew photographs from his pocket.

  “Who are you again?”

  “Sorry, I’m with…” Charlie had rehearsed his approach but he reconsidered. The police had already called. “FBI Special Investigative Branch, Art and Artifacts.” He flashed his CIA ID quickly. She could see the USA and Official but that was about all. He laid the two photos on the counter and looked up at her. “A quick follow-up is all. Do you recognize either of these two men?”

  She looked at the photos. Charlie waited. It would not do to force her into making a quick identification. He needed to be absolutely sure. And even then, it would still be a maybe. She pushed the pictures around with her index finger.

  “Art and Artifact? Does this have anything to do with Franco’s murder?” The last word came as more a sob.

  “There is a report of an icon, very old and worth some money. We’re interested, you see?” She didn’t. “There have been some developments and, ah, we need to figure how they fit together before we can determine what happened to your friend.” Stay vague. Don’t spook her.

  She pushed one of the photos toward him.

  “This one came by a while back, I think, a week or ten days ago. I can’t be a hundred percent sure. He wished to see an icon, as a matter of fact. We had the one he wanted in our inventory but not on the premises. But, well, I didn’t pay that much attention to what he looked like. I could have used the sale. I told him where it was at the time but that I could get it for him in a few days. He said he’d be back, but he never came.”

  “I understand. But as far as you can be certain this man was here, and did ask to see a particular icon, not just some icons, but a particular one.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would it have been this one?” Charlie placed a photo of Ike’s icon on the counter beside the two head shots.

  “Oh, my God, yes. That’s the one. Everybody wants that icon. I don’t have it. My husband, my ex-husband that is, has it. I think Franco may have been looking for it. Is that why he was murdered?”

  Charlie equivocated. He did not want to alarm her or set in motion another sequence of events that would produce more bodies. “I don’t think so, no, but it is remotely possible it might have been, as I indicated, connected.”

  The woman’s eyes glazed over. She apparently had slipped into information overload. Charlie picked up his pictures, excused himself, and left.

  It was a start. Fugarelli.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Sam, what I want to know is why would anyone bother with a microdot when the Internet is available and, if I understand it correctly, one can send encrypted messages that are practically undecipherable?”

  “Can’t answer the first question, but you are right about the possibilities in the second. The levels of encryption are so sophisticated that if you use the technology you can send messages, and they would be nearly locked up tight.”

  “Just nearly?”

  “Well, you remember the old GIGO formula, garbage in, garbage out? Well, technological advances are like that. Whatever one guy can dream up, eventually another will top. So, if some dude in Pakistan puts a message into heavy encryption, there’s no assurance that some equally sharp guy at NSA won’t be able to unravel it but, and this is the important part, the very fact it is in code is a tip-off that it’s probably from someone we’re interested in, the bad guys du jour, so to speak.”

  “But I thought they could route the messages through multiple servers or whatever they’re called and you’d never know what or who sent it or from where.”

  “As I said, what one guy can come up with…Besides, like the encoding, the fact it’s tied up in routing knots is a dead give away. The idea that you may or may never trace it to the source does not mean you can’t go after the message. You follow? Police, fraud investigators, people like that, want to know where it’s from and where it’s going. NSA and the intelligence community want to know what it says. Different priorities.�
��

  Ike scratched his head. The world of satellite communication, electronic surveillance, and even the now ubiquitous Internet hovered outside his willingness to comprehend.

  “Then, and more important,” Sam continued, “you have the sender/receiver compatibility issues. For example, if I send a heavily encoded message to you, you would need the same computing power, software, and so on, to un-encode it. That unbreakable coding you’ve heard so much about requires capabilities so sophisticated that it isn’t practical for a receiver, a terrorist on the move, say, to lug around.”

  “Okay. So, you’re saying that fancy codes are not all that practical for the average miscreant.”

  “More or less, yes. And even if we can’t decipher it, we can always corrupt it.”

  “Say what?”

  “We could intercept the message as it moves through cyberspace and re-code it in our unbreakable system. The baddies still get the message but now they can’t unravel it. Neat, huh?”

  “That still doesn’t tell me why a microdot.”

  “As I said, I can’t help you there, Ike. You’ll need a bigger brain than mine to figure that one out. Maybe, it’s about something that even if it’s an out-of-date technique, is simpler, or easier to manage. Or, maybe it has to do with what’s on it. You know, maybe they used old spycraft because it was old spycraft. Maybe plans or drawings left over from the sixties or something— a dam, a railroad terminal, floor plan of the capitol, who knows? Have you considered the possibility that the thing is left over from another day and has nothing to do with anything we’re looking for, that the thing was happenstance and coincidental to the rest of the business? Do you know what was on the dot?”

  “No clue. Charlie was supposed to call me. Apparently he’s been side-tracked on another matter. I’ll call him tomorrow, if I don’t hear from him sooner. I doubt this is happenstance. The thing was what prompted the break-in.”