6 - The Eye of the Virgin: Ike Schwartz Mystery 6 Page 12

  “If you say so. Okay, you said you wanted me to poke around in some data bases. What were they and will I risk federal prison if I’m caught?”

  “Ah, yes. As to that. You found Sacci in the FBI base. Try to find Zaki this time, but be careful. They’ll be waiting for you. Then, if and when you finish that, hit the site Charlie gave you. By the way, do not be taken in by a phony willingness to accommodate. Unless I miss my guess, it is a back door the Agency keeps open for hackers, snoops, and other intelligence bodies trying to sneak in their backdoor. It’ll be hard enough to get in, but you can bet your boots that all the data in there will be disinformation. You may have to search for another portal. Anyway, if you do find your way in, I want to know about one of their people named Thomas Wainwright. Find out what he was up to, if you can. Charlie hinted he might be in the picture here somehow. If you can get a photo or an image of him, that would be a big help, too.”

  “That’s all? You’re sure you don’t want to know what Internet sites the President is logging on to, also?”

  “I would, but we’ll save that for one of those rainy days when nobody in our jurisdiction feels criminally inclined.”

  “Okay. But it would help if we knew what was on the microdot.”

  “I’ll call. Be careful out there in cyberspace. Lots of weird people lurking there.”

  “I’m not sure I like being referred to as weird, Ike.”

  “I wasn’t talking about you.”

  “Unfortunately, you were. All of us who live in the neighborhood have more in common that you might want to think. NSA geeks, FBI geeks, CIA geeks, evil geeks, and geeks like me. We love it.”

  Sam retreated to her office to plunge into the inky waters of electronic crime.

  The phone rang. Essie wagged the receiver in Ike’s general direction. “It’s for you. It’s Miz Harris. Hey, how you doing there, Miz…um, Doctor Harris. We celebrated your good news here yesterday. We’re pumped. What? Okay, here he is…She says she’s on another line. Ike, so she can’t talk much and she’s tickled pink.”

  Ike picked up. “Yes, ma’am, this is friendly Sheriff Schwartz here to serve. Do you have a problem that requires police presence, and when did you start saying things like tickled pink?”

  “Since I met your loyal, but rural staff, Schwartz. When in Rome speak Latin, or in the case of fair Picketsville, speak redneck. Listen, I have another call on hold and I’m swamped. So we’re off, if you catch my drift. I can’t do anything more with you this week, sorry. However, there’s a cocktail reception for retiring faculty Friday evening. I thought you could come to it, with me, and we could, you know…”

  “Know? Know what?”

  “Sheesh. I thought I’d sort of flash the rock around, answer the inevitable questions, and that would get the ball rolling on the, you know, the…you know.”

  “The word you’re having such a hard time getting your tongue around is engagement. I doubt seriously that anyone on the faculty of yours has not already heard about it in grisly detail.”

  “I find grisly a bit over the top even for you, Bunky. And how would they?”

  “Ingenuousness does not become you, ma’am—Agnes, of course.”

  “Oh, yeah. Agnes would have told at least—”

  “Everyone who came into your office, the cafeteria, her canasta club, you name it.”

  “She doesn’t play canasta.”

  “You’re sure? She strikes me as a canasta person, Extreme Hand and Foot. Quilting bee, then. Has she been to quilt camp lately?”

  “I don’t know, probably; and don’t call me ma’am. Makes me sound like dried-up old spinster schoolmarm.”

  “You are a schoolmarm, if you must know, but definitely not dried-up.”

  “Okay, enough. You come to the do, wear your dark suit, and get a haircut. You look like Cousin Itt with that mop in your eyes.”

  “Suit, haircut, shower, shave, a dab of Hugo Boss, the works. I’ll even get the car washed. What time?”

  “Seven-thirty. It should be over by nine and then we can take off for the A-frame.”

  “I like it. Not the suit and cocktail part, but the get-away to the A-frame.”

  “Okay, and this time try to play nice with the faculty. They have fragile egos and succumb to a bad case of the heebie-jeebies when you insist on destroying their carefully constructed preconceptions.”

  “I’ll be good. I’ll only beat up the bullies and leave the junior faculty alone.”

  “Thank you, I think. Seven-thirty, Friday, haircut, suit, bye.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Ike parked in Lee Henry’s driveway. He’d discovered her in his first year as sheriff. Besides giving the best haircut in the area, she remained a fount of gossip, news, and stories. He depended on her to keep him both groomed and informed. A new, hand-lettered sign hung on the door that led to the part of her house she’d set aside for her salon business.

  “What’s up with ‘Moving to a New Location,’ Lee?”

  “Well, ain’t you the observant one. You like my sign?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on where you’re planning on relocating. If it’s out of the area, I may have to hold you on some charge. Don’t plan on losing you.”

  “What charge would that be? And would it involve a strip search? I might give you a discount for that.”

  “Promises, promises. Where’re you going? We’ll settle on searches later, but a word of warning, new state law says I have to have a person of the same sex do the search, so unless you’re holding out on me, someone else would be doing it.”

  “Shoot, that wouldn’t be no fun. Sit down and let me see what you’ve done to your head since the last time you come in.”

  Ike eased into the chair. The place reeked of wet hair, an odor not quite masked by the combined over-scents of hair spray, shampoo, and something chemical that Ike assumed had to do with perms, or coloring, or both. He knew better than to ask.

  “You still haven’t told me where you’re going. Do I need to worry?”

  “Lord, no. I’m moving up, not out. See with the economy in the dumpster, I figure it’s time to take advantage of cheap real estate, and people needing some help.”

  “Okay. So, what does that have to do with relocating? You buying a new house from a desperate real estate agent?”

  “No, nothing like that. See, there’s a storefront on Main Street that’s empty. It used to be a coffee shop. Before that, it was a craft store, and before that, it was a pretzel and cookie store. You know which one I mean?”

  “Yes. It’s down the street from the office. You moving there?”

  “I’m buying it. There’s an apartment over it where I can live. I’ll sell this house when the market’s right, rent it ’til then. My kids is all grown and gone. I’m single, more or less, and I need to move on, you know?”

  “But a salon? You said it, the economy is flat. How are you going to make it work?”

  “That’s the good part. See, there’s a bunch of women in the area that, like, is needing extra money. They’re hairdressers and all and some of them work, like me, out of their houses, and some ain’t worked for a while but need the extra money now. I’ll fix up the store with maybe five chairs, like this one you’re sitting in, and rent’em to them gals. They don’t have to, you know, work in their house, lay out a bunch of money they ain’t got to start up, and can maybe get some walk-in business on top, and all like that. It’s a win-win.”

  “Well, it’ll make my trips to get a haircut easier.”

  “I ain’t cutting your hair, handsome, I’m styling it. There’s a difference.”

  “I’m a guy, Lee. For men that’s a difference without a distinction.”

  “If you say so. Just don’t let your Honey hear you say that. Say, I hear you and the beautiful lady president has got yourself engaged.”

  “We have.”

  “All the single ladies for miles around just went
into mourning, Ike. You done broke a lot of hearts.”

  Ike exhaled. He daren’t shake his head. Lee’s scissors could be lethal. She rubbed his shoulders and slipped the black plastic sheet on his lap and around his neck. “Hey, your muscles feel like rocks, Ike. You under a bunch of stress?”

  “I’m a cop. Of course I’m stressed.”

  “Listen, I’m going to have me a massage person in the new place. You know, therapeutic, Swedish, and like that. No hanky-panky though, no ‘happy endings.’ You should sign up for one. It’d do you some good.”

  “I’ll think about it. Who’s the masseuse? Do I know her?”

  “What makes you think it’s a her?”

  “I can’t see you working with a man under foot. That’s why.”

  “Well, you got that part right. You know Georgie Tice’s wife?”

  “Marge? She’s the masseuse?”

  “Yep. Her kids is all pretty much grown up, too, and she’s at loose ends. And I’m thinking things ain’t too smooth at Georgie’s bank either, so she got herself certified and licensed.”

  “Marge Tice. Well, well, I may have to take you up on one if only to see Marge again.”

  “You do that.”

  Blake Fisher walked in and took a seat in one of two plastic chairs.

  “Afternoon, Rev. How’re you and your new missus gettin’ on?”

  “Can’t complain, Ms. Henry, yourself?”

  “Just dandy. No prospect of any little Revs any time soon?”

  Blake flushed and reached for a year-old magazine.

  “Okay, so did you-all hear about the old guy who goes to the doctor and is told he’s got twenty-four hours to live?”

  “Nope. Is this a true story?”

  “‘Course it is. Only kind I tell. Only I have to clean it up a bit for the Rev.”

  “No need,” Blake said.

  “Yeah, well, I ain’t used to talking a certain way in front of preachers. So that’s it. Okay, so this old guy, his name is Irving, goes to the doctor and the doctor says, ‘Irving, you got twenty-four hours to live.’ So, Irving comes home from the doctor and tells his wife what the doctor has told him, that he has only twenty-four hours to live. On account of this, he asks his wife for, you know…”

  “Sex? I’m not going to be embarrassed by this, am I?”

  “Shoot, that’ll be the day. Cover your ears, Rev.” Blake only grinned. “Yes, sex. So, naturally, she agrees and they make love. About six hours later, he goes to his wife and says, ‘Honey, you know I have only eighteen hours to live now. Could we please do it one more time?’ Well, she says, ‘okay,’ and they do it again. Then later on, when they go to bed, he looks at his watch and realizes that he now has only eight hours left. He touches his wife’s shoulder and asks, ‘Honey, please…one more time before I die.’ She says, ‘Of course, dear,’ and they make love for the third time. After this, see, the wife falls asleep.

  “But old Irving is thinking about how his time on earth is running out on him and he tosses and turns, until he’s down to, like, four hours. Then he wakes up the wife. ‘Honey, I have only four more hours. Do you think we could…?’ So, the wife sits up and says, ‘Listen Irving, I have to get up in the morning, you don’t.’”

  Ike and Blake laughed with Lee, who clearly enjoyed the story more than they did.

  “Speaking of dead guys, what do you hear about the one we got from the urgent care center?”

  “I cut the hair of Jessica Phelps. You could say she is up-tight about what she and her husband saw that night. Says she’s afraid the killers will come and get her. She’s thinking of asking to be put in the witness protection program.”

  “That’s idiotic. She watches too much television. As near as we can determine, she couldn’t identify them if they lived next door to her.”

  “Yeah. Well, here’s a tip. You might want to pull her in again. She didn’t tell you everything.”

  “You think?”

  “I know. She told me that she and her husband might have got part of a license number.”

  “Thanks. Anything else?”

  “Nope, sorry.”

  Blake looked up from his magazine. “Well, if you believe anything Buster Hawkins says—”

  Lee interrupted “Which I don’t. He’s about the biggest liar in the county, except for my ex, of course.”

  “Yes. Well, he told Mrs. Craddock, that’d be the younger one that lives out on the highway, that he was sitting on the stoop of his house smoking. His wife doesn’t let him light up in the house apparently, and he said he heard a shot in the motel next door to him.”

  Ike sat up. “That would be the Dogwood Motel?”

  “That’s the one. And he had the day right, too, but you know how he likes attention.”

  “Maybe. But it’s worth a look. Thanks. So, when do you move, Lee?”

  “Maybe next week, week after that. Depends on how quick I can get all the stuff together and the remodeling finished.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The Dogwood Motel sat back from the road surrounded, not surprisingly, by dogwoods. Constructed in the late sixties, it had been built adjacent to the then newly constructed Picketsville by-pass, a road which rerouted the traffic on Route 11 away from the downtown area. At the time, the project met with stiff resistance from the town’s chamber of commerce but was supported by the police, the college, and the local school district. In the years that followed, I-81, built a mile east of Picketsville, took most of the through traffic away from the by-pass and the motel fell into general decline. It had begun its life as part of the Holiday Inn chain. It then shifted from one franchise to another as it aged and decayed. Finally a local businessman bought it, remodeled it, and turned it over to his wife to run. He called it her hobby job, something to keep “the little woman” busy and out of his affairs. Unfortunately, at least one of his “affairs” became public and the subsequent divorce settlement specified she receive the house, the motel, and enough cash in lieu of alimony to secure her future for the rest of her life. She moved to Hilton Head and left the motel in the uncertain hands of her prematurely pregnant daughter and reluctant son-in-law.

  Dogwoods are known for their lovely blooms in the spring, but not for seeds. The Dogwood Motel, never-the-less, had become a very seedy establishment. A cow bell had been attached to the office door frame and it clanked a welcome of sorts as Ike stepped in. The aforementioned son-in-law, Harvey Bristol, slouched behind a cluttered counter which held a registration pad, a stack of men’s magazines, two empty beer bottles, and an overflowing, but still smoldering, ashtray.

  “Afternoon, Harvey.”

  “Sheriff?” Harvey seemed disconcerted by the sudden presence of the police. “Trouble?”

  “No, Harvey, only a question or two if you don’t mind. I’m interested in some guests you may have had this past weekend, Friday and maybe Saturday.”

  “Well,” Harvey shuffled papers around on his counter. His eyes never quite met Ike’s gaze. “Anybody in particular?”

  Ike slid a picture of Sacci across the counter’s gritty surface. “Him for one.” Harvey tugged at his collar and swallowed. “The reason I ask, is one of your neighbors reported hearing a possible gun shot on Friday night coming from this motel.”

  “That would be Buster Hawkins, I expect. Buster hears all kinds of things. And he talks too much.”

  “The picture, Harvey. Do you recognize the man?”

  Harvey held the picture to eye level and squinted. “Could be. I think his name was Italian or something; foreign, anyway. I need to check my cards.” He lifted a battered box to the counter top and pulled out a stack of creased registration slips. He sorted through them and replaced all but two. “Friday was slow. We only rented two rooms and, looka here, this one says Sacci, Franco Sacci, like I said, Italian.”

  “Who else stopped that night?”

  “Okay, now I remember. Like, it was slow. I told you that
already, right? Okay, so two cars pulled in. Three guys in one, one guy alone, but they was together, you know?”

  “They were traveling together?”

  “Like as. And they took two rooms. See, here’s the other room. The guy who signed for it was somebody named Avriam Kolb. What kind of a name is that?” Anyway, the rooms both had twin beds so two guys went into each, right?”

  “Did you hear a shot?”

  Harvey’s line of sight shifted into the distance. He wiped his nose with a dirty handkerchief. “Hear all kinds of things around here. Don’t usually pay them no mind. Ain’t none of my business what people do.”

  “It is if what they do can cause trouble with the law. Can I see the rooms these four men used?” Harvey hesitated and looked uncomfortable. “I could get a warrant, but I’d rather not disturb the judge. You know how testy he can be. He doesn’t need to hear about another problem at your motel, does he, Harvey?”

  “Um, no I guess not. I gotta warn you, though, things been pretty slow, like I said, and I had to back down on the cleaners and all.”

  “What you’re saying is, the rooms haven’t been cleaned since Saturday?”

  “Things have been—”

  “Slow. So you’ve said— repeatedly. Take me to the rooms.”

  Harvey ushered Ike along the cracked sidewalk to rooms at the far end of the line. Ike noticed the chipped and weathered paint on the stucco’s surface, the weeds pushing up through the fissures in the concrete sidewalk, and the odors, mildew mixed with garbage and petroleum rising from the numerous oil stains on the parking lot’s gravel surface. Harvey unlocked the two adjoining rooms and started to shuffle away.

  “Not so fast, Harvey, I’m not done with you.”

  “Look, you can see the rooms. Okay, I ain’t cleaned them. I told you business was slow and I had to lay off some of the cleaners.”

  Slow didn’t come close to describing Harvey’s business. Dead would be better. The rooms were stuffy and reeked of dead air and the aforementioned mildew.

  “Which room is this one?”

  Harvey consulted his cards. “This is the one with the Kolb guy and one other man.”