7 - Rogue: Ike Schwartz Mystery 7 Read online

  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.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Scott Fiske left the interview with the deputy sheriff determined to find Sheila. She’d been AWOL for two days. What was she up to? Why did the police want to know about the damned phone? He drove to her apartment and rang the bell. No answer. He pounded on the door. Did the curtain flutter? If she was home, why not answer? Really, for an aide she was acting strangely. Why would she do that? He tried to peer through the window but the curtains were too tightly drawn. He tried the bell and knocked again. Still no luck. He fumbled in his pocket looking for his notebook. His heart sank. He must have left it on his desk in his rush to leave. Would that cop stop to look at it? Well, so what if he did? There wasn’t anything in there that could hurt him. Just those numbers and…just those numbers.

  He found a used envelope in his jacket pocket. He slit its two sealed edges and pressed the inside flat to make a rectangular sheet. He thought a moment and wrote a note detailing his visit with the police, their questions about the phone, and suggested he had some important questions to ask her. He decided to leave that part vague and slightly threatening. That should get a response. Shivering—he’d left his overcoat in the office as well—he tried to slide the note under her door. It crumpled up and would not push through. He guessed the weatherstripping kept it from sliding under. There was a mailbox attached to the wall next to the door lintel. He dropped it in and hoped the box was in fact in use and not merely decorative. So many apartment buildings had installed community mailboxes at various locations in the complex. He guessed the Postal Service must be trying to save money.

  ***

  “Hey, Escobar, you know that truck you reported parked in the pull off?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “There was an APB put out on it. The guy who owns it is wanted by the police. There’s a warrant out for his arrest, too.”

  “No kidding. That for real?”

  “Yeah. Some cop’s here and wants to talk to you about it. Wants you to tell how it was or something.”

  “Sure, I talk to the guy. Where he at?”

  Frank had cooled down a bit after his meeting with Fiske. Ike wasn’t answering either of his phones—probably at the hospital. He could have had him paged, but he’d wait. He’d just hung up when he received the call from the State Police who relayed the information about Smith’s pickup being found. He figured if he couldn’t work Ike’s case, he’d work his own.

  “Right here. I understand you’re the guy who found the pickup we’ve been looking for.”

  “Yeah, that would be me, I guess. What’d the guy do? Maybe he kill somebody or what?”

  “Shot a dog.”

  “That’s it? He shoot a dog. What kind of crime is that? He kill a dog. Was an expensive dog or something?”

  “Somebody else’s dog. They were very annoyed. Animal cruelty is a crime in this state, especially dog cruelty, you know.”

  “I hear that, yes, but, so, okay he kill the dog. That’s all he do?”

  “No, there was a little problem of theft and possible accessory to murder. He was a very bad boy. Now, you want to tell me what you found and what you did. I sent a forensics team out there but I want to know everything about how you found the truck. Did you touch anything, for instance? If so, I’ll need your fingerprints.”

  “Why you need my prints? I don’t do nothing. I find the truck, I report it to my boss. He calls the policía, yes? That’s a good thing, no?”

  “Yes it is. But I need your prints on file to eliminate them from any others I might find on the vehicle. So did you touch the truck?”

  “Okay, I touch it a little. You don’t want my fingerprints please. I only do it a little.”

  Frank studied the little man. He was more than upset. He looked like he might bolt out the door at any moment.

  “Jorge, that’s your name, right? Jorge, I’m thinking you might have a problem with ICE, is that right? Whoa, don’t run. Immigration’s none of my business. That’s between them and you. I have a different interest here. Okay, so here’s how we can work it. You tell me exactly what you touched. Exactly, you got it? And everything you touched. If you do, I probably can work around without taking yours, okay?”

  “Okay. Give me a minute.”

  Jorge screwed up his face in concentration, clenched his fists, and began muttering in Spanish under his breath. One by one he extended fingers from a closed fist. He stopped at seven, then closed them again.

  “Okay. First, I check the door to see if the truck is locked. Is not. Then I walk to the back and look at the bed. No, wait, I have it backwards. First, I look in the bed. I touch the side near the driver side back wheel, you know?” He waved his hands in the air. “So, then I check the door on the same side and look in. So prints on the handle. The window is open and I poke in the mess he make with a stick to see if this truck is there when it rains. Dry floor, so no. Let’s see…then I go to the back. Maybe I steady myself on the side again. I write down his number plate. I go back to the cab and open the door again. I reach over and push the lock knobs down on both doors, roll up window, and I slam the door. Palm of the hand for that one for sure.”

  All seven fingers were once more freed from the palms of his hands.

  “That’s it? You’re sure?”

  Jorge nodded, counted out on his fingers once again, and smiled. “Sure.”

  “Okay. You need to make yourself available in case we need you. No skipping, you hear, or I will make a call to ICE. Got it?”

  “Yes. Got it, gracias.”

  Frank drove to the park and found the pickup. The forensics team had already arrived and had the truck’s doors open.

  “There’s a palm print on this side of that door. Pull it. It’s of the guy who reported the thing. You can use it to eliminate any other place he touched. What have you got?”

  “Nada, Deputy, just redneck mess in here and back in the bed. Paper cups, McDonald’s wrappers, crushed beer cans, the usual crap.”

  “What’s that on the hood?”

  “Oh, yeah. Your guy left a little notebook under the seat. Looks like a record of sales, and the dates they were made. And, there are initials next to each entry. Maybe you can figure out who bought whatever he was selling. There’s a few newspaper clippings stuck inside, too.”

  “Hay. He was stealing hay and reselling it. There’s a market in hot hay. You believe that?”

  “You’re not kidding? He was stealing hay?”

  “Yep. Bag the book. When you’ve finished dusting it for prints, make a copy of everything and then send it over to me.”

  “You got it.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  The next morning, Ike officially returned to his office. The mayor remained in absentia and business returned to near normal. There had been no further calls made on the cell phone they decided belonged to Fiske. Ike sat in his chronically squeaking chair and contemplated the pile of papers on his desk. His father called to remind him he had a rally to attend that afternoon. Essie brought him a cup of coffee and sat down across the desk.

  “So, when are we going to bust Jack Burns?”

  “We’re not, Essie. He had nothing to do with Ruth’s crack-up. He isn’t our guy.”

  “I don’t mean for what happened to Ms. Harris, I mean for his involvement in the hay thing.”

  “You think he had something to do with his nephew’s midnight business? Why?”

  “Ain’t it obvious? Look, he’s got no job anymore, right? He just moved over here from Buena Vista
, but he hasn’t sold his house over there, and he’s spending money to get elected. So where’s the money coming from?”

  “I really hadn’t thought about that. It’s a possibility, very good, Essie. Let me think a minute. On the other hand, if we look into the mayor’s campaign kitty, we could possibly find some large withdrawals. You want to do that?”

  “Frank has me and Billy calling around. I guess he doesn’t want us in the field. I’m sorry about the dust up in the bar over there. Billy gets a little loud sometimes. But if it don’t bring down that stuck up Burns, I guess it ain’t worth my time.”

  “It could. It depends whether he declared the source in his own accounting. If he didn’t, or doesn’t, he could be cited.”

  “You think?”

  “Maybe, but this is personal isn’t it, Essie? You don’t just want him because he’s running for sheriff or anything recent. What happened between you two? ”

  “Not to me, to my dad.”

  “Essie, let it go. It’s not worth the effort. Your dad is dead and no one can make that right.”

  “I got a baby, Ike, and I don’t want him to have to listen to all the sh…stuff I had to hear growing up. ‘Your daddy’s a convict, nyah, nyah a nyah, nyah.’ You got no idea how that is.”

  “No, I don’t. But short of a posthumous pardon from the governor, you can’t change that either. Not even if we bring Burns down. And, Essie…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Before you do anything funny, go back and read your dad’s case file.”

  “You’ve read it?”

  “Yes, when I first took the job as sheriff, I checked everybody out. Under the circumstances, I had to, you may recall.”