3 - Buffalo Mountain: Ike Schwartz Mystery 3 Read online

  Hollis handed the money back and Donnie gave him the card. “When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “So, you start getting rich tomorrow.”

  ***

  Ike rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He’d spent an hour staring at the computer screen trying to understand what Sam had turned up. They’d guessed they were watching someone track credit or cash card transactions. He couldn’t imagine what that might have to do with Kamarov. Sam had copied the whole operation on a disc and returned to her probing. She called it “flying a stealth bomber.” There did not seem to be anything more for him to do and that made him frustrated.

  He went back to his office and dialed Ruth. He drummed a pencil on the desktop while Ruth’s disapproving secretary made a point of putting him on hold. Tappity-tap-tap. He didn’t expect a simple hello and he didn’t get one.

  “What’s up, Sheriff? Nothing important to do so you call your sweetie?”

  “My sweetie? Who is this? Agnes must have connected me to the sophomore dorm.”

  “How’s this, then? Whatcha want?”

  “Better. Lunch with my sweetie, and a little…I think the expression is, face time.”

  “In the cafeteria and public eye and I can’t give you more than half an hour.”

  Ike drove through town and up the hill that led to Callend College. The driveway into the campus had been plowed and cindered. Apparently Callend College had a better street maintenance capacity than Picketsville. He parked in a No Parking area, locked his duty belt and gun in the trunk, and climbed the four steps to the broad porch that ran the length of the building. Winter had reduced the college’s signature wisteria to a leafless snarl of ancient branches clinging to sagging trellises set in the porch eaves.

  The cafeteria was located in the basement of Lowell Callend Hall—Lo Cal to the students. He entered and was assailed by a cacophony of female voices, clinking plates, and a gust of unexpected heat. Ruth waved to him as he entered and pointed to a tray in front of an empty chair. Unless he’d gone through the line with someone with a Callend College ID, he would not have been able to buy anything. Apparently Ruth did not want to wait and had chosen lunch for him.

  “What’s this?” he asked and inspected something that looked vaguely like an egg salad sandwich on white bread. It had two toothpicks with frilly ends sticking through a pickle slice in the middle of each half. Someone had thoughtfully removed the crusts, thereby rendering the bread visually as well as nutritionally neutral. Next to it was a squarish lump, the dark brown color of which suggested it might be chocolate, and a shallow cup filled with canned corn.

  “Out of respect for you and the approaching season of Chanukah, I chose the closest things I could find that were kosher.”

  “Very thoughtful. The next time I buy for you I will remember that. How do Connecticut’s aristocrat wannabes eat at Christmastime, anyway?”

  “Out.”

  “What this place needs is a New York deli—real kosher dills, rye bread, hot pastrami, and no mayonnaise on anything.”

  “Sit and eat. You’re wasting time.”

  “You behind in your payments again, or is the faculty still up in arms over the residents of the old storage building?”

  “That’s the irony. As you predicted, the residents, as you so delicately put it, have solved my financial problems, but at a cost. The faculty union is meeting this afternoon to call for a vote of no confidence.”

  “And that vote carries weight?”

  “No, it’s just a positioning thing. Let people know how upset they are at me. It’s your fault, Ike.”

  “Exactly how many of your highbrows actually take this deal seriously…I mean, what’s the extent of the damage, really?”

  “Less than a dozen.”

  “So your worry is…?”

  “I have to take it seriously.”

  “You have to pretend to take it seriously. But I know you, Madam President—you’re not even a little bit worried.”

  “Don’t talk so loudly, someone might hear. And what are you up to?”

  “I have a problem.”

  “Serious?”

  “Very.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I can’t. Well, I don’t know. Can you keep this under your hat?”

  “Never wear hats, but the soul of discretion, that’s me.”

  “Do you remember what I told you about my wife Eloise’s death? There was a Russian agent who got involved after I bolted the Agency. Apparently he figured out what happened, but not all of it. He came looking for me to tell what he knew. He never found me. He disappeared and we supposed the powers that be in Moscow had him put down.”

  Ruth raised her eyebrows and spooned some soup. Ike had told her the story before. Now he filled her in on what Sam was up to and what he hoped Whaite would find, and most importantly, what the Agency believed. Ruth made him repeat the part about black programs.

  “You don’t suppose the black paint they’re splashing on the walls in my storage building is because it’s a black program?” She was joking but when she realized Ike wasn’t smiling, she leaned forward and studied him. “It is, isn’t it?”

  “Not because of the paint, but it could be. I don’t know.”

  “Woof. Maybe I should vote for no confidence myself.”

  “Nuts. Help me think this through. Wheel out your Ph.D. brains and give me a different take, one that won’t keep me up all night.”

  “Well, two thoughts occur right away, maybe three. One is, perhaps this killing had nothing to do with anything at all. Somebody just mugged him and dumped him and he happened to fall on your turf.”

  “Would you like to calculate the probabilities of that happening? What are the odds?”

  “Not very good, but still a possibility. Okay, my second thought is, I don’t think you’ve considered all the other possibilities.”

  “Like what?”

  “It’s not Kamarov, just a look-alike.”

  “Been there, done that, have to pass. It was Alexei.”

  “Okay, here’s the third, but you are not going to like it.”

  “Try me.”

  “Are you sure all the bad guys that set you up in Zurich were rooted out? Like, how do you know the guy, what’s his name—the sleeper you said your friend, Charlie, took care of was really, um, taken care of? You didn’t see him do it, did you? So maybe this guy was trying to tell you that and they got to him first.”

  Ike’s jaw snapped shut. Had he? He’d spent years blotting out the memories, even the end game. He remembered hearing elevator doors open. Did he see them open? Yes, but only the tops, but what then? He couldn’t be sure, and there was no way to find out. Maybe Sam could. He’d ask.

  “I don’t know. Thanks a lot. Now I won’t sleep at all.”

  “You asked for the Ph.D. brains—you got them. And I can help out in the sleep department.”

  “No, you can’t. If what you’ve just supposed is true—as a hypothetical, mind you—then I am not the only target. You know the whole story, and Charlie knows you know.”

  Ruth turned pale and pushed her soup away. “I had to hook up with an ex-spook with a history and now I’m a target.”

  “Could be worse.”

  “How?”

  “I could be short, ugly, and dull.”

  “Schwartz, I want you in my house with your gun and whatever else you need tonight and every night until we eliminate the possibility.”

  “Well, as the soap salesman once told me, in every adversity lay the seeds of an equal and opposite benefit.”

  “Yeah, consider it a perk.”

  “You didn’t come up with that scenario just to lure me into your boudoir?”

  “Take a hike, Schwartz, and call me when you’re on your way over tonight so I’ll know it’s you at the door. And don’t forget your cop belt.”

  “Duty belt.”

  “Whatever.”

  Chapter 15

 
Whaite eased the Chevelle to a stop. It had taken him several days to track down Steve Bolt. Nobody would admit knowing him. The community around the mountain may have been civilized in the early 1940s, but the part of the culture that remained suspicious of outsiders endured. Whaite knew people from the area, but closer in on the mountain—it had been a while since he moved among them, and they hesitated.

  Bolt owned a cabin set back a hundred yards or so off a gravel road. Whaite sat in the car, its motor and heater running while he studied the still snow-covered driveway glistening in the sun. He focused binoculars on the cabin’s roof. No smoke arose from the chimney. He left the car’s warmth and picked his way across the icy road to its junction with the driveway. A single set of tire tracks either coming in or going out marked its length. He held the binoculars to his eyes again and studied the entire area. No garage but a carport of sorts. A rusted De Soto, up on blocks, rested under its sagging tin roof. The tire tracks began eight or ten yards from the house. He focused in on the steps. One set of footprints. He adjusted the focus and looked again. He couldn’t be absolutely sure, but the footprints seemed to be heading away from the house. He swung his vision to the beginning of the tire tracks. There were small piles of snow on either side. It appeared Bolt had walked around the vehicle at least once.

  Whaite shivered and returned to his car. Bolt had come out of his house, brushed the snow off his vehicle, and driven away. No smoke meant he’d been gone for a while. Whaite knew he could not stake out the house in a bright red street rod, so he did a careful three-point turn and headed down the road to a filling station at the bottom of the hill where he would be less noticeable.

  He pulled the car around the leeward side of the building. From there he could see the road leading to Bolt’s cabin, but not be seen. He cut the engine and stepped out into the cold. The wind had picked up. A general merchandise store was attached to the gas station. He jogged to the building and an old-fashioned bell over the door tinkled as he let himself in. Coffee and something to eat. He didn’t hold out much hope for the food but he knew these country stores generally brewed a decent pot of coffee. He bought a hot dog. The coffee was only passable. The clerk behind the counter looked familiar.

  “Say, aren’t you Wick Goad?”

  The clerk looked up and smiled. “That’s me. Who might you be? Hold on, I got you. It’s old ‘Wait-a-minute Whaite.’ You had that hesitation step—wait a minute—when you played football. Where you been?”

  “Well, I’m deputying up in Picketsville.”

  “Well, I’ll be. You’re a police. Who’d a thought? Why I remember one time you and Randy Swank took that car and—”

  “We can let that’un go if it’s all the same to you, Wick.”

  “Well, I reckon. You here on official business? You’re a little out of your jurisdiction, ain’t you?”

  “Just poking around. We got us a dead fella up to Picketsville with a Floyd County address and I figured the place to start is down here.”

  “Don’t know of anybody gone missing.”

  “Listen, I can’t stay in here too long. Does this road connect with any other? Can someone get in to, say, Bolt’s place from up the mountain?”

  “Maybe in the good weather but not today. There’s a dinky little road that runs over the mountain but it ain’t much more than a foot path. You after Steve?”

  “Just to ask some questions. He knows somebody we’re interested in for the shooting and I want to hear what he has to say.”

  “Well, Steve came through here two days ago. He said he had to go north for a while. I ain’t seen him since. But look here. You can sit in the window and see him coming. He’s going to stop here anyway. His house’ll be colder than a tax man’s heart and he’ll stop by for kerosene and grub. He’s been fixing up that old place but there’s a wait to get a propane tank so he’s still using one of them old space heaters. Lots of folks back up the mountain do.”

  “What’s he driving?”

  “Old VW Beetle. I reckon he’s swapped the engine out of that buggy four, five times by now.”

  Whaite drank his coffee and several more cups. He waited until dark and gave up. Bolt might come back in the dark, but he doubted it.

  Something was wrong.

  Chapter 16

  As a rule, breakfast was the only meal Ike ate at the Crossroads Diner. He believed it nearly impossible for anyone to ruin breakfast. A succession of Flora Blevins’ short-order cooks-of-the-week proved the exception. Yet, he kept going back, hoping each new spatula wielder would turn out better than the last. The latest teetered precariously on a stepladder that qualified as an OSHA “what not to do.” Swaying dangerously on the top rung, he attempted to hang an antique string of large-bulb Christmas lights across the top of the mirror behind the counter.

  Ike, resigned to bad weather and closed businesses, had to eat dinner in the diner. He regretted it almost immediately. The plate of fried chicken, mashed potatoes swimming in beige canned gravy, and a side of suspiciously green coleslaw curled up in his stomach like an overweight cat. He longed for a real restaurant within striking distance of town. The new French restaurant, Chez François, hadn’t really mastered anything more complicated in French cuisine than baguette rolls and boeuf rôti, which to Ike’s mind was lunch. Even so, had it been open, he might have given it a dinner try. Now, he wished he’d saved the dreary sandwich he’d been offered at the cafeteria. He wished he knew how to cook. He speed dialed Ruth’s number, watched the ladder begin to splay at its base, and wondered if this cook would end his employment with a workman’s compensation suit.

  “Change of plan,” he said.

  “What plan?”

  “Me protecting you from the bad guys all night.”

  “Oh…about that…”

  “Change your mind?” Ike winced as the ladder collapsed and the cook sprawled, unhurt, on the floor.

  “How will it look if your car sits outside my house all night, every night for who knows how long?”

  “Exactly. That’s the change.”

  “Same problem, if you’re suggesting I come to your place, which, by the way, I have never seen…why is that?”

  “I’m afraid you won’t approve of my collection of kama sutra wall posters. No, the plan now is my folks’ place. No hint of scandal. Abe and my mother will be there and everything will be very proper.”

  “But what will my people say?”

  “Tell them the truth, sort of. You received some threats and the sheriff has asked you to stay out of sight temporarily.”

  “What happened to your equal and opposite benefit?”

  “Bad seeds—never sprouted, although—”

  “Although what? You’d better tell me now, Schwartz. If you sneak into my room at three a.m. to surprise me, you might get a knitting needle between the ribs.”

  “I didn’t know you knit.”

  “I do now—big number ten needles. Those are the big ones, aren’t they? Never mind, you know what I mean.”

  “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

  “Do you really have kama sutra wall posters?”

  “Would you like me to?”

  “Some other day. You know this move isn’t going to fool anybody.”

  “It’s not supposed to fool anyone, it’s intended to put a face of propriety on the whole business and, if you are right, the bad guys will know what’s up and know that we know, and will have to revise their plans as well.”

  “Why don’t I feel reassured?”

  Ike disconnected and started toward the door. Flora Blevins, the diner’s ancient proprietor, skewered him with a look that would sober up a drunk. Eyes narrowed and chin set, she railed into him about the citified people who came into her establishment, didn’t order anything, but said they thought the diner ought to be torn down or moved.

  “They think the diner is ugly.”

  “They have no taste, Flora.”

  “They want to build a Holiday Inn in its place.”r />
  “Hardly a move upward.”

  “You tell them for me, Ike, if they come around here fixing to touch the Crossroads, I’ll get out my old scattergun and show them what I think of a motel here or anywhere else.”

  “I’ll tell them.”

  ***

  Sam was still at her desk, eyes glued to the screen, and watching as another set of numbers in columns flickered downward. Ike started to tell her to go home and try again tomorrow, but she held up her hand and then motioned for him to come and see. He watched for a moment. The numbers looked like the ones he’d seen before.

  “They at it again?”

  “It’s a different group looking for the same thing. That’s two separate probes after the same information.”

  “You’re sure this has something to do with our guy.” Not a question, Ike already knew what she would say. Sam was good.

  “While you were out, I backtracked the first group and I got something.”

  “What?”

  “Does the word or term ‘cutthroat’ mean anything to you?”

  “Not since I gave up reading pirate books in the fourth grade.”

  “I’m serious, Ike. I caught just a piece of the address before it blanked out. They had a sensor looking for hackers. Anyway, cutthroat is what I got. It doesn’t ring any bells?”

  “Sorry, no. The problem with a name like that is, it could be anything or anybody. It could be another hacker like you, who uses it as a—whatever you call them—moniker, nom.”

  “It could be. I ran it through a little program I have that stores names as I run across them and it isn’t in there. Of course, that doesn’t mean—”

  “Sam, enough already.” Ike was beginning to sound like his father, a sure sign he was tired. “We’ve all had a long day. Shut this down and tackle it in the morning. If you want to work on it, give it some thought time. Find out what your instinct is trying to tell you.”

  “I don’t do instinct, Ike.”

  “Time to start. Good night. I’m on my cell phone tonight if anything comes up.”

  The door whooshed shut as she left and an inch of cold air spread across the floor to cover Ike’s feet. He checked his watch. He still had a half hour before Ruth would expect him. He retreated to his office to think through the past week. He was no closer to finding out how Kamarov ended up in the woods than when he’d started. All he knew for certain, he wasn’t the only one looking. That did not make him feel better. And Ruth’s suggestion that Charlie, or more likely Charlie’s superiors, might be involved worried him more than he’d guessed it would—scared him, in fact. He and Charlie had a history. He didn’t relish even the possibility that Charlie might…He shook his head. He needed some answers—now. And why hadn’t he heard from him, anyway? Unless…The phone rang.