3 - Buffalo Mountain: Ike Schwartz Mystery 3 (15 page)

Chapter 29

Best ever
. Sam grinned at this minuscule ray of sunshine in an otherwise dreary week—Scot Sledge—best ever! She pulled out of the parking lot and headed to the intersection of Main Street and the Covington Road and turned east toward the interstate. It felt good to be out in the fresh air with something different, something important, to do. With any luck, by the time she finished they’d have a real lead. Traffic was light and she rolled down her window and let in some air. She noticed the decorations on the street and realized she had not even started thinking about Christmas. The thought plunged her back into gloom. She and Karl had had plans for Christmas, but now…She stepped on the gas, to hell with Karl. She’d find plenty to do. She’d fly home and see her parents. No, they’d want to know about her boyfriends, and the last time she’d visited, they wanted to know when she planned to return to her old job at the college. Police work was no occupation for a lady, they said. She’d replied that being a lady wasn’t her ambition.

As she turned over holiday possibilities, realizing that in her circumstances, she had few, if any, choices, she passed a gray Crown Vic going the other way. No doubt about it, government issue. She glanced sideways as it swished by and for a moment she could have sworn she saw Karl, not driving, but in the passenger seat away from her. At the relative speed the two cars created, her view into the other car lasted less than a tenth of a second. She shook her head and focused on the road.

“No way.”

For the next hour she drove south. The first three ATMs she checked out did not have surveillance equipment. She figured out that unless they were attached to a building with access from the rear, ATMs would not be so equipped. At least that was her surmise after the fourth unsuccessful stop. She drove to the first bank on her list and pulled in. The ATM faced the street under a shallow awning. She watched as three people transacted their business. When she looked back at the bank’s front door she saw a man watching her and writing something on a pad. He ducked back into the relative shadows when he realized she’d spotted him. She slid out of the car, tucked in her blouse, and went into the bank.

Once inside, she walked to the desks at the rear. She noticed the man with the pad now had his cell phone out and poised, ready to make a call. She turned and faced him.

“Police,” she said and pointed to her badge.

“I saw you watching the ATM and I thought you might be a mugger.”

“The uniform didn’t tell you anything?”

“Well, it could be a fake or…” He put his phone away and took a place in one of the teller lines.

“Can I help you?” Sam turned but didn’t see anyone. A young man about her age stood in front of her staring at her chest. It wasn’t his fault, he must have been at least a foot and a half shorter than she, and that was the only view available to him. She slouched down a little to reduce the distance and the view.

“I’m hoping you can help me. You have a surveillance camera mounted on your ATM. How long do you save the tapes?”

“That would be a question for Mr. Harmon.”

The young man retreated into the maze of desks to a small office and spoke to someone inside. Sam squinted but could not read the nameplate on the door. She’d need to get her prescription checked. A bulky man in a rumpled checked suit and a bad comb-over emerged from the office. When he caught sight of Sam he whistled.

“Well now, if you aren’t a tall drink of water. Franklin, here, says you want some information about our security tapes. Can I ask why?”

“Yes, sir. We are tracking a set of stolen credit cards and a bank card. One of them was used here last Wednesday or Thursday. We’d like to see who that was.”

“Last week? You’re in luck. We have those tapes in the back room. Sorry I can’t help you look, but we do have a tape deck and a monitor if you’d like to have a go.”

“Would it be possible to print out a still from them?”

“Off the TV? Gee, I don’t know how you’d do that.”

“I have a laptop, cables, and a program that will let me do that. I’d need to borrow a printer.”

“No fooling? Well, help yourself, Missy. There’s an empty desk next to the tape deal.”

Sam let the
Missy
remark go where she deposited the
tall drink of water
, but she wished, for a split second, she were not a police officer so she could lay this jerk out. She spent the next hour scanning the tape and downloading images onto her hard drive. She passed on the printer when she saw its condition. She could print out any of the pictures she had when she returned to the office. When she finished she thanked Harmon and drove to the next location and repeated the process. By three in the afternoon, she’d seen enough. She had pictures, but Ike wasn’t going to be happy. There were two people using the cards.

***

Ike sat on the floor of his office, oil can in hand. He swiveled his chair, heard the squeal, and applied more oil on what he believed to be its source. He managed to reduce the volume but not eliminate it.

“Ike, where you at?” He saw what he assumed to be Essie’s feet at his door.

“On the floor behind the desk.”

“You okay?”

“Fine, fine. I’m just trying to quiet this chair down.”

“Ike, I do believe that chair was left here by General Jubal Early when he rode through town with his cavalry. Why don’t you spring for a new one?”

“I like this chair. I just don’t like the squeaks and squawks.”

“Ms. Harris is on the phone for you.”

Ike heard the mild disdain in Essie’s voice. He wondered how long it would be before his staff and friends got over their town-gown problems and accepted Ruth. He stood up, spun his chair around, flinched at the squeal it produced, and sat. He pulled out the middle desk drawer, rested his feet on its edge, and picked up.

“Ike, have you been setting Agnes up?”

“Come again? I assume we are speaking of the Agnes who sits outside your office.”

“Who else?”

“I could make you a list, but go on. Why do you think I’ve set her up? And for what?”

“She spent an hour and a half in an interview with some federal types who wanted to know about her relationship with Brent Wilcox. I didn’t even know she had a relationship with him—or anyone else, for that matter.”

“Word around town is the smooth Mr. Wilcox has been squiring her about. I meant to call you about that.”

“Why would you call me about Agnes’ love life—if that’s what it is, although I can’t see—?”

“He’s a bad apple, Ruth. I wanted you to steer her away or at least warn her before he got into her purse.”

“You mean pants, don’t you?”

“I said purse. I meant purse. The rest is none of my business. Wilcox is a phony and is looking for suckers to invest in real estate schemes.”

“Why don’t you tell her yourself?”

“You figure that one out. Agnes…me?”

“I see. You need to brush up on your social graces, Schwartz. Agnes is a very nice lady and—”

“Dislikes me the way dogs dislike cats. It’s in her genes.”

“Which brings us back to her pants.”

“What?”

“Sorry, bad pun—genes, jeans. When are you taking me out to dinner? We have things to talk about.”

“We do? Tonight, then. Bring an agenda so I won’t disappoint you by being unremittingly dense.”

“What are we doing for Christmas?”

“Ah, put that on the agenda. I have some thoughts about that.”

“Really? You’d do Christmas for me?”

“For you, anything, but, sorry, I was thinking about my mother, not you.”

“How is she?”

“Hanging on. It’s like she’s waiting for something.”

“She is.”

“She is? For what?”

“Later, Sheriff, duty calls. And lay off Agnes.”

Chapter 30

Whaite found the bar and pulled in beside a county cruiser. His caller leaned against the hood and did a double-take when he slid out of his bright red Chevelle.

“Picketsville going for showy muscle cars for their officers?” the county guy asked.

Whaite had grown weary of explaining. “Hey, it could be worse. I hear there’s a police department in Wisconsin that put their guys in Volkswagen beetles. Oldham inside?”

“Don’t know. I’ve been waiting for you. Say, if that buggy is standard issue, I’m ready to transfer.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

The two men stepped in out of the cold, damp afternoon. The Pub looked like every other blue-collar bar in the country. Pinball machines dinged in one corner. A bar ran from the front to the back. A mustached fat guy with a damp towel over his arm stood behind it. The air reeked of cigarette smoke, beer, and wet wool. Men in work boots and flannel shirts, denim, and overalls hunkered over their drafts and looked at the two policemen with thinly disguised malice.

“Feeling at home?” the county officer said.

“Once, not anymore. I guess we better just jump in. There’s no way we’ll ever win this bunch over.”

“Gentlemen,” the fat bartender said, sounding like a butler at a posh party, “your pleasure.”

“Information,” Whaite said. He turned toward the dozen or so pairs of eyes. “We are looking for a man named Oldham. He’s not wanted for anything and we are not here to hassle him. We’re hoping he can help us find someone who, we are afraid, may be in trouble.”

“Got the first part wrong, copper,” a man with a five-day beard and red-rimmed eyes muttered.

“What part would that be?”

“You said you were looking for a
man
. Donnie ain’t no man.” Four of the other drinkers sniggered in agreement. “And, in the second place, that little creep is no more likely to help you than flap his arms and fly.”

“Okay, I hear you. But can anyone give us a hand here?”

The bartender cleared his throat. “I do believe that I might be of assistance. Most of my customers, however, find they can speak more freely with a drink in their hand—if you follow my meaning.”

Whaite ordered two beers. “One for me and one for him,” he said pointing to the county officer. “Give mine to the guy over there.” The first speaker nodded his head in appreciation. The county cop drank his.

“Well, now, this is the way of things,” the bartender said. He fixed his gaze on a fly-specked calendar on the opposite wall. An off-print of the famous Marilyn Monroe nude pose appeared just below the year—a classic—like his car. Before he’d married Darcy, Whaite had that same calendar in his workshop. He gave it to his brother-in-law at his stag party.

“The young man you seek was in here last night. He had a considerable sum of money in his possession and spent it freely and, I should add, foolishly. Fortunately, he became enormously intoxicated before he spent it all and we sent him home. He lives just a few hundred yards down the road from here.”

“That’d be past the old Purina feed sign?”

“Correct. I also took the precaution of removing his truck keys. It is parked outside, the dark green one with the obscene graphic on the window.”

“May I ask you a personal question?” the county man said. “Where’d you learn to talk like that?” The remark produced a round of guffaws from the men in the bar.

“I, sir, am an actor by trade. This employment is but a passing phase. Do you know Shakespeare’s works?”

“You got me there, partner. So how long has the phase been going on?”

That evoked another round of laughter. “He’s been waiting ten years for Broadway to call, ain’t that right, Eddie? He thinks he’s Richard Burton or somebody.”

“He could play Falstaff,” a young bespectacled man holding a set of crutches said, and looked embarrassed.

“Old Hollis here reads books. Ain’t that right, bookworm?” The object of the remark made no reply.

“Thank you,” Whaite said. He turned back to the bartender and in a lowered voice asked, “Who’s the kid in the corner?”

“That is Hollis,” the fat guy murmured. “He is a bit of an
idiot savant.”

“A what?” the county guy asked.

“He is brilliant at some things—books, for instance, but doesn’t have the common sense of a turkey. Did you know that domesticated turkeys have been known to drown in a rain storm? They look up, open their beaks, and next thing you know, they’re on the ground, dead as doorknobs. Pitiful. His father, however, is a genius. He manages several bank websites as a private contractor, I think. But poor Hollis…knows so much and understands so little.”

Whaite realized he would get no more information from this crowd. The two police officers left.

Clouds piled up in the south—a bad sign. Storms that came from the south were always messy. Whaite buttoned his parka and pulled on his gloves. “You want to go to his house?” he said.

“You know, I don’t like the look of that sky. If the snow comes, I’ll need to be out on the roads. I’ll leave the interviewing to you.”

Whaite watched as the county car drove away. He looked at the truck at the end of the lot and walked to and then around it. Whatever faults Oldham might have, misuse of his truck wasn’t one of them. Only a small dent in one fender marred its body work, and except for some sandbags, the bed was clear of trash; no coffee cups or fast food bags in the cab either. Oldham had installed a tool box that rested on the side rails and spanned the width of the truck behind the cab. It did not quite reach the floor of the bed. Whaite leaned over the side and peered in. There was something. He could barely make it out, but it did trigger something in his subconscious. He tried to remember.

He drove to Oldham’s house. The street was lined with tired one- and two-story clapboard houses. Most showed signs of their occupants’ attempts at maintenance—paint mostly, a few flower boxes filled with winter-killed stalks. Oldham’s house sagged in front. When it had received its last coat of paint was anybody’s guess, but certainly not in this decade or the one before.

Whaite mounted the steps and pounded on the door. He waited, tried again, still no response. He walked around back and knocked on the back door. While he waited, he inspected Oldham’s backyard. He thought he caught sight of a face in an upstairs window in the house behind. He lowered his gaze and inspected the grounds. He could see where Oldham parked his truck. The ground was clear of snow. A blue tarp lay folded nearby, and empty motor oil cans and beer bottles were scattered about. He turned back to the door and knocked again. He saw movement in the shadows on the other side.

“Oldham,” he called. “No sense hiding, I saw you.”

The movement materialized into a shape and the shape into a person, and a disgruntled Donnie Oldham unlatched the door and opened it a crack.

“What do you want?”

“Just a little talk. I need to know about Steve Bolt and Randall Harris.”

“I don’t know nothing. Go away.” He started to push the door closed.

“How about I come in and we talk,” Whaite said, and put his shoulder to the door. It opened and Oldham, shoulder to the door but in stocking feet, slid backward.

“Hey, you can’t do that. Police can’t do that and you ain’t even a police.”

“Sorry, but you’re wrong on both counts. If I have probable cause, I can come in.”

“Well, that’s as may be, but I told you I don’t know nothing.”

“Randall Harris is dead. Shot five times with what appears to be a .38 caliber pistol.”

“So? I never met the man.”

“He’s been dead over a week, but somebody’s been using his credit cards. You have any ideas about that?”

“I think I’m calling my lawyer. This is harassment or something. I don’t know anything about any Harris and I ain’t seen Bolt since Saturday a week ago. Now you’d better leave.”

“Somebody took Bolt out of a motel Sunday morning—a couple of big bad somebodys. Do you reckon they’ll be looking for you next?”

“Bolt’s dead?”

“Probably. Are you refusing to cooperate with a police investigation? You want that in the file?”

“You’d better leave. I didn’t do nothing and you can’t prove I did. Like you said, Bolt’s dead so that’s that. You better get out of here.”

Whaite dropped his gaze to the floor for a moment and contemplated Oldham’s shoeless feet. Then he remembered. If he was right, he’d need a search warrant. He let himself out the door.

“You’d better watch your back, cop.”

Whaite walked back to his car and drove into town. He needed to think. He parked and turned on his cell phone. It chirped—missed call—Ike.

“Whaite, what’s up?”

“I think I’m on to something here, but I need to check one or two things out first.”

“Come on in. Sam has pictures of the people using the cards. Maybe they are people you met or know.”

“I’ll check them first thing tomorrow. Look, my shift doesn’t end until eleven. I want to check one more thing and then I’ll be in.”

“Okay, but be careful. It’ll be late and they’re predicting more snow. I’d hate to see you wreck that pretty car of yours.”

“Not a problem, I’ll drive real careful. See you in the morning.”

Whaite clicked off and drove back toward The Pub. He parked around the corner where he could watch the front door. Sure enough, within five minutes Donnie Oldham scurried up the street, retrieved his keys, and drove away. Whaite saw him turn the corner. Oldham was headed home. He checked his watch. He’d have time for a bite to eat and then…he’d see what that truck could tell him.

A roadhouse that looked like it might serve decent food stood a mile and a half up the road. By eight o’clock Whaite returned to the corner to watch The Pub’s front door. At nine-thirty Donnie Oldham strolled up the street and entered.
Wait a minute, Whaite.
He would hold for ten minutes to be certain Oldham had settled in, and then he’d move.

It started to snow.