3 - Buffalo Mountain: Ike Schwartz Mystery 3 (17 page)

Chapter 33

Sam’s phone battery failed. She’d had it on the charger for over an hour. The face plate kept spelling C-H-A-R-G-I-N-G but when she unplugged the charger to make a call, the face plate read LOW BATTERY. She didn’t have a landline. She, like thousands of her generation, abandoned hardwired phones and relied exclusively on cell phones. Her phone was a Sheriff’s Department issue. Essie had spare batteries in one of her cabinets. She could run down to the office and pick up a new one. She peered out the window and saw that the snow was coming down harder. She decided to wait until the next day to rejoin the rest of the world. She wasn’t expecting any calls anyway.

She booted up her laptop and opened the file where she’d stored the pictures of the credit card users. She wasn’t interested in the faces anymore. She wanted to see if there might be something else in the pictures, something in the background that might help. The problem with surveillance cameras, especially the small “lipstick” variety used in ATMs, is definition. No matter what crime shows on TV seemed to be able to do with their technology, in reality, a small fuzzy image could only become a large fuzzy image when blown up unless you had some pretty exotic, intuitive software. You couldn’t make new pixels, but you could make more and, using the laws of probability, recreate what was lost. The clarity of the primary image—the face in this case—was poor and the background almost unrecognizable. She let her program run, and after a half dozen passes she could make out a truck. If there were other pictures like it in the file, she might be able to pull a license plate. She checked her watch. Whaite should be in the office or out on the road. She picked up her phone to call him and looked at LOW BATTERY. It would have to wait until morning.

***

Except on holidays like Christmas and Thanksgiving, or when someone dropped by, Connie Platt sat by her window every night, her TV on, volume up full. She spent the time watching cars whiz by and old movies. When she was younger, she’d had a life—children, a husband, and friends. But they’d all died or drifted away, and now, in her seventy-fifth year with nagging arthritis, hearing problems, and failing eyesight, she faced life alone. Watching the road and its comings and goings gave her a sense of belonging.

Her road served as a shortcut to I-81 out of Willis. It started with four lanes close to town but by the time it passed her house, it had narrowed to two. Beyond her house were a few clusters of cottages, a small development of what the city folk called townhouses, and a pocket park.

Dusk comes early in December, so this evening she mostly watched headlights and listened as automobiles swished by. Her cat, Precious, attempted a jump up onto her lap. Given its size, which was obscene, and age, which in cat years approached hers, he missed, tumbled sideways, and upset her teacup and saucer. Her attention momentarily distracted, Connie did not notice the pickup, headlights off, passing a bright red car, but she heard a crash. She jerked her head up at the sound of a second one. She peered out the window but the snow blocked her view. She could barely see the road. She thought she saw lights over by the big oak tree across the road, but when she looked closer they winked out. She rubbed her eyes and looked again—nothing. She glanced over at her old black and white TV blaring away in the corner. Steve McQueen had just turned over a race car. Well, she thought it was McQueen. Or was it James Garner or Paul Newman? She couldn’t remember. The TV had a snowstorm, too, but then that had nothing to do with the weather. Her granddaughter, Dolores, promised she’d buy her a new TV last year, but she never did. Never would, silly tramp. A car’s horn sounded for a moment and then it went silent just as she shut the television off. She mopped up the mess the cat had made and tottered off to bed.

***

Darcie Billingsly sat straight up in bed, eyes wide and staring, heart pounding. Something bad was going to happen. She often had her “mountain moments,” when she saw things, felt things, when she just knew that she knew. It was a gift. Like her husband, she’d grown up on Buffalo Mountain and she knew better than to ignore the signs. When she’d given her life to Jesus at an altar call in her eighteenth year, she’d become a strong believing Christian. She thought she’d put away the superstitions and practices she’d learned as a child back in the hollow. Immersion in an ice cold creek should have washed that away. But neither it, nor daily Bible reading, nor her single-minded devotion to her church and faith had affected the gift in any way.

She thought when she left the mountain and moved north, it might leave her. But it didn’t. She never told her new friends in Picketsville. They were not mountain folk and they would not understand. She never told Pastor Jim either. She feared his take on the gift would be either painful or humiliating, so she kept those moments to herself. But Whaite understood and would listen. Sometimes he’d tell her about a police problem and she could help him. Tonight, it would be the other way around, if she wasn’t too late. She pulled the phone off the hook and dialed his cell phone, then stopped. He couldn’t be reached that way anymore unless he was off duty or parked somewhere. A call to his office revealed he was out of radio range as well. She began to cry. If only they didn’t have that stupid rule about cell phones. If only Whaite had decided to ignore it.

If only…

Chapter 34

Ike believed there were two kinds of people in the world, morning people and night people. He knew some folks demurred, claiming the divisions were to be found in other more compelling, or socially significant, personality traits, but reduced to the lowest common denominator, he contended it came down to morning versus night. Ike had a roommate in college who would rise fully awake at first light. He would move about with the energy that he’d sustain all day. Then at nine or nine-thirty that night, he would crash. Ike, on the other hand, rarely went to sleep before two a.m. Left to his own devices, he would sleep until nine or ten o’clock in the morning. It wasn’t that he couldn’t function any earlier. His mind worked just fine. It was just that the rest of his body wouldn’t pay attention for at least another hour.

He’d made a promise to himself, however, that he’d be in the office for the seven o’clock shift change at least three days a week, and Tuesday was one of those days. But this morning his phone woke him, not his alarm clock. A full minute passed before he sorted that out and stopped slapping the clock.

“Hello,” he gargled.

“Ike? Are you awake?”

“I am now, Ruth.”

“I just had the weirdest dream—no, nightmare is what it was—and I had to call you.”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Ruth, he knew, occupied the alternative half of the universe, but still…five-thirty in the morning?

“I thought you’d be up by now. You should be. Listen, I had this peculiar dream last night. I need to tell you before I forget.”

Why, Ike wondered, do people insist on telling you their dreams? Almost without exception, they hold no interest to the hearer and, more often than not, do not even make sense. The importance the teller puts on them is rarely, if ever, shared.

“Shoot,” he said and flopped back on his pillow.

“Are you listening? This is strange. I dreamed you and I were at this function at the governor’s mansion, or maybe it was the White House. That’s probably not it, is it? Anyway, we were at this big party and they were celebrating your election to the United States Senate—”

“Whoa. I was elected to the Senate? That sounds more like
my
nightmare.”

“Don’t interrupt. We were there at this place and your father was there, all smiling and greeting all his old political pals. There was a lot of back slapping and you and I…this is scary…”

Ike’s phone beeped, informing him he had an incoming call waiting.

“Hang on a second, Ruth, someone’s trying to reach me.’

“They can wait, this is important.”

“I’ll be right back.” He hit the flash button.

“Ike, this is Darcie, Whaite’s wife. Where is he?”

“I’m not sure. Did you call Rita at the office?”

“I did. Nobody can reach him, Ike, and I know something awful has happened.”

“Darcie, hang on. I have someone on the other line, I’ll be right back.” He flashed back to Ruth.

“I have an emergency on the other line. Can we talk about this later?”

“One minute, Schwartz, or you know what you will
not
find under your Christmas tree.”

“Okay, but make it quick. So this scary thing was?”

“We were married, Ike.”

“I’m okay with that, at least, dream wise. Is that the nightmare part because—?”

“Shut up and listen. The celebration is going on all around and then it changed, like instead of being there, I’m watching a television show and the voice-over announces us—no, you. He goes on about your dad—the political legend, and then about you—Senator Schwartz—lots of applause—your wife—they didn’t even call me by name. Do you believe that? There’s some more applause and, then, are you ready for this? Our son—thunderous applause.”

“We had a son?”

“We did.”

“I gotta go, but you’re right. Mixing our gene pools is indeed scary. But hey, if you want to try, I know how babies are made. We could—”

“In your dreams, Schwartz.”

“Actually, it was in yours. Is that it?” Ruth had already hung up. “Darcie, are you still there?”

“I’m here, Ike, and I’m scared.”

“Stay calm, Darcie. You know he’s not in a police car. His cell phone is probably off—”

“No, that’s the other thing. I’ve been dialing it for hours and all I get is his voice mail.”

“Well, there you go. It’s off.”

“No, if it were off, it would go to voice mail, like, right away. But it rings and rings and…” Ike heard the sob in her voice. “See, I have these premonitions and last night I woke up and I just knew he’d been hurt. Now, this morning, I think it’s worse. He’s—”

“I’ll get right on it. It’ll be just fine. I’ll call you back in an hour when we know something. Now you just get those kids ready for school. In an hour.” He hung up and called Essie at home.

“Ike, Essie, are you up?”

“Been up for a while.” Essie also occupied the other half of the human race.

“I want you to call Rita and ask her to stick around for a while past the shift change. Then I want you to go out to Whaite’s house and look in on his family.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure but Whaite hasn’t been heard from since late last night and Darcie—”

“She has second sight, I know. She thinks something is wrong?”

“Yes.”

“Then she’s right. I’m on it.” Essie’s line went dead.

Ike showered and dressed. He reached for the doorknob when his phone rang again. The caller ID read SHRFF OFF-PKTVLL.

“Ike, this is Rita. We just got a call from the Floyd County Police Department. There’s been an accident and—”

“It’s Whaite. How bad?”

“Ike, he was dead when they found him. His car must have skidded and he lost control. He hit an oak tree head on.”

Ike hung his head. Whaite—gone. “Rita, can you give me a few more hours this morning, I—”

“Whatever you need. I already called everybody in. I figured you’d want to talk to them.”

“Thanks. I’ll be right there.”

***

Deputies crowded the office area. They almost never saw each other at the same time. More men entered and stamped the snow from their boots. The room hummed with subdued greetings. Ike stood in their midst and asked for their attention. He filled them in on what he knew, which wasn’t much. Rita said there’d been a second call from Floyd County asking for someone to come down to identify the body and inspect Whaite’s car. Ike asked his deputies for their cooperation in rescheduling shifts. He said he’d be in touch regarding any services and went on through the dismal litany of things to do, bases to touch with an officer down.

“Sam?” he said, looking around. He realized he hadn’t seen her at the briefing.

“She didn’t answer her phone, Ike. She may not know.”

For an instant, Ike had a moment of panic. Another deputy out of touch—phone not responding.

“Anybody heard from Sam?”

As if on cue, she walked in the door and was greeted by a dozen pairs of eyes.

“What?” she said.

“Okay, everybody, that’s it,” Ike announced. “Sam, I’ll catch you up on the way to Floyd.”

“We’re going to Floyd?”

“It’s Whaite. He was killed in a car accident. You and I are going to ID the body and…other things.”

“Not his wife?”

“Not if I can help it. She has kids to look to and…Not now.”

Sam’s eyes started to tear up. She blew her nose. “I don’t guess he’ll be needing these things.” She dropped the pictures taken from the ATMs on Whaite’s desk.

Ike waved her into his office and pointed to his only other chair. He shuffled through the paperwork on his desk—forms to fill out, reports to be filed. He sat and sighed. Charlie Garland’s superphone bleeped. Ike closed his eyes. He did not want to talk to Charlie right at that moment. The phone went into urgent mode.

Chapter 35

Sam rose to leave but Ike signaled for her to stay seated. The phone continued its insistent beeping. He drummed his fingers and after a moment punched the receive button.

“Charlie, this is a bad time. Can I call you back?”

“This will only take a minute.” That’s what they all say, Ike thought, and watched as Sam fitted a new battery into her phone.

“Okay, but please make it quick.”

“Last night two rather hefty men left the Russian embassy in a hurry. They were whisked off to Dulles, where an official Russian jet sat on the taxiway, motors spinning, and waiting for them. They are gone. Our intel people are convinced they are the probables of your homicide. We are closing up shop.”

“That’s it?”

“You said be brief.”

“Not enough. What about the black program? Aren’t you interested in tracking that down?”

“Not my department, Ike. We’ll stay tuned in, but we think Kamarov was their only real asset. With him gone, the program will disintegrate. If he told them anything, they know it already. If he didn’t, they never will. End of story.”

“It won’t work, Charlie. Too many loose ends, and besides, I want a crack at the person who did it.”

“The goons on the plane will be met by our people at the other end, maybe not right away, but some day.”

“What about Bolt? What about the credit cards?”

“I expect we’ll find out what that’s all about eventually.”

Ike shook his head. “We are in a mess down here right now and I haven’t the time or the inclination to debate this with you. I just lost my best deputy in an automobile accident. Coincidently, he was the lead tracking Kamarov. That worries me. Now, we will have to start all over again. I’m telling you this so you will know that if you don’t see any progress at this end, it’s because we have paused, not stopped.”

“I’ll be pulling for you.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“Um…no, I need the phone back.”

Ike shoved the phone into a desk drawer. “We’re on our own now, Sam. I don’t believe for a minute that Kamarov was a simple takeout by his own people. It’s possible, even logical, but—”

“I heard. There’s the cards and Bolt. The FBI ran the black program, we’re pretty sure of that. The last time I looked, they were still trying to find our corpse. Lately, there’s been an unusual amount of traffic looking in the John Doe reports of area police departments. Eventually they are going to tumble to us. They’re not convinced his people did him, and since they have the same capacity to ferret out the Russians as the CIA, why don’t they go away, too?”

“Point taken. You are absolutely right. We are not done with Kamarov.”

***

Ike let Sam drive and they covered the roads to Floyd in relative silence. Ike found himself fighting conflicting emotions. He was alternately angry, guilty, and saddened by Waite’s death. It seemed so unfair, so unlikely that a routine, no, make that marginal, investigation should end in death. Whaite had been following a lead three degrees removed from the real interest. Ike had sent him on the job, and now he wondered if he’d been wrong to do so. And he thought of Darcie Billingsly and two children under eight. What a waste.

“Boss?” Sam broke into his thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“I heard your half of the conversation with your friend at the CIA. They think that Harris’ or Kamarov’s killing had nothing to do with the people running the black program?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“I guess I’m happy about that.”

“Because of Karl?”

Sam sighed and slouched a little in her seat. “Yes. He’s a no good double dirt bag, but I’m glad he’s not a murderer, too.”

“Well, yes. You know, Sam, it’s just possible you have him pegged wrong.”

“I saw the name, Ike—Hedrick, K.”

“Well, you know, he has a job to do. He can’t pick and choose. If he’s ordered to join a special operation, he doesn’t get a choice.”

“Yeah, I know, but what about the woman on the phone?”

“There is probably some perfectly reasonable explanation for that.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, Sam, I’m just trying to be neutral here. I had hopes for you and Karl and I’m not willing to let them go just yet.”

“Can’t see it. Sorry.”

Ike decided he’d never make a living as Dear Abby. Luckily they arrived at the county police barracks and had other things to occupy them.

The sergeant at the desk referred them to Officer Martz, who happened to be in. Sam and Ike found him two-finger typing at his desk. Ike introduced himself and Sam. Martz stopped his pecking and led them to the morgue. Ike made the official ID and set up the transfer of the body to Unger’s Funeral Home in Picketsville. Siegfried Unger had taken over the business from the Quade family, who’d run it for three generations. Since the fourth didn’t want anything to do with it, they’d sold to Unger, who renamed it. Folks thought the name change somehow violated a tradition and got to calling Siegfried Unger, Six Feet Under.

Ike and Sam spent a few minutes staring at Whaite’s waxen face. He realized how helpless people were in death. If he could, he would have reversed every decision he’d made about the investigation, and Whaite would still be alive.

“It’s part of the job, Ike,” Sam said, reading his mind. “Whaite knew that, we all do. It’s what we do.” Ike nodded, but he didn’t feel any better.

Martz took them back to the main building and ushered them into a small conference room.

“Here’s what we have. It isn’t much, but before we write accident on anything we check—you know—just in case. Well, we canvassed the houses in the neighborhood. Nobody saw or heard anything. I guess the snow muffled the sound. One lady lives almost directly opposite the scene, so we spent some time with her. Now I have to tell you, she’s old, hard of hearing, and maybe has a little trouble seeing as well.”

“My favorite kind of witness,” Ike said.

“Right, I know what you mean. Anyway, this woman said she must have witnessed the crash. I asked her what she meant saying, ‘she must have witnessed the crash.’ She didn’t report it so what happened? Well, she thought she heard something but when she looked out the window, except for the lights going out, she couldn’t see anything. ‘What lights?’ I asked. Now I have to tell you it was confusing. She did not see the skid, she says, only heard it. She said her cat distracted her and she took her eyes off the road for a second. She said…” Martz pulled a notebook from his pocket and consulted it.

“She said, ‘There was the little bang and then, another, bigger, bang.’ She couldn’t figure out what the first one was all about. I asked her to describe the first one and she said, ‘like a crash when cars hit each other.’ That isn’t much in itself except a minute later she said something like, ‘it’s funny, because before I turned off the TV, a pickup truck drove by going the other way and its side was all banged up and it looked like it had hit something.’ Any of this work for you?”

“You left out the part about the lights.”

“Oh that. Yeah, she said she thought she saw lights, but when she looked closer, they were gone. By the next morning she figured she’d seen a soul passing. Mountain people—superstitious lot.”

Ike felt the butterflies begin to swarm in his stomach. “It might not have been an accident.”

“I told you, the lady is a quarter deaf and half blind. She had her TV up full blast and apparently had been watching an old auto racing movie. She lives alone. I don’t know how much is memory and how much is imagination. She kept referring to the driver as Steve McQueen. You follow?”

Ike still felt the butterflies. He turned to Sam. “Deputy? Any thoughts?”

“I think we need to look at Whaite’s car.”