7 - Rogue: Ike Schwartz Mystery 7

by Frederick Ramsay

  “Whoa. Take it easy.” The lot man glanced at the report and Ike’s badge again. He didn’t appear too sure about what he should do. He squinted at the badge, threw his hands up, and sighed. “Okay, I guess. This won’t get me in any trouble, will it? I should call the precinct. I’d hate to lose the business, you know? Times are tough. I depend on city towing to stay open.”

  “I promise there will be no backlash. Where can I hire a rollback?”

  “I have a rollback. Where do you want it delivered?”

  “Charlie, do you suppose I could borrow some of your people to go over this for me? There won’t be much for them to do. I need some paint samples from the rear quarter panel, bumper, and passenger side door. I will retrieve the GPS tracking device from under the hood and put someone to work on decoding what happened to the car in its last minutes. Then we’ll see what comes next.”

  Charlie noticed, but did not comment on the tracking device. More Ike.

  “Sure, no problem. I’ll have to tell a few lies. So what’s new with that? If they pass muster, we also have people who can unravel your GPS data in a heartbeat.” Charlie made two calls and then gave the lot man an address.

  “It goes there? Who are you guys?”

  “National security,” Charlie whispered, “need to know, sorry.”

  “Right. My driver will be here in an hour. I’ll get him on it, mum’s the word,” the lot owner said, and laid a finger next to his nose.

  “One more thing,” Ike said. “Whatever you do, do not disturb the rear end or side of that car. It is evidence in a criminal investigation.”

  “Wow, okay. This is top secret, right?”

  “You got it.”

  The yard man left to retrieve whatever forms he needed to effect the car’s release.

  “You think the locals will howl when they find out you grabbed your car?” Charlie sometimes felt he played Archie Goodwin to Ike’s Nero Wolfe, but more often he felt like Watson to his Sherlock.

  “Trust me, the Metro cops are done with this. You heard that side of beef at the desk. The report indicates they have already signed the release. We just don’t have it in hand—minor detail.”

  “That’s what I like about working with you, Ike. Things are what you need them to be.”

  “Don’t mock me, Charlie. I’m not in the mood for banter this morning.”

  “No, of course not. I’m sorry. I am sure there will be ways to mollify the cops if that becomes necessary. But you are right, they are busy, uninterested in this case, and…You told the guy it is a criminal investigation. Is it?”

  “It is now. This car has been smacked from behind.”

  “Ike, Ruth has had the car for a month. Someone could have banged into it at any time in the last four weeks.”

  “She would have said something.”

  “Then maybe last night.”

  “That is my point, Charlie. Someone hit it last night, in the rear and on the side it. I aim to find out who and why.”

  “You’re not buying accident?”

  “Not until I have to.”

  “Okay, it’s your call. What’s next?”

  “For you, make the calls to set up the car’s arrival and inspection of the tracking device. It’s on the firewall on the driver’s side, by the way. Then go home and sleep. Take my car. It’s an official police vehicle, so drive carefully.”

  “You’ll need it, Ike. I’ll take a cab.”

  “No, I insist. Look, after five years, I’m not sure I can find your place anymore. Then, you realize, I am running on adrenaline at the moment. I have a few things left that I must do, pronto. When the adrenaline rush finally wears off, I will crash. I don’t want to be behind the wheel and have the metaphor become a reality. One smash-up this weekend is more than enough. Write your address on a piece of paper and stick it in my pocket. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sure.”

  Charlie did as he was asked, took Ike’s keys, and drove away.

  ***

  Ike waited for the lot owner to assemble the necessary papers. Then he reassured him once again that the release would cause no trouble, signed off on the car’s removal, and thanked him. He retreated to the street, paused, and took a moment to study the report. He then flagged a cab and headed to the scene where Ruth had wrapped his Buick around the steel utility pole. He hoped the nervous energy that had sustained him for the last twenty-four hours would hold a bit longer. He needed to avoid being run over by rush hour traffic when he dodged in and out of cars and busses to take pictures of the accident scene, skid marks, and anything else the cops had missed.

  Fortunately, the traffic on the street was not as heavy as he expected. He didn’t know why. Mondays were usually busy everywhere. He did have a near miss when a woman holding a cell phone in one hand while she manipulated its keyboard, and sipping on a cup of coffee held in other, missed him by inches. She didn’t see him before or after she whooshed by. Ike muttered an uncharitable and very sexist comment about females in general and texting while driving in particular. Had Ruth heard him, she would have been provoked to a classic response about his prehistoric ideas regarding the roles of the sexes. He smiled at the thought, but fleetingly.

  Pictures taken, he paced the distances as best he could for the several skid marks. They were becoming less distinct as he did so. If he had waited until later, another hour or two, there would have been nothing for him to see, with the possible exception of some really nasty black tire marks where the car had jumped the curb before taking out the pole. He took another set of pictures there. His camera ran out of memory and he’d done what he could. He hailed a cab, handed Charlie’s address to the driver, and fell asleep. He would remain that way until the driver shook him awake in the Virginia suburbs where Charlie had his townhouse.

  Chapter Three

  Ike awoke groggy and unsure where he was or what time it might be. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. His skin felt gritty and his mouth like the entire Chinese army had marched across his tongue in their stocking feet. Then, as his mind cleared, the previous day’s events surfaced and hit him like gale force winds straight off the arctic circle—not a good moment. He staggered to the bathroom and ran the shower. Charlie’s plumbing had a slow recall for hot water. While he waited, he checked his cell phone. He had a dozen missed calls. It took effort but he managed to scroll though them, and clicked on the ones he thought he should listen to. Ruth’s mother left a message; she was on her way to DC and would meet him at the hospital at three thirty.

  Nurse Struthers had called to say there had been no change and Dr. Kravitz, the neurologist, wished to meet with him in the afternoon. If he had any further questions he should call the head nurse at the ICU. She was going off duty.

  He looked at his watch. Two p.m. and an hour and a half before Eden Saint Clare arrived to assume a mother’s prerogatives over her daughter’s care.

  Frank Sutherlin had called to extend his condolences and ask if there was anything he or any of the staff could do. His father had done the same, and then reminded Ike he had a speaking engagement at the Picketsville Rotary and if he could possibly keep it he should. The election, he declared, might be a close one, and if Ike wanted to continue in the sheriff’s job, he needed to be a presence.

  Ike’s decision to seek reelection as Sheriff of Picketsville was as much a matter of accepting the default settings on his mental computer as a considered one. It was just what he did, and he was good at it. The alternatives for the town were not good. And some—a little—of the mess he’d inherited when he first ran still needed attention. But at the moment, the election and everything it entailed seemed inconsequential, intrusive, almost disrespectful. Campaign now? He shook his head like a buffalo bothered by flies.

  His only interest, his wh
ole focus was directed toward finding what or who might have engineered Ruth’s smash-up. One look at the car and his gut told him the accident had been rigged. He gritted his teeth. He needed to hold that thought, to keep the fire burning, or…He refused to entertain the idea Ruth might not survive—and intact. But the images of a broken Ruth would not leave him alone. They disrupted his train of thought like a colicky child at a family reunion. He could not will the images away.

  He called Frank. Since his transfer from the Highway Patrol a year or so earlier, Frank Sutherlin had assumed the title of Acting Sheriff whenever Ike was not available. Of all Ike’s deputies, Frank was the steadiest and most reliable, but not the most colorful or amusing. That honor fell to his younger brother, Billy. Frank answered on the second ring.

  “Ike, we are devastated. What can we do?”

  “For now, nothing, but thanks. I won’t be available for a while so you’re in charge. Keep everybody on task and no worries. I can use a special favor from you, however.”

  “Anything.”

  “Your old outfit did a ton of automobile accident analyses, I imagine, and they’re pretty good at it, right?”

  “They are. You need me to call them about something?”

  “More. In a few hours I will have a readout from the tracking device I installed in my car. It’s the one Ruth was driving, and I will have photographs of the accident scene, the car, and measurements as well. All the stuff you normally collect in a fatal or near-fatal wreck.” Ike paused and cleared his throat. How was he going to get through this? “That is as much as I could pick up on my own. The DC cops wrote the whole thing off as not requiring any but the most cursory attention. Oh, and I might have paint chips to analyze.”

  “I gather you don’t think it was just an accident?”

  “I don’t, but my thinking and reality may not mesh. It’s just that…Will you ask your friends to go through the data and reconstruct, or at least give me an idea what happened?”

  “Sure. Just send everything you have to me as an e-mail attachment and I’m on it.”

  “Thanks. Okay, so for the time being, you’re the boss. Anything happening?”

  Ike didn’t really care if Picketsville had a quiet weekend or was under siege by a brigade of North Korean ninja paratroopers, but he felt obliged to ask.

  “Nothing important. Drunk and disorderly at the Roadhouse and a missing vehicle up at the university.”

  “Bikers back at the Roadhouse, I suppose. What about the vehicle?”

  “It was reported missing Monday morning and then found parked in the wrong space an hour later. Some maintenance employee must have been in a hurry to go home or needed it for a little weekend moonlighting.”

  “Okay, I’ll be back to you when I have the data. Thanks again.”

  Before he rang off, he gave Frank his new drugstore cell phone number and asked him to call him on it for the time being.

  Water hot, he set the phones aside and stepped into the shower, which provided him a measure of therapy as well as cleanliness. Dressed, combed, and shaved, he made his way to the kitchen, where Charlie had left him a note. Gone to work, call. Ike finished with the remaining calls from his phone, ate an over-ripe banana, and left. He would find a drive-through Starbucks and purchase the first of the day’s numerous cups of coffee. This one he supplemented with a scone, which he soon discovered was not designed to be eaten while driving. His lap disappeared in an avalanche of crumbs and blueberries. He didn’t care.

  He made it to the hospital with five minutes to spare and met Ruth’s mother at the nurse’s desk.

  “Eden, I’m glad you could get here so quickly. Easy trip?”

  “I have no idea. I just drove like hell non-stop and here I am. What can you tell me? The message you left was a little vague.”

  “Sorry. When I called I really didn’t know anything. We’re meeting the doctor in a few minutes. Then we’ll both know.”

  “I want to see her.”

  “Of course. She is pretty banged up and in a coma so don’t be shocked. You can talk to her but don’t expect her to answer or even acknowledge you’re there.”

  “Oh God, you may have to help me, Ike. I’m not good at this. First it was her father, now my baby.”

  My baby. Ruth’s mother was barely twenty years older than she, and had recently spent considerable time and money on regimes, cosmetics, and some discreet bits of surgery intended to narrow that gap in terms of appearances. Give Eden Saint Clare an hour head start and soft lighting and she could pass for Ruth’s blonde older sister.

  “This way.” They walked the length of the hallway and entered the ICU. Eden gasped when she saw her daughter, and collapsed in a chair.

  “Oh my God, oh my God,” she rasped. “Oh no, I can’t be like this. Ruth needs me to be calm and collected, doesn’t she?”

  “She needs you to be here. She won’t respond, but you should hold her hand and talk to her. I read somewhere that even when in a coma, people are sometimes aware of your presence and can often hear what you say.” Ike swallowed back the bile that surged into his throat. He’d been here the night before, had seen this already, and yet the awfulness hit him as forcefully as before.

  “You’ve talked to her?”

  “Ah…Just a little last night. I had to stop. I didn’t want…” Ike cleared his throat.

  He stepped to one side of the bed and Eden to the other, and they each took a hand. Eden had to twist her wrist to adjust to the board that Ruth’s arm had been strapped to.

  “Honey, it’s me. It’s your mother. Can you hear me? Oh dear, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be asking you questions, should I? Damn, I did it again. Sorry. I don’t want to frustrate you if you can hear and aren’t able to answer, so don’t try. Here’s Ike.”

  “I hope you’re satisfied, Harris. I had a look at my beautiful silver Buick, and it is totaled. What did I tell you about driving and texting? Don’t answer that. Just know I’m not finished with this, woman.”

  “Jesus, Ike, what are you doing?”

  “I’m not sure, but…Ruth used to say I played her like the left side of an accordion.”

  “The what?”

  “You know, an accordion has a keyboard on the right and all those buttons on the left. She claimed I deliberately pushed her buttons to get a rise out of her.”

  “Oh. And did she push your buttons, too?”

  “She’s more into throwing darts, I think.”

  “And did you both, push and throw…deliberately?”

  “Not always. Sometimes, maybe, but…”

  “It was just the way you two were.”

  “Yes…sometimes. It was rarely premeditated, like just now. Anyway, you asked what I was doing. If I know your daughter, and I think I do…don’t I, Ruth? If there is an ounce of fight in her, she will not miss a chance to pull out of this if only long enough to give me hell. So, Ruth, you may expect a fair ration of political incorrectness and male chauvinism over the next few weeks. If you want it to stop, wake up and take a swipe at me.”

  It should have been funny. It would have been up to twenty-four hours ago, pushing her buttons, but not now.

  “Ike, stop it. Don’t listen to him, Honey, he’s a monster. I don’t know what you see in him, I truly don’t.”

  Ike gave Eden a thumbs-up and a crooked smile. She smiled back but with little enthusiasm. Shock therapy, if that was what this amounted to, did not resonate with her maternal instincts, such as they were.

  A nurse entered and whispered that Doctor Kravitz would see them now.

  “Be back in a jiff, Honey.” Eden squeezed Ruth’s hand and followed Ike into the corridor. “Okay, let’s tackle the sawbones.”

  “He’s a nice man, Eden. Don’t be mean.”

  “How nice?”

  “He
’s about your age and pretty good-looking, if you go for guys with stethoscopes in their pockets and ridiculously clean hands.”

  “You just described every doctor on the planet. Tell me about this one.”

  “You will see for yourself. That’s him chatting up the nurse in the blue scrubs.”

  “Why do they wear those awful uniforms? They make them look dumpy and rumpled.”

  “Practical, I suppose. Now there is a cast of characters for your book that you say you might write someday, or not.”

  “Characters? Who, what?”

  “Dumpy and Rumpled, the two dwarfs left out of the Snow White story for lack of room in the cottage. Think of it, a revisionist telling—”

  “That’s enough, Ike. I know you are sitting on a small volcano, and you think you need to be brave, not cry, all those idiotic guy things. I happen to know you have a history with kind of stuff, so this can’t be easy. And you think it’s your job to divert me, but it isn’t, so cut the crap.”

  “Okay, right, thanks. You’re the mom. Let’s hear what the doc has to say.”

  Chapter Four

  Ike’s father, the legendary Virginia politician, packed an almanac of useful advice tucked away in the recesses of his aging, but still alert brain. Were you in the process of selecting a barber, buying a house, choosing a wife? Abe had an aphorism for every occasion. “You can tell a good doc,” he’d said years earlier on the occasion of Ike’s departure for Harvard, “because he will always look tired.” Dr. Barry Kravitz would have qualified as a good doctor by Abe Schwartz’s standard. He did, indeed, appear to be very tired.

  Ike introduced Eden to Doctor Kravitz. He shook her hand and then led them both to a break room and placed Styrofoam cups of truly wretched coffee before them. His, he drank. Ike and Eden thanked him and pushed their cups aside. He seemed not to notice.

  “Okay,” he said, and rubbed his eyes. “I filled Mr. Schwartz in on the early estimates last night. Or was that this morning?” He powered up an electronic device he held in his hand, tapped it several time with a black stylus and nodded. “Last night, nine thirty p.m., there it is.”