1 - Artscape: Ike Schwartz Mystery 1

by Frederick Ramsay

***

  Moonlight becomes you.…His father would sing the tune, usually on a Sunday morning, and when he did, his mother would blush. He would grin and go on…It goes with your hair.…” His mother would scowl and mutter, “Abe.…” There could be no mistaking the warning in her voice.

  After thirty years, at last Ike understood the joke. He rolled over on his elbow and admired the smooth naked body beside him. Moonlight streamed into the room through the open blinds, washing her body silver-blue. She turned toward him and pulled at the sheet.

  “Not yet.”

  She pushed the sheet away and smiled.

  “Help yourself. It’s not much, but it’s all mine.”

  “I’m a very lucky man.”

  He reached for her again. This time there would be no hurry.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Agnes Ewalt, called in on a Sunday for service beyond the call of duty, sat at her desk sorting paper clips. She greeted Ike with a vague smile and called Ruth on the intercom. Assured that Ike was both expected and welcome, she ushered him into the inner office, offered him coffee, which he accepted, and left. Ruth sat at her desk half-heartedly examining a foundation report. Ike slumped down in the crewel-covered wing chair and studied her. The morning sunlight filtered though the half-open blinds and formed a dappled pattern on the oriental carpet that reminded Ike of leaves in the woods in New England.

  Agnes reentered carrying two cups of coffee, muttered something, and left. Ike sipped his coffee. Ruth stopped shuffling the papers in front of her and sat back.

  “Dillon and the rest of the U.S. Cavalry will be here in about an hour, Ike,” she said.

  “Right.”

  “He’s quite a guy, Dillon. He can be very intimidating sometimes, but he is very quick, and if you remember to lay back and let him go for awhile, you can get to him when he’s ready. He hates for people to second-guess him or try to impress him. And whatever else you do, do not try to one-up him.”

  “I’ll remember.” M. Armand Dillon was not Ike’s major concern. He could be a lion or a pussycat for all he cared. There were things that were going to happen no matter what Dillon or anyone else said or did. Ike’s only concern was getting the right things to happen in the right order. He inspected Ruth.

  “You look tired, Ms. President,” he said, noticing for the first time the lines around her eyes and the sag in her shoulders.

  “I am, Ike,” Ruth murmured. “Except for the late-night interludes with the local police, it’s been a mean couple of days.”

  “Job not too much for you?”

  Ruth’s eyes flashed. “A job is a job, and no, it’s not too much for me.”

  “Whoa,” Ike said, taken aback, “I didn’t mean anything.”

  “Why does every man think if a woman is tired, or sad, or out of sorts, it’s because she is working, has a career, or PMS?”

  “I wasn’t even thinking about that.”

  “I know, but that’s the way it came out. Do you know what it is like, even now, being a woman in a man’s world? You have to do everything twice as well as a man in the same job. And you cannot get tired or, Heaven forbid, angry. Men get angry and they’re called hard-nosed. Women get angry and they’re labeled bitchy. Men lean on you and they’re tough. Women lean on you and they’re castrating. I am so tired of all that crap. Sheesh.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound…that way. It’s the kind of remark I might have made to anyone.”

  “I suppose that’s so. But you’ve got to understand, that’s not what I hear, what a woman hears.”

  Ruth paused, lost in thought. “Look,” she continued, “you are as sensitive to the issue as any man. You’ve worked in situations where your colleagues, maybe even your bosses, were women and you managed. But even with that, you still have to make an effort to keep from calling the students here girls, and I’d bet I could find in your own area the kind of discrimination that drives people like me, women, crazy.”

  “Oh, come on, Ruth. I am sympathetic. No, that’s not it, is it? You got me. Let me try again. I don’t discriminate, harass, or treat women in the world of work any differently than I treat men.” Ike’s words were sincere, he thought, but even as he spoke them, he realized they came only with great effort.

  “Ike, I know you don’t or wouldn’t…the sexual harassment thing. The job discrimination that you’re thinking about is not the point. I can deal with overt sexism. It’s the little things that hurt. It’s our friends that are killing us, Ike. Look, how many women work for you?”

  Ike paused and thought. He felt the noose tightening and already knew where he would be in less than five minutes. He decided to take his medicine like a man and smiled at himself for the figure of speech. “Two,” he said, “not counting Sam.”

  “Two, and no, you can’t count Sam—she works for me. And the two, your two, what do they do?”

  “Ah…well, there’s Rita the secretary and Essie the dispatcher.”

  “No deputies, Ike? No women on the force? And don’t tell me about Sam.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, um, no one’s ever applied.”

  “You ever advertise for one?”

  “No, can’t do that, Ruth. Believe it or not, town statutes prevent me from citing race or sex in any ads. Besides, we haven’t had but one opening in the two years since I set up the group I’ve got.”

  “Ike, I don’t want to push you anymore. You are a kind and gentle man, and you are the sort who will always do the right thing. But I want you to know that I think it is criminal that this town, whose main industry is a women’s college, does not have even one woman on its police force. The social imperative for that should be transparent and the advantages to you, if you did, should be overwhelmingly obvious.”

  “Touché, Ruth,” Ike said with a wry smile. “One point for the lady.”

  Ruth waved her hand in the general direction of the window, dismissing the topic and the argument. She sent a similar smile back to him. They drank their coffee in silence.

  The chimes in the bell tower struck the third quarter. The intercom buzzed again.

  “President Harris,” Agnes Ewalt said at her officious best, “there’s a Miss Billups to see you. She says it’s important.”

  “Send her in, Agnes,” Ruth said, and shrugged her shoulders at Ike.

  The pretty woman who slipped through the heavy mahogany door could not have been more than nineteen or twenty. She had the sort of soft, curly brown hair that you see on bottles of shampoo and, Ike thought, a very sexy overbite.

  “President Harris?” she said breathlessly. It came out “Prizadin Hairs.” “I’m real sorry to bust in on you like this, it being Sunday and all, but I just got to tell you.”

  “What is it, Miss Billups.…I’m sorry, your first name is?”

  “Betsy Mae,” she gasped, surprised, and then added, “It’s about my roommate, Jennifer. They said up at the dorm you all were asking about people who might be missing and so I thought I’d better tell you right away—”

  “Slow down, Betsy Mae, and start from the beginning. Your roommate is missing?”

  “Well, yes, I reckon she is. I don’t know for sure, but I think so on account of Jack Trask’s missing, too.”

  “From the beginning, Betsy Mae, and go slow. This is Sheriff Schwartz, and if anything needs to be done, he will attend to it, won’t you, Sheriff?” Ruth, the very model of a college president, sat cool, calm, in control, and the authority in the room. The girl seemed reassured, and glancing in Ike’s direction began her story.

  “Well, Thursday night Jennifer, Jennifer Ames—that’s my roommate—had a date with Jack Trask. I shouldn’t have made her do it…I wouldn’t have, except that my boyfriend really wanted to get a bid to St. Elmo’
s and he thought it might help. So anyway, Jen went out with Jack and she didn’t come back.”

  “Jack Trask, the lacrosse player?” Ike was now interested.

  Betsy Mae was wide-eyed. “Yes, you know him?”

  “Only by reputation.” Seeing the puzzled look in Ruth’s eyes, Ike explained. “Jack Trask is an All-American midfielder, lacrosse player, for the University of Virginia. He is their one, and only hope of winning a national title.”

  Ruth seemed only slightly less puzzled.

  “BMOC,” Ike added. Ruth nodded in comprehension.

  “Okay, Betsy Mae,” he said, “your roommate did you a favor and went out with Trask. That was Thursday?”

  She nodded. “And she wasn’t in her bed Friday morning.”

  “Why didn’t you mention it then?”

  Betsy Mae blushed and looked guilty. “Well,” she said, “I didn’t want to get Jen into trouble, and you know I thought maybe she and Jack—well, you know how it is sometimes. And then I signed out Friday for the weekend to go to Charlottesville, and I thought I’d see her there Saturday and I’d, you know, kid her about it.”

  “Why did you think you’d see her in Charlottesville?” Ruth asked, the puzzlement back on her face, still struggling with the girl’s narrative.

  “Well, because of the game, of course.”

  “What game? Betsy Mae, please try to be a little more to the point. I’m losing you,” Ruth pleaded.

  “The lacrosse game between UVA and Hopkins. It was the most important game of the season. That’s when I knew that something was wrong.” Betsy Mae was trying to be clear, but it seemed beyond her capabilities.

  Ike cut in, hoping to save Ruth from having to sort through the girl’s tangled narrative.

  “What happened at the game, Betsy?” he asked, knowing what was coming.

  “They lost because he didn’t play.”

  “Jack Trask didn’t play?”

  “Wasn’t even there. The biggest game of the season and Jack is a no-show. Nobody knew where he was. Well naturally, I thought he and Jen…well, I don’t know what I thought. I was so upset, I asked Bobby to bring me back last night, and when I heard you all were looking for missing people, I thought I’d better come right down.”

  “Thank you, Betsy Mae.” Ruth said, “You were right to come down.”

  “Is everything going to be all right?” she asked.

  “Everything will be fine,” Ike replied. He hoped he sounded more confident than he was.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Betsy Mae asked, reluctant to leave without some assurance.

  “Can you remember what she was wearing Thursday? Anything that we could use for a description?”

  “Well, I reckon I could do that. I’ll write it all down on a piece of paper. Anything else?” she asked.

  “Nothing now,” Ike said. “You go to church much, Betsy?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, fine,” Ike said with a smile. “You just hustle off to church and maybe say a prayer or two for Jennifer and Jack, and all of us, if you can work that in. Everything will be fine.”

  “I shouldn’t have made her do it,” she cried and hit her right fist into the palm of her left hand. “I just shouldn’t.”

  “Thank you, Betsy Mae,” Ruth said, dismissing her. “Let us know if anything else occurs to you, or if you hear from Jennifer.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She retreated from the office.

  Ike picked up the phone, frowned, and looked at Ruth.

  “Hit nine, and then that red button,” she said.

  He did and got a dial tone, and punched in his office number.

  “Essie, put Whaite on.”

  “Whaite, did you get anything on the car from the tapes?”

  “Not enough, Ike. We got the make and year, it has New Jersey plates, and we know the last two digits, but that’s all. New Jersey State police are trying to make a match for us, but it’s Sunday and they don’t expect much to pop out today.”

  “Never mind that—call the University of Virginia campus police and get all you can on Jack Trask.”

  “The lacrosse player?”

  “The same. See if they have the car registered—parking sticker application, whatever. Get parents’ names, then get back to New Jersey and see if you come up with anything. Call me as soon as you can.”

  “Will do.” Whaite hung up.

  Ike replaced the phone on the hook and scratched his head. There it was again, that little bell that went off in the back of his head, something someone said, but he just could not put it together.

  “Ike?”

  “It comes and goes…a nagging little thought, but I can’t get it out to look at it. I think it’s important but it just won’t come.” He sat down again and stared at his empty coffee cup.

  “Do you suppose I could have another one of these?” he asked.

  “Sure.…Agnes,” Ruth grumbled into the intercom, “could you bring us two more coffees, please? And is there any sign of Mr. Dillon yet?” Ruth listened and sighed. “Damn,” she said, “I hate waiting.”

  ***

  It was time to move again. Angelo and Grafton slipped out of the Dixie Motel. The two hostages were bundled into the back seat of the car and they drove off.

  Sunday morning and shades were drawn, the parking lot quiet. They headed out of Lexington south toward the Picketsville exit. They would be at the Lee-Jackson for the next two nights.

  “Son of a…” Angelo exploded as the heavy Cadillac limousine roared by them, its smoked windows hiding its occupants. Another, smaller car with government tags followed, and then a state police car followed it in hot pursuit. “Those guys drive like lunatics.” He steadied the wheel and followed, maintaining the posted speed limit.

  Harry watched the retreating cars, wondering if they had something to do with him. The limousine could belong to anyone, and the state police car needed no explanation. The other car, however, could be a problem. He knew a Bureau car when he saw one, and he was pretty sure he recognized the driver. He did not remember the name, but he worked out of the Richmond office. Did they know? He closed his eyes and fought the panic that began to rise from deep inside. No good, he thought, no damned good.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “They’re here, Dr. Harris,” Agnes gushed over the intercom.

  “Send them in, Agnes.”

  The door burst open before she finished, and M. Armand Dillon, flanked by Colonel Scarlett and a short, rumpled, sandy-haired man with FBI written all over him, marched into the office. Dillon struggled with a bulky package wrapped in newspaper.

  “M. Armand Dillon,” he announced to the room, and turning to Ike, said, “You must be Sheriff Schwartz. Excuse me for saying so, no disrespect intended, but that is as unlikely a combination of words as I’ve heard in a long time, right up there with Whoopi Goldberg. This is Dennis Kenny, Richmond FBI, and Colonel Scarlett, state police.”

  “We’ve met,” said Ike.

  “Fine, that takes care of the formalities. Now, Dr. Harris, if you’ll just let us boys use your conference room, we’ll get to work.”

  Dillon breezed out the door and headed toward the adjoining conference room. Ike, Ruth, and the others followed. She pushed the door open and ushered them in.

  Dillon dismissed her with a wave of his hand and seated himself at the head of the table.

  “Coffee, a pot, if possible, and a telephone,” he said to Ruth’s back. She froze in mid-step, her shoulders braced like a marine recruit, and she seemed to grow two inches in height. Ike held his breath. He blushed at the memory of the recent lecture he’d received about women. No more than a second passed, but it seemed an eternity while he waited for the explosion he felt sure was coming. Dillon money or no Dill
on money, Ruth would not let this one pass.

  “Dr. Harris?” Dillon said. “Problem?”

  She spun on her heel and looked at the men standing around the table. Her gaze stopped at Ike. He read the anger in her eyes. She opened her mouth to say something. He stood and, taking her by the arm, guided her to a chair.

  “Mr. Dillon, we need President Harris’ input.”

  “We do?” Dillon caught Ike’s eye, noted the lightning flashing in hers, swallowed, and agreed.

  “Quite right. Dr. Harris, sorry, please join us.”

  She sat in a corner, face flushed and tapping her foot, anger seething like lava just below the surface. Ike pleaded with his eyes. She stared at him, tight-lipped, then nodded and settled back in her chair. Ike prayed Dillon would can the good-ole-boy routine. He would have enjoyed seeing these two have at each other, but not now.

  The others seated themselves on either side of the table. Ike sat across from Scarlett but pulled back from the table, excluding himself from their group. He felt Dillon’s eyes on him. Sizing me up, he thought. Ike turned toward Dillon and returned the stare. M. Armand Dillon peered at Ike through rimless spectacles, the kind with their lenses squared off on the corners. His face was pink and what was left of his hair had retreated to form a red-gray fringe above his ears and neck. He was short and round but Ike guessed very hard and fit. He looked anywhere between fifty and seventy years old. Ike knew from his file that Dillon was over seventy-five. His expression, though genial, Ike thought was very deceptive. Dillon would be easy to underestimate.

  Dillon reached into the upper vest pocket of his gray pin- striped suit and pulled out a box of wooden matches, and a pack of cigarettes, Lucky Strikes, unfiltered.

  “My God,” Ruth said, “I didn’t know they still made those things.”

  “They do, Madam President, and I smoke ’em. Been smoking ’em for over fifty years. They taste wonderful. When I was young, that was sometime just after the Flood, you understand, I spent some of my misguided youth enrolled in the university up the highway from here. One of the upperclassmen took it on himself to teach us freshmen how to drink. ‘If you can’t taste it,’ he said, ‘don’t drink it. You’ve got to know what and how much you’re getting.’ Good advice, by the way. Same holds for cigarettes. I want to taste what I’m getting.”