“Sorry, Sam, Ike is right, couldn’t resist showing off a little. With all you spooks, snoops, spies, and cops, I never get a chance to play in your sandbox and have to take what I can get. So, how many hooks?”
“Twelve in all. Then, there are three alarm clocks, and four electrical outlets all with built-in cameras. I hope they don’t try to plug anything in. They are electrically dead.”
“Why would they? Just as a matter of general information, how many of those things are in my bedroom, and when were they installed?”
“Just two—no, three, and this morning. Don’t worry, your sex life is not about to go public.”
“You’re sure?”
Sam grinned wickedly. “Why would I lie?”
Ruth slumped back in her seat, not mollified. “Ike, when we return to normal, you are to shoot Sam. Maybe I will. It would be self-defense.”
“Only after I’ve seen the videos. If I remember rightly, they just might have some commercial value. Think of all the nouveau célébrités who have launched their dubious careers with a tape like that. Who knows? You could be the next Kardashian.”
“Do that and I will save your enemies the trouble and shoot you myself.”
“Gotcha. No naughty tapes. You hear that, Sam? We switch off after we review what happened today.”
“I planned to, although I must say, from what I’ve heard about you, June Gottleib, I’m surprised you’d be finicky about a measly sex tape. The boys back in the old neighborhood said they have stuff on you that would start a fire, already.”
“Shut up, High-Ho, or you’re walking home.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Billy stepped into Ike’s office, now Frank’s temporary one, and dropped into a chair. He did not look happy. Frank peered over his reading glasses and waited.
“So, I got bad news and some maybe-okay news,” Billy said and dusted the brim of his Stetson against his knee.
“Bad and okay. That doesn’t sound like a very promising start for the day. So, the bad news is?”
“They pulled Karl off the case. Something about him being too personally involved and ‘not objective enough.’ Lot of bullshit, if you ask me.”
“Yeah, maybe, but you’re right. Maybe he was getting too close to something, but it wasn’t Ike. Hell, I don’t know. I mean he’s an FBI agent. That’s all, and an agent who knows Ike, but he doesn’t work here or anything. Somebody must have a special interest in this case and is someplace up high. Jesus, listen to me. I am beginning to sound like some conspiracy theory addict. You’re right, that’s definitely not good news. What’s the okay news?”
“Well, you wanted us to check out all the places where the assassin might have installed the arming device or the bomb in the car. Remember we figured it must have been rigged to go off when a certain mileage point was reached? That way it had to be put in place or set to working pretty close to where it went off. We were thinking Ike must have stopped for gas, or coffee, or something before that. So, anyway, we picked up surveillance footage from every donut shop, filling station, and convenience store within a twenty-mile radius of Picketsville.”
“I’m guessing your okay news is that you found a piece of tape that needs another look.”
“Yeah, you could say that. We found one where he makes a stop that night about fifteen miles up the road. So, if the bomb was planted there, we’d have it on this tape. I don’t know if he made any stops further up, you know, so this might be the one and it might not. I wish Sam was here and not off to wherever Garland the Spook sent her. What’s with that guy, anyway? I mean he’s CIA. He can’t tell us what to do.”
“No, he can’t but since he’s at least four steps ahead of us, and since he has the resources to do stuff that we can’t, he’s taken point and I’m good with that. If he thinks Sam needs to be somewhere else, so be it. What’s on the tape that you think is important?”
“I ain’t that sure. It’s only that Ike stopped long enough for a device to be put on his car. It’s the last place he stops before the last place and we know the thing wasn’t put on there. That makes this one the best bet. The trouble is, I can’t think it’s where it happened because there’s a county cop there at the same time.”
“There’s a cop in the picture? What does he do?”
“That’s it. He don’t do nothing. Ike drives in, gets out, and goes into this, like, 7-Eleven store. Another car pulls in and parks next to him. Right behind that guy, a Rockbridge County Sheriff’s car pulls in and parks crosswise in front of Ike’s car. So, now Ike is, like, blocked in. The deputy gets out of his car and follows Ike into the store. Okay, so far, so good. So then we fast-forward. He and Ike come out together and chat. The cop seems like he’s apologizing for blocking Ike. They talk and then the cop leaves. Ike leaves.”
What do you mean, ‘fast-forward’?”
“We hit the fast-forward button. You know, nothing was happening so we sort of zipped through the middle part.”
“Nothing? You’re sure there was nothing? I want to see that tape, especially the middle part you skipped.”
***
Nothing is ever simple. You order a hit. You pay good money. You have people in place and then the milk goes sour. The hit man needs a cover and so we give him a one of ours and not just anybody. This guy is a policeman who is to provide it for him. So what happens? The bomber gets picked up by the Feds at the airport. What doesn’t a trained killer know about explosive residue and there’re dogs at airports trained to detect it? Idiot. We have to send people to take care of him. Then, the cop whose only job was to stall the Jew sheriff connects the dots and starts acting goosey. He says, “I didn’t sign up for killings.” You provide cover for a guy to plant a bomb and you don’t think somebody is going to be killed? What doesn’t he understand about collateral damage and the greater good? Another idiot. Where do these people come from? Martin Pangborn picked up the phone and punched in a Philadelphia area code and number.
“Bratton, just listen. Don’t talk. You know the public servant we employed to monitor the fireworks display we scheduled last week? Well, he’s not feeling well. You might want to drop in on him to see if he can’t be given some attention. Am I clear?”
The other end went dead. Pangborn relaxed. Problem solved.
***
Frank had the surveillance booted up and running. Four deputies sat in a semicircle watching snowy black-and-white footage roll across the monitor. Someone had left the coffee on too long and the aroma added to the nervous tension in the room.
“There, you see that? The County Sheriff’s Department cruiser is not only blocking Ike’s car, it also blocks the line of sight to it. That’s important. Watch closely down in the corner of the screen. Remember, Ike and the county cop are still inside. Okay, now, we don’t fast-forward this time. So, pay attention to what else is happening with the cars parked side by side. There, you can just make out that the door on the car next to Ike’s opens. See, someone, all hunched over, slips to the driver’s side of Ike’s car, uses a slim Jim to open the door. Wait a second and there, the hood pops. I figure now he goes to work under the dash and then the front seat. He’s pretty quick, like he’s done this before. Now look at the front door of the store. What’s going on?”
“Ike comes out with the cop. They have a chat. Probably apologizing for blocking Ike in.”
“You think that is what the deputy is doing?”
“What else?”
“Come on. What just happened to the car? Don’t you see? He’s stalling Ike. Okay, now the hood on Ike’s car comes down. The guy who’s doing the job on his car slides back in his own car…click, his door closes. He scrunches down in the front seat. Meanwhile, Ike is trying to get to his car but like you said, the county car is in his way. The cop apologizes, blah, blah, blah. The cop gets in his car and drives off. Next, Ike gets in his car and drives off and
right after that, the third car drives off, probably following Ike. There you go. Too bad we don’t get a good look at the bomb-planter’s face.”
“Wouldn’t help. It’s pretty sure to be the guy the FBI had and lost.”
“Better them than us.”
“We need to have a chat with the county cop. Do you have an ID?”
“We have a time stamp, a location, and a car number. Someone will know who was driving that thing.”
***
“Where to now?” Ruth had the backseat of the car all to herself and was busy scanning the digital images on her camera she’d taken earlier. “Please, no more bison burgers. Isn’t there somewhere we can get a salad?”
“We will head to that little town we passed yesterday. There has to be a restaurant, even a franchise fast food would do. What I want is a chance to look at an aerial view of this general area.”
“I brought my laptop,” Sam said. “We’ll do Google Earth or something. If that doesn’t work we’ll try Zillow or one of the more sophisticated programs I can access. What are you looking for?”
“I can’t get that New Star Ranch out of my head. Something there is not kosher. I want to see what lurks behind the gate they are so careful to protect.”
“Look at this,” Ruth said and passed the camera up to Sam. “Does that look like a normal cow bell to you?”
“Cowbell? On a steer? They don’t bell steers. That’s a dairy farm thing.”
“Tell me, Sheriff, just how would you know that?”
“My father has a farm, remember?”
“But he doesn’t work it. He rents it out. So, how?”
“I get around. I read, I—”
“You mean you watch old movies. That’s how you know, or think you know. Ma and Pa Kettle Down on the Farm, or something with Marjorie Main, anyway,” Ruth said.
“What do you know about Marjorie Main?”
“I peeked at your Classic DVD collection, that’s what. Among other titles she played Ma Kettle.”
“She did. Sequel to The Egg and I, if memory serves.”
“You’re kidding. The egg and…what?”
“Whatever,” Sam said. “Moving on, this thing on the cow’s, sorry, steer’s neck looks vaguely like a bell, but I’d bet my next-born that it is a surveillance device of some sort.”
“A surveillance device in a bell?”
“Like my coat hooks or your Poe letter. Who’d suspect? It will record a day’s grazing or whatever time is built into it. The owner stops and downloads the video, checks the batteries, and sends Bossie off on her or his way. They’d have a record of anything or anybody who happened to come by or who trespassed. More important, they could track frequent visitors.”
“Sheesh, we are living in George Orwell’s world.”
“Have been for years,” Ike said. “The question is, what the hell is going on at the New Star Ranch that requires that level of security, and why do I think I should know something about it?”
“I need a salad and you two can visit Google Earth and maybe we’ll find out,” Ruth said and flopped back in her seat.
***
From the Richmond Times Dispatch:
Rockbridge County Sheriff’s Deputy Thomas J. (Tommy) Frieze, a Marine Corps veteran with three tours in Iraq, a Bronze Star, and two Sheriff’s Commendation Citations, was killed in a roadside shooting this afternoon. State Police Commander Colonel Jason Scarlett, speaking for the Governor, stated that Deputy Frieze was in the process of making a routine stop for a minor traffic violation when he was senselessly shot. The assailant fired his pistol for no apparent reason and fled the scene. As yet, State Police have no leads and no suspects. Deputy Frieze is survived by his wife, Jannetta, two children, ages 10 and 13, and his parents, all of Lexington.
County police have yet to determine a motive and an investigation is ongoing.
Chapter Twenty-three
“Our funny cop is dead. I heard it on the radio just now. They said that someone shot the deputy we know was at the 7- Eleven that night. He was gunned down this afternoon during a routine 10-38 outside Buena Vista out east on Route 60 past the town line.” Billy scratched his head.
“That don’t make sense.”
Frank swiveled around in his chair. “He pulled over to have a chat with someone driving suspiciously and the guy just shot him? Wait a minute. Is there dash cam footage?”
“Don’t know. You want me to make a call?”
“Yeah. No. Wait a minute. If we call, they will want to know why and I’m not ready to speculate on whether he was involved in the installation of that bomb.”
“Not ready. Jesus, Frank, what more do you need? You said yourself that he must have been the guy.”
“I did and I do believe it. I just don’t want to go public with it yet. We need some background on him and if we start asking questions now, everybody will have their nose out of joint about people slinging mud at a hero. You know how it goes. Someone dies LOD and then another person says, ‘Yes, but…’ and the cops all clam up and people write angry Letters to the Editor, and…let’s wait. Give Karl a shot at this. LEOs expect Feebs to act like horses’ asses. When that happens, we will have a better shot at getting what we want. We’ll be sympathetic listeners.”
“Karl’s off the case, remember.”
“I do. He’s riding a desk in DC. He has access to all kinds of stuff up there and nobody to question why he’s in the file room or whatever they do to access files.
“I gotta say it, Frank. You are sounding more and more like Ike every day. That’s supposed to be a good thing, by the way.”
“I’m flattered. All I have been doing this last week is asking myself, what would Ike do? How would Ike react? I tell you, Billy, it isn’t easy. He makes it look easy, but it’s not. Maybe for him it is, but I am worn out trying to stay ahead of events.”
“I reckon Ike might say the same thing if he was asked. “
“Maybe. So, what else have you learned watching Ike over the years?”
“Ike taught me there is nothing wrong about sleepovers with the right woman.”
“Jesus, Billy, that’s it?”
“Naw, but come on Frank, you need to relax a little here.”
“Yeah, so okay, now what do we do? Our best lead is dead. We can’t hassle his family. What?”
“If the county sheriff runs his outfit like any other cop shop, someone in it did not like…What’s his name?
“Tommy Frieze.”
“We need to find who didn’t like Frieze and do some digging. Can you handle that?”
“Yeah, maybe. Frank, I ain’t told Essie about Ike being alive yet. If I keep it off the table, can Essie help me out? She is going batshit crazy out at Ma’s with them kids. She needs to do something. She feels really left out.”
“You really haven’t told her yet?”
“No. I got to thinking how she’d react and all the ‘what ifs’ that are hanging over our heads, and decided not to say anything just yet. It ain’t been easy, for sure. So can she?”
“Do you think you can keep the Ike thing quiet?”
“I have so far.”
“Okay, then you and Essie find an excuse to talk to some of those county guys, go pay your condolences at the Rockbridge Sheriff’s Office or something. Ask if there’s going to be a cavalcade, if so, when…stuff like that, and poke around. See what you can find out. Talk to his friends and his not-so friends. Everybody has something on them, good or bad, that people want to talk about. Whatever it is, it could lead somewhere. But, hey, be careful. The last thing we need is for people to find out Ike is alive. Got it?”
“Got it. Essie will be happy.”
***
The Gottleibs, that is to say, Ruth, Ike, and Sam, found a coffee shop with delusions of grandeur signaled by a sign over the door w
hich announced it as: One Step Up (From St*rb*cks). Whether they thought the asterisks protected them from copyright infringement lawsuits or they were just being cute wasn’t clear. What did seem certain was that the real St*rb*cks had nothing to worry about. They ordered coffees and settled in a booth across from four young men whose eyes strayed from their laptops only long enough to sip at their coffee or drag on something that looked like an old-fashioned cigarette holder held in their teeth but didn’t seem to have a cigarette inserted in the end. On cue from somewhere out in the ether, they exhaled a cloud of what looked like smoke. There was no tobacco odor in the room, however.
“Somebody tell me what they’re doing.” Ike said.
Ruth turned her head to look. “Googling and vapeing, I’d say.”
“Say what?”
“Come on, Ike. Where have you been? People who can’t give up smoking, buy those electronic things that produce a nicotine-loaded vapor. They inhale it and blow it out. Vapeing.”
“I’m glad I’m dead.”
A young man with a scraggly beard and a nine-millimeter pistol strapped to his hip stepped up to the order station and asked for a caramel-mocha frappuccino with extra whip.
“Can someone tell me what is it with men and open-carry guns?” Ruth said.
“It is about their sense of sexual insecurity,” Sam said as she rummaged through her rucksack. “It’s debilitating to the point of emasculation. Psychologically, the gun is like a new set of balls.”
“You’re not being just a tiny bit judgmental there, Trixie.”
“I call ’em as I see ’em.” Sam found what she was looking for and plunked a thin file on the table. “Here’s what I got on something called the Fifty-first Star. I think this must be the connection you’re looking for.”
“In three sentences, what’s it say?”
“Three? You’re joking, right? Okay, here goes. They are one of those militant, ‘patriot’ militias. They are on the NSA watch list as a possible domestic terrorist group but at the same time have political connections that keep them insulated from close scrutiny. Their ostensible leader is someone called Drexel Franks, who is a longtime crank caller of note to nearly every newspaper and politician in the country, and they have deep pockets. That’s three. You need to read this. Do you know a corporate big shot named Martin Pangborn?”
The Vulture Page 12
