Ice Cap: A Mystery (Jackie Swaitkowski Mysteries)

by Chris Knopf

  “What do you think?” said Burton, dropping into an iron love seat and looking around the room.

  “Could use a little color.”

  “My thought exactly. But which?”

  Somehow Isabella had managed to follow directly behind us with a rolling tea cart, transporting tiny sandwiches, bite-sized pastries, and a large coffee urn with matching creamer and sugar bowl.

  I waited for the spoils to be distributed before lousing up the pleasant mood.

  “I was assaulted last night by two guys. I thought they were going to kill me,” I said, then took a bite of my wheat-bread-and-tuna-fish sandwich wedge.

  Burton asked me to elaborate, and I did at some length, starting with a review of the Raffini case and including my brush with The New York Times and subsequent escape to the French restaurant that almost worked out as well as I’d hoped.

  “And you’d seen them before at the entrance to your office,” he said.

  “At the outside door, though I only got a good look at one of them last night. I didn’t see his face, but the body type lines up.”

  Burton looked at me over the top of his coffee mug. “So how are you doing?” he asked.

  “Fine. I can’t afford to be otherwise. I need to save Franco Raffini.”

  “You’re not his savior. You’re his attorney.”

  “Technicalities,” I said. “Do you know Ivor Fleming?”

  “Only by reputation. Though I thought he’d retired from the crime business.”

  “That’s what Sam said.”

  “Sam would know,” said Burton. “They’ve had dealings.”

  “Any guesses?” I asked.

  He thought about it, then shook his head. “Not a clue. Though I fear for your devotion to Mr. Raffini. I have my doubts about the man.”

  “So do I,” I said. “But they can’t get in the way.”

  “By all means, he deserves the utmost effort, which I know you’ll provide. I just want you to be guarded from disappointment. He may have had the misfortune of two false accusations of nearly identical character in a row, but that doesn’t preclude the possibility that he’s guilty of something.”

  That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I put up my hands as if to ward off the thought.

  “I can’t think that way, Burt,” I said. “Not now.”

  “Of course not. You’re right. Though it would be a simple matter to hand the case over to another of our attorneys. Your relationship with the victim could raise questions. You could withdraw on ethics grounds.”

  I hadn’t thought about that, obvious though it was.

  “I guess that’s your call, Burt.”

  “It would only be an issue if they convict. Franco could appeal on the basis of ineffective assistance of counsel. That you gave it less than your all.”

  “But that’s not going to happen,” I said, with far more confidence than I felt.

  “Of course,” said Burton, and then changed the subject. “What should we do about Fleming? Approaching you is unacceptable.”

  “I’m subcontracting that one to Sam.”

  “Splendid idea. As long as he confines himself to legal means. You don’t need another front opening in the midst of the current battle. More coffee?”

  We sipped in silence for a few moments, then he said, “You seem unusually discomfited.”

  “I’m not comfited, that’s for sure.”

  There are plenty of times when I feel my emotions are a lot smarter than my brain. The trouble with feelings, however, is they’re mute. They just sit there, somewhere between your throat and the pit of your stomach, agitating for some cause, grousing away, resisting some belief held firmly by the rational mind upstairs. Your mind, unfortunately, has all the verbal chops. It natters at you in your own voice, trying to convince you that those subterranean grumbles are meaningless, or imagined, or both.

  “What if I prove him guilty,” I asked. “To myself. Beyond a reasonable doubt. What then?”

  Burton’s handsome face, ever kindly and vaguely amused, warmed another few degrees. He opened one of the tiny sandwiches and studied the interior. Marginally satisfied, he closed the two slices of bread back up and wolfed it down whole.

  “Keep it to yourself, and when the time comes, you’ll know what to do.”

  The sun must have found a cloud, because the crystalline room and the sterile desolation outside suddenly turned a surly dark gray. A gust of ocean wind stirred up the powdery snow and sent a spray against the tall glass walls. Burton turned in his seat to look over his shoulder, and together we waited for the breeze to recede and the sunlight to reassert its dominance over the day. However tentative and irresolute.

  10

  After I briefed him over the phone, Sam made a feeble attempt to persuade me to stay home and let him handle the situation on his own. I didn’t dignify that with a response.

  “When do we go and who’s driving?” I said instead.

  “Wheels up from my place at two P.M. We’ll take Amanda’s pickup. Four-wheel drive.”

  “Isn’t that truck an inconspicuous fire-engine red?”

  “You can’t have everything.”

  “Though you do have a plan.”

  “I do. We’ll discuss it on the way. Wear something dark and bring the artillery.”

  In an interesting about-face, the wind had shifted to the southeast overnight, bringing in much warmer temperatures and a steady, soaking downpour of rain. Even under the best of conditions, the drainage in the Hamptons is barely adequate because we’re at sea level and municipally disinclined to make big investments in crucial infrastructure. With the ground still frozen and natural spillways clogged with snow, the only place for the rain to go was into spontaneously formed ponds and improvised rivers, some more like torrents cutting off streets and highways and turning basements into indoor swimming pools.

  Luckily, I anticipated the chaos on the roadways and left early for Sam’s, choosing a rolling back-road route through open fields and sparsely developed rural habitats. This actually took me within spitting distance of Tad Buczek’s place, and I caught a glimpse of one of his gnarly sculptures through the naked tree limbs and sheets of rain. I’d made the right choice, however, dodging excess traffic and fording only a few shallow streams, thus landing at Sam’s driveway ten minutes ahead of time. He was ready with a thermos of coffee and a little soft cooler filled with cheese and fruit prepared by his girlfriend, Amanda.

  “I never let him ride off on dangerous missions without sustenance,” she said, handing me the cooler.

  “Who said anything about dangerous?” asked Sam, tucking in his battered canvas shirt as he walked into the kitchen.

  “No one said anything,” said Amanda. “I just assumed.”

  Amanda was in many ways my morphological opposite: dark, slim as a wisp, and sharp-featured, as if her face had been sculpted out of a chunk of mahogany. By a very good sculptor. At least six years older than me; it didn’t show. Sam loved her, which to me was her greatest attribute. Me, she tolerated, as you would a troublesome stray your partner had indulgently let sleep in the toolshed.

  “We’re just going for a little look-see,” said Sam. “Be back before daybreak.”

  Eddie walked stiffly into the kitchen from the screened-in porch, saw it was only me, wagged his tail for a few languid seconds, then walked back the way he came.

  “Nice to see you, too,” I called to him.

  “There’s plenty of fuel in the truck, though I imagine you can find more along the way,” said Amanda.

  “Thanks for letting us borrow it,” I said.

  “Not at all. Sam has extended me the use of his ’67 Pontiac. Not a bad exchange when you consider weather conditions.”

  Those conditions had no intention of letting up as we drove west on Route 27, the four-lane artery you picked up around Hampton Bays. From there you traveled through Long Island’s pine barrens. Far smaller than the ones in New Jersey, but enough to convey the sense that there
was a natural buffer between the twin forks and the rest of the island, saturated as it was with rampant and haphazard development.

  Neither of us felt like talking, the silence filled in by the wind noise and chattering rain. I occupied myself with my coffee and bites of fruit and cheese from Amanda’s provisions. It wasn’t until we were nearly at Fleming’s plant in Massapequa that I asked Sam to lay out his plan.

  “Not much to tell you,” he said. “It’s simple. We wait in the visitors’ section of the parking lot for Ike and Connie to leave the building, which they do at around five o’clock. We follow one of them home. My suggestion is Ike. We can get his take on things before pestering his boss. He’s the brains of the operation, meaning he’s got about two-thirds of normal mental capacity. Plus he lives alone in an apartment. Connie’s got a wife and a bunch of kids, unfortunately. Think of the impact on the gene pool.”

  “You know an awful lot about these guys.”

  “Known them for years. And I was over here yesterday freshening the data.”

  “That wasn’t the deal,” I said flatly.

  “Just reconnaissance, Jackie. Save the umbrage for better things.”

  I would have pushed harder, but I was distracted by the view outside. Though partially obscured by the veil of rain, the congested, chaotic terrain of Nassau County was now distinctive for an unexpected reason. Almost no snow. The weather people had emphasized that the storm that hit the East End had come up from the southwest and largely spared the rest of New York State. But it was still a shock to see clear roads and sidewalks and the occasional patch of grass, mostly brown and disheveled though it was.

  Ivor’s business, called General Resource Recovery, blended in well with the local ambience. The parking lot was inside a rusty chain-link fence. Sam drove right to his preselected parking spot with the perfect view of the front entrance to the plant’s office complex. Behind us was an area dedicated to staging giant heaps of tangled metal, which were fed into the plant by hooks riding on overhead conveyors. According to Sam, after going through a sorting process, mashed-up cubes of raw scrap came out the other end, where they were stacked and loaded into shipping containers.

  “Turning lead into gold,” said Sam. “Fleming finally figured out how.”

  “So why risk it all with bad behavior?” I asked. “And are you sure we’re safe just sitting here?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ve done this twice now, and no one’s ever bothered me. I think it’s the audacity factor. Everyone assumes you’d have to be out of your mind to pull any crap on Ivor Fleming.”

  “Oh, good. Comforting. And the first question?”

  “Birds gotta fly, fish gotta swim,” he said.

  “Sociopaths gotta lie, cheat, and steal?”

  “And sell drugs, murder people, and listen to public radio without contributing a single dime.”

  Before leaving the office I did a quick search on Ivor and his company. From the first page it was clear. Press reports of endless accusations, charges levied and overturned. Alleged association with conspiracies and organized crime. Countering denials, belligerent silences, and affronted protests of innocence. Blah, blah, blah. The net of it all was that Ivor exhibited the same genius at thwarting prosecutors as he had for drawing their attention in the first place.

  Then a few years ago things changed. The only hits connected to Fleming involved employees at General Resource Recovery. One guy rushed by helicopter to the city after being injured at the plant. Another pitching a winning game in the softball league. Others were pictured at Rotary events or proudly greeting dazed-looking exchange students. No mention of Ike or Connie.

  The clock hit five, and a few minutes later people started coming out of the building. It was a thin and steady stream, ideal for scrutinizing possible candidates. Sam spotted Connie first, striding out with a woman about his height and girth. I was relieved to see him peel off and head for his car, for no good reason. Maybe his wife would be better off if he pursued other options.

  Soon after that, Sam tapped me on the forearm. “There he is.”

  And he was. A tallish guy in a long, unbuttoned raincoat over a suit with a dark blue shirt and silver tie. His features were decidedly African, though his skin was more a diluted orange and his hair, tightly curled, was sandy red.

  When Ike reached his car, Sam drifted out of his parking space and pulled up to the end of Ike’s row. We saw him back out, and were able to slide in behind him as he turned right out of the lot.

  Sam’s philosophy on tailing a car with only one vehicle: it’s better to lose your quarry than get caught. So he stayed well behind and allowed cars to get between us. Ike was in a white 3 Series BMW, which was easy to keep in view as long as he didn’t feel like exercising the car’s performance characteristics.

  And this is how it went for about ten miles, before Ike turned into a little town house complex called Ocean Highlands. I looked around the flat, landlocked location and thought, Right … how about Strip Mall View, or Toxic Waste Court?

  Sam waited until Ike was parked before driving into the lot and zipping into an empty spot. He shut off the engine and put his hand on the door handle.

  “Timing is important here, so stay close and keep your hand on the gun.”

  “In case something goes wrong?” I asked.

  “If something goes wrong, shoot me for being stupid enough to let it happen.”

  “Okay. I can do that.”

  “Don’t enjoy it too much,” he said, then jumped out of the truck and walked fast toward one of the town houses. Ike was in front of us, searching through a jam-packed key ring. Sam slowed a few steps until Ike selected a key and moved with confidence toward the door. Sam broke into a remarkably quiet run, given all the puddles on the sidewalk, so Ike had no idea what was coming when he turned the lock and started to open the door.

  Sam flat-handed Ike’s head into the door, sounding off a crack I could easily hear ten paces behind. The momentum of Sam’s approach propelled them both into the apartment, Ike falling forward and Sam landing on top of him. I raced to close the gap, and slammed the door behind me. It was dark inside the apartment, but light enough to see Sam gripping Ike’s curly sand-colored hair and twisting the guy’s right arm behind his back. Ike yelled something, but his words were muffled, his face stuffed into the carpet. Sam told him to shut up while he patted him down, eventually coming up with a stubby little chrome-plated revolver and a slender knife inside a leather sheath, both of which he stuck in his pocket.

  “Any other goodies I need to know about?” Sam asked the pinned man.

  Ike shook his head and said a muted version of “And fuck you,” unmistakable words, even if you didn’t catch every consonant.

  I found a light switch and turned it on. I pulled out the Glock and pointed it at Ike’s head, being careful to keep my index finger along the barrel and well away from the trigger. Sam told Ike he was letting go but not to make any sudden moves that could spook the girl holding the gun. Sam rose slowly and Ike followed, slower still.

  When they were both on their feet, Sam slid off Ike’s raincoat, then pulled his suit coat partway down his arms, yanked him over to a couch, and sat him down. We stayed standing.

  “You still got a death wish,” Ike said to Sam.

  “As yet unconsummated. You guys build up expectations and then just disappoint.”

  Ike leaned down and used his limited mobility to touch the egg that was beginning to form on his forehead.

  “You mind telling me what this is about?” he said.

  “Recognize my colleague here?” said Sam, pointing at me, the aforementioned girl with the gun.

  Ike looked, then shook his head. “Never seen her.”

  “You’ve seen her back door,” said Sam. “We got you on video.”

  He dropped the printout of the video capture on Ike’s lap. Ike looked at it, then up at Sam.

  “There’re easier ways to have a conversation,” he said.

&
nbsp; I had to agree with Ike on that one, though I had much more important information to convey. I gestured for Sam to move closer. When he did, I whispered in his ear.

  “It’s not the guy,” I said. “In the parking lot at the restaurant. Totally different voice.”

  You had to know Sam well enough to interpret the little “huff” sound as a laugh. As usual, it was both comforting and a little annoying that he found the current situation amusing.

  “No shit,” he whispered back in my ear.

  “Not even close. This guy sounds like an alto in the boys’ choir. You could break down doors with that other guy’s voice.”

  “Okay. Not a problem. Ike was still at your back door. We can stick with that for now.”

  “Excuse me,” said Ike. “Can I get in on the conversation?”

  “We’re talking about you,” said Sam. “You should be honored.”

  “Yeah, right. Fuck you again.”

  “We want to know why you were at Jackie’s back door. And didn’t ring the bell. How come?”

  “That’s Mr. Fleming’s business to tell,” said Ike. “We just follow orders.”

  “So he sent you there,” I said.

  “Oh, she speaks,” said Ike. “I thought she was just the only one of you pussies who could handle a gun.”

  “A more respectful tone would be in your interest,” I said to him.

  Ike shrugged. “Listen, we work for Mr. Fleming. He tells us to pay a call on somebody, we pay a call. All he wanted was to scope out where you lived, get a bead on you. Soon as we saw the security shit, we backed off. That’s it.” He looked at me. “I don’t think Mr. Fleming was aware you were friends with Charles Bronson here. Otherwise he might’ve taken a different approach. I don’t know, I’m just saying.”

  “Why the interest in Jackie?” asked Sam.

  Ike enjoyed saying what he said next. “Oh, so you think Mr. Fleming says to himself, I gotta project I’m thinkin’ on, but I better not go ahead with nothin’ till I consult with Ike, my most trusted adviser. ‘Yo, Ike, you got time for me to give you a detailed briefing on my personal and professional business plans? If it ain’t too inconvenient, of course.’”