1 - Artscape: Ike Schwartz Mystery 1 (17 page)

“Wow,” she said, eyes glazed.

“Wow, indeed,” he replied and kissed her again. Ruth shivered. The Fairy Ring twinkled at her feet, circled, closed, and began to weave its magic.

“You know where this could lead, Sheriff?”

“I hope so.”

***

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 Dillon 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.”

He struck a kitchen match and lit his cigarette, exhaled a plume of smoke, and spit a tobacco shred from his lip. Ruth rolled her eyes, got up and opened a window.

Agnes entered and placed a tray with five cups, a pot of coffee, creamer, sugar, and spoons on the table. She left and returned with another tray with half a dozen limp Danish, left and returned a third time with a telephone, which she plugged into the wall-jack.

“Thank you, Miss…?” Dillon said, and gave her one of his snaggle-toothed smiles.

“Ewalt. Agnes Ewalt,” Agnes twittered and left.

“Okay, Kenny, what have you got?” he shot at the FBI man.

Kenny began a long and technical report, which Dillon interrupted after a minute.

“Never mind that crap,” he said. “Just tell me the big stuff. Who are these people and what do they want?”

“They call themselves the New Jihad and they want fifty million dollars,” Kenny replied.

“I know all that, man,” Dillon barked, “but who, what, where, can you give me some specifics?”

Kenny flushed. Ike could not tell if it was from anger or embarrassment.

“Well, sir, as nearly as we can make it out, they are a terrorist group, a splinter of what is left of Al Qaida, the same bunch that tried to break into the library in New York. They are holding your pictures for ransom. You are to go on local television tomorrow night and read a prepared statement denouncing yourself and your militaristic industrialist friends, apologize for a variety of so-called crimes, and agree to pay fifty million dollars in reparations to them.” Kenny recited his piece like a well-rehearsed schoolboy.

“Good Lord, son, I know all that, too. What I want to know is, are these the same ones who stole my paintings? Any crackpot whose been watching the news could have written a ransom note. Do you think these are the people?” Dillon demanded.

“Yes, sir,” Kenny said, “I do.”

“You agree, Scarlett?”

“Could be,” the colonel replied. Scarlett had a genius for not having a firm opinion on anything.

“How about you, Sheriff?”

Ike let his gaze shift out the window. The sun beat on the wisteria outside and made the light filtered through it a pale blue. He thought of moonlight and caught himself drifting into the previous night.

“Sheriff? You with us?”

“I don’t think the robbery was pulled off by the New Jihad, no. sir,” Ike replied. Kenny’s head snapped around to stare at him. He had to be careful. He wanted to maintain his jurisdictional control, and he wanted to know why Kenny, who should know better by now, wanted to sell the theory that the terrorists were also the thieves.

“Why not?” Dillon asked. His voice quieted and the bark seemed at bay.

“This was a professional job, Mr. Dillon, a very professional job. Whoever planned it had some high-powered talent, not the sort you find in terrorist groups. More like the folks who work for Mr. Kenny here. And don’t forget, the New Jihad is the same crowd that botched the New York Library job.”

“You got a problem with that, Kenny?” Dillon asked, eyebrows arched, forming parentheses on his forehead.

“Well.” Kenny hesitated, frowned and shot Ike a look. “We believe, sir, with all due respect to the sheriff here, that information from the Bureau is a little better than what can be generated out here in the boondocks.”

“Sheriff?” Dillon looked back at Ike, eyebrows up.

“I’ll stick with my analysis and,” he added, looking at Kenny, “my sources.” So Kenny knows about Harold Grafton, Ike thought, and the Bureau wants to cover its collective rear end. I would hate to be in Grafton’s shoes if they get to him before I do.

“Next question is for you, Kenny, since you are so sure of things—are they serious? Will they burn the pictures?”

“No, sir, we are pretty sure they won’t. They are a small group and an act like that would lead us straight to them.”

“Positive about that, are you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then explain this.” Dillon peeled the newspaper from the package he’d carried into the room. He laid the charred remains of a painting on the conference table.

“It’s a small Chardin, not a very good one, either. Its provenance is a little shaky and I never liked it, but there is no question it has been torched. You agree?”

Kenny swallowed. “I, uh, we didn’t know about that.…”

“You don’t know a lot about too many things, son. Your boss knew about it. Didn’t he tell you?”

“I guess he must have.” Kenny slouched down in his chair and looked like he wanted to disappear.

“Either way, what do I do? Kenny? Scarlett? Sheriff? Dr. Harris, you have a thought or two for us?” Ruth shook her head and looked at Ike.

“The Bureau thinks you should pay the ransom.” Kenny burst in. “We will set up surveillance at the drop, or whatever, and when they come to get it we will apprehend them.”

“Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir, we can.”

“Colonel Scarlett?”

Scarlett agreed. Dillon asked a series of logistical questions. The phone rang. Dillon snatched the receiver off the hook.

“Hello?” he rasped. “He’s right here.” He handed the phone to Ike. “It’s for you.”

“We got a make on the car, Ike.” Whaite said. “You were right. It’s Trask’s and registered in his father’s name in Saddle River. I put an APB out on it.”

“Thanks. Get the boys working on it, will you? It’s important. I want that car.”

“Sheriff?” Dillon asked as Ike replaced the phone in the cradle.

“There was a car parked near the bunker during the robbery. We think they got it and the people in it.”

“Hostages? Kidnapping?” Kenny, confidence restored, sat up and licked his lips. “That makes it ours, Sheriff.”

“Maybe. No one has been reported missing. We have not received a ransom note. We have no evidence that they are in custody anywhere or left the state, just supposition so far. For their sake,” he added, “I hope you’re right. That means they are alive. Much as I hate losing control of this investigation to you, I’d rather do that than keep it so I could work a triple homicide.”

Dillon was becoming impatient. “I do not give a diddle-dam about who does what here,” he snapped. “I want to know what I’m supposed to do next. You, Kenny, want to set a trap baited with my fifty million, that right?”

“Yes, sir,” Kenny said.

“And the state police will cooperate and back the Bureau up. Is that right, Colonel?”

“As best as we can,” Scarlett said.

Dillon swiveled around in his chair and stared out the window. The room fell silent. A beetle flew through the open window and zigzagged the length of the room. It made a sharp right turn at the wall and circled, gained altitude, bounced twice against the ceiling, and nosed over into a power dive. It landed with a soft plop in Kenny’s coffee cup.

“Kamikaze,” said Scarlett. “Must be a Japanese beetle.”

It was the first time Ike had ever heard Jack Scarlett say anything remotely funny. Scarlett took the opportunity to remove a large wad of chewing tobacco from his jaw and put it in the coffee cup with the beetle.

Kenny fidgeted like a hunting dog waiting to be turned loose. He wanted the operation, and his urgency overflowed into his speech, his posture. Dillon turned and inspected him, the way an entomologist inspects a bug, interested, curious, but all the while withholding judgment until he has time to think, classify, identify, and then stick a pin in it. He glanced at Ike and then turned back to Kenny.

“Mr. Kenny, you act like a young lad who has to go to the bathroom. Either learn to hold it, or raise your hand. I need a little more time here and a cooler head than yours.”

Kenny’s always flushed face turned a shade redder.

“Why don’t you and the Colonel slip down to the cafeteria and get yourself a cup of coffee or something, about a half hour’s worth of something. The sheriff and I will chat a bit and then I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. Dr. Harris, I reckon you might want to stay, too, but if you have other—”

“I’ll stay. I’ve watched the sheriff work over people. I want to see how he manages you.”

“Pardon?”

“Thank you, Mr. Dillon, but on second thought, I’ll get back to my desk. Ike, try to behave yourself.”

“What was that all about, Sheriff?”