1 - Artscape: Ike Schwartz Mystery 1 (19 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

Ike heard the squeal of brakes that announced the arrival of Billy Sutherlin.

“For crying out loud,” Ike grumbled, “how many times do I have to tell him? He drives like a Baghdad taxi hack. Billy,” Ike yelled as he entered, “I’ve told you a hundred times not to drive like that.”

“How do, Ike. Hi, beautiful. Got something for you-all.”

Billy was the youngest of Ike’s deputies and the most unpredictable. He was bright, resourceful, and had a boyish charm that enabled him to find out things that were forever concealed from others on the force. He folded his blond, lanky frame into an old oak swivel chair and beamed, waiting for Ike to ask.

“Okay, Billy,” Ike sighed, “what have you got?”

“Well, first of all, Rosalie down at the Shop ‘n Save says she might have seen one of your guys on Saturday, the gray-haired one, buying clothes. I showed her the picture like you said.”

“Clothes? What kind of clothes?” Ike asked.

“Well now, that’s the funny part, Ike. Rosalie said he was buying women’s clothes, underwear, and stuff like that. Oh, and a pair of jeans. Said he didn’t seem too sure about sizes. She got the idea he was guessing—buying for someone he didn’t know too well.”

“Women’s clothes. You’re sure of that?” Ike asked.

“Don’t know too many guys around here go in for brassieres and panties.”

“That’s good news, I think,” Ike said.

“You think that means the hostages are still alive?” Essie broke in. “At least one of them?”

“Yes, I hope so.”

“It might mean that whoever got them cares about them some, too,” she added.

There was that, too. An astute observation, not one he or Billy would make. The woman’s touch, he thought, and remembered Ruth’s lecture about hiring a woman.

“What else?” Ike turned back to Billy.

“What?”

“You started this by saying, ‘first of all.’ When you do that, it means there’s a ‘second’ to follow.”

“Oh, yeah.” Billy scratched his head and thought a moment. “I’m not sure this is as much help, but you can never tell. The county boys been checking the motels hereabouts and they didn’t get anything positive. But one of them heard from the girl at Burger King that the big guy might have been in for food—carry out. Enough for a dozen folks, she said. Figured you’d want to know he was close.”

“Maybe. He could be anybody, in fact, so could the guy at the Shop ’n Save. We are supposing the two I saw at the diner are involved and that these two are the same ones. It’s kind of thin.”

“Yeah, I expect so, but she did say when he paid, he emptied his pockets to get some change, and she noticed the keys. He had motel keys. You know, they got those plastic tags?”

“Which motel?” Ike was alert.

“Motels, Ike—different ones, she thought, because the shape and color of the plastic parts were different. She only saw the one good enough to tell. It was the
Azalea, up near Lexington.”

“Okay, Billy, get up there and check it out, and see what you can make on the other keys. Have her describe them, then check all of the motels around to see if you can find a match.”

“Right, I’m on it.” Billy launched himself into motion toward the door, clapping his Stetson on his head.

“Slowly,” Ike shouted at his retreating back, and then winced as the door’s slamming drowned out his words, winced again when he heard the roar of the car’s engine, and shook his head at the squeal of tires.

He eased himself behind his desk and stared at the files and mail that had accumulated in the past three days, four if you count Sunday. He faced another Monday and thought how different this one felt compared to two weeks ago. That day he had met the formidable Dr. Ruth Harris. Now they were lovers. He guessed that would be what people would say about them. “I want you to meet ‘my friend.’ She’s on vacation with her ‘friend.’” What a culture. There were no boundaries. People moved in and out of relationships as easily as they changed socks. Commitment, if it ever came, ranked last on the list of things people wanted. He wondered how he felt about that. He guessed he did not like it very much, but he also guessed it would be the only arrangement Ruth would consider now, maybe ever. He decided he would think about that later. Right now, he wanted to savor the moment. He had spent most of the previous night at Ruth’s again, and the memory made him smile.

Essie poked her head in the door. “Hate to break in on whatever thoughts are giving you that unnaturally nice expression this morning, but the phone is for you.”

“Got it, thanks.”

“You have the warrant?” Sam, the computer whiz.

“I do. You ready to tell me something?”

“Phone safe?”

“Sam, this is Picketsville, not Washington.”

“Right. Just checking. You ready? The letter was typed on a computer in the history of art department.”

“You’re sure?”

“I tell you this, the guy’s sharp, knows the system backward and forward.”

“But you got him? It is a him?”

“Absolutely. But it took a while. The sneaky bastard—see, what he did was to wait until the student letter print job ended. Then he called up the file, deleted the text, pasted in his text and printed it out, went to the printer, collected his copy. He closed the file without saving the changes—that meant the original text got put back and ta-dah—he’s done and out clean—no trace. I didn’t tumble to that until I saw we had one too many copies. Not something you’d notice right away. See, the log did note the file for the letter had been called up and where. No big deal but, under the circumstances…anyway, I traced the workstation and then…well, you don’t want to know.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I inspected his hard drive and found the deleted document, downloaded it and printed it out. Oh, and I froze the file on his hard drive if we have to go back for it again.”

“You hacked your way into his machine.”

“Some might say that.”

“But you got the guy and you’re sure?”

“Yep.”

“Who, Sam? Who is he?”

“Oh, right, it was typed on Sergei Bialzac’s machine.”

“That doesn’t mean he wrote it, of course. Anyone with a key to his office could have done it.”

“Well, that’s not true either.”

“Why ‘not true’?”

“How complete is your warrant? Does it cover just the computer stuff, or is it broader?”

“Sam, I don’t believe this. It covers everything I could think of this morning—papers, files, personnel records, you name it. I can get the cafeteria cook’s recipes if I want them.”

“Trust me, I eat there, you don’t want them. Okay, here’s the second piece. Bialzac got permission to have his office single-keyed.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he has the only key. No one else could have gotten in and used his machine.”

“They could break in.”

“Possible. The lock was easy to pick.”

“Sam, you’re a wonder. How can I thank you?”

“Offer me a job.”

“Excuse me?”

“Offer me a job. Picketsville may be small potatoes now, but with the industrial park coming in the next year or two, you’re going to need me.”

Now how did she find out about the park? Nobody in town, not even the mayor knew about that. Then he remembered her skill with computers. She was right, he could use her.

“Get back to you on that,” he said and hung up.

“Essie,” he shouted through the glass door, “who’s close?”

“Billy, but he’s looking into those key thingies.”

“Oh right. Then call Whaite and tell him to pick up Sergei Bialzac, B-I-A-L-Z-A-C. I don’t know where he lives, maybe in
the Meadows. Look it up.”

Then he remembered.

“And get me Millie Thompkins at the college.”

Five minutes passed and his phone buzzed.

“Millie, a couple of weeks ago you were struggling with that new phone system, remember?”

“Not were, Ike, am. The dang thing is crazy. Why we have to have all this new stuff when the old stuff worked just fine is beyond me. I must be getting old.”

“Millie, you are ageless. Try to remember—on that day you placed a call for someone to New Jersey. Do you happen to remember who?”

“Well, let me see. I write those numbers down on a pad right here. If I haven’t torn off the sheet, I could tell you. Well, shoot, I did.”

Ike’s heart sank. It did not represent a crucial piece, but it could confirm.

“Wait, you’re in luck, it got pushed down in the bottom of the drawer. Let’s see. I put one in for Dr. Harris to Rutgers University, and one for Mr. Stewart to his partner in Haddonfield, that’s New Jersey, but it’s Philadelphia, you know. He was mighty pleased when he put that one through. And one for Dr. Bialzac.”

“Millie, this is important. Do you have the number Bialzac called?”

“I do, Ike. You want it?”

“Please.”

***

The television studio buzzed with activity. Armand Dillon sent his son, Charles, on an errand. He’d loved his son as a small child and watched helplessly as his mother, Dillon’s first wife, turned him into an indecisive milquetoast. Now Charles the Second existed in an alcoholic haze. If Dillon had not seen the stuff his grandson seemed to be made of, he would have taken the corporation public, cashed out and gone fishing. But Charlie Three had the makings. All he needed was a reason to quit archeology and come to work for his grandfather. Dillon had a plan. In the meantime, he hired top managers, paid them a lot of money to run his company, and fired them at regular intervals, before they found a way to either steal or wreck it.

A group of men arrived with a heavy suitcase.

“That the stuff?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, thirty thousand dollars’ worth of cubic zirconiums. You planning to do Home Shopping Network here?”

“No, son. Just going to play some hardball.” He turned to Ike. “Think they’ll do?”

“On television, sure. As the real thing, they won’t fool anyone.”

“Well, I haven’t got time to round up fifty million dollars’ worth of diamonds in the time they gave me. They think I have more pull than I do. The people at Harry Winston’s couldn’t put their hands on a pile that big in the time they gave me. I would have to go straight to De Beers and even then I’m not sure they could do it. Well, they’re just going to have to put up with them for now,” Dillon said and smiled wolfishly.

Ike pulled out his cell phone and called the office. “Anything, Essie?”

“Nothing, Ike. Whaite said Bialzac wasn’t at his house and the neighbors don’t know anything.”

“Well, tell him to keep trying. Anything from Billy?”

“Nothing helpful. There’s a ton of motels on this strip of the I-81.”

“Okay, my phone’s on if you need me.”

***

The motel room was fetid with the accumulated airborne haze of too many men closed up in a small room for too long. Only Donati appeared calm, cool, and presentable. Red added a cigarette butt to the already substantial pile in the ashtray, belched, and fumbled for another. Angelo stared off into space, a permanent resident of that secret world he alone knew. Grafton fidgeted. He was tired, unkempt, needed a shower, and craved a drink, several drinks. Donati glanced at his watch and nodded to Angelo. Angelo picked up the remote, and the television lit up. He adjusted the channel and sat back, lost again.

The four of them sat and watched as the local station identified itself and announced with a crawl across the bottom of the picture and a voice-over that the regularly scheduled program would be delayed for a special announcement. The picture flickered, went blank, and came up again.

“This air time has been purchased by the Dillon Foundation. Speaking to you now, Mr. M. Armand Dillon.”

Dillon sat at a table on what appeared to be a hastily assembled set. Behind him were bookshelves filled with matched bound volumes, statuary, and the sort of odds and ends people expect to see in the library or study of an important person. He faced the camera, a pile of bulky envelopes stacked to his right. The lights glinted off his rimless spectacles. He spoke without notes or cue cards.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Armand Dillon. As most of you know by now, a substantial portion of an art collection bearing my name has been stolen from the storage facility located on the campus of Callend College in Virginia. The thieves are very professional, it appears.”

“You got that right, old man,” Red muttered.

“And since they are now watching this broadcast, I will say to them that their work was indeed very, very competent. They only made three mistakes.”

He paused, his expression never changing, amiable but serious.

“The first was killing a security guard. Larceny is one thing, murder another. The stakes go up when a felony includes a capital crime. The second—taking hostages. That adds kidnapping to murder and makes it a federal offense. Not smart on their part.

“These thieves are part of a group calling itself
the New Jihad. As nearly as we, the police, the FBI, and contacts I have in the Homeland Security department can determine, it is one of a dozen groups supported, I should say sponsored, by elements located in the Middle East, and dedicated to promoting terrorism. We are all aware of the terrible events of September eleventh and their aftermath. Well, these are some of the same people.”

“No way,” Red exclaimed. “Donati, are we working for rag- heads?”

“Shut up and listen.”

“The art collection is being held for ransom. Our thieves are smart enough to know that none of the items can ever be sold outright, but they believe that the intrinsic value of the collection is so great that I would be willing to pay a king’s ransom for their return.

“I mentioned earlier they made three mistakes, but only spoke of two. The third mistake? Misreading me. I can be very generous or I can be as mean as a snake, it all depends on how I am approached. In any event, anyone with a grain of sense knows that you cannot push a snake, and those who know me will tell you it is a serious mistake to push me.

“Now, where does that leave us? First, there is the matter of this broadcast. The thieves’ flair for the dramatic, a common conceit of terrorists, led them to insist I go on local television, at this day and time, and announce my willingness to accede to their demands. For reasons which will become clear later, I purchased time on five national networks, and there is a live pickup on CNN and its affiliates, so that anyone watching television anywhere in the United States is hearing this message.”