5 - Choker: Ike Schwartz Mystery 5 (7 page)

Chapter 12

Lanny Markowitz’s note said that he’d arranged an appointment with the school’s principal after football practice. The previous fall Blake had volunteered to help with the football program as an informal quarterback’s coach—if time allowed. He watched the boys jog around the track on their way to the locker room and walked with Lanny toward the school’s main building.

“What’s up, Lanny?”

“I talked to Principal DiComo about the business with the cross last Sunday, and he said he needed to talk to you. I guess it’s about that. I don’t know. He didn’t sound too happy.”

Roger DiComo had an office next to the main entrance. His predecessor had his at the rear of the building but DiComo, who prided himself on his ability to communicate with students, “the guys” he called them, said he needed to be “near the action.” One week after the move his secretary promptly retired and the new one seemed perpetually frazzled. The outer office door’s base was chipped and badly scuffed, evidence of multiple kicks and abuse. Blake and Lanny were ushered in to the inner office. DiComo waved them into chairs without taking his eyes off a sheaf of papers in his hand.

The room reeked with musk aftershave. Blake rarely used the stuff himself but had several bottles of cologne on his dresser, annual Christmas presents from his nieces. He didn’t consider himself an expert, but he guessed DiComo wore the good stuff. The walls had pictures of football teams and a slightly deflated football sat tiredly on his desk.

“So, Reverend, you think I’ve got ourselves a coven of witches or something in my school?”

DiComo peered at Blake over a pair of half-lens reading glasses. He had one of those voices that was grating and condescending at the same time. He still held the papers he’d been reading in his hand as if they were, on whole, more important than his visitors. Blake fought the temptation to return rudeness with rudeness.

“I don’t know what you may or may not have, Mr. DiComo. What I do know is that one of your students turned up wearing a satanic cross in my church last Sunday, and I told him he had to leave. He could come back, but he had to ditch the cross first.”

DiComo closed his eyes and shook his head. “And on that basis you believe the school may have a problem?”

“I have no idea. Do you? Have a problem, I mean?”

DiComo laid the papers on his desk. He took several seconds to align them carefully, their edges precisely even. He did the same with three pencils, so that his desk appeared neat and perfectly symmetrical—feng shui for the obsessive compulsive. He shook his head again and smiled like an adult indulging a small child.

Blake felt his blood pressure start to tick up. “You asked to see me, I believe. If a coven is not your problem, may I ask what is?”

DiComo’s expression shifted from annoyed to supercilious.

“Your treatment of Chad Franklin Sunday implies he is into this satanic thing. Now let me set you straight on that.” He paused and corrected a flaw in his paper pile. Blake bit the inside of his cheek. “We believe in, no…correction…we, that is the school board and I, are governed by Supreme Court rulings on the separation of church and state. That’s in the Constitution, you know. And I can’t have you harassing my students about their rights to the free practice of religion.”

“First of all, Mr. DiComo, let me say that I, too, affirm the separation of church and state and, therefore, will not let the Supreme Court, or the local school board, or you tell me what I can and cannot do in my church. Secondly, if you read your Constitution with care, as I am sure you will, you will discover that the phrase ‘separation of church and state’ is not in it. The phrase ‘separation of church and state’ is traceable to a letter written by
Thomas Jefferson
in 1802 to the
Danbury Baptists
, and refers to a ‘wall of separation.’ The constitution, on the other hand, reads, ‘Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof…’ Now, I understand that the two are often considered synonymous, and I am fully aware that the government has ruled that the ‘free exercise of religion’ may include satanism, Wicca, devil worship, and all kinds of other marginal religious practices. But having said that, I will also tell you, government poobahs, well-meaning school boards, and others, notwithstanding, evil is evil in any of its forms, and you run a risk when you trivialize it.”

“Mr. Fisher,” DiComo said, back to shaking his head, “I know your kind would like us to quiver in our boots at the thought of some old codger in a red union suit carrying a pitchfork and taking over our lives, but this is the twentieth century—”

“Twenty-first.”

“Right. As I was trying to say, nowadays we celebrate diversity, encourage inclusiveness, and, frankly, concepts of overarching evil and bogymen are, well, from another era.”

“So you will dismiss Columbine as the result of what…low self-esteem on the part of a few misguided young men? You have a responsibility to your students—”

“I am fully aware of my responsibilities, Mr. Fisher. You can hawk that line of gibberish from your pulpit, but in this school, we are of this century and this culture.” It was DiComo’s turn to get angry.

“Nazis,” Blake pressed on, “Skinheads, do you see a problem with them?”

“If we have any, appropriate action would be taken.”

“Because?”

“What do you mean? They are a negative influence—”

“Negative? How?”

“They represent…”

“What…evil? Mr. DiComo, you can’t have it both ways. There is evil in the world or there isn’t. You’ve read
The Brothers Karamazov
?”

“That’s by…what’s his name…Tolstoy.”

“Dostoyevsky. Reread the conversations Ivan has with his ‘visitor’ and see if you share his conclusion. In the meantime, I and ‘my kind’ will persist in calling a spade a spade and give fair warning to those who insist there is a correct psychosocial answer even to questions that fall into an area, in which, by the way, they have no competence or understanding, that the world can be a dangerous place made more so by muddled thinking.”

Blake rose to go. “Sorry, Lanny, I thought I might help here, but I guess not.” Lanny studied his shoes. DiComo plastered a smug smile on his, by now, red face.

“Thank you for stopping by.”

Blake let himself out, Lanny close on his heels.

“Blake, wait a minute.” Blake slowed and took some deep breaths. ‘Look. I know the guy can come off sounding like a jerk, but he’s under a lot of pressure. I know the Starkeys have been on the phone about Sunday. She is the PTA’s president, and he heads up the booster club which, as you know, raises a lot of money for the football team. He wants you removed as coach, even.”

Blake stopped short. “Removed? Why on earth for?”

“He didn’t…well, you know how some people are…”

“No Lanny, how are some people?”

“He thought…um…ah…”

“He didn’t want some Holy Joe proselytizing the kids.”

“Something along those lines. See, most people don’t see what the problem is. You go on the Internet and half the sites that deal with Satanism, devil worship, are over the top on the terrible things they say and do. Baby-killing, cannibalism—stuff like that. And the other half is pretty reasonable articles about people’s rights and, you know, disclaimers about…well, anyway, the consensus is the whole business is a tempest in a tea pot.”

“The Internet? You look for truth and guidance on the Internet? Lanny, you might as well throw yourself under a bus. There is no screening on the Internet. You can post anything you want about any subject you want. You can start a website, a blog, and whatever you say will stand as gospel. Of course there are apologetics for all sorts of behavior. I can show you several advocating pederasty, bestiality and child abuse as a God-given right of parents.

“But rationalizing stupidity, bad behavior, and evil doesn’t make it intelligent or good. Black is not white, I don’t care how many times it says so on the Internet.” Blake paused and took a breath. “I’m sorry, Lanny, I’m taking out my frustrations on you. It’s your principal that needs to learn to weigh ideas without societal bias.”

“But the devil…”

“Devil, Satan, misdirected choices, all the perversions of what you and I hold as a standard for righteousness, whatever—call it what you want. Evil is real and it threatens society everyday. Psychobabble and good intentions will not allay it, and may even promote it. But my concern, here, is for that kid. He has put himself in harm’s way and your idiot principal needs to do something about it.”

“What can he do?”

Good question. In a secular society that does not permit spiritual intrusion in its governance, DiComo could do nothing. “Look, I am not pushing religion here. Maybe I should be. It’s what I’m paid to do, in fact. I am not one of those bible thumping, mousse-haired televangelists, and I am not proselytizing students or anybody else, for that matter, more’s the pity. He doesn’t have to believe me, but he should at least acknowledge the possibility I’m right. Then there might be some chance he’d be ready if, and when, something really bad happens to the boy or to his school.”

Chapter 13

Ike taxied the plane to its tie-down position on the flight line and shut down the engine. The prop shuddered to a stop, and he completed his postflight check. The lineman stepped up to the cockpit door as he climbed out.

“Boss wants to see you.”

“Trouble?”

“FAA called is all I know.”

The FAA had, indeed, called. They’d grounded Ike.

“Why?” he asked, when he entered the office.

“Don’t know, they just said I was to pull your ticket. Problem is, you don’t have, like, a real license so I’m not sure…” The facility’s manager stood behind his cluttered desk and looked embarrassed. “They said they had a complaint from someone over in Maryland about you buzzing some sailboats.”

“There wasn’t a boat in sight. Well, not within a mile, anyway.” Ike sighed. “Consider the ticket pulled.”

“Okay. Sorry about that. I guess you won’t be needing the plane any more.”

“We have a contract. The plane is mine for at least two more weeks.”

“But—”

“I expect you’ll be receiving a call in a few hours or maybe by early tomorrow rescinding the grounding. I won’t need the plane again for a few days, anyway, so I’ll see you Thursday or Friday.”

Ike walked to his car and called Charlie.

“I need your help.”

“Again? I’m beginning to feel like a scout master. What now.”

“You’d make a very fine scoutmaster, Charlie. You ought to volunteer.”

“What do you need?”

“A call to the FAA. They grounded me today and it’s bogus. Even if it weren’t, I need to get back in the air in a few days. Either that or send me an unmarked plane that I can fly off the beach.”

“You can do that?”

“No.”

“I’ll make some calls. Do you have anything to tell me, any progress? Your bills are piling up. The suits upstairs are beginning to wonder what the PR department is doing with all its money.”

“PR my foot.”

“It’s what we call it. What were you doing that got you grounded?”

“Actually it was Trent Fonts that did the questionable flying, but I took the rap. We were flying at a low altitude looking for what I thought was wreckage. Then we flew over a piece of shoreline where Trent thought he saw a bit of airplane the day after Nick disappeared.”

“You thought you saw wreckage?”

“Operative word, thought. I can’t be sure. It’s a maybe at best, but we’re getting somewhere, I think.”

“Talk to me.”

“Okay. The original search turned up no evidence of a plane crash because they were looking in the wrong place. Nick went down near, or in, Eastern Bay. That’s south of Kent Island. You know Kent Island? So, they were looking north of Kent Island.”

“Why north…or why are you looking south…you know what I mean.”

“I do. North, because the original search supposed Nick went down when he dropped off the radar. But your phone call says he flew on several more minutes so, south.”

“That’s why you wanted me to check the time stamp.”

“Correct.”

“So, that meant he went down south of where they were looking and you thought you saw something—south.”

“I hope so.”

“You’ll need divers and salvage equipment.”

“Not yet, but you might get that ball rolling. I’m going to spend tomorrow scouting the bay’s circumference. I want to know why no one reported a missing piece of airplane, and I can’t believe no one saw anything that night. Somebody has to know something. By the way, what happened to my pictures?”

“On your kitchen table even as we speak.”

“On my table? You were able to activate my phone, and now you have a key to my place.”

“Don’t be silly, Ike. Using a key breaks the spook’s code. The messenger picked the lock.”

“Right—spycraft. You guys never give up. I’ll be back with you after I look at those pictures and check my navigation chart.”

***

The photographs were, indeed, on the kitchen table when Ike returned to his cottage. The messenger had picked the lock but forgotten to lock up on his way out. He’d have to mention that to Charlie. He didn’t want to rat out the guilty party, but sloppy spycraft could cost someone his life.

He shuffled through the images, sorting them into piles chronologically. He paused and frowned. Something was not right. Why did Charlie tell him about the picked lock in the first place? If he’d come into the room and found the pictures on the table, he wouldn’t have been surprised. A diversion. Make me think that the messenger lacked finesse and I won’t look elsewhere. He let his eyes scan the room. Ike wasn’t the neatest person in the world, but he knew his own clutter. During his time with the Company, he’d learned to keep track of everything irrespective of its place in the apparent disorder. His messes had fooled more than one counterintelligence agent in the past.

A chair had been moved. Not much. It sat almost exactly where it had been in the morning. Almost. There were small impressions in the carpet where the legs had been and the chair now sat a few inches over. The bedroom seemed to be undisturbed, but the phone with its layers of sunscreen felt suspiciously clean, as if it had been wiped down. Someone would have to do that to remove the mouthpiece and plant a bug. He turned his attention to the TV. So far he’d only been strolling about the place. If he were being surveilled, his watchers would soon know he’d tumbled to them when he turned the TV around.

He swung the set on its stand, peered in the back, and saw the small box that converted the set into a sending unit. He did his best imitation of singing; tone deaf did not even begin to describe him, “
Ye watchers and ye holy ones…
Hey, I’m the good guy here, okay?”

He draped a beach towel over the set and stuck a half of a banana into its concealed microphone. Then he lifted the air duct cover behind the chair and yanked out a second microphone. The phone bug he sent down the toilet. The phone rang. He screwed the mouthpiece back on and waited.

“That’s very expensive government issue property you’re manhandling there.” Charlie said.

“Tough darts. You want me to work your patch, you trust me.”

“Sorry, Ike. As I told you, the brass upstairs got wind of your…um…unauthorized expense account and ordered the surveillance. I didn’t find out in time. Then I thought, let’s see if he still has the chops. I guess you do. I would have told you in an hour or so if you didn’t.”

“Yeah, yeah. Now you know why I quit.”

“I do know why you quit, and I know that wasn’t the reason.”

“It helped. Now are there any more surprises for me?”

“In the ceiling fan—little camera. Be careful, it cost a fortune.”

“You’re lucky I don’t sell all this stuff to the Chinese.”

“No market. They made all of it in the first place.”

Ike hung up.

He hung a pair of jockey shorts on the ceiling fan and turned his attention to the pictures. The blowup of the pier showed a scrap of flotsam that could have been part of a tail. The work boat moored to the pier showed a man on the deck. The comparison shots confirmed that the barge, if that is what it had been, had been replaced by the duck blind. Why a duck blind?

He spent the next three hours studying the pictures, hoping for a pattern to emerge. He fixed himself a sandwich and a pot of coffee and retired to the porch to think. The ocean turned gray and then black as the sun sank in the west behind him. An offshore breeze picked up sending salty air across the beach. Except for the phone call to Charlie’s niece, death spiral still seemed to be the best answer for Nick’s sudden disappearance. Something, an image of something out of place, tried to push its way up from his subconscious. He waited. His subconscious stayed silent. At ten he shuffled off to bed.