The Vulture

The Vulture

An Ike Schwartz Mystery

Frederick Ramsay

www.FrederickRamsay.com

Poisoned Pen Press

Copyright

Copyright © 2015 by Frederick Ramsay

First E-book Edition 2015

ISBN: 9781464204791 ebook

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.

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Contents

The Vulture

Copyright

Contents

Acknowledgments

Foreword

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

A Brief Author’s Note

More from this Author

Contact Us

Acknowledgments

This latest Ike book should be considered some sort of milestone. When I wrote Artscape, the first in the series, and the Poisoned Pen Press took it, my hope was that I would be lucky and given the chance to write a sequel. This is the tenth in the series, so it seems my luck held. It has been fun writing about Ike, Ruth, and the rest of that band of characters, cops, and criminals, who are Picketsville, Virginia.

There have been changes over the years. The Ike you find here is mellower in many ways than the sheriff introduced in Artscape. In life, people change. So they must do in fiction as well. All of this is by way of acknowledging my debt to my publisher and editor who liked Ike in the first place and allowed him to endure since. Thanks to Robert, Barbara, and all the folks at the Poisoned Pen Press who make the magic happen.

Foreword

Some time ago I took my car in for some routine maintenance; probably an oil change. I was called to the desk to pay my bill and pick up my keys and, although it seemed they were the keys that had been used to drive the car to the ready line, I realized that they were not mine. I said so. The clerk smiled and said, politely, yes they were, that those keys were the ones used to bring my car to the pickup point. I looked over his shoulder and saw my keys hanging on a pegboard behind him. I had put an attachment which was quite distinctive on the ring, and the keys hanging had it. We argued and, finally, with an indulge the customer look on his face, the supervisor, for that was the level we had reached by then, marched me out to my car. I inserted my key in the ignition and started the car. Next, and to the supervisor’s chagrin, I inserted the other set and started the car again.

I have no way to calculate the odds that two nearly identical cars would be at the same location on the same day and both keyed alike. It boggles the mind, yet sometime later, when I told this story at a meeting, one of the participants reported that the same thing had happened to her. So, the odds must not be as great as one might think.

They say that truth is stranger than fiction. Perhaps, but strange or not, truth certainly does suggest some really strange fiction. Read on.

Epigraph

Pursuant Executive Order No. 10834, August 21, 1959, President Eisenhower established the official flag of the United States as a banner with 50 stars. This flag was raised for the first time at 12:01 a.m. on July 4, 1960, at the Fort McHenry National Monument in Baltimore, Maryland, and is currently the official flag of the United States of America.

Chapter One

Smoldering flames and a streetlight leaning at an acute angle and flashing on and off like a badly programmed strobe, and firemen’s work lights illuminating the street bright as day. Frank Sutherlin’s head spun. In spite of the glare, he sensed only darkness. Nauseated and short of breath, he felt his knees start to buckle. Darkness comes. In the middle of it, the future looks blank. The temptation to quit is huge. Frank read that somewhere. He couldn’t remember who wrote it…Piper…somebody Piper. It seemed eerily strange, remembering that line just now, but also appropriate. He was a tempted to cut and run, to get as far away from this place as possible. He took a deep breath, steadied, and forced himself to focus on the awful truth: that the otherwise unrecognizable, charred body behind the wheel in what was left of the twisted and scorched Buick must be all that remained of Ike Schwartz. The car’s trunk had sprung open from the blast. He studied what was left of its familiar contents and the blistered and twisted just-readable license plate dangling from the bumper. Ike had used his own car again. He was funny that way.

Frank pivoted on his heel, his gaze took in everything—the glass shards from broken store windows, twisted bits and pieces of automobile, and still-smoking chunks of what might have been upholstery or…he didn’t want to think or what…scattered over a quarter of an acre of downtown Picketsville, Virginia.

It had to have been one helluva bomb.

The Volunteer Fire Department had arrived almost as quickly as he had and made sure that fire did not spread. Some of its members, still booted and helmeted, stood by keeping watch on the smoldering wreckage while the rest were busy rolling up hoses and storing equipment. A low haze, part steam, part smoke from burning upholstery and gasoline, drifted over the area. Those who spoke did so in hushed voices. EMTs, seeing that their medical skills would not be needed and having been assured that the vehicle had cooled sufficiently, donned gloves and began the grisly task of removing the body and placing it in a body bag and thence onto a gurney to be taken to the morgue for autopsy. What they expected the medical examiner to find was anyone’s guess.

Frank’s head swam: Ike Schwartz dead. He had a hard time getting his mind around that. Sure, Ike had enemies. What cop doesn’t? And Ike had served time in the Agency; there could be some bad stuff left over from that, but this was Picketsville, Virginia. What were the chances? He took one last look at the scene, turned and went back to his cruiser to think, to plan.

Who would tell Ruth? Frank assumed that, as second in line and now acting sheriff, it fell to him to make the call to Ike’s wife. Once he’d done that, he’d call everyone in—all shifts, part-timers and retired. They would mount a taskforce the likes of which had never been seen anywhere. Vacations off, leaves canceled. He wanted everybody on this for as long as it took. He’d ask Karl Hedrick to call in some favors from the FBI, that is, if he had any left to call in. And Sam, he’d ask Sam to jump on the Internet. If there was anything lurking out there in cyberspace, she’d surer than hell would find it. Whoever had done this was about to find out they’d made the worse mistake of their life.

***

The phone’s insistent ringing woke Ruth. At night, she made a point of disconnecting the answering machine on the assumption that any call made after midnight would likely be an emergency and need her attention.

Okay, okay, in a minute. She fumbled for the phone and picked up at the same time as her mother. Hello, they said in unison.

Hang up, Mother, I’ve got it.

How do you know it’s not for me?

What are the chances? I’ll holler if it is, now go back to bed. Ruth waited for the click that indicated the line was clear. Hello, who’s this?

She listened. Her expression changed from sleepy annoyance to concern, to fear. You’re sure? Oh, God, you can’t be…Tonight? Where? Yes, I understand. I will. What? When? Three days from now. I don’t know. People will be all over the place. How will I…? Where? Will you be able to do that? He will? You’re sure? How do I reach you? Okay, yes, yes. I still don’t understand. Okay, I will, I promise.

She hung up.

Who was that? her mother shouted from her third floor studio.

Nothing, wrong number. Okay, since you’re up, you take the next one, Mother. I’m wide awake for a while and I’m headed downstairs for something to drink.

Ruth slipped on a terrycloth robe with the logo of a Las Vegas hotel on the pocket—she called it her honeymoon souvenir—and descended to the first floor. She poured herself a brandy snifter full of red wine and downed half in a single draught. She needed fortification. She also needed a few minutes to prepare before her mother rushed downstairs and broke the bad news and all hell broke loose.

The phone rang again fifteen minutes later. She hugged herself closer in her robe. God in Heaven, what was going on?

***

Several miles away the County medical examiner received a similar call. He grumbled at first and then listened carefully. A frown squeezed his eyebrows so closely together it seemed his face was reduced one third its size. He shook his head, barked No several times, listened some more and reluctantly agreed to do as the caller requested. He didn’t like it, but he would do it. It meant lying, a lot of lying, and he did not fancy himself a good liar. His ex-wife might have disagreed, but that was another story. More importantly, lying could lead to an accusation of perjury later and that could threaten his job and cost him his medical license. He hung up and started to dress. The next call he knew would come at any second and then he’d need to move.

The phone rang. He answered, was predictably shocked, and hung up. He had things to do. There would be DNA to process, naturally, and dental records. There could be no mistake about who had ended up on the slab. Then there would be the reporters, the State Police, the FBI probably, and God-only-knew who else would poke in their nose. Bombs tended to attract far more attention that simple shootings, or stabbings, or deaths by the old reliable, blunt force. Worse, he’d made it clear there might be a need to stall the release of the body for days, possibly longer. That would be the difficult part.

He started to slip his necktie under his shirt collar and then tossed it aside. What need had he for a tie at two in the morning? Later, maybe, when the crowds arrived to ask their questions, he’d dress up, but not now. Once in his county car, he headed straight to the highway. He ignored the speed limit all the way to the morgue. He wanted—no, he needed—to be the first one there. The problem with owing someone a favor is that they inevitably wanted to collect. People expected miracles from him. They probably watched too much television.

***

Felix Chambers had watched the car pull out of the parking lot. It had turned east, not west. The guy wasn’t going home after all. He’d rigged the bomb to detonate when the odometer initiated a countdown and he’d calculated the miles with some care. This had not been a spur-of-the-moment job. Computer-monitored automobiles made his job so much easier now, no more guessing times or road conditions. Just hack into the car’s brain and you could do damned near anything. All he had to do is measure the distance from a fixed point—for this job a convenience store a few miles away where the mark usually stopped for coffee—the point where he wanted the thing to blow. He’d intended for it to go off on the Calland University campus, with luck near the guy’s house—at least blow out some windows. The man said he wanted to send a message. Some message. Well, it wasn’t his fault that the cop didn’t go straight home. Probably had to go somewhere else or maybe he had a little something going on the side and needed a dip first. Small-town cops were like that, right? So, okay, it didn’t bust out some windows on the college. So what?

He called it in, skipped the part about where the thing went off, and waited. The man seemed pleased and said he’d move the money in the morning. No soap there. The deal was, pay on delivery. Move the money now. Then some bullshit about banks, but in the end he’d done it. He tapped off and checked his offshore account, saw the transfer completed. He lit a Cuban cigar and exhaled. Life was good. He ditched the burn phone, and headed to Dulles. He’d be on the next flight to Aruba one hundred thou richer and no one would ever put him in the frame.

Nobody shared the road when he pulled onto I-81 and headed north. He shook his head and smiled. Some guys really go to all kinds of trouble to get even. This last guy took the cake. One hundred K to snuff a small-town cop with a car bomb? Like, that was way over the top, like swatting a mosquito with a hand grenade or something. Hell, to do the job like that, he coulda got himself a hit man off the street for a short stack of Benjamins—or one, maybe even two, Clevelands, seeing as how it was a cop. Cops went down in the line of duty all the time. Nobody would have even noticed. Dead is dead, right? He flicked the ash from his cigar and smiled.

Chapter Two

Charlie Garland had a title at the CIA which did not match what he really spent his time doing. In that secretive and institutionally paranoid environment, no one dared notice or even suggest this to be unusual. Few people outside the director’s office knew what his job entailed and if asked, they would mumble something that sounded official but which, on reflection, meant nothing. All anybody knew for certain was he occupied an office in the basement of the main building at Langley which contained a battered and very old Government Issue oak desk left over from another era, a wall full of mismatched filing cabinets, and an array of electronic devices including two computers. The title on his door read Public Affairs Annex, but no one had ever heard of such a division or function, nor was a there a line in the budget so named. No one thought it politic to mention that either. A newer computer sat on a makeshift credenza against one wall; the older one sat on his desk. Whereas the one on the desk had all the markings and characteristics of Government Issue, the newer one did not and it was this latter, off-budget, machine which at that moment had begun filling the room with alerts and chatter.

Charlie stood with his hand on the doorknob having every intention of going home. After all, it had already been a long day and it was late, but the incessant pinging from his computer made him hesitate. He dropped his briefcase, returned to his desk, and swiveled to stare at the computer screen.

The mandate given the CIA by Congress limits its purview to foreign affairs, covert and otherwise, international terrorism, spying, and so on. Domestic surveillance remained the clear responsibility of the FBI and Homeland Security. There would be no reason for the CIA to keep tabs on any activity within the borders of the United States or its territories. Any suggestion that it might be doing so would be vigorously denied. There were, however, certain gray areas that the Agency believed needed to be accounted for and which they were not entirely confident other law enforcement agencies would cover to their satisfaction. For instance, international borders, particularly the more porous ones in the Southwest, were a concern. Mixed in with migrant workers, children fleeing gangs in Central America, the gang members themselves, and people seeking a shot at a better life in general, terrorists and double agents found them easy entry points. So, where did the Agency’s mandate really end in an era marked by shape-shifting enemies and ambivalent allegiances? A threat on one side of an arbitrary line drawn on a map would be its responsibility, but ten yards farther on, it fell to the forces monitored by Homeland Security? How efficient was that? Then there were acts of terrorism within the borders which, until their sources had been identified, might be linked to cells outside the country.

Thus, to cover its bases, the Agency had undertaken some passive domestic surveillance. Deniably, of course.

Part of Charlie’s job was to be the one who watched the watchers. Therefore, almost every program run by the Agency could be mirrored in his office. When the electronics geek had arrived to install some new programming and the alternative computer, Charlie made sure that not only would the obvious cities be covered—New York, San Francisco, Detroit, and so on, but that links to less likely places, places like Picketsville, Virginia, for example, could also be monitored if required. He did not explain why and the young woman had not asked. Obviously, the Shenandoah Valley did not rank anywhere near to the top of anyone’s list of terrorist hotbeds.

Ike Schwartz was the sheriff of Picketsville and the closest thing to a best friend Charlie had—maybe even his only friend. They maintained that friendship by keeping each other at a distance, which might seem counterintuitive, but in the world of cloaks and daggers, as they used to say, it had been necessary. Charlie wanted to know what Ike was up to, whether Ike liked it or not. That was how he discovered the wedding, for example, but that was then and this was now.

Anyway, Picketsville or Podunk, any explosion bearing the signature of a professional bomb maker would trigger alerts up and down the line in all of the agencies now affiliated, however loosely, with Homeland Security. A car bomb with enough explosive power to crack and scorch asphalt and blow in windows in adjoining buildings fit the criteria and had set computer screens dancing across the country. As unlikely as it seemed, Picketsville had made the list of possible terrorist sites after all.

Alerts streamed across Charlie’s alternative screen. He scanned each in turn, barely able to keep up with the volume of messages as they came pouring in. His gut told him, even before the dispatches confirmed it, that whatever had happened down there had to somehow involve Ike. Why he believed it, he could not say. There was something about Ike Schwartz, about his unyielding—some critics would say, insufferable—rectitude that seemed to attract trouble. People who always insisted on doing the right thing seemed to find themselves in the path of more than their fair share of enemies, critics, and untimely violence. When Charlie saw the burned-out shell of the Buick, he slipped off his coat, and sent the night porter for a pot of coffee. Whether Ike was alive or dead, Charlie would dig until he knew if he was, and then who, and what, and why all it had come about. He settled in to his desk chair. The coat slipped to the floor. He didn’t notice. No one else would either. Charlie wore clothes that Alice, his administrative assistant, referred to as permanent un-pressed. One more wrinkle or a dozen would not be remarkable.

Once he’d determined the scope and magnitude of the bomb, Charlie put out a BOLO for any suspicious person to every airport within two hundred miles of Picketsville. He particularly wanted the explosive-sniffing dogs deployed. If he knew his bombers, and Charlie believed he did, he knew the person responsible for this last one would either be on the way out of the country or he would go to ground. The latter would take some digging, but the possibility of the former dictated tighter security at the nearer exit ports. He also knew that bomb makers, for all their cleverness at manufacture, rarely appreciated the evidence left on their clothing. If one were headed through an airport any time soon, the dogs would sniff him out. A wipe down would confirm it. The BOLO would also call for the facial recognition programs to be cranked up and not just the usual suspects, but tourists, persons flying for business or pleasure, parents visiting their children or vice versa—everyone would be subjected to an increased TSA scrutiny for the next week. They would not be happy about that and mutter darkly about what the country had come to since 9/11, but there it was.

Charlie was still at his desk at noon the next day when the footage from the few, the precious few, surveillance cameras came online. Over the rest of that day and most of the next, and with only an occasional break to eat and nap, he scanned them repeatedly. Back and forth, again and again. A car pulls out of the lot and drives east. Why east? The University is west. Back it up to where the car pulls in. Is that Ike? There is another car. It is almost the same. When did it arrive? Who is that? Fast forward…back…forward to the second camera showing the explosion. Stay with that one a moment longer. You never know.

Mr. Garland, you should take a break.

Thank you, Alice. Can you get me a sandwich?

"Sure. Would you like me to take a shower for you while I am at