3 - Buffalo Mountain: Ike Schwartz Mystery 3 by Frederick Ramsay Page A
Authors: Frederick Ramsay
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don’t think it’s just a coincidence he’s dumped in Picketsville?”
Charlie only closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, I don’t guess it could be.”
Ike dropped the remainder of his biscotti into the cup and shoved it aside.
Chapter 9
Sam could only stare at Whaite. She’d driven across town in the snow. She nearly hit a minivan with Michigan plates whose owner had decided the middle of Main Street was the safest place to drive. All that effort spent to pick him up assuming that she would be asked to start tracking down Randall Harris on her computer. When they reached the office, she’d planned to access state, federal, and other databases that might have something to offer. Instead, Whaite told her to wait.
Finally, regaining her voice, she said, “You don’t want me to find Harris on the computer.”
“Not now, no. Don’t put his name, fingerprints…anything into your queries. Stay away from the feds especially.”
“This is not making any sense. Where’s Ike?”
“He had a meeting.”
“A meeting? In this weather he’s at a meeting? Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll call him.”
“He won’t answer. He can’t use the phone in the car.”
“I’ll get him on the radio.”
“He isn’t in a cruiser. He’s driving that Jeep of his.”
Sam exploded. “I’ve spent the last six months building the information technology capacity of this department so that it is the match of any in the state—no, in the country. We can tap into Richmond, Washington, anywhere. We have software that will let me into places even the President of the United States can’t access and you say, don’t use it? Why am I here?”
“Wait ’til Ike gets back. Then maybe he’ll tell you why.”
“This is deep stuff, isn’t it?” Sam swiveled around in her chair and stared through the rime-encrusted window. There wasn’t much to see. The snow had lightened and would probably stop in a few hours. If the temperature rose, tomorrow would be a normal day. If it dropped, there would be trouble—ice. She drummed her fingers and tried not to show her annoyance.
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Ike wants you to tap the state’s motor vehicle database and track Harris’ driver’s license number.”
“We already know that. Why look for him there?”
“Not by name—by number.”
“Just the number?”
“That’s it. See if it really belongs to him. Then, if it does, and remember, stay in the motor vehicle database—don’t go anywhere else—see if he has any violations, outstanding citations, stuff like that.”
“Suppose, for the sake of argument, I come up blank on the first.”
“Then run license issues for the month before and after the issue date on his. See what you find.”
“That’s it?”
“For now—that’s it.”
***
Andover Crisp was having a bad day. He watched helplessly as Operation Cutthroat went into the toilet. His man had skipped and all the assets he could bring into play had failed to find him. Every hospital in the area had been checked for accident victims, illness, heart attacks, you name it. No DOAs, no John Does, nothing. No one even remotely answering to Kamarov’s description had boarded a plane, train, or rented a car. He did not enter Mexico or Canada. Where was he? Crisp picked up the phone.
“I want you to do it again.” He waited for the silence at the other end to break. He shuffled his papers.
“Again? You mean everything?”
“Everything—hospitals, airlines, cars, all of it.”
“Okay—”
“Any hits on his credit cards?”
“No sir, not yet.”
“Bank account still intact?”
“No activity there either.”
“Keep it open. He’s going to need money eventually. When he does, I don’t want him to think we’re on to him. Let him get the money. With any luck he’ll leave a trail.”
“Okay. Sir?”
“What?”
“Have you considered the possibility that the Agency found out about him and took him out?”
“I
Charlie only closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, I don’t guess it could be.”
Ike dropped the remainder of his biscotti into the cup and shoved it aside.
Chapter 9
Sam could only stare at Whaite. She’d driven across town in the snow. She nearly hit a minivan with Michigan plates whose owner had decided the middle of Main Street was the safest place to drive. All that effort spent to pick him up assuming that she would be asked to start tracking down Randall Harris on her computer. When they reached the office, she’d planned to access state, federal, and other databases that might have something to offer. Instead, Whaite told her to wait.
Finally, regaining her voice, she said, “You don’t want me to find Harris on the computer.”
“Not now, no. Don’t put his name, fingerprints…anything into your queries. Stay away from the feds especially.”
“This is not making any sense. Where’s Ike?”
“He had a meeting.”
“A meeting? In this weather he’s at a meeting? Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll call him.”
“He won’t answer. He can’t use the phone in the car.”
“I’ll get him on the radio.”
“He isn’t in a cruiser. He’s driving that Jeep of his.”
Sam exploded. “I’ve spent the last six months building the information technology capacity of this department so that it is the match of any in the state—no, in the country. We can tap into Richmond, Washington, anywhere. We have software that will let me into places even the President of the United States can’t access and you say, don’t use it? Why am I here?”
“Wait ’til Ike gets back. Then maybe he’ll tell you why.”
“This is deep stuff, isn’t it?” Sam swiveled around in her chair and stared through the rime-encrusted window. There wasn’t much to see. The snow had lightened and would probably stop in a few hours. If the temperature rose, tomorrow would be a normal day. If it dropped, there would be trouble—ice. She drummed her fingers and tried not to show her annoyance.
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Ike wants you to tap the state’s motor vehicle database and track Harris’ driver’s license number.”
“We already know that. Why look for him there?”
“Not by name—by number.”
“Just the number?”
“That’s it. See if it really belongs to him. Then, if it does, and remember, stay in the motor vehicle database—don’t go anywhere else—see if he has any violations, outstanding citations, stuff like that.”
“Suppose, for the sake of argument, I come up blank on the first.”
“Then run license issues for the month before and after the issue date on his. See what you find.”
“That’s it?”
“For now—that’s it.”
***
Andover Crisp was having a bad day. He watched helplessly as Operation Cutthroat went into the toilet. His man had skipped and all the assets he could bring into play had failed to find him. Every hospital in the area had been checked for accident victims, illness, heart attacks, you name it. No DOAs, no John Does, nothing. No one even remotely answering to Kamarov’s description had boarded a plane, train, or rented a car. He did not enter Mexico or Canada. Where was he? Crisp picked up the phone.
“I want you to do it again.” He waited for the silence at the other end to break. He shuffled his papers.
“Again? You mean everything?”
“Everything—hospitals, airlines, cars, all of it.”
“Okay—”
“Any hits on his credit cards?”
“No sir, not yet.”
“Bank account still intact?”
“No activity there either.”
“Keep it open. He’s going to need money eventually. When he does, I don’t want him to think we’re on to him. Let him get the money. With any luck he’ll leave a trail.”
“Okay. Sir?”
“What?”
“Have you considered the possibility that the Agency found out about him and took him out?”
“I
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