The Vulture by Frederick Ramsay Page A

confirms it. I thought the guy watching the house—”
    â€œHe just watched?”
    â€œActually, he came in and searched the place. Before you ask, I was in the rafters. I have a way to get up there and—”
    â€œOf course you do.”
    â€œRight. Anyway, something has got them doubting. I don’t know what or why. The damned bomb was big enough to have qualified as one of Bush’s ‘Bunker Busters.’ Surely they don’t think I survived it. What’s bugging them?”
    â€œI guess they tried the phone for the same reason Charlie would, don’t you think? They were hoping the fact that the phone rang would lure you into picking up. Since they had already been here, they were double-checking.”
    â€œYeah, probably. There is another possibility, of course.”
    â€œAnother…what?”
    â€œCould it be that they, whoever they are, might be looking for you, not me?”
    â€œMe? Why would he/they care about me?”
    â€œI don’t know. But if they were convinced I was dead, there is no other reason to open this line and call. If it is you they are after, now they know where to find you. Either way it is definitely not good news, but useful news nevertheless.”
    â€œNot good, but useful how?”
    â€œNot good because if it’s me they are looking for, they must still have doubts. Useful because it means we know that whoever it is that wants me dead is not your garden variety mook. That fact clears Charlie and his playmates at the Agency. This guy has resources and power. Finding him won’t be easy, but at last we can eliminate all of the bottom-dwellers with a grudge. So, who the hell, with that kind of power, did I piss off enough to bring this on us?”
    â€œDon’t look at me. Piss me off and you sleep alone. I am definitely not into bombs.”
    â€œThat is very reassuring.”
    â€œI don’t rule out castrating shears in extreme circumstances.”
    Ike was about to reply when the phone rang again.
    â€œWhat do I do, Ike”
    He held up his hand and mouthed numbers— one, two, three. Silence. He kept counting. Four, five, six, ring, pause.
    â€œI’ll take this one.” Ike reached for the phone.
    Ruth passed him the receiver. “What just happened here?”
    â€œHello, Charlie. Before you say anything, put a trace on the last call made to this phone and call me back.” He hung up. “That was Charlie.”
    â€œHow did you know that before—?”
    â€œThree rings, a three-second gap, and one more ring equals Charlie. It’s something we worked out back in the day.”
    â€œAnd he can control the rings?”
    â€œIf you know how, anyone can.”
    â€œReally? How?”
    â€œNTK.”
    â€œOh, ‘need to know.’ What? I don’t need to know? I think I do. Listen, we’re in this together or not at all, Ike. Anyway, I think I need one of those secret code ring things too.”

Chapter Nine
    Tom Wexler tapped the papers on his desk into a neat pile, snapped off the desk lamp, and stood. It was late and he wanted to get out of the office and climb into a tall whiskey and soda. Between a bus rollover on I-81, a suspicious death in Lexington, and the Schwartz business with its incessant interruptions from cops from all jurisdictions, not to mention reporters, his patience had worn dangerously thin. As for the Schwartz thing, the DNA results had come back and there was no way he could hide the fact. Now, he faced the problem of finding another excuse to delay Ike Schwartz’s interment. He wished he’d never agreed to this charade. He picked up his briefcase and turned to leave. A stranger stood in the door.
    â€œExcuse me,” the stranger said. “Are you the county medical examiner?”
    â€œThat’s what the title on the door says.”
    â€œI can read. I’m asking if the title on the door is yours.”
    â€œAnd