Free 7 - Rogue: Ike Schwartz Mystery 7 by Frederick Ramsay Page B

bumper then with some sort of hitch, do you suppose? Anything on the paint samples?”
    “Not so good there, Ike. Black Rustoleum. Sold in every hardware, paint, and drug store in America. Not even a special order, just your basic black.”
    “That’s not much help.”
    “Not on the face of it, but then, how many Chevy Silverado platform trucks can there be with modified front bumpers painted with store-bought black spray paint? It won’t help us find it, but it could confirm it if and when we do. The next piece of information is better, maybe. The techs were able to enhance the video images you sent. First, the license plate is unreadable because it had some sort of cover, like a rag over it. Second, there were markings on the door panels of the truck but they were covered as well. Duct tape, the techs thought, because of their slight sheen. And finally, they were able to enhance the driver’s face.”
    “We have a picture of the driver?”
    “Not really. He had a bandanna over his face like an old-time Western movie bank robber and wore a ball cap low. So, no face, but—”
    “But we now know, and without a doubt, that the crash was premeditated. Whoever sat behind that wheel went to a lot of trouble to cover any identifying marks and, it seems, even anticipated the traffic surveillance cameras.”
    “It would seem so, yes. Whoever did this took the time to think the whole thing through and plan it very carefully.”
    “Essie, would you bring me a coffee? It smells like somebody made a fresh pot.”
    “Just this once, Ike, but you know this ain’t in my job description.”
    “Lord, Essie, you’re sounding more and more like a federal employee every day.”
    “Well maybe I do, somebody’s got to look out for the rights of working women.” Essie put the cup down on Ike’s desk. “Frank, you’re family. You get your own.”
    “Thank you, Essie. It appears motherhood has made you feisty. Rights of working women?”
    “I’m just looking out for me and mine.”
    “Indeed. Frank, Ruth received a phone call just after nine. That’s why I left DC a little early. I found her phone on the floor of the car. It must have been on the seat when she hit the pole. I assume there is a way to retrieve the numbers of anyone who called her.”
    “There is. Almost every phone has a call log of some sort built into its memory, but if the guy was careful about covering the markings on his truck, the possibility of surveillance cameras, and so on, what’s the likelihood he’d use a traceable phone?”
    “Slim to none, but criminals make mistakes. Sometimes that’s the only way we catch them. I’ll have Grace run the phone log for me.”
    “I still think it’s Jack Burns,” Essie said. “Why don’t you run him in here and have some face time?”
    “Face time? Who are you hanging around with these days? We will not have ‘face time’ because we have no probable cause, Essie. I’ll make you a deal, you find out if Burns has a five-year-old Silverado platform truck with an odd bumper painted in Rustoleum black and no alibi for Sunday night, and then I’ll run him in.”
    “I’ll get Billy to do it. He knows all kinds of people up there in Buena Vista. You wait and see, me and him will figure this out.”
    “Knock yourself out. Frank, is there anything new on your suspicious death?”
    “I’m still waiting for an autopsy report. Nothing new.”
    “Okay. Well, just so you all know, I am in the mayor’s dog house—nothing new there—and plan on using up my accumulated leave time. Frank, you are officially in charge.”
    “What will you be doing, Ike?”
    “Trying to sort this out on my own, I guess.”
    The phone rang. Essie shouted across the room. “Mr. Charlie Garland returning your call.”

Chapter Thirteen
    “Charlie. What’s up? Except in the dead of night, in the event of national emergencies, and/or during your rare showers, you always answer your phone, and even then sometimes.”
    “Ah,