Mourning Dove

by Donna Simmons

  “Please come in, Mrs. Obermeyer. I’m in and out so much it’s a wonder you’ve caught me at all. Have you met, Cass O’Brien?”

  “Hello, Cass. How have you been?” the neighbor asked.

  “I’m well, Ruth, you and Oscar?”

  “I’m fine dear, but my husband is still under the weather. I tell him not to go out without his coat, but does he listen?”

  “Mrs. Obermeyer, is that chocolate confection you’re holding for me?” The scent of chocolate and spice filled Sara’s kitchen.

  “Oh my, yes. Please enjoy, and call me Ruth. Everyone does. I won’t stay. I know you’re probably busy.” She looked up at the painting on the wall above Sara’s kitchen table. “That’s an interesting piece of art.”

  “Cass’s son painted it.”

  “My goodness, you never told me you had a talented artist in the family. If he were mine I’d be bragging to anyone who’d listen.”

  “Do you have children, Ruth?” Sara asked.

  “No dear, I’m afraid not. One of the things I lost in my youth was the ability to have children. Well, I suppose I should get back to Oscar. When he’s ill, he’s cranky.”

  “That seems to be a common trait in husbands,” Sara said.

  The neighbor left with the scent of mothballs and gardenias in her wake.

  “Well I better start some tea; then we can sink into her chocolate spice cake.” She put the kettle on and turned back to Cass.

  “Ruth and Oscar are survivors of the Holocaust, aren’t they?”

  Cass nodded. “The fact they’re alive is something of a miracle.”

  ***

  On Monday morning, Louise welcomed Sara back. “How was your trip?”

  “It was memorable, if nothing else. How have things been here at the office?”

  “We had the funeral for Joe Stein on Friday. Robert Starr and his wife flew in from Chicago just for the service and burial. Everyone noticed. The company sent a huge spray of white roses in a giant wicker basket. Flo is collecting to help out his widow. It’s been pretty solemn here all week because of the accident.”

  “I’ll stop by reception on my way out. Is Jonathon in?”

  “He was, came roaring back on Friday morning, acting like a wounded bear. I don’t think things went too well in Washington. He was not very approachable to ask. On another thought, the grape vine has it that we have a replacement for Joe in the fitness center already. Not that I’m ungrateful, but you’d think they’d let the dust settle on his grave first.”

  “You said Jonathon is, or isn’t in?”

  “He spent most of the day Friday holed up in his office, demanding copies of this and copies of that. Called a quick department meeting at two and was gone by three. You would’ve thought he’d include you in a conference call. He didn’t even try. None of us was willing to suggest it in the mood he was wearing like armor plate.”

  “If he shows up today, buzz me. Mood or no, I have to talk to him.”

  “Sure thing, did you bring your suit?”

  “No. I don’t even know if I have one in my locker still. But I could sure use a power walk on the roof. My cross trainers should still be here. Are you game for that?”

  “Twelve-thirty, unless Mr. Grumpy gets in the way?”

  “Where’s Steve? This office feels like a tomb, Louise.”

  “He’s out with the flu. He lasted through Jonathon’s tirade on Friday and left shortly after the tornado departed. He called in again this morning, said he was still weak as a wet noodle.”

  In the coffee alcove, Sara fixed a cup of tea then walked back to her long forgotten office and began to scan email messages. Last week’s financial data popped up from all divisions, including San Francisco. It was about time. This week’s data were trickling in. She read an email from Pam, thanking her for covering in Chicago and another from Chicago dated last Saturday, “Thank you for the sunshine in my week.” No signature, return email blocked, it was probably from Matthew.

  She began editing a summary of the Chicago week when her office door opened.

  “Typing your resignation?”

  “You wish, Jonathon.” She refused to stop typing; she knew that got to him when she didn’t give him her full attention on demand. “Glad you finally found your way into the office this morning,” she added over her shoulder. “How was Washington? Second round of hearings work any better than the first?” She continued adding a paragraph describing the media frenzy; then she hit back space a dozen times to delete it and spun around in her chair. Jonathon was in the doorway leaning on the jam. His suit jacket was slung over his shoulder and, for the first time in a week, he had a smile on his face. Sara didn’t trust it, but she was willing to go along with the charade. “Come into my office, have a seat.”

  “Says madam spider to the fly.” He stepped through the door, closed it behind him and sprawled in a chair beside her desk, waiting.

  “What?” she finally asked.

  “No, my friend, I believe now you say checkmate.”

  Sara thought this was the first time he’d sat on the other side of her desk. She was sure it was planned for effect. Jonathon did nothing without a plan.

  “I’d like nothing better than to beat you at chess, Jonathon, but I don’t remember starting the game.”

  “You started it during your first interview with me. You are brazen, autocratic, and always take the part of controller. At first I thought it was cute. Then it became downright irritating. You always play to win. And I don’t believe, little filly, you ever accept a loss.”

  “I am the comptroller. That’s what I was hired to do. It has also become the least of my jobs here. And, I am not your little anything.”

  “I said controller with an ‘n’. You’re the person who covers my ass.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You spoke to a couple senators on the subcommittee, didn’t you? I don’t know how you did it, but you got them to back down. Now, I’m on direct orders from Robert to offer my apologies for my rude behavior when it was my intention to get yours or fire you… using the morals clause in your contract.”

  “Is this what you call an apology?”

  “Give me a break here. It isn’t often I come in eating humble pie.”

  “Sticks in your throat, doesn’t it.”

  “Enough. I’m sorry I misjudged you and your actions. I won’t do it again.” He stood and offered his hand across her desk. “Truce?”

  Sara shook his hand and thought: God, what plan is he hatching now? “Truce,” she nodded.

  “Department meeting at one, Sara.”

  “Can we make that two?”

  “Dictating terms again?”

  “I plan to spend my lunch walking off steam on the roof. I’ll be...mellower.”

  “Ha!” He walked to the door. “One-thirty, I have to leave early for Washington again.”

  “I thought it was over?”

  “The hard part is. I need to make sure all the feathers of our elected officials are totally placated. Have a good walk.”

  He was out the door before she realized he’d acquiesced.

  ***

  In the elevator, returning from the roof, Louise asked, “What do you think, Sara?”

  “About what?”

  “Jimmy Pike, the new fitness manager. I thought at first he was kind of cocky. But his idea of adding nutrition drinks for those of us who skip lunch to workout is a great idea. I mean, as long as he doesn’t try to hit on us, I guess he’ll work out.”

  “He isn’t Joe Stein,” Sara said. “I really miss that man.”

  “Me too. What flavor drink did Jimmy make you?”

  “He called it vanilla spice. It has a hint of spice and something else I can’t quite put my finger on. I’m certainly full.”

  ***

  Later at home, Sara walked through her kitchen door with both arms full and her cell chiming from her purse. “Welcome back, Sara.” Ron’s voice was a bit rough on the phone.

/>   “What’s wrong?”

  “I wanted to let you know I had another break-in today at the house. I decided to come home early after the doctor’s appointment and had Allen drop me off. When I got in the front door, the first thing I saw was the mess. Then I heard a crash out back. By the time I hobbled to the slider, no one was there.”

  “The house has always been a mess. A coon could have been looking for food in the garden and knocked over a stray rake.”

  “Sara, the slider was open. Whoever was here created a bigger mess than I ever could. It reminded me of the office break-in. This time, I caught him in the middle of the act.”

  “God, Ron, what have the police said?”

  “I didn’t call them; not the locals anyway.”

  “What are you saying? Whom did you call?”

  “I called your Brit.”

  “And?”

  “My call went to his mailbox. Can you imagine a hotline to the feds and it goes to voice mail?”

  “What number did you call?”

  Ron gave her the number. “You called his cell, the one that fell into the pool in Chicago. He was supposed to get it replaced, but I don’t think he has yet. I’ll give you another number to call.”

  “It’s too late, Sara. I called the FBI. An agent is supposed to come out tonight.”

  “What have you done? Now it’s really going to get complicated. Matthew told me he’s working undercover. What did you tell them so far?”

  “Not much, just about the other break-in at the shop and that we were working with another agent, but I can’t seem to locate him. Sara, the FBI never heard of a Matthew Farrell.”

  “You’ve done it this time, Ron. Matthew isn’t FBI, he works for the CIA. Remember? I’ll try to reach him and see what he wants to do.”

  “Sara, I’m sorry. I don’t trust him.”

  “You don’t; but I do.” She hung up with the thought that she really did trust Matthew Farrell. The phone rang again.

  “Sara, its Cass, come over for dinner. I’ve got an Indian dish cooking, couscous and a lamb concoction that needs a critique.”

  “That sounds wonderful. I have to make a call first and then I’ll be over.” Pushing disconnect, Sara reached into her pocket and pulled out a number written on Marriott stationary.

  “Pick up, please pick up.”

  “Yes.”

  “Matt?”

  “Sara, what’s wrong.”

  “Was I disrupting something?”

  “I’ve been up for thirty-six hours straight. I’m trying to recharge my batteries with a power nap.”

  She told him about Ron’s break-in and his call to the FBI. “What do we do now? They’re coming out to his house this evening. What can he say to them to fix this?”

  “Not much; let me see what I can do from this end. Are you there now?”

  “I’m at home.” She heard silence on the other end of the line. “I’m at my home, in Maine. But, I was headed next door to Cass’s for dinner. You can reach me on my cell.”

  “Which house was broken into?”

  “Ron’s, I’m sure he’d like me to go running down there to confront the feds. I’m not going to do that. My name has been in the headlines enough.”

  “We may have jurisdictional turf problems but they won’t go public. Did Ron call the locals?”

  “He says he didn’t.”

  “I’ll call you back as soon as I get this straightened out.”

  “Are you going to call Ron?”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that,” he said just before he disconnected.

  CHAPTER 32

  Matthew Farrell called the number of a friend in the Bureau. “Henry, I’ve got a favor to ask.”

  “What’s up, friend?”

  “I’m working a case and the rabbit’s ex got confused after a B & E. Apparently, he called your agency instead of the number he was given.”

  “They direct him back there?”

  “No, they told him I didn’t exist.”

  “Then who got caught in a drug bust in Chicago last week?”

  “That’d be me. I wasn’t the perp, I was a hotel guest.”

  “Aha, and the lady who dropped your gun into the pool?”

  “Is the estranged wife to the guy who called the FBI around four today.”

  “I’ll check. What’s his name and number?”

  “Try both his home phone and his cell.” He gave his friend the numbers and waited for him to run them.

  “So why’d he call the bureau?”

  “There’s a little friction between us and the locals barely gave it lip service when the same thing happened to his place of business a few weeks ago. Supposedly he tried the number I gave him first. Unfortunately that line took a deep six in the hotel pool, too.”

  “Must have been some party, first your gun, then your phone. Was she worth it?”

  “I called you for help, not advice to the lovelorn. Have you found anything yet?”

  “Computer is searching its little heart out. This is not your lucky day. I have one more search route.”

  “Whoever he talked to said they would meet him at his home at seven tonight.”

  “Well, shit. That doesn’t sound good.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. If we can trace the connection, I just might find the mole.”

  “Tapped phone?”

  “Like Piccadilly at rush hour.”

  “Well, my friend, whomever he called wasn’t a bureau connection.”

  “His wife says it probably was the number in the front of the local phone book.”

  “I ran that first. Looks like somebody intercepted the call.”

  “I’m flying solo, Henry. I’m in DC and I don’t trust regional on this.”

  “I can have a local drive by.”

  “No, I’ve got another contact outside the agency, actually. Thanks for checking, I owe you one.”

  “It’s lonely out in the cold,” Henry said and hung up.

  Tell me about it, Matthew thought as he folded his cell and slipped it into his pocket. How could he make an eight hour trip in ninety minutes? His superman suit was still at the cleaners. He palmed the cell again and made another call.

  ***

  His doorbell chimed and Ron hauled himself up from his recliner and onto his crutches. “I’m coming. Hold your shorts on.”

  He opened the door and blinked at the round little man standing at the door. “May I help you?” Ron asked.

  “Maybe I can help you, sir. You called the FBI and they sent me. You had a break-in?”

  Ron looked at the man with graying hair and goatee and shook his head. “Do you have any identification? I don’t want to be rude, but you aren’t exactly what I was expecting.”

  “Of course you’d want that, I’m Charles Johnson, special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He whipped out a black bi-fold with ID and badge and flashed it in Ron’s face. “And your name, sir?”

  “Ron Stafford.” He reached out to shake the older man’s hand and invited him into the house. “I’m a little confused. No offense, but you look like you should be playing golf in a retirement community somewhere in Florida.”

  The agent smoothed down his tie. “They send me when they really don’t think the problem is federal in nature. Maybe we should get you off your foot. Must be awkward hobbling around on crutches all day?”

  “You have no idea. Would you like some coffee? I made a fresh pot.” Ron headed for the kitchen.

  “No, no that’s fine. Please sit down and tell me why you called the Bureau for a simple break-in, Mr. Stafford?”

  Ron began at the last break-in and brought the agent up to date. Then he asked the question that has been on the tip of his tongue since this guy walked into his house. “If you don’t think the FBI can help me, why are you here, Mr. Johnson?”

  “Sometimes what appears to be a simple local disturbance has enough issues that make it our business. Have you determined if anything is missin
g?”

  “It’s a little hard to know with the mess left behind. But I think I caught the guy before he finished.”

  “Then, you got a good enough look at the intruder to determine it was a male?”

  “Well no, I never saw him. I’m just assuming it was a man. The furniture and supplies that were toppled were not light. But I’m sure he escaped through the kitchen when I came in the front door. I heard him crashing through the back yard.”

  “You’re in the process of remodeling?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Something like what?”

  “The house is still under construction.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Fourteen years.”

  “That’s a long time to be building a house. Is there a Mrs. Stafford?”

  “She lives in Maine.”

  “Separated or divorced?”

  “I don’t know what that has to do with this?”

  “Estranged spouses have done worse in revenge.”

  “She wouldn’t do this. I know Sara. I think it has to do with what my son was into.”

  “And his name?”

  “His name is moot point, he’s dead.”

  “Then why did you mention him?”

  “He died in March under suspicious circumstances. The state police called it a suicide. We’ve since found out he was working undercover. We believe he found something and hid it before he was killed. Now we suspect that a number of people are looking for what he found. A man my wife met claims to be an agent with the federal government. Ever since he came into our lives, crazy things have been happening. When I called the number he gave me, I ended up in a voice mail center. I thought the FBI wouldn’t put me on hold. Then I called you, well not you specifically, just the local FBI office.”

  “I’ll get to this man who contacted you in a moment. First, why do you think this break-in is a federal case?”

  “My son was working for the federal government and whatever’s happening is related to his investigation. Therefore, this most probably is a federal case.”

  “I see. About this man your wife contacted, what name did he give her?”