by Mark Gilleo
Maria finished sprinkling a heavy dose of confectioners sugar on a cake fresh from the pan and brushed her hands on her apron. She rounded the corner from the kitchen and filled Agent Rosson’s cup with another tank of dark brew.
“Cream?”
“Yes, please,” Agent Rosson answered for the third time in as many cups. He was being served, and served well, but he had already noted in his notebook the mental lapse with the repeated question about cream in his coffee.
Maria reached for the milk on the table and poured it into her guest’s mug.
“Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions?” Agent Rosson asked.
“No, not at all,” Maria said. “Have I mentioned how wonderful your hair is? It is so thick. Thick and fabulously white.”
“No, you hadn’t mentioned it Ms. Hayden. Thank you for the compliment. A full head of gray hair has few admirers.”
“You look like Sean Connery.”
Agent Rosson wasn’t sure about the actor having either gray hair, or a full head of it, but kept the speculation to himself. He hadn’t made much progress in the hour he had been sitting there. Maria Hayden was the master of redirect. Not knowing if it was intentional or not, Agent Rosson plowed forward by going back to the beginning one more time.
“When did you see the three men in question?”
“Oh, there is no question about it, I saw three men.”
Agent Rosson grinned. “And when was this?”
“A few weeks ago. A weeknight. Maybe a Tuesday.”
“And could you describe them?”
“I thought I did. They were Middle Eastern. Dark skin, dark eyes. One was tall.”
“And you saw them through the peephole?”
“Yes, I only saw them through the peephole.”
“Then what happened?”
“They knocked on the door and I watched them for a minute. Then they said something about hospitality and disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Vanished into the night,” she answered with drama.
“I see.”
“Would you like another muffin?”
“No, thank you.”
“Do you have any other ethnic neighbors?”
“Sure, sure. There is a German couple up the street and a Korean family that bought two houses next to each other on the next block. And then there is Nazim and Ariana, across the street, 203 Dorchester.
“Nazim and Ariana?”
“Yes. They live next door to Mr. Stanley. Nicest couple you have ever met.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t Nazim and — what did you say — Ariana? Are you sure it wasn’t them at your door?”
“Positive. I said it was three people, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.” Agent Rosson paused for a bite of a scone and another sip of coffee.
“Do you mind if I use the bathroom?”
“Please. It is the first door on the right,” Maria said, pointing to the opposite side of the living room.
Agent Rosson waited for his bladder to drain, something that took longer with each passing year, and shook his friend before flushing. He washed his hands and moved closer to the mirror to check the nick on his chin from an aggressive, pre-caffeine swipe of his razor earlier in the morning. As he stuck out his chin, his elbow hit the mirror, and the spring-release medicine cabinet door opened. Agent Rosson moved his left hand from the shaving injury and peaked behind the mirror into the medicine cabinet.
The entire middle shelf was lined with dark brown prescription bottles. Agent Rosson turned the first bottle on the left and read the label. Xanax. He looked around the closed bathroom and felt a twinge of guilt that he easily pushed passed. He moved his thick fingers to the next bottle and repeated the motion across the bottles on the bottom shelf, facing each prescription outward so he could read them. Xanax, Valium, Prozac, Asendine. Lithium Carbonate. Flaunxol. All of them made out to Maria Hayden.
“Someone is on serious medication,” he whispered.
He slowly shut the door to the medicine cabinet and found himself staring back in the mirror. What? he said to himself. It was an accident.
And he almost believed it.
The sound of the front door opening startled him, and he looked around the bathroom as if he were a criminal trying to clean the crime scene of evidence. He heard a male voice through the closed bathroom door and took one last look around.
Clark jumped a little as Agent Rosson stepped from the bathroom. Clark looked at his mother in the kitchen and then back at Agent Rosson, not sure what to make of the situation.
“Clark, we have a lunch guest,” a voice wafted from the kitchen.
“I can see that,” Clark answered. He turned toward Agent Rosson and introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Clark Hayden.”
Agent Rosson stepped forward. “Agent Rosson, Special Agent, FBI.”
“FBI?”
“That’s correct.”
“Well, that’s not what I expected.”
Agent Rosson smiled. “Understandable.”
“You know the IRS was here earlier in the week.”
“I guess you’re lucky.”
“How’s that?”
“Most people always want to know when the government is going to do something for them, put all their tax money to good use. I guess you and your mother are getting the velvet glove treatment. Home visits by two government agencies in the same week.”
“I think I’d refer to it as the lubricated latex glove treatment.”
Agent Rosson shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly. “Well, I’m here following up on a phone call from your mother regarding a threat to Homeland Security.”
Clark looked at his mother who was placing cookies on a plate, and then motioned towards the dining area table. Agent Rosson nodded in response, following Clark across the rectangular room.
“Did your mother mention that she called the CIA?”
Clark looked over his shoulder and shook his head. “No she didn’t. She did mention something about strange men at the door a few weeks ago. I assume that’s what we’re talking about.”
Agent Rosson opened his notebook. “I should preface this conversation by saying that any information divulged here is highly confidential.”
“Understood.”
Clark could smell the coffee in the air. He wanted his mom to stay in the kitchen and called to her, “Mom, would you mind making some tea?”
Maria Hayden wiped her hands on her apron as she stuck her head around the corner. “Is black tea, ok?”
“Sure.”
Agent Rosson watched the interaction between the mother and son. “Did you see the people whom your mother called about?”
“No, I wasn’t home, but I’m staying in the basement and you can’t hear anything from down there anyway.”
Agent Rosson wrote in his notebook. “Well, several weeks ago your mother called the CIA to report suspicious terrorist activity in the neighborhood. This information was passed onto the FBI, and I was assigned to investigate.”
Clark dropped his voice and eyed the doorway to the kitchen before dropping his voice. “Sometimes it’s hard to see, but my mother has diminished mental capacity. I think you may be wasting your time.”
“Just the same, there are questions I need to ask.”
Clark unzipped his blue ski jacket. “Fire away.”
“Did you see the men your mother claims were knocking on the door?”
“Again, no.”
“Have you seen anything suspicious in the neighborhood? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“One of our neighbors passed away earlier in the week.”
“How did he die?”
“Heart attack, I think. He was a pretty large individual.”
“When did this happen?”
“The other day. Monday maybe. Well, the ambulance and police found him on Monday. I’m not sure when he actually passed.”
“Where did the deceased live?”
>
“On the next street over.”
“And what did you say his name was?”
“I didn’t. His name was Allan Coleman. At least, that’s what he was known as. I never really met him. I said ‘hi’ over the fence a few times and ran into him at the store once. The man loved Ho-Hos, judging by the contents of his grocery cart.”
Agent Rosson scribbled.
“Have you seen any — as your mother put it — strange Middle Eastern men in the neighborhood?”
“No. We have Pakistani neighbors across the street.”
“What do you know about them?”
“The husband is kind of distant. Doesn’t talk much. The wife is very kind. She helps out my mother quite a bit. They have a daughter named Liana. She is two or so.”
“What do you know about the husband?”
“He works in a garage or gas station as a mechanic. Somewhere in P.G. County I think. Like I said, he doesn’t talk too much.”
“Ever see guests at your neighbors? Relatives?”
“No, now that you mention it. I think I met the husband’s brother once a few years ago. I don’t remember his name.”
“Nothing else that comes to mind?”
“Not really. I mean, they are a pretty typical family. They take care of their property. They don’t make much noise. The wife helps out in the neighborhood. Between you and me, they are as likely terrorists as my mother is.”
Agent Rosson looked at the table full of goodies and smiled. “Well, I certainly don’t think your mother is associated with Al-Qaeda, unless she is their official dessert maker.”
“Un-official dessert maker.”
Agent Rosson laughed a little, the notch in his belt tighter than he remembered it being, even over the holidays. For twenty five years, he had taken great pleasure in telling people he had the same waist measurement that he did in college. Then he hit fifty and he had to alter his ego-line. Another hour with Maria Hayden and he would be at the tailor, getting seams expanded.
“Let me leave you my card. If you see anything suspicious, please don’t hesitate to give me a call. We can never be too careful these days.”
Clark reached out and took the card from Agent Rosson’s hand. “I will, but trust me, my neighbors aren’t terrorists.”
Maria Hayden popped her head around the corner. “I can make us lunch if you would like?”
“I already ate,” Clark responded.
“I’m stuffed. I couldn’t eat another thing,” Agent Rosson answered.
“Ok, but I insist you take a walnut muffin for the road. They are one of my specialties.”
Clark nodded and Agent Rosson took the hint.
“I’m sure they are.”
“I will put them in a bag for you.”
Agent Rosson smiled. Just like mom.
“Do you think you will be able to find them?” Maria asked as Agent Rosson packed his notebook into a small leather briefcase and stood to put on his coat.
“Who?”
“The terrorists.”
“Oh, I’m sure there is nothing to worry about, Ms. Hayden. Thank you for your time and for the food.”
“Come back by anytime.”
Clark watched from the window until Agent Rosson reached the government-issue black sedan parked on the street. He unlocked the door with his remote keyless entry keychain and placed the muffins on the passenger seat. He checked the number from his notes and looked at the house across the street. Number 203. He called into the office to check his voicemail and clicked the phone shut without returning any calls. You might as well check it out while you are here, he thought.
Rosson knocked on the front door with authority and waited. He looked at the door, with its shiny brass knocker and eyed the small mail slot midway up the door. He flipped the slot subconsciously with his left hand and knocked again. He waited an additional minute before walking in front of the house on the uneven sidewalk until he reached the driveway. He turned left and ascended the short staircase to the side door of the kitchen.
He peered over the curtain on the lower glass pane and peeked into the home. The kitchen was clean. The dining area spotless. He had an obstructed view of the living room and a long look down the dark hallway. He knocked again though his intuition had already answered the obvious: no one was home.
Agent Rosson spent the afternoon going through files accessed through the FBI’s central database, the Terrorist Screening Center (TSC). Most of his efforts were focused on Nazim, then Ariana, and when his information didn’t yield anything suspicious, he turned his attention to the personal background of Maria Hayden.
After thirty minutes of reading Maria Hayden’s run-ins with the law, one of which included walking down the shoulder of the beltway in her bra, Agent Rosson decided he had read enough. He opened the Ziplock bag and pulled out one of Maria Hayden’s self-proclaimed specialty walnut muffins. At least she can cook, he thought as he put the muffin on a napkin and went to the breakroom to pull a chilled Diet Coke out of a slowly dying community refrigerator. Back at his desk, he shoved a quarter of the muffin into his mouth and chewed. As his saliva glands worked to moisten the dense bread, his taste buds came to life, emitting a silent alarm for something in his mouth that shouldn’t be there. Hacking the remains of the walnut muffin onto his napkin, Rosson recognized the taste. Maria Hayden, walnut muffin expert, had put cloves of garlic into the dough. “Crazy old bird,” Rosson said aloud. He slugged half of his Diet Coke without stopping and pulled up the form report for an “unreliable source” on the CIA generated lead list.
Chapter 15
Clark looked at the incoming call message on the phone and prepared to berate the solicitor with the unknown number for calling a phone on the “do not call” list.
“Hayden residence.”
“Hello, Clark?”
“Speaking.”
“It’s Ariana.”
Clark checked the number on the phone again.
“Hi Ariana. How are you?”
“Fine. Fine. I have some news. We had a family emergency and had to return home rather suddenly.”
“Home, home?”
“Yes, we flew out the other day in a bit of a hurry and have been on the road for the last seventy-two hours.”
“I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Well, my father has been in poor health for a while. It wasn’t entirely unexpected.”
“I hope he pulls through.”
Ariana paused, considering how far she wanted to take the lie. “Right now, it doesn’t look good.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. I had a favor to ask. I was wondering if you could keep an eye on the house for a few weeks?”
“Of course. What do you need me to do?”
“Just keep an eye on the place. Water the plants. I have canceled the paper and am canceling the mail tomorrow.”
“Does my mother have a key to your house?”
“No, but there is one on the side porch in the storage room. It’s on the top of the doorframe on the inside of the door. At least it should be.”
“I think I can find it.”
“If it’s easier, you can take the plants to your house. There are three of them that need water. One in the living area, one in Liana’s bedroom, and one in the master bedroom.”
“How often do you water them?”
“Once a week during the winter. I left the thermostat at 65, so they should be ok for now. Maybe you could water them in a few days.”
“Not a problem. Anything else?”
“No, that should be all.”
“Do you have a number where I can reach you?”
Ariana paused. “Not at the moment. I’ll have to call you back. We’re staying at my aunts. She doesn’t have a phone.”
“Where are you calling from? Maybe I can take down that number.”
Ariana’s mind raced for second before she calmed it. Be careful, she reminded herself. Every lie has repercussi
ons.
“I’m calling from the hospital. One of the doctors is an old family friend.”
“You want to give me that number? Just in case.”
“I’ll have to call you back, Clark. Someone in a white jacket needs to use the phone.”
Clark stopped his premature search for paper and pen. “Ok. I’ll take care of the plants and keep an eye on things.”
“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
Ariana hung up the phone and threw it to Karim who was sitting in the chair on the other side of the desk.
“Destroy it,” she said, expressionless.
“Do you think that was a good idea?”
“I told you I had no choice.”
“You could have asked another neighbor.”
“I could have, but that would have been suspicious. I’ve spent a lot of time with his mother.” She paused, her mind drifting before coming back. “It was necessary.”
“Then why do you look worried?”
“He asked for a number where I could be reached.”
Karim’s dark eyes flickered with a hint of danger. “What do you know about this kid?”
“He isn’t a kid. He is very adult. Grew up with older parents. Spent most of his life taking care of his mother. He is very bright.”
“Maybe too bright.”
Ariana looked around the small office. “Don’t worry about this neighbor. I have him covered.”
“And if he turns into a problem?”
“Then I’ll take care of it.”
“Killing another neighbor is not prudent.”
Ariana looked over with a quizzical glance as if to indicate Karim was being preposterous. “I’ll kill them all if I have to.”
Chapter 16
Clark set the table for a quiet lunch. A working lunch —working on getting the IRS off his mother’s back while working on getting into the IRS auditor’s pants. He hoped the dress shirt he was wearing would help on both fronts, but if he could only conquer one of two missions, he knew which one it would be. You can only go so long without getting laid. Eventually you just lower your standards until someone fits the bill, get your shag in, and then raise the bar right back where it was. If the IRS hottie blew him off, he would be dropping the bar more than a few inches.