Mourning Dove (30 page)

***

Matthew Farrell opened
his hotel room door and picked up the morning paper at his feet.  It had been a
long night – not one of pleasure, but concern. Just when pieces began to fall
into place, logic took a twisted turn to the left. He was the professional here
and all he could think about was that she didn’t spend the night with him.
After the last formal dinner of the conference they were all going to meet at
Murphy’s Bar.

“Are you going?” she’d
asked.

“I thought I might. 
It’ll be good for you to shake loose from the tension cord, too.”

“I’m going to pass,”
she’d added. “I’ve been fighting a headache all day. Medication just seems to
push it from one side of my head to the other. I think I just need
uninterrupted sleep.”

It was a signal to back
off, he’d thought. He decided to give her some space and that thought kept him
up all night.

Back in his room with a
cup of the lousy in-room coffee in his right hand, he sprawled in the desk
chair and stretched his legs onto the end of the bed. He unfolded the morning
paper and scanned the headline about the manhunt for the hit and run driver. An
artist sketch filled most of the front page. The image was rough but familiar
and raised the hair on the back of his neck. He shoved his coffee onto the desk
and picked up the room phone.

“Sara, how’s the head?”

“Better, I’m sorry I
crapped out on you last night.”

She wasn’t asking him to
back off – another sleepless night for no reason. “Have you seen the paper yet
this morning?”

“I just got out of the
shower and haven’t opened the door yet. If it’s bad news I want to read it with
my clothes on.”

“I’ll be right down.
Don’t move.”

Minutes later, Matthew
was tapping out his arrival on Sara’s door. She answered in a long white robe
and a terrycloth turban. “Hi,” she said with a slow grin on her scrubbed face. If
she only knew how well she looked first thing in the morning. She pulled the
door open all the way and lifted a hand in welcome. He slapped the paper into
her palm and walked through, acting all crisp and business-like when all he
really wanted to do was unwrap the toweling and…

“What’s this?”

“The morning paper, open
it.”

He leaned up against the
wall trying to look nonchalant. She opened the paper, glanced at the sketch,
five maybe ten seconds. “It’s the elderly gent with the lethal umbrella, isn’t
it?”

“The sketch is rough, but
I believe so.”

She sat on the edge of
the bed, pulled the towel from her hair, and began to read. He waited, scanning
the room. She definitely slept alone, one pillow dented in an otherwise made
bed. Damn, he should have skipped chumming up the Chicago staff and spent the
night here.

“He’s connected in some
way with your investigation, I can feel it. All we have to do is find out how
he fits in. Maybe the other pieces will fall into place. Matt?”

“What?”

“How could anything out
here in Chicago have anything to do with what...?”

He slowly shook his head
with his right index finger on his lips.

She grabbed the notepad
near the phone on the desk and began to write. ‘
We need to find a place to
talk!
’

He leaned over to read
her message and got sidetracked with the sweet scent of her shampoo. Whispering
softly into her ear, he leaned her back onto the bed, “Have you ever been to
the Art Institute?” He nibbled her ear lobe until she moaned.

Without remembering how
they got there, he found himself imbedded, without protection. Bloody hell!

***

They finally made it to
the Art Institute by noon. Sara kept running through the disaster that was her
life lately; she was not paying much attention to the paintings on display.
“Here we are standing in front of Ma and Pa Kettle, I can’t believe we’ve gone
this far. My life is falling apart. I have a husband and a lover and I’m
chasing suspicion from Maine to Chicago. I don’t know who I am anymore,
Matthew.”

He put his hand on her
shoulder and whispered, “You have an
estranged
husband, soon to be ex.
This is a Grant Wood piece, very famous actually. I understand his sister and
his dentist posed for it. I do not believe they were married and the name
Kettle isn’t mentioned in the brochure.”

“Ma and Pa Kettle were
down and out farmers with a dozen or so kids in an old movie series, Matthew.
We’ve walked all over the museum and I don’t believe we’re being followed.  Can
we please find some place to sit and maybe get something to eat? We skipped
breakfast and my stomach is starting to sound like an echo chamber. Then,
maybe, we can make some sense of this bizarre series of incidents that keep
following us like a snagged anchor.”

“The brochure says
there’s a restaurant on the lower level. A pot of tea and a bite to eat will
lift your spirits, love.”

After several wrong turns
and dead ends, they finally stumbled onto the Garden Restaurant.  They were led
to a table with white linen and long stem glasses. “I don’t think they serve
hot tea. It looks like its wine or water,” she whispered as she spread the
napkin across her lap.

“A pity this.” He leaned
forward. “Why don’t we split a bottle of Perrier?” He covered her hand and Sara
looked into his gray eyes. “You need to relax, love. We’ll eat first; then
we’ll talk.”

The waiter had come and
gone with their order. They did serve tea,
Earl Grey
, which created a
broad grin on Matthew’s face. You would think he’d won the lottery over the
waiter’s announcement. His index finger was drawing lazy eights on top of hers.
“What?”

“I just want you to trust
me. Every time you start remembering all that’s happened, you take smaller and
smaller breaths.”

“People are dying,” she
said a little too loudly and the host at the entrance to the restaurant looked
in their direction. Leaning forward, she whispered the rest. “Starting with my
son there have been five maybe more. Who’s next, Matt? How do we stop it?”

“Sh, love. Panic won’t
help us. I still believe what’s happening is connected to what Carl was working
on. I just need a little more time. If we knew what Carl knew, we could close
this thing. He doesn’t say anything about that when he’s with you?”

“No, he just says he
watches.”

"The nightmares are
back. I thought you only had those until you recognized him.”

“I did, too. Maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe he can’t tell me
any other way. When we get back to the seacoast, I need to check some things
out.”

“Tell me. I can do that
for you.”

“It’s something I need to
do myself.”

“Sara, not without me;
it’s too dangerous. I have to go back to Washington tomorrow night and follow
up on a couple of leads. I do not want you snooping into anything without me.
When you go back to Maine, act as if you had a wonderful time in Chicago. Go about your business as you usually do.”

“There isn’t any usual.
Ron is investigating. What if he stumbles onto something that puts him in
danger? Am I supposed to just sit on my hands? I can’t do that.”

“Has he called you
again?”

“Last night,” she
whispered across the table. “He found a collector of...you know...memorabilia
on the internet. Jordie is helping him.”

“Bloody hell, I warned
Ron not to continue.”

“I don’t think he quite
trusts you, Matthew.”

He paused in the process
of dialing on his cell. “Do you?”

A half a heart beat too
long, she replied, “Yes, I do.”

“We are going to have a
serious conversation about your fleeting trust.”

“Who are you calling?”

“Your estranged husband,”
he held up his hand to stave off further complaint. “Damn.” He pushed more
buttons.

“What?”

“What’s his office
number?”

“Why?”

“He’s not picking up at
home or his cell.”

She gave him the number
and a few seconds later he gave her a thumbs-up. “Ron, Sara tells me you’re
still tracking on your own. I don’t think that’s the safe thing to do… I’m
aware of that. Let the professionals do that. It’s what they’re paid for...
Yes, she’s right here.”

He handed her the phone. 
Sara really didn’t want to play twenty questions with Ron again.  “Yes, what is
it now?”

“Hey, you called me,” he
said. “What’s going on with the Brit? I thought your conference was over
yesterday.”

“The conference completed
yesterday, but the final staff meeting was this morning. I told you before; I
won’t be back until Sunday. I’m trying to spend some down time touring
museums.”

“Is that what you call
it?”

“Ron, that’s enough!
Please stop investigating. Bad things are happening here, too. I feel like I
have an albatross hanging around my neck; everything I touch is followed by an
unexplained death.”

“I don’t want anything to
happen to you either.”

“How’s your ankle, Ron?”

“Doc put another walking
cast on it when I complained about the pain; then told me not to put any weight
on it. Even when the doctors speak in English they don’t make sense. When are
you flying back?”

“Sunday morning. I’m
going back to my place. I need to shop and clean and make sense of a mountain
of mail.”

“So you’re not coming
back here.”

“I explained that to you
before I left. You’re mobile now. You don’t need me.”

He disconnected.

“Did he mention if he
found anything?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“He hung up. Listen,
Matt, I have a nagging feeling that the gentleman with the umbrella, the one in
the sketch, is not who he appears to be.” He raised an eyebrow and tilted his
head silently waiting for her to continue. “You’re not helping here. I give you
all the information and you don’t give me anything back.”

“I was just trying to
figure out how your brain works.”

“Ron tried for years,
don’t bother. Women are wired differently. About this guy with the British
accent, he doesn’t sound like you. Something is off with the way he sounds out
words.  It’s like he has to force it. Do you understand what I’m trying to
say?”

“First of all, Sara my
speech pattern is a blend of British and American. And there isn’t one British
accent. The aristocracy tends to speak with their noses in the air. If you’re a
bloke from SoHo you speak with a gutter twang. People from Yorkshire have a
different sound to their voices. It isn’t any different than speech patterns of
someone say from Brooklyn as opposed to a Texan or the southern drawl from Georgia.”

“I don’t think this is
the same thing. It’s a careful, forced accent. There’s a middle eastern hitch
to it that he doesn’t quite cover up.”

“Sara, you’re grabbing at
straws.”

“Just check it out. You
have the resources, don’t you? Hotel security may have him on tape from the day
he ran into you. Maybe you can run his picture. If he’s the same guy in the
sketch, the Chicago police will be interested, too. Don’t you think?”

“We can’t afford to get
snagged into another local investigation. If the guy is international, I want
to know which team he’s playing on and why.”

“Do you think the kid was
with the neo...group?  I can’t even say the word. It makes me ill.”

“We don’t have anything
we can prove, but my gut says yes.”

“Then, you think he knew
who we were?”

He nodded his head. “I
think he was trying to set us up for a fall.”

“But how would he know?”

“I don’t know, Sara. 
There are too many pieces missing. When we both get back to Maine we can go
down to Odiorne together. See if your dream is at the same place.”

“I thought the police
went over the scene carefully.”

“The locals thought it
was a suicide. The state police agreed. I’ve been at the site several times and
nothing else jumps up as a clue.”

“You told me you know
where it is, the piece we’re all looking for. It’s there isn’t it?”

“I don’t know the exact
location,” he said.

“When will you be back
from DC?”

“I’m not sure, a few
days, a week. Don’t go there again without me. I don’t think it’s safe. 
Whoever killed your son is running out of time. From the clues Ron discovered,
they’re getting desperate.”

“That’s fine Matthew, but
we still don’t know who
they
are. Groups yes, but not the actual
people.”

“I know that.” He pinched
the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. “Every time I narrow
the field the suspect ends up dead.”

Hey, Cass, come on in.”

“Where are you, Sara?”

“I’m on the floor by the
slider. I don’t know how I managed it but I got mud all over the floor here by
the slider. How are you?”

“Probably better than you
are, you made the network news, three days in a row. I see you’ve been
cavorting with the hunk in the hotel pool after hours.”

“That was on television?”

“No, that was in the
Globe and the National
Enquirer. The network
news had you and your British friend tied to a drug bust and a murder. I
thought you went out there to rest.”

“It was a busy week. I
didn’t know you read those rags.”

“I don’t buy that smut;
it passes the time waiting in the checkout line at the store. How many
two-headed Martians do you suppose we have on earth?”

“I have no idea, Cass,
but the conference was the reason I was out there and busier than I expected. I
was just supposed to help out and observe how it was put together, a week of
rest, my boss told me. He dumped almost his whole week of speeches in my lap
then flew off to Washington.”

“Something tells me that
wasn’t all of it.”

“We finally connected on
a personal level.” Sara didn’t have to tell her who.

“Is that an
understatement?”

“He’s wonderful, but I’m
married.”

“Speaking of Ron, have you
heard from the gimp lately?”

“Too much I’m afraid.
He’s still investigating on his own with some help from Jordie.  We told him to
stop. It’s too dangerous. Talk to Jordie; make him stop, too.”

“You can’t mean that what
happened in Chicago is connected in any way?”

“We think it is. Just ask
Jordie to stay out of it. I don’t want you to lose him, too. What’s in the big
box you brought?”

“This is your mail, my
dear.” Cass set the box on Sara’s kitchen table.

A moment later the front
doorbell chimed. A plump, elderly lady in a red wool coat was standing on the
other side with a cake in her hands. “I’m your neighbor, dear, Ruth Obermeyer.
I know I’m a little late with this, but I’ve come to welcome you to the
neighborhood.”

“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.