Bad to the Last Drop (16 page)

Deb walked down Main Street toward the bank, passing the post office, city hall, the movie theater, and the J.C. Penney store. Deb smiled at the decorative new Christmas stars being put up on the street lamps by city workers. "Thank you for putting up the Christmas decorations," she said gaily to the workers on ladders, making her way towards her meeting. The two Russian sisters, Anastasia and Helga, were waiting for her in front of bank, and she could see them waving at her from a block away. Together, they walked into the lobby of the stately Romanesque building.

Upon entering, Anastasia said, "This place looks like art museum."

Counter space covered the wall on the left. To the right were several desks set up in the cavernous room and attended by bored­appearing middle-aged women. A glass display case sat in the middle of the lobby, filled with an assortment of children's coin banks.

In the middle of the back wall, an open door—large, oval-shaped, and with an old-fashioned lock covering its surface—revealed the interior of a vault. The vault housed walls of safe deposit boxes from floor to ceiling. The light was on inside, but a gum-chewing woman a large desk sat at less than rapt attention at the entrance.

Deb approached an auburn-haired woman at the second desk on the right.

"Hello. We have an appointment to meet with Mr. Williamson. He's expecting us."

She stood up and motioned for them to follow. This way," she said, her voice flat and disinterested.

The women gazed around the masculine-appointed room that was Mike Williamson's office; it was filled with leather, mahogany, and family photos. They settled into overstuffed chairs when the auburn-haired woman said, "You can sit," just before leaving them to go back to her desk.

Shortly thereafter, Mike Williamson entered with an air of artificial cheerfulness.

"Ladies, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

Deb opened her black canvas briefcase and pulled out the Letters of Personal Representative. "We've come to begin the process of preparing the inventory for Joe's estate. We need to know just how much Joe has on deposit with your bank and to find out what is in his safe deposit box."

Mike glanced uneasily around the room at each of the women before answering.

"I'm afraid I don't have that information available for you today. Joe's affairs are a little complicated. It may take us some time to get everything put together for you." Nervously, he pulled at his collar.

Deb pursed her lips.
Give me a break,
she thought.
This is the twenty-first century, the age of computerized records. It's not like the accounts have to be transcribed off of papyrus.
She looked Williamson in the eye to let him know that she wasn't being fooled. In a firm, calm voice, she answered, "You are legally required to release that information to the personal representative in a reasonable fashion, and we need that information today. We can wait while you locate it, if you wish."

Williamson exited the room in a huff, his face reddening. He returned about ten minutes later, carrying a pile of loose-leaf papers. He set them down on the desk in front of the women. Deb glanced at the first page—the total balance on the accounts was $102,000.53. Anastasia and Helga looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to interpret the papers for them. She smiled broadly at the women. "There looks to be about one hundred thousand dollars."

The sisters exchanged looks of shock.

Deb turned to Williamson again. "We'd like to see the safe deposit box now."

Williamson led them past the bored, gum-smacking receptionist and into the small confines of the vault. With five people crammed inside, there was little room to turn around. The air was close and smelled of greasy French fries. Deb handed Mike the key, and he retrieved its mate from the envelope file.

The Russian women looked around in awe. Helga breathed heavily as drops of perspiration formed on her forehead and her skin turned ashen.

"Are you okay?" Deb asked solicitously.

She nodded, wiping her brow. "I vill be fine. The air in here ... it is varm."

Mike removed the box from the wall and set it on the side counter. After Mike left the room, Deb opened the box and peered inside. She pulled out several small, tattered pieces of orange-colored paper with handwritten scrawls and several full-sized sheets of white typing paper.

Written at the top of the first small sheet was "CODES"; on the reverse side was written "CIA." The rest of the paper had eight-digit numbers written below.

On the second paper were the handwritten words "Andy Ross" and "Peter Thomas." Each name was followed by a phone number and another eight-digit code.

The large typing paper contained what appeared to be a five-page, typewritten diatribe against the U.S. government, signed at the bottom by Joe. At the bottom of the pile of papers, Deb spotted three IOU's written to Joe: one for $10,000 signed by designer Sarah Martin; one for $50,000 from Charlie Williamson, Mike's father, on behalf of Great Northern Bank; and one for $ 24,000 from Bill Montgomery, the artist.

Deb reached into the back of the box and pulled out a faded black--and-white photo of four children. Two boys, about eight years old and similar in appearance, grinned at the camera with identical smiles, each with an arm around a beautiful younger blonde girl.

She showed the photo to Anastasia. Anastasia smiled wistfully. "That is Joe and Jacob, Helga, and I," she said thoughtfully. "Back in old country."

The last object remaining in the box was a dirty orange feather.

Helga smiled when she saw the feather. "Oh!! Joe's lucky feather! He used to take that with him everywhere. I had no idea he still kept it."

Deb stuffed the papers into the pocket of her briefcase, barely able to contain her excitement, then closed and locked the safe deposit box. She handed the box to Mike Williamson to return to its place in the vault, said "Follow me, ladies," and led the way out of the bank, leaving behind a very nervous banker.

Pat sat at her dining room table with a cup of hot tea and her cordless phone. She took out the slip of paper on which she had written the number she had gotten from Joe's apartment. She'd only dialed the first couple numbers when she stopped and put down the receiver.
This calls for coffee in hand,
she thought. She went into her sunny kitchen, put Sisters Blend in her French press, and set water to boil in the tea kettle. Five minutes later, having exchanged her tea for coffee, she dialed the number again.

A crisp voice on the second ring. "Hello? May I help you?"

Shouldn't they answer with U.S. government or even CIA?
Pat thought, wondering if she had the right number. But she forged on. "Hello I was wondering if you could help me. I'd like to talk to someone in charge there at the CIA." She cringed inwardly—even to herself, her words sounded inept. Still, she pressed on. "You see, my friend and I have been helping out a family in Ashland, Wisconsin, after the death of their brother, and you have ... an agent—at least, I think you'd call him that. Anyway, you have someone here working a case—at least, he says he is—so I was hoping you could confirm that he's ... one of yours."

The woman on the other end chuckled softly. "Is this Pat?" she asked. Not hearing a negative response, she continued. "Pat, may I ask how you got this number?"

"We found it in Joe Abramov's apartment when we were helping his sisters——" Startled, she stopped suddenly. "How ... how did you know my name?"

"One, because I have caller ID, and two, because Peter Thomas has mentioned you and your friend Deb once or twice." Still chuckling, she added, "But let me transfer you to the boss. I'm sure he would
love
to talk with you."

There was a soft click as Pat was put on hold and then almost immediately the line was picked up, followed by a booming male voice. "Well, well! You are enterprising aren't you, Mrs. Kerry. Or should I call you Reverend?"

"Pat will do. Thank you for taking my call. Can you tell me your name?" There was silence on the other end. Unperturbed, Pat continued. "So I can assume that Peter Thomas and his young sidekick are legit?"

"Yes, you can," the voice replied. Although technically speaking, I suppose in order to know for sure you might have to check up on me, too. You didn't happen to find a number for my superior in your search, did you?" he asked teasingly.

Pat laughed, feeling a little more at ease, which was exactly what the man had intended, she surmised. "No, sir. No, I didn't. But if I could have your full name and rank I could probably call ... who would that be? The president? No, I assume Joe had this number as his contact. I just wanted to check on these two guys." Taking a sip of her coffee, she added, "We feel obligated to help this family."

A serious note crept into the man's voice. "I understand. But please remember that someone in your little picture-book town killed Joe Abramov. And we don't know why. Our agents aren't who you should be worrying about. Remember that."

Yes, sir," Pat replied somberly.

"Oh, and Pat, can I trust you to not hand out this number or put it in your speed dial?"

Smiling, Pat said, "You bet. And thank you for your time and advice." And mischievously she added, "Would you say thank you to your Miss Manypenny, too?"

"I will." He laughed, and said good bye

When Pat returned to Gabriele's to pick up her purchases, a different woman was standing behind the counter.

"Hi, I'm Pat Kerry," she said, holding out her hand and smiling. "I left my box of goodies behind your counter when I was walking today. Are you Heike?"

Heike nodded, taking Pat's hand and squeezing it warmly. "Yah, my sister said to tell you she put a little treat in it for you."

"Thank her for me, will you?" Pat replied as she picked up the box. "I will do that," Heike said. She shifted on her feet, as if she was unsure she should continue.

"I ... heard you talking with my sister about Joe. He was a good man. Crazy, but good-hearted. Tell his sisters for me. But listen, I don't know what was wrong, but that last month, he wasn't himself. He was happy about the women coming from Russia, yes, and getting his new glass eye. But he was worried, too. I know. My sister says I imagined it, but it's true. And the last time he was here, he looked out the door and then asked if he could go out the back door. If it were anyone else, I would have said no. We have the kitchen back there, you know, and we have to be careful. But it was Joe, and almost before I nodded my head, out the back way he went. I didn't even get to give him a cookie that day."

"Did anyone come in right after that?" Pat asked. "Could he have been avoiding someone?"

"It's the holidays," Heike said shrugging. "A group of four or five came in, looking. I got busy."

Thanking her again, Pat took her box out to the car.
What did Gabriele give me?
she wondered
.
Getting into the driver's seat, she opened the box—nestled in tissue paper, like small white jewels, were a dozen sugar cookies, each with an almond placed gently into the center and then dusted with white sugar. The neat, hand-scripted note read
"Joe's favorites."

Pat's eyes teared as she started up the SUV.
He
did
have friends,
she thought.
He wasn't alone after all.

Fleetingly, she wondered if anyone would remember her half as much as this town remembered one crazy old war vet.

Shaking off her mood, Pat pulled out on Main. The cookies called for a good cappuccino. Happily, she found a parking spot open right in front of the Black Cat. She went in, taking her cookies with her.

Sitting in the sun by the front window was the CIA agent.
What was his name again?
Searching her memory as she ordered her coffee, Pat cursed her inability to remember names. That was always a challenge for her as a pastor, but more frustrating now when she wanted to approach him.
Honestly, I mentioned his name when I called to check on him,
she chided herself.
Oh, well, I may not remember his name, but I came bearing gifts. How can he refuse me?
She threw down the correct change, picked up her drink and cookies, and approached his table.

"Hello," Pat said, "remember me? I come bearing gifts ... and an apology."

"No need," Peter Thomas responded, smiling and standing to pull out a chair. "Please join me." "Where's your partner?"

"Oh, you know the young," Peter replied. "He'd rather be any place in the action than here."

"I know what you mean," Pat said sympathetically. "It's the same in my field. They come into ministry thinking they're going to save the world, and then they find out its lots of hard boring work and little gratitude. It's a shock for them, poor dears."

"When did you finally figure out you couldn't save the world?" Peter asked, with a twinkle in his eye.

"Me?" Pat said blithely. "Why, when a young CIA agent called me an old busybody just about two days ago. Here, have a cookie."

Peter laughed and grabbed two. "These are really great," he said, after taking several large bites. "How do you find time to bake?"