Coffee (20 page)

Brooke
heard quivering in the voice. The lady could break into tears any
moment. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bishop, I know this must be
a terrible time. This will only take a moment. I have specific
orders on this, I have no choice.”

“Yes,
yes, yes. Orders. Go ahead. Get it over with.”

After
a deep breath, Brooke began. “The coroner’s report
states that you identified ... your daughter, or the ... the body
through a specific characteristic. We need to know what that
characteristic was, Ma’am.”

Brooke
heard rustling sounds and faster breathing. Mrs. Bishop must have
sat down or moved to a new place. She returned much louder. “I’ve
been over this a hundred times!” Brooke let her vent. “It
was Harriet! A mother knows her own daughter, don’t you
think? Do you know how it feels to be accused of not knowing?”

“I’m
not accusing, I just need to fill in a few blanks in the paper work.
Was it a birth mark? A particular mole?”

More
exasperated breathing on the other end. Then, audible sobbing.
“This is about paper work? I can’t believe ...”
She stopped to weep. “I could have stopped her. She even
told me. I knew the snow was bad. I sent her to her death. It’s
all my fault. Her own mother.” More crying.

Brooke
hated to persist. “Please, Mrs. Bishop, don’t blame
yourself. Everything I hear about your daughter is spectacular -
she was obviously an intelligent, strong woman. What happened was
an accident, a tragic accident completely out of your control.”
Another pause. “Now please, help me through this. I need to
know exactly what you saw that day at the morgue that made you
sure.”

“You
and your stupid questions, your nagging calls. Why don’t you
just leave me alone!”

Brooke
sensed the woman may hang up, so she was forced to apply more
weight. “I know the calls and interviews make the pain even
greater. But the fact is, Mrs. Bishop, you have to answer these
questions. You either do it now over the phone, nice and quick, or
I send a team of people to your home who will sit in your living
room and ask them to your face. I know this is bad, Ma’am,
but please, it’s better to just answer. Then I’ll be
gone.”

The
lady gathered composure. “It was awful.... I see it in my
nightmares. All burned, only a few pieces of her clothes stuck to
her back where she sat on them in the car. Her arm reaching out.”

Brook
persisted. “And what exactly was it that made you so sure it
was your daughter?”

“Her
whole body, her shape. Especially her arm.”

“What
about her arm? A marking?”

“Yes.”

“What
mark? There was a lot of burn...”

“I
know. I know. It was her arm, my daughter’s arm.”

“You’ll
have to be more specific. What about the arm identified her?”

“Her
watch.”

“Her
watch? You identified her by ... “ Brooke cut herself off, and
rephrased the question. “Were their any markings on her skin
that you noticed?”

“She
never took off that watch. Even all smashed, I knew it. It was her
real father’s. She’s adopted, you know. That watch was
her most precious possession. I would have recognized it anywhere,
the old face, the band, a man’s style. It was definitely
her.” The lady returned to sobbing.

Brooke
waited a few moments wondering whether to pursue. She decided to
clarify, “So, the only item that positively identified the
body was the watch, is that correct? No other markings?”

Sniffing,
clearing of throat sounds. “Well, it was her figure, her size
and all. I could tell.”

“Were
there any other specific items?”

“No.
I guess not. I don’t really remember. It was awful. I don’t
want to talk anymore. Please let me alone.”

“I
do have one last easy question.” No sign of acknowledgment
came from the line. “Mrs. Bishop, did you authorize all your
daughter’s Doctoral papers to be taken from the school?”

After
a long pause, she answered in a trembling voice, “Someone came
to my house with a paper to sign. They said it was a formality. I
just signed.”

“Do
you have the papers?”

“I
don’t know. I don’t think so. I have boxes of things.
Maybe there are papers in there. Why do you care? Why do you ask
such annoying questions?”

Brooke
let it drop. “That’s it. You’ve been great. I
know this must be the worst time for you, and I deeply ....”
Mrs. Bishop hung up the phone, leaving Brooke very alone in the
small office. Bryce owed her for this one.

- Chapter Thirteen -

Bryce
stowed the specimen bags, and soon they were on the road again.
Approaching eight in the morning, the sun now sparkled through the
spindly tree cover. “Too early to visit her apartment?”
Bryce asked.

“I
think it will be fine. People get up early around here.” The
rear wheel drive BMW spun out on the ice. Bryce rearranged the
contents of his leather attaché. Noticing a few unusual
items in the corner of his eye, Warren made conversation. “So
what else does an FBI man carry around? Any James Bond gadgets?”

“No
Hollywood stuff. I can’t even check out a gun unless the
assignment meets certain criteria, which this didn’t.”
Bryce held up a few items from the bag. “There’s a lot
of evidence gathering items - tags, razor blades, tweezers, nothing
too sexy. Oh, there is my pen pager here.” He put down the
attaché and removed a thick Parker ball-point pen from his
pocket. He unclipped the top to reveal a small display able to show
a fifteen digit number. Tiny buttons marked 0 to 9 with some other
switches lined up underneath. “I can receive digital messages
with it. You have to have sharp fingernails to push these numbers,
but it can also send a numeric message back - it’s a two way
pager. The agency has it hooked in with a global positioning
satellite. If I send my ID number and a message number, within
seconds they’ll know exactly where I am anywhere in the world
within a few feet. There’s a five digit message for instance
that triggers emergency extraction. They get the number along with
my password and they’ll deploy a helicopter from the nearest
base to pick me up. The bird will be in the air before I get the
pen back in my pocket.”

Warren
enjoyed the casual talk to lighten the air. “Pretty nice.
But don’t the numbers ever get garbled on the way up and back
to space? I imagine a guy on the beach of some island waving off a
flotilla of Navy ships, shouting, ‘Noooo! I said 12345! Not
12346!’ ”

Bryce
chuckled. “Hey, I was a Marine remember. Worse has happened.
Screw ups so big, they’d even scare Republicans from voting
in military budgets.”

“And
you can’t tell me about them, right?”

“No.
Depends on how pissed off I get at the government.”

They
pulled into the driveway of Etty’s apartment. Bryce knocked
on the door, and was greeted by a retirement age woman in a flannel
nightgown. Warren stayed in the car, but followed along as the lady
retreated into the house, and then returned to hand Bryce a key.
She passed on some instructions while gesturing, and then closed the
door. Bryce flicked a finger toward Warren as a sign to follow.
Warren left the engine running to keep the interior warm, and met
him near the back stairs which led to her studio apartment.

As
they rounded the garage, Bryce stopped short of the stairs, and
pointed to the ground below the first step. “Look - fresh
prints.” Blowing snow covered most marks within an hour or
so, but these shoe prints still showed the fine lettering from the
bottom of a woman’s heels. “The landlord couldn’t
have done these, she’s still in her slippers.”

“They
only go up. Whoever it is, she’s still in there,”
Warren looked around the grounds, down the road, and strained to see
through the trees. “There’s her car.” He
pointed toward the bumper of a small car barely visible, poking out
from a side road.

“Go
back and get the plate numbers. I’m going up.”

Warren
headed for the car. Bryce climbed the thin stairs, never taking his
eyes off the door at the top. A loud crash sounded from within.
Bryce sprinted the last few steps, and pushed open the unlocked
door. At the far end of the messy livingroom, another door stood
open, exposing what must have been the landlord’s bedroom on
the other side. A bureau lay on the floor, obviously pushed over by
the intruder as she exited a door not supposed to be used. More
crashing sounds from the house, an older woman’s scream, and
“Please! No! Don’t Shoot!”

Bryce
jumped across the room while yelling, “Warren! Keep alert!
She may be coming your way!” He dodged the mess on the floor,
hurdled over the bureau, and leaped down the stairway. The couple
stood in the livingroom, the man holding his shaking wife to his
chest.

Warren
heard Bryce’s shouting and braced himself in front of the
intruder’s car. The woman burst through the front door,
grabbing the wrought iron railing to pivot around the icy stoop.
Gaining speed, she dashed straight at Warren. An obviously heavy
purse filled with papers flopped at her side. She clutched a small
hand gun. When Warren saw the glint of shiny steel, he backed
away, abandoning any plans of tackling her. She veered, and ran
toward his BMW. She yanked open the door, dropped in, and spun out
of the small driveway before closing the door. Warren had to jump
back up on the hood of her car to avoid being sideswiped. She sped
off, fish tailing down the road.

Bryce
stepped out of the house to see her disappear around a corner.
Warren slipped off the hood, and stood disparagingly in the snow.
“Did you see that?”

“That
was awfully considerate of you to keep it warm for her.”
Bryce ducked back into the house to call 911.

“This
is Bryce Applegate, FBI officer. I registered my visit with Chief
Gordon. I have an emergency, a report of a stolen car on route. A
red BMW 525i license plate 153-BDD, heading east on Trescott Ridge
Road, probably toward Hanover. Driver a twenty five year old
brunette female, five foot four, 120 pounds. Intercept!”
After providing more details, he joined Warren in the driveway.

“I
suppose she wasn’t kind enough to leave us any keys.”

Warren
still stood in shock. “No. I mean I don’t know.”
He ran around to the driver window, and stared in. “Nope.
Locked, no keys.” He kicked the side of the economy rental
car. “Damn! She stole my car!”

The
landlords stepped out to the threshold, looking odd in their frumpy
pajamas against the snowy yard. “I have some hot coffee on,
you boys want a cup?” the lady asked.

“We
might as well. Com’on. No sense in standing around in the
snow. I want to look around the apartment. I’ll call for a
cab.”

From
a worn sofa chair, next to a little table packed with small china
figures of cherubs in the snow, Bryce called his office. “Brooke?
It’s Bryce.”

“Bryce!
It’s you. Lange’s on the war path, you’ve got to
call him. Didn’t you get his page?” Bryce pulled the
pen out of his pocket and noticed it was turned off. It vibrated
and displayed ‘Five Pages’ when he switched it on.

“What’s
his problem?”

“Civil
War in Brazil, that’s all,” she said sarcastically.

“What?
Did you call Mrs. Bishop?”

“Yes.
Got through this morning. You won’t believe it, Bryce - she
identified the body by the watch she was wearing!”

Bryce
nodded to himself. “Could have been anyone. One more reason
to question this whole affair. I have some evidence I want you to
analyze right away, a glass and a human tissue sample. I’ll
have a taxi drop it off at the airport. Can you rush it through?”

“If
I can. But Bryce, I’m telling you, you’ve got to call
Lange. I’ve never seen him so tied up in his jock strap.”
Bryce heard loud voices behind Brooke’s. Abruptly, Lange
jerked the phone from her hand and spoke.

“Is
this Bryce? Speak to me!”

“Yes
Sir, this is Bryce.”

“You
get your ass back to Washington. I don’t want another finger
lifted on this Global Growers case. Something big’s going
down.”

“What?”

“Don’t
ask questions, do it. Get back.”

“Mike,
this case is bigger than you think. I have new evidence, I think
Harriet Bishop is alive.”

“Drop
it. That’s an order!”

“I
can’t do that. I just had a car stolen by an intruder in the
Bishop woman’s apartment. I have questions about the positive
ID of the body...”

“Listen
good, Bryce. The country of Brazil is in some kind of near
revolution. The army has split ranks, some supporting the President
and some looking like coup potential. If this breaks into war, it
could affect a number of our interests, big interests. The
President of the United States has supported the Brazilian
government in a televised message this morning on CNN...”

“What’s
this have to do with Harriet Bishop?”

Lange
uttered an exasperated sigh. “Your little escapade happens to
involve Global Growers, a related company to Clorice Coffee, located
in Recife, Brazil. Our intelligence tells us that the President of
Brazil is hiding out at the Clorice Coffee Plantation - maybe the
only safe place left in the country. The implication of your
Harriet Bishop affair is that Global Growers is somehow involved in
a crime. John Clorice himself caught wind of this after you guys
kept calling Global for information. Clorice called the Brazilian
Ambassador and asked that we not create false accusations at this
volatile time. Well, shit has hit the fan now. Even Enders, the
head of the Securities and Exchange Commission is involved. He is
saying that there was no wrong doing in the coffee commodity
markets, nothing out of the ordinary,
nothing illegal
. That
comes from the very top. You dig up a non existent story casting
dirt at Global Growers, and any gets on Clorice, it could jeopardize
his very important position in this whole thing. The President has
made it quite clear - drop this case. Drop it now. Bryce?”