CHAPTER THREE ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER

My 17 birthday 2:43 PM

 

 

“Got it, Pop!” I shout, flying down the stairs two at a time. Could someone be calling to wish moi a happy birthday? Slightly out of breath, I snatch up the receiver of the cordless phone sitting on the table at the foot of the stairs. “Blakely residence, Cookie speaking. Who’s calling please?” Pop makes me answer the house phone like this. He calls it proper etiquette. I feel like a dork.

Whoever it is there clears their throat. Then a deep gravely voice says, “Good afternoon this is Agent Werthoust with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

The name registers and my heart sinks with disappointment. Then my heart lodges in my throat and I feel a strange vibration in my temple just under my scar. I lean against the phone table to steady my wobble knees. Maybe there’s new about Mom.

“Err…you said Cookie…then I must be speaking to um…Margaret Suzanne Blakely.”

“Correct. Margaret Suzanne is my birth name, but everyone calls me Cookie.”

“Ah, yes so it says in your dossier."

I have a dossier?

He chuckles uneasily. "Well my goodness. Let me see...the last time we spoke was…” His voice trails off then he clears his throat again. This time noisily. “Well now...let’s just say it has been a while.” There’s another pause. “Do you remember me Cookie?”

I murmur, “Uh-huh.” How could I forget you? You’re the one who told me that my mother was dead. Therefore, your ugly face is burned into my memory. Suddenly I’m in a worm hole being sucked back in time, back to the horrible day in Austria. Agent Warthouse looms before me like a hologram framed by the door of our suite. I reach out and my hand, my fingers go right through his arm. The soft “coo-coo” from the German Cuckoo clock above the phone table announces the quarter hour and brings me back to the present.

Agent Werthoust says, “Excuse me? I’m sorry, but I can barely hear you.”

I draw in a deep breath and conjure up the courage to talk like an adult to the FBI man. “Yes sir,” I say stridently. “I remember exactly who you are.”

“I need to speak with your father, Christopher Blakely. Is he at home?”

Great he’s the last person Pop will want to talk to on my birthday. On the other hand, what if he is calling to finally tell us something about Mom? “Sure, hold on.” I put my hand over the mouth piece and move down the hall. I feel like I’m walking though water. I push through the kitchen door with my shoulder. “Pop, it’s Agent Worthouse.” I whisper, and rush over to flip off the loud soccer game playing on the little TV. I go over holding phone toward him as if he’s my lifeline on the show Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.

Pop’s face is bright pink. He pounds his fist into a ball of soft dough and glares at me through a cloud of flour. “Cookie…first of all, the man’s name is pronounced Wert…houst. And secondly, ask him to call back. As you can see I’m up to my elbows in pizza dough, if I leave, it’ll turn to shoe leather.”

“What if he has new information on Mom? I'm just saying, why else would he call after all this time?” I bug out my eyes. “We can always hope.” I can’t help it a little flicker of hope will always burn inside of me.

Pop looks sad. "Let it go sweetheart." He detests these people because they’ve been so tight lipped. Every time he has had to deal with them, his blood pressure goes up and so does the volume of his voice. It scares me, I’m afraid he’s going to have a heart attack. When we got back from Austria, he had to see a cardiovascular doctor. He put Pop on BP meds and suggested he exercise and drop about thirty pounds—yeah right, that’ll be the day. “You have my permission to tell Agent Werthoust that I will speak to him under one condition…that he’s ready to tell me the bloody truth…until then…THE LOT OF THEM CAN GO TO HELL!” Pop leans forward and raises his voice loud enough for the people a couple blocks away to hear.

Startled, I almost drop the receiver. “Shit Pop they probably heard you!” In the past, the Irish half of my mouth got me on restriction for a few days. This time he doesn’t say anything, just goes back to his pizza making. I nudge him a little bit with my shoulder. “Seriously, why won’t you just talk to him? What if they’re finally going to tell us what happened?” I shake the receiver at him.

Pop shakes a finger covered with goo at me. “Ah, for the love of Pete child haven’t you figured it out?”

I scream, “Figured out WHAT…?”

He yells back, “That those people don’t CARE about us!”

For a second, Pop and I glare at each other like Billy goats. The thought of hearing about Mom makes my stomach knots up too, but it's worse NOT knowing. I look at the receiver. Oh crud. My hand isn't covering the mouthpiece. No doubt, Werthoust is listening to us yelling at each other. This is beyond awkward. I take a breath then reluctantly put the phone to my ear, and speak as respectfully as I can through clenched teeth. “Sorry sir, my father can’t come to the phone…um…his hands are all…um...gooey…” I look over at Pop and he raises a bushy red eyebrow at me. I raise my shoulders thinking it’s all I could think of to say, you put me on the spot. “Hello? I don’t hear anything except dead air. Hello…hello, is anyone there?”

Pop barks, “Good. Hang up! All they do is mess with your emotions. I regret it every time I speak with––”

I hold up my hand. “No wait, I hear voices.” My face feels flush from the spat, but I force a smile and try to sound mature. “Hello Agent Werthoust, are you still there?” I press the receiver hard against ear.

Agent Werthoust finally comes on the line. “Err, sorry, Miss. Blakely I was called away from the phone for––”

In my enthusiasm, I interrupted Agent Werthoust. “Oh, good, I thought I cut you off or you’d hung up...”

“Oh no, I would never do that to you.”

“Yeah, me neither.” I lie. I’ve hung up on Char and Sean. “I think it’s rude and uncalled for. So may I take a message or can you call back?” I ask, hoping to find out what this call is all about. I tuck my hair behind my ears and glance over at Pop. He’s leaning back, twirling pizza dough in the air like the pro he is. He drapes the dough over his fists like a ghost then gingerly spreads it out on a pizza pan sprinkled with corn meal. Preparing food always calms him down, I hope.

Agent Werthoust continues cautiously, “I, er…over heard your conversation with you father so I took the liberty to check with my team on the legalities of speaking with a minor…such as yourself…anyway, we agreed that it would be perfectly okay to speak directly with you…” I feel my mouth drop. The Feds wants to talk to moi? Old Warty definitely has my curiosity peaked to the max. “…bearing in mind your father gives his sanction and is in attendance.” The meaning of the last part of his sentence totally flies over my head.

I blink “Uh…cool, when?”

“Right now Miss Blakely. I simply need to ask you a few questions concerning your mother’s case.”

“Um, okay. Shoot.”

“Ms. Blakely, I essentially need to hear a verbal consent from Mr. Blakely. Is that possible?”

Pop is next to the stove with his back to me, spreading warm tomato sauce on the pizza with a large wooden spoon.

“Hold on a sec.” I press the phone to my chest and go over and tap him on the back. I pray he doesn’t blow a gasket. He looks over his shoulder and I swallow the lump in my throat. “Um, Agent Werthoust just wants to know if you’ll give your permission so he can ask me a few questions.”

“Absolutely not!” He picks up a gigantic round pizza pan off the stack, and smacks it on the counter top. WHACK!

I jump. Then stomp my foot. “Come on Pop, I’m seventeen, not a kid anymore!” Pop looks at me like he did when I was five and throwing a tantrum. I hold my ground and he calmly sets the wooden spoon down on a ceramic chef shaped spoon holder and wipes his big hands on his white chef’s apron.

“Okay lassie, you win this time…suite yourself.” He takes the receiver from me and simple says “you have my consent”. He passes me the receiver then picks up a ball of dough and shakes at me. White flour floats through the air like snow. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you about getting your hopes up!”

I smile, rise up on my toes and peck him on his ruddy cheek. “I won’t. My hopes are always up.” Sometimes my father and I lock horns until one of us gives in. This is how the Irish work things out. Moving to the other side of the bar, I take a deep breath and put the phone to my ear as I plop down on a barstool across from Pop so he can hear my every word. “You heard right?” I ask Agent Werthoust. “Fire away.” I picture a room full of electronic gadgets and important looking people waiting with baited breath to hear what Eva Blakely’s daughter has to say.

“Yes, fantastic!” Agent Werthoust lowers his voice and tells the others “It’s a go.” I hear a loud squawk in my ear. “Sorry, we are getting feedback please give us a second longer to adjust the microphone.” He asks someone in the room with him “What’s the problem?”

I hear soft murmurs, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. I sigh loudly and drum my fingernails on the counter. I bite my lip and pick at some dried dough on the island’s tiled countertop. This feels surreal like it’s a dream. Pop flicks inquiring looks my way. Instead of explaining the whole conversation to him, I push the speaker button so he can hear, and then place the receiver in the middle of the island’s countertop between bowls of various pizza toppings. Pop skirts by me on one of his trips to our double-wide refrigerator and I whisper, “They’re fixing the tape recorder.”

He takes out a large zip-lock bag of shredded mozzarella cheese then shuts the fridge door with his hip. “Good time to change your mind.”

I shake my head stubbornly. "I'm committed."

Okay, I think this recorder will work,” a woman says loud enough for both of us to hear and a scary thought occurs to me. What if our house is bugged? A shiver runs down my spine. My eyes dart around the kitchen looking for tiny microphones or lenses then I drop my free hand and feel under the edge of the counter for wires. I pick up the receiver and shake it. After I hang up, I plan to check all doors, windows and phones. Are they watching and listening in to our every move and conversation? Reporters are always complaining about Big Brother…the white van I saw out back with the weird doodads on the roof... I twist around and stare outside. The afternoon sun’s glare on the glass so bright I can’t see through the window...I sit up taller on the stool thinking this is like waiting to see the dentist.

At last, Agent Werthoust comes back on the line. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” I say, feeling a little freaked out. Should I ask him about the van?

“I apologize for our technical difficulties. I think we’re ready, if you are.”

“I’m ready.” I suddenly feel butterflies in my stomach. Blowing out a breath,

He clears his throat three times and I hear him gulp some water. “Ahem, you’ll have to excuse me I am fighting a summer cold. He pauses. "Miss. Blakely, by law I’m required to record all conversations pertaining to the Eva Sheahan-Blakely investigation.” Hearing Werthoust actually say mom’s name throws me off. I nod my head as my throat tightens and I see her in my mind, lying on the couch in our suite... This is harder than I thought. Another pause. “Miss Blakely, let’s try this again,” Agent Werthoust says slowly. “We need your spoken verbal consent electronically recorded.”

I blink and shake off the image. “Oh…um, sorry…sure fine by me…record away. Was that loud enough?”

“That is satisfactory Miss. Blakely. Well, as I’ve stated I would like to ask you a few questions about your stay in Austria, and the weeks following. However, beforehand, I am obliged by law to inform you that––if you do not wish to––you are not required to answer any of these questions….speak normally and simply say “pass”. Kind of like a card game. Understand?”

“Uh-huh.” Without thinking, I nibble on pepperoni slices, green pepper strips, and sliced fresh mushrooms. I’m curious about this ‘by law’ thing he keeps throwing into the mix. Mental note: Google by law.

“Let’s give it a try. Now, to verify our records, please confirm your current age and date of birth.”

Wiping my hands on my sweat pants, I swallow the food then raise my voice and enunciate. “I was born 8-19-1989. I’m sixteen. No wait, duh, I’m seventeen.” I stifle a giggle. “I almost forgot, today’s my birthday.” Way to go Cookie, you’d f-up a free lunch.

“Well, happy birthday, seventeen is almost an adult…so sorry to be calling on your special day.”

I like what he said about almost an adult. “It’s okay...were not doing anything special.” Pop looks over at me and pokes out his bottom lip. I grin and wave him off. He knows I’m kidding.

“Very well then…in any event, this shouldn’t take too long. Shall we continue?”

“It’s your show,” I tell him, all of a sudden feeling oddly confident yapping with a Federal agent. Huh, this must be what adulthood is like. I hear a click. I’m guessing he muted my flub up.

Werthoust clears his throat (yet again) and starts with the basic questions: Confirm your address, where do you go to school, blah-blah-blah. He sort of sounds like HAL in the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. Meanwhile, Pop goes inside the pantry, and then returns to the kitchen island with jars of pitted black and green olives. I yawn widely and wave my hand to indicate that he didn’t miss anything and I was handling this like a pro.

Agent Werthoust says, “Today’s date is the ninetieth day of August…two-thousand-six. This conversation is being recorded via a land-connection telephone as an up-to-date document pertaining to the ongoing investigation of Special Agent Eva Sheahan-Blakely.”

Pop mutters, “I can’t bear to listen to this.” He picks up his iPod and pokes the tiny earphones in his ears. He fiddles with the dial then drops it in his apron pocket.

“Fine,” I grumble back, and turn off the speaker. I pick up the receiver and put it to my ear. Ticks me off that he’s giving up on finding out about Mom.

“…I am Agent William H. Werthoust, and I am currently speaking to Margaret Suzanne Blakely, nickname Cookie, the sole daughter of the aforementioned federal agent, and one Christopher Alexander Blakely…”

Special Agent. I blink in surprise. I reach over clutch Pop’s arm. He looks up and mouth mom was a special agent like double o-seven.

He tugs on the iPod wires, pulling out his earplugs. “What?”

Now he’s interested. I cover the mouthpiece and repeat, “Agent Werthoust said mom was a special agent like double o-seven.”

Pop makes a face. “What does that got to do with anything?”

Agent Werthoust repeats, “While Special Agent Blakely was––”

I hold up my finger at Pop and raise my voice, “Uh pardon me Agent Werthoust, but we didn’t know Mom was a special agent.” I’m eager to learn about Mom even if Pop’s not. Only about a million questions have been running through my head for the last nine months.

“The title ‘special agent’ just designates an agent’s rank.”

“That’s it?” Pop says, sounding thwarted. He jams his earplugs in and turns his back to me.

“Oh…okay…sorry to interrupt!” There has to be more and somehow, someway, I'm going to find out.

“Like I said, just speak naturally, Cookie, no need to shout.”

“Sorry.” Didn’t he tell me to speak up? And it's down right creepy hearing Mom’s old boss say my nickname.

“Cookie, now that several months have passed and you’ve had time to reflect back on your trip to Austria and your stay at the Alpine Chalet Resort and the town of Schladming––I want you to think hard…during your vacation, were there any noteworthy people or significant incidents that you remember?”

A thousand noteworthy things about our trip to Austria roll through my head like a movie on fast forward. “Uh, question.” I open the drawer in the island and take out a pen and notepad. “What exactly do you mean noteworthy?”

Werthoust say, “Such as did you ever have a feeling you were being followed or was there any reason to believe you were ever in danger?”

I listen to his explanation and doodle on the paper. “Um, followed?” I blink and sit up straight. I drop the pen and grip the edge of the bar. “You mean like, by a stalker?” There’s a long pause on the other end and my pitch goes higher, “Oh my god is someone after ME?” My heart is pound in my ears and I strain to hear barely audible voices on the other end. “Please, talk to me!”

Pop apparently hears me over the music playing on his iPod because he turns around and sees my dazed expression. He rips out the earplugs, turns off the gas flame, puts a lid on the pot, and comes over to the island. I press my finger to my lips. Pop just stares at me, lips mashed together, left eye twitching. I think about how adamant he was about NOT letting any official question me. I’ve thought about what could’ve happened to Mom enough, but I never told anybody other than Pop and my grief counselor, my version. Truth is, thus far, I haven't trusted anyone enough to tell them what I think happened.

“Miss. Blakely, please, don’t take the questions the wrong way,” Agent Werthoust finally says, “It’s not my job to imply anything. I’m merely using this opportunity to chat with you about anything or anyone out of the ordinary you may’ve seen as it could help us with your mother’s case and both countries’ future sanctuary.” He's speaking in a balanced tone, the same method my grief counselor uses to calm me down.

Something feels terribly wrong.

When I don’t say anything, he lowers his voice as if telling a story. “Cookie, I’m simply asking you to think carefully about your stay in Austria. Perhaps you caught a stranger watching you and it made you feel uncomfortable. Or you saw the same person over and over again, but thought nothing of it at the time. Do you catch my drift?” Werthoust takes a breath and my stomach rolls over. Then it dawns on me. I’m the key. They already know plenty they just need to know more. That’s why they won’t tell us what happened to her. They want to drill me first and see if I know something, they don’t.

“Okay,” I exclaim. “Answer me this Agent Werthoust, who was driving that car? The black car the laundry manger at the Alpine said he saw speeding away from the resort. Did anyone ever check into that?” I don’t give him a chance to BS. “We have a right to know!” I stand up abruptly and knock my stool backward.

Pop is startled by the clamor and almost drops a stack of mixing bowls on the way to the sink. I right the stool, tossing him a quick look conveying that I’m okay. I sit down again and look down at the notepad. At some point, I’d written: KIDNAPPED. Pop leans over the counter to read what I wrote and I quickly flip to the next page.

Werthoust takes in a quick breath and blows out a long sigh. “Miss. Blakely, I don’t want you to worry and I am truly sorry but I’m not at liberty to discuss any details of any active Federal investigation with anyone outside of the task force. It is a matter of national security.” Yeah-yeah… heard that BS way too many times. “And may I remind you, that due to the sensitivity of this case I have been sworn to secrecy by the Supreme Court.”

Whatever… I want to hang up on him. Something tells me to ask him a few more questions—but why bother. If I ask him about the white van, he’ll play dumb. No, not with Pop listening in...I need to be careful. “So what about the suspicious black car?”

“Black car?” Werthoust repeats sounding confused.

I roll my eyes. “You and everybody in the lobby heard that man confess that he saw a black car speeding through the Alpine parking lot early Christmas Eve morning.”

“Oh right, right. Actually, nothing ever became of that lead. As it turns out, Adolf Gandler’s statement wasn’t reliable. According to his wife, the poor man suffers from bipolar disorder and narcolepsy.” Werthoust chuckles to himself. “His staff verified that he naps in his office during working hours and comes up with some whopper mistruths. Therefore we strongly suspect Adolf had an episode the day in question and simply dreamed the whole idea about the black car.”

“What is narco-whats-ee?”

Pop disappears inside the pantry again.

Sounding annoyed Agent Werthoust repeats Narco-lep-sy. Then very condescendingly says, “Miss Blakely. I’m sure you have better things to do right now like, open birthday presents, hang out with your little friends…so if it is oh-okay with you may I be the one asking the questions? It would greatly speed things up.”

“Please,” I say, feeling defeated. “I just want to know what happened to my mother.”

Werthoust says, “I know it is hard to understand why these things happen.”

“Uh-huh,” I speak softly, and cross over to the pantry door to see if Pop is okay. “Sure you do.”

He’s searching the shelves for something and humming to the music on his iPod. I tap him on the shoulder and he swings around. He looks at me and raises his eyebrow. I press my hand over the mouthpiece. “Can you please talk to this him?”

Pop shakes his head and shoos me away as he steps out of the pantry, flipping off the light. “I want nothing to do with those people.”

“…Trust me Miss. Blakely,” Werthoust says in my ear. “We are doing everything in our power to find out what happened to our dear Eva." Sure you are. “She is greatly missed here.” I sag against the kitchen wall and close my eyes. Werthoust is silent for a moment, but I hear his labored breathing. Now I understand why Pop gets so mad when he talks to these people and gets nowhere. “Maybe it will comfort you to know that your mother’s case is headed up by a multi-agency task force consisting of over a hundred agents and five different NSA organizations. The down side is that the evidence and facts take time to coordinate.” He pauses. “Hello?”

I mumble, “I’m here.” I want to scream, SHE DIED NINE MONTHS AGO, WHAT IS TAKING SO FREAKING LONG? But, again, I’d be wasting my breath.

I can tell he’s losing patients with me as well. I let out a sigh of relief as I push off the wall and cross to the island. “Well, that completes my questioning Cookie. Thank your for taking the time to speak to us. I know it wasn’t what you planned to do on your birthday.”

“No sir. So, that’s it,” I ask feeling totally defeated. My eyes fill with tears from the ordeal.

“Yes, end of interview,” Agent Werthoust says to the machine. I hear a click and assume he’s turned off the recorder. "However if you do remember anything, or just want to talk, you can call me any time...day or night, your father has all of my numbers.”

Pop skirts by with a box of salad vegetables. I turn my back to him and quickly swiping at my eyes. He warned me not to talk to the Feds. I don’t want him to see that they upset me.

“And by all means Cookie, feel free to discuss everything we talked about this with your father.”

“No thanks. My birthday celebration is messed up as it is.” Pop’d be ranting and raving all night about how that bunch of blanket-blank-good-for-nothing-over-paid-government-officials screwed up Mom’s investigation.

“Oh, one more thing Miss. Blakely, within twenty-four hours, a courier will deliver to your home a sealed dossier with a full transcript of our conversation, for your records. Is that acceptable?”

I shrug. “Sure, fine whatever.” I glance up at the chef shaped clock on the wall. Better make a note. I jot it on the notepad: Be home tomorrow for FBI delivery!

He asks. “Will someone be home?”

“Is it necessary?”

“Yes, the courier will need a signature.”

“Okay, I’ll tell my dad.” I go over to the refrigerator and stick the note to the door using a magnet shaped like an eyeball. "Pop." He looks over and I jab a finger at the note. He starts the dishwasher, then goes over to the fridge, takes out a large package of ground round and glances at my note without comment.

“Again, happy birthday Cookie, have a pleasant evening,” Werthoust says graciously then hangs up.

“Bye,” I murmur, and drop the receiver from my ear. Random thoughts buzz around in my head like a disturbed wasp’s nest. I sit on the stool and pick up the pen and write on a fresh page. Stuff to research: by law, wire tapping, FBI and CIA websites, and Agent Werthoust—now that I know how to spell his name. I draw a little stick figure wearing dark sunglasses and a suit. It’s supposed to be a caricature of Agent Worty. It looks more like a Blues Brother. Narcolepsy…how do you spell that? Oh well. I write it down as best I can, and then stare down at my scribbles for a few seconds. Was he alluding to the possibility of mom being kidnapped? I’m bummed that Sean and Char finked out on me and now I have to dwell on the Mom issue. I nibble on a slice of pepperoni and look over at Pop. He’s making his gourmet hamburger patties and singing along with The Irish Tenors – “Whiskey in the Jar”.

After a few minuets, Pop pulls out the earphones. “Mind going to the Safeway love, I need some baking powder.”