CHAPTER FOURTY ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER ~ by B.A. Linhares

I duck into the girls' restroom, take out my cell and power it up. I speed-dial Pop. “Hi love.”

“Yes, it’s taboo to use my cell on campus, but I want to give you the heads up that due to forecasted afternoon thunderstorms swim practice is called off, again. I have so much to do before our trip to Florida. Apart from the flurry of gossip and speculations surrounding the Char event—yes that’s what everyone is calling it—the rest of my day was pretty much uneventful. I feel horrible that Char is going through so much junk and that Zak is having a nervous breakdown. Zak can’t stand being landlocked now that his beloved wheels have literally ‘bit the dust’. However, I’m thrilled to be out of the limelight for once.” I blurt out a mouthful and Pop just listens. “Okay, well, I’ll be home soon. Gotta go.”

I click off and head to my book locker. Life is good except for the fact that right now James Beal is loping down the hall coming my way. I pretend not to see him. I slam my locker shut, grab my backpack, and dash for the exit doors. I lean into the heavy door bar, struggling with my heavy backpack in my hands. I turn, look up at his flushed face and stifle a shudder.

Beal shouts and waves a large manila folder over his head. “Yo, Cook, wait up!” His voice cracks as if still plagued by puberty. He’s all out of breath. “H-hey...didn’t...you hear…me?”

He comes up and bops me on the head with the envelope. I guess to get my attention. “Don’t do that.” I say and lower my eyes and stare at the envelope vibrating in his bony hand as if it’s alive. Something smells like rotten eggs. The odor is coming from Beal. He always reeks of film process chemicals. He thrusts the arm holding the envelope at me as the lower half of his face splits into ghoulish grin. I take the thick envelope between my fingers. “What’s this?” I ask, rubbing my nose.

“Those,” he says panting hard. “Are...the pictures...I took...of Char’s crash yesterday.” He sounds as if he’s having an asthma attack or something.

“Uh…thanks. That was quick. I mean you said it would take a month...” Beal pats his chest and then pulls an inhaler from his white plastic pocket protector. Watching him suck on that thing makes me think of Mr. Getman at the Library of Congress. I find myself struggling for my next breath. I hoist my backpack on my shoulder and tuck the packet under my arm. “Thank you, Jimmy,” I mumble again trying to be polite. “That was very nice of you to track me down.” Forcing a smile, I turn to go.

“Well, I suppose you’ll want them to help your case,” Beal says, in this high-pitched breathless whisper.

I spin around, “Excuse me?”

“Zak said he was suing Senator Brennan I figured you were hitting him up for body damage on your Mustang.” Grinning widely, Beal turns on his heal and lopes down the hall.

I shout, “What? No way! I have auto insurance! Suing Senator Brennan never crossed my mind!” I close my mouth. “Why am I’m screaming at Beal?”

 

I bee-line it for my Mustang, toss the envelope on the back seat and after I fasten my seatbelt, turn over the engine. The weather is a repeat of yesterday: huge angry thunderheads forming over head. “Darn, I forgot to ask him about going to Zavalla’s Garage.” I speed dial Pop again and put my cell phone to my ear.

“Good afternoon, Blakely residence, Christopher speaking.”

“Hi Pop, sorry to never asked how was your day?” I tuck the phone in the crook of my neck and slip in a Goo-Goo Dolls CD, adjusting the volume so I can talk.

“Good. Everything is ordered for the West wedding and you have a four o’clock appointment at Earl’s to get the Mustang’s scratch buffed out—free of charge!”

The parking lot looks like Grand Central. I shift into reverse, check over my shoulder and back out of my parking space. I eye Josh walking out of the front entrance. I loop around and pull up as he steps off the sidewalk.

Pop says in my ear, “I just hung up with Helena Milinski––”

 “Cool,” I say, cranking my window down to wave Josh over. “Hey. Hold on a sec Pop.” Josh walks up to my car. The strong wind is blowing his longish hair. I look up at him and smile. “Hey need a ride sailor?”

“Sure!” He says, smiling widely. He runs around the front bumper and I reach over and unlock the door. He climbs in, tosses his satchel in the backseat, and says, “You saved me…” he pauses to buckling up. “My battery is dead. I was gonna try and bum a ride with Beal. Have you seen what he drives?”

I make a face. “No the same creepy old hearse…”

Josh nods.

“Oh, wait. I have a few errands to run. Do you want me to drop you off first?”

“Do you mind if I hang out with you?”

“Heck no, I’d love the company.” I hear a little voice. I forgot about Pop on my cell. “Hold on I’m talking to my dad,” I say, smiling at Josh and press the phone to me ear using my shoulder. I nudge into the line of cars barely moving. “Hey Pop, sorry about that. So, you called Helena Milinski?” I wink at Josh.

“Yes!” Pop says eagerly. “And you won’t believe what I found out from her!”

“What? Tell me!” I feel Josh looking at me. He appears alarmed. Ops! I catch his eye and put my hand over the mouthpiece. “We were so busy during Mr. Jackson’s class; I forgot to tell you that Pop was taking charge by calling the Alpine Chalet Resort himself. No laws says you can’t speak to an old friend…right?”

Josh shakes his head. “What ever.”

“What? Josh, are you thinking that Ivan might not like Pop interfering with his case?” I hastily put my phone on speaker and hand it to Josh. “So I can concentrate on my driving.” DC cops frown on young people on cell phone. They’ll invent reasons to pull you over and give you a lecture on the dangers of operating electronic devices while driving vehicles. In the short time, the sky has turned a steel gray and little sprinkles of rain start to fall, just enough to force me to turn on my headlights and wipers on low speed. The line of cars exiting the school is moving at a snails pace. The cause of the backup is everyone rubber-necking the accident site as they drive by. Every few feet I have to break with traffic. “Jeez,” I say under my breath. “It’s just a smashed fence...let go people!”

Pop says, “Helena sends her best wishes to you.”

“Awe. She’s so awesome.” I recall the way she treated us like family. “I bet she was shocked hearing from you.

Pop chuckles. “She was actually very excited to hear my voice seems I timed my call perfectly.”

“By the way, you’re on speaker Pop so Josh can hear too.”

“Hi Josh,” Pop says, laughing again. “It seems you two have become inseparable lately.”

“I know,” Josh says, looking over at me smiling. “How lucky can a guy get...right?”

I feel my face heat up. Whew, I was afraid we were going to have our first fight. I shake my head. “Okay, you two knock it off...you’re embarrassing me.

Pop laughs and tells Josh, “You’re a fine lad!”

“Thanks Mr. B.”

“So, like I was saying,” Pop continues, “The first thing Helena told me is she’d just hung up with the White House.”

I flick a shocked look at Josh. “You’re kidding.”

“No. President Parks called her personally to smooth the way for the American forensic team staying there as long as it takes.”

“I think that’s very good news!”

“I don’t know,” Pop says, sounding doubtful, “Don’t get your hopes up lassie. Ivan said it may be is too late as far as the KGB goes there people wiped the place clean.”

“Pop, at least they’re trying.”

“Oh. Get this. On another news conference this afternoon Parks said something like... she won’t be leaving any stones unturned. Why would they check under stupid stones?”

I stifle a giggle. I explain to Josh. “Pop sometimes has trouble understanding American idioms.” The car in front of me stops abruptly forcing me to slam on the breaks. I squeal. Then look over as Josh puts a hand on the dashboard—I suppose bracing for impact.

Pop asks, “You okay?”

I gesture ahead. “Yes Pop. Every body is stopping to gawk at the stupid fence Char destroyed.”

Josh points. The cars ahead of me are moving again.

I ease off the breaks and ask, “So did Ivan call with an update?”

“As a mater of fact he did. He flew into Vienna and went to the American Embassy. He gathered all of Eva’s personnel files, case files that were in the vaults inside the CIA’s base office.”

Josh’s mouth falls open and I raise my eyebrows.

“What’s odd is that her case folders only contained three items. A photograph of you and me standing in the snow near the Alpine, your typical head shot like the one on her FBI creds, and one paragraph description as to how she died on the job—” I hear him take a sharp breath. “Ivan said a typical personnel file usually contains a brief summary on every case each agent ever worked. Eva’s folder should contain dozens. They take photographs of each agent posing at various angles. It helps identify imposters and moles. Eva’s files should’ve been several inches thick, considering how long she worked with the bureau.”

Josh leans forward. “Mr. B, does Ivan have any idea why her files are missing?”

“If someone stole them it would have to be someone on the inside.”

I smack my hand on the steering wheel. “Werthoust!”

“He’s checking into that,” Pop says. “Some of the other agents at the Embassy who knew her well and worked with Eva, said that for the last two years she worked as a special agent in counterterrorism. Of course they weren’t at liberty to discuss the details. While on a case, they were almost always forced to go underground.”

 “I guess that explains why Mom was gone most of the time,” I mumble mostly to myself. A policeman in a yellow rain coat is directing the heavy after school traffic at the school’s entrance. I have to stop. I lean forward and look at the sky. Several news vans are parked near the accident area however the rain has them stuck inside their vehicles.

Pop says, “Is it raining at the school? It’s coming down like cats and dogs here at the house.”

Josh says, “Yes sir, it’s raining pretty good now.” He holds the phone closer to his mouth. “Um, Mr. B, what about the staff, I mean at the resort, did Ivan question anyone there yet?”

Pop chuckles and says, “Josh, you’d be proud of me...I wrote everything on the legal pad Ivan gave me. Ivan was able to obtain a written statement from most of the people working last Christmas week. Come by the house and I’ll fill you in. There’s too much to tell. I have a mile long list of things to finish today and I’m burning daylight.”

Josh nods his head and says, “Excellent, Mr. B, P.I.”

“Private investigator…no thank you, I’ll stick to cooking. I will tell you this though. Warning, it Cookie. I may give you chills…at least it did me. The task force technicians at the Vienna bureau viewed Helena’s set of the security tapes on a super computer using video enhancement software. They were able to confirm that Koshechka was standing right behind me the night I bought the sunrise skiing tickets. We registered as Alfred Dunsmuir.”

I gasp. “The art dealer.”

Josh whistles through his teeth.

Pop continues, “…yeah, Helena was stunned that he was right under our noses.”

I turn on my turn signal and swing the Mustang onto Wisconsin Avenue, glad to be away from the congestion. In the distance, I see the shimmering gold letters on Ernie’s sign, standing out in the dreary weather like a Vegas billboard. I raise my voice, “I’m almost at Zavalla’s Garage.” I tell him and park in front of the office.

“Okay, I’ll let you go love. See you later. Be safe… oh, are Agent Smith and whathisname following you?”

“Ten four Pop,” I say, glimpsing the black Mazda in my rear view mirror. “Agent Markowitz is on the phone contraption probably checking in with Ivan or some of the other surveillance teams.”

“Good. You two keep an eye out for that Russian sob, there’s no telling where he will show up next. Ivan says Koshechka is a slippery little bastard, especially when he flits one place to another incognito.”

Ivan’s assuring voice resonates in my mind. He posted armed agents on practically every street between D.C. and Austria. So why haven’t they been able snare Valentine...yet?

“Hey Josh, your father called me about Eva’s throw, he’s admitting it as key evidence. We talked for a while, I pretty much told him everything we talked about last night—I figure the more he knows the faster we can solve this thing. Anyway,” Pop continues, “Wayne says—along with a long list of other crimes—Agent Werthoust will be charged negligence of a fellow agent’s welfare. If I find out Werthoust is responsible…”

“Calm down, you can’t do anything that will land you in jail again, or the pokey…as you call it.” I shake my head.

A bolt of lightning strikes nearby causing static to crackle on my cell phone and even bigger drops of rain begin pelting the windshield. I turn the wipers up a notch. I don’t like being parked next an aluminum structure.

Pop shouts, “I checked…the storm should be over soon…Cookie, are you still there?”

“Yes!” I say. “He Pop, should reschedule another day to have my bumper looked at?”

Pop pauses. “Eh…gotta go love…another call coming in... probably the future Mrs. West, again.”

“Bye.”

Josh clicks off and hands me my cell. 

“Oh well.”

The office door opens and Junior comes out wearing a red ball cap backwards. He squints at us as he clomps down the short set of steps. He’s either dripping wet or he fell in a vat of oil. I crank down the window and he squats down next to my door.

“Hi Miss. Cookie, leave the engine running, I need to take her down the street to our body shop.” He motions me into the far left bay then strolls over with a paper seat cover. I wrench around for my backpack and recall the envelope Beal gave me. I take it with. I don’t want anyone to see them. I glance up at the angry sky willing the rain to stop. Junior opens my door and I get out of the Mustang. The wind blows my hair around like wild. Josh comes around the back of the Mustang as another bolt strikes a tree across the road.

Junior yells, “Yo, O’Dell, was sup my friend?”

“Not much, Earl,” Josh shouts over the deafening combination of the hammering rain and hydraulic tools. “Just school and hanging out.”

I hope they don’t actually shake hands. Junior’s are black with grease. We watch the black Mazda back up while Junior spreads out the seat cover and slides behind the wheel. I try not to visibly cringe. I cup my hands and holler, “How long do you think it will it take?”

Junior shrugs. “Not more than forty-five minuets tops.”

The Mazda is parked under a big oak tree. Both Agents are standing under umbrellas and the thick canopy of leaves for shelter from the rain. They twist around scoping the area. “I’m glad they’re here,” I say just as the sun breaks through the clouds and the rain stops.

Josh looks up at the sky with a serious expression then says, “Yeah, me too.” We enter the arctic little office, which is thankfully empty of souls, and tell Josh about Beal’s photographs.

“I really don’t want to relive this.”

“Me neither,” Josh says.

I put them away and glance around wondering where the crew is. I motion at the hallway. “Hey want to check out Ernie’s Fine Rentals next door while the Mustang is getting fixed. We can get there through that door.”

Josh cranes his neck. “Good idea.”

We walk down the short hall past the door to their unisex toilet. Josh opens the adjacent door that says Rental Office and we step from black and black 50’s style vinyl to a gray painted cement floor. Josh shuts the door. Outside, this building looks like a big aluminum barn. Inside is a trip. The first thing you notice is the far wall. It’s covered with the same giant gold and black logo like on the sign outside and plates. We move past a massive black leather sectional couch. Tucked in front of it is a glass coffee table shaped like an antique roadster. Magazines are fanned across the surface. The covers have scantily clad women draped over expensive classic cars. On the left is a white Rolls Royce. It takes up a third of the room. Its truck is open. It’s lined with white fur and inside is a fully stocked liquor bar. Crystal glasses and several matching decanters with amber liquid sit in a neat line on beveled glass shelves. I twist around looking for someone to speak to. Josh crosses to the wall and admires a large oil painting of a well endowed naked woman lounging on a leopard skin. The artist left nothing to the imagination.

He smiles then asks, “You think Ernie bought her from Alfred Dunsmuir?”

“Fredrik Koshechka aka the importer-exporter of fine art.”

Josh gestures to the other side of the room. A door is crack open about a foot. Through it I see a white-haired, darkly suntanned man sitting behind a big fancy desk with his socked feet propped up on the corner. “Hello,” I say waving. “um, hi. We didn’t think anyone was here.”

He doesn’t say anything so we move closer. He appears to be sleeping. No, he’s looking down a large book open on his lap. He’s wearing gold rimmed glasses, a silky white shirt with over-sized cuffs rolled back once to show off the gold chains and huge gold watch on his wrists. He strokes his chin. He senses us standing there, looks up through the lenses and smiles. “Oh,” he calls to us sounding slightly startled. “Hello there!” He slaps the book shut, places it on the desk, and takes his legs down. “Please...come on in!”

Smiling, he’s watches us as we walk the length of the room, and stop a few feet from the desk. The air is heavy with his cologne. Whew does he bath in the stuff or what? “Ernie Zavalla, owner, what can I do you for?”

No one offers their hand.

Josh says. “I’m Josh O'Dell and this is Cookie Blakely.”

Before we can answer his question, he cocks his head and shakes a finger at us. “I hope you two aren’t selling raffle tickets for a car wash or chocolate bars for the school band. Kids come in here driving me crazy with their fundraising crap.”

He chuckles deep in his throat and gestures toward a short carpeted hallway, invisible from our previous position. I lean sideways and see a fancy wooden door at the end. The logo etched in stained glass is on the upper half. He leans back perching on the oversized desk and crosses his short arms trying to look important.

“If you’d come through the front entrance, you’d seen the sign on the window. SOLICITORS WILL BE EATEN…Ha-ha-ha!”

When we don’t laugh he clears his throat and stands up adjusting shiny pinstriped slacks. He’s squatty and about a foot shorter than Earl until he slides on a pair of shiny black loafers with very thick soles.

“Well now if you’re here to rent wheels I’ll need proof that you are at least twenty-one…and a major credit card. Ernie’s fine rental is a reputable company.”

 

Josh says respectfully, “We’re not selling anything sir and no we don’t want to rent either. Actually sir, if you have a few minutes, we’d like to ask you some questions about one of your clients.”

Ernie consults his gold wrist watch. “Okay...sure...I have time before my next appointment which is late due to inclement weather.”

Clearly intrigued or bored by the lack of business due to inclement weather, he plays along. Josh and I glance at each other and struggle to maintain a poker face. I was sure he’d tell us to get lost. He directs us to the sectional. “Have a seat Josh and...Cookie was it?” Ernie frowns. “Wait a damn minute, I know you two from somewhere...” He holds up a stubby finger to his lips and narrows his eyes.

I open my mouth to say that I know his family.

“No-no, don’t tell me...it’ll come to me...I never forget a face.” He eyes us like bugs in a jar.

Josh sticks to the subject. “Mr. Zavalla we are wondering if you could tell us about a man named Alfred Dunsmuir.”

He thinks for a moment. “Alfie is what I call a fly-in client. Meaning he can call or walk in without a reservation. He pays top rate or we barter because––as you can see––I am a collector of fine art.” He motions toward the nude. “That lovely lady came from Russia. The old gentleman is a little eccentric. Peculiar that he wears pancake makeup to cover birthmarks, but who am I to judge. Why are you asking about Alfie?”

Josh takes out his notebook and jots this down. “You called him Alfie, are you friends?”

“Son, when you lease thirty thousand dollar and up automobiles you make certain all of your clients are friends. Only time I see Alfie is when he comes in here. We don’t “hang out” like you kids call it, if that’s what you mean. Lately—at his age—he informs me that he’d mostly prefer to be driven around DC in the back of a limo. But since he doesn’t live here he takes a cab. What with the freaking DC traffic who can blame him?”

“When was the last time Alfie rented a car?”

Mr. Zavalla shakes the folds out of a crisp white handkerchief and polishes the lens of his glasses. “Last week. He rented the champagne Lincoln from me twice. I have to know why you two kids are here drilling me about this.”

This sends me into a coughing fit. Josh reaches around and starts patting me on the back as I cough into my fist.

Ernie jumps up and runs to the bar then returns with a glass full of bubbly golden liquid. “Here you go its ginger ale,” he says handing me the crystal goblet.

“Thanks,” I gasp then take a few sips to stop the tickle in my throat. The carbonation tickles my nose, but it helps too.

“Okay, well,” Josh says and stands abruptly. “Thank you for your help. I think we found out what we need to know.”

Ernie looks confused as he shakes Josh’s hand. 

Glad we’re leaving; I set the glass on the glass table top with a clunk, and get up. Ernie is starting to act suspicious. Josh and I move hastily toward the door we came in. I’m thinking wow that was easy.

“Wait,” –Ernie catches up and shoves several gold bumper stickers in Josh’s hand— “pass them out to your buddies for prom night or whenever. I’ll give them a better deal than anyone else in town.”

I feel Ernie staring at me and avert my gaze as Josh opens the door for me. Just as we duck through the door, he shouts, “Now I remember! You’re the daughter of that spy broad who all over the news!”