"It is not a bee of any kind," the M.E. said, straightening. "But this is very strange. I don't know what kind of insect could inject a man with fatal consequences."
"A wasp, maybe? Could it be a killer wasp?" No.
"How about a hornet? The alleged hit man was wearing a Charlotte Hornets ball cap."
The M.E. looked at Tammy Terrill as if she were not quite sane. "What are you babbling about, miss?"
"Nothing. Aren't you going to test the body for bee venom?"
"I will examine the tissues for foreign toxins, of course. But I don't expect to find bee venom. And now I must ask you to leave this building."
"You're welcome," Tammy said frostily.
OUTSIDE, SHE SNAPPED Open her cell phone and got her news director.
"I think I have a story, Clyde. Listen to this ...."
At the end of it, Smoot was skeptical. "Killer bees are passe. Strictly seventies."
"I think they're back. Put me on the air, and let's see where this goes."
"You're on. But first get to the library."
"What's there?"
"Books on bees. Do your research. I want this story backed up by hard facts."
"I have film and a chain of coincidences. What do I need facts for?"
"Facts," the Fox news director said, "will keep the snowball rolling down the happy hill. And the longer it rolls, the bigger it will be."
"Not as big as I will be," Tammy breathed, clicking off.
Chapter 8
"Her name is Grandmother Mulberry," said Remo into the pay phone at the Vietnamese market around the corner from Castle Sinanju.
"First name?" asked Harold Smith.
"That's all I have. I think it's an alias. And dollars to doughnuts she's an illegal. I want her deported. Preferably to the dark side of the moon."
"What will the Master of Sinanju say?"
"This time, for once, I don't freaking care. He can storm around like Donald Duck, screaming like Chicken Little and make my life generally miserable. I want the old bat out of my hair and my life."
"One moment, Remo."
Harold Smith was at his Folcroft desk. The buried amber monitor was active. Tapping the illuminated capacity keyboard with his thin gray fingers, he input "Mulberry" and executed a global search of his data base.
He was expecting no results from such meager data, but Smith's gray right eyebrow involuntarily jumped as something popped up. He read it through the lenses of his rimless glasses.
"Remo, I believe I can confirm 'Grandmother Mulberry' is an alias."
"I knew it! What's her real name?"
"According to this, Grandma Mulberry was an historical or possibly mythical person in old Korea. She was left stranded by the closing of the tides over a stone bridge to an island, her fate unknown."
"How long ago did this happen?"
"An estimated five hundred years ago."
"Well, the old bat looks old enough to be that Grandmother Mulberry," Remo said sourly.
"I suspect Master Chiun is playing a joke on you."
"How about if I get you her fingerprints?"
"If she is illegal, they will be useless," Smith answered. "And if she is legal, she cannot be deported."
"What if she's a North Korean spy?"
"That is a farfetched theory."
"I'll grasp at any shaky straw at this point."
The Nynex computer operator asked Remo for another dime, and he deposited the coin.
"Why are you calling from a pay phone?" Smith asked.
"So nobody knows it's me dropping a dime on the old bat."
"We may have to live with this woman until Chiun decides otherwise," Smith said.
"That's easy for you to say. You don't have to live with her."
"She calls me Sourpuss when I answer," Smith said.
"It's better than being a pussy-willow-faced pillow-biter," Remo growled.
"What did you say, Remo?"
"Never mind. Look, I'm going stir-crazy here. Got an assignment for me? I'll happily squash any terrorist or mafioso you care to finger."
"There is nothing on my desk at the moment."
"Are there riots anywhere? Send me to the worst section of Washington, D.C. I'll clean up the crack houses and paint them any color you want."