Chapter 1

The Hugo Blenheim episode doesn’t give me nightmares, not exactly. But I’ll sometimes jerk awake out of a sound sleep. Wide awake, heart pounding.

I’m Winter Jennings, single mom (Walker, 14), private detective (after three years on the Kansas City, Missouri Police Department). At 32, I’m smart, confident, professionally accomplished. This is, thank god, not a typical day. I will end up scared half to death because I unmask a monster.

Two other players in this particular incident report: Hugo Blenheim who is not a wife-beater, he’s a wife torturer. And not just wives either. Anyone who strikes his fancy. Then there’s my main guy, Skip Taylor. Gayer then springtime, he’s known as Bear because he stands six feet eight inches tall and clocks in at 320 pounds of burly muscle.

I hate domestic battery, hate how the wives and children suffer. But I love taking down the scrotes who are responsible. Going after these assholes on my own, using ‘creative’ methods, is one of the advantages of not being in the bureaucratic KCPD. Oh, I do have a code of ethics, of conduct. It’s a working protocol that all private investigators agree to. On paper.

But in my case, there is no one above me, checking on me, disciplining me. Over my five years in private practice, I’ve developed a bit of a local reputation here in Kansas City. I’ll work to help a battered woman when the official process has failed her. Warnings to the husband or boyfriend have no effect. A restraining order is routinely ignored. A supposedly safe, hidden location, isn’t.

I know one of the social workers in three different women’s shelters in town. Professional, caring, practical workers. Who trust me. Pragmatic enough to call me when the system simply fails.

Most of my pro bono work comes via referrals from these three shelters.

The case I’m currently working on is that of a particularly brutal sadist named Hugo Blenheim. He doesn’t need to get drunk, get high. No, he simply enjoys hurting people, these days it’s his common law wife, Margie Carson.

What is particularly insidious is that Blenheim knows how. How to inflict maximum damage in an almost effortless way. Margie is, literally, afraid for her life. Blenheim doesn’t get drunk and ball up his fists. He sizes up his victim cooly, knowing precisely how to have her screaming at a touch.

Margie doesn’t know if he becomes sexually aroused. The pain is so excruciating it blocks everything else out.

Blenheim was kicked out of the Marine Corps while still in boot camp. That’s how fucked up he is. My father, a captain in the KCPD homicide division, told me it’s difficult to get kicked out of the military that early. They want to keep you in, straighten you out, mold you to their specs. In Blenheim’s case, and I researched the fuck out of him, he was kept in a special discharge unit for seven months before they finally gave up and discharged him. Dishonorably.

He had been expelled from middle school, high school, a brief stint at military school. He ended up in the Marines courtesy of a judge who had run out of patience. Who gave him a choice, Marines or jail. The judge was a former Marine and had a recruiter waiting in the courtroom when Blenheim reluctantly agreed to go the military route.

He’s not a large man, only 5 feet 9 inches and around 145 pounds. But he is abnormally powerful. Thin, but extraordinarily strong hands and fingers. He delighted in bringing much larger fellow Marines to their knees, screaming, begging with tears in their eyes for him to let go of a shoulder, a bicep, a wrist, a hand.

Margie doesn’t have a chance.

She’s living, in hiding, in a safe house in Grain Valley, east of Kansas City. But she needs her salary, needs her job. Needs, more than anything, to be free of Blenheim.

Mrs. Gleason from the Safety Net Shelter had called me. This was my third battered wife call from her. I took down all the Blenheim particulars. The one I cared most about was the address where he and Margie lived.

When I first qualified for my PI license five years ago, it was easy. Three years on the Job gave me the experience. The 75 exam questions from the state of Missouri seemed ridiculously easy. $80 and I was licensed.

For my first domestic violence case, I called my friend Bear to go with me.

The subject, the fucking wife beater, was a usually mild guy named Gus who turned savage after 10 or 12 PBRs. He hadn’t started on his two sons yet, they were two and four.

Yes, his wife was fat. No, she didn’t keep the house very clean. Terrible cook. The whining kids always had runny noses. Blah blah. She’d been hospitalized twice, broken bones both times. Collar bone and wrist bone. Separated shoulder. Gus jerks her around violently while he’s punching her. She told the admitting nurse that she fell down the stairs. Of a one-story house.

Bear doesn’t hate bullies the way I do. I guess, given his size, he’s never been bullied. But he understands the mentality. A stern talking to won’t do, not for long anyway.

The wife bundled the kids up at 4 in the morning and snuck away, just as I’d told her to. She went to another safe house, one her cunt husband hadn’t yet found.

Bear and I went in the unlocked door and found the bedroom right where she said. I flipped on the light and Bear grabbed an ankle, pulling the asshole out of bed and onto the floor. Gus wasn’t anywhere near awake when Bear punched him in the gut.

I knew Bear had held back, otherwise the guy wouldn’t have been been able to catch his breath. Well, we had his attention now.

I said, “You’re a wife beater. Now you’re going to learn what a real beating feels like.” I’m usually not the vindictive type. But bullies have always annoyed me. More so than ever once Walker came into my world.

I don’t know if my words actually registered with Gus, he was still blinking himself awake, staring up at a mountain of a man. Bear waited patiently, just another day at the office.

I said, “Are you going to hit your wife again? Ever?”

“No. No ma’am. It was an an an accident. Misunderstanding.”

He’d needed a shave several days ago. Serious BO. Wife-beater and baggy boxers.

I said mildly, “I don’t believe you.” And stepped on his balls with my heel. Not with everything I had, not very hard. I wasn’t in a rage, I held back.

Gus screamed and lunged at me with both claws, Bear forgotten. Until Bear said, “No,” and chest-punched him. Again holding back, otherwise it would have been fatal.

I sighed and nodded at Bear. Who administered an almost thoughtful beating. Not breaking any bones, not inflicting serious organ damage.

Driving away, Bear said, “That won’t stop him. Might slow him down for a while.”

“I know. But it’s a start.”

Well, I was wrong. His wife ended up back in the hospital for the third time.

This time, Bear still restrained himself but ended up beating the crap out of the weasel. Then went back a month later and the month after that. Never gave Gus time to recover fully from the previous dance.

Those last three beat downs were enough. The divorce came though and that particular loser moved away, destination unknown.

That was early in the game for me. I no longer call Bear for domestics. For someone like Blenheim. I handle these pukes on my own now.

Early this morning, this Blenheim morning, my son did a double take and stared at me. At the top I was wearing. At my boobs. Walker tried to make a small joke, “Manny will like that outfit.” Manny, our fry cook at the Town Topic diner.

But Walker knew this was my hunting uniform. No bra. The sheer white cotton V-neck was skin tight. Almost transparent. Nipples clearly visible.

He swallowed nervously. Partly from the sight of my tits. But mostly because he knew the type of ogre I would be going after. He said, “Another domestic?”

“Yeah. The nasty kind, loves hurting. Gets off on it. Creep.”

I pulled on a black linen jacket to hide my boobs while we were at breakfast. Sorry, Manny. It also hid the .38 on the left side of my wide leather belt. My Taser X26P was in my green leather shoulder bag. On top, fully charged.

After breakfast, Walker broke his no-hugging-in-public policy and squeezed me tightly. Whispered, “Be careful, Winter.”

“Always. How do my tits feel?” He’d gotten interested in the female form a couple of years earlier.

Cheeky little sod grinned, reached up and put both palms on me for a second. “Great.”

“Remind me to blister your little butt when I get home.”

Now I could keep Walker in the dark about some of my work. I used to do that. But he’s old enough to process most of the realities of life. He hears things at school, browses online without any restrictions. Kids know more and know it earlier, with each passing generation.

Blenheim gets off work at 6 AM. Night shift at one of the few meatpacking places left in town. I have eyes on him thanks to one of my informal fieldworkers, this one a college student with mostly flexible hours named Sarah Cunningham.

Sarah’s a senior at Rockhurst University majoring in politics. Which Kansas City has a rich history of, dating back way before Boss Pendergast.

I have Sarah stationed across the street and two houses south of Blenheim’s rental house in the 8700 block of Holmes. I had canvassed the neighborhood and found a woman who would let Sarah keep watch from her living room window.

For $100 a day, negotiated down from $300. It is pro bono after all.

I told Sarah, “He should get home around 6:45 or 7:00 in the morning. Don’t sweat it if he doesn’t. I don’t know his habits yet, that’s what you’re here for.”

She nodded, her brown ponytail bobbing up and down. She is a pretty girl in a plain way. I know, that doesn’t make any sense. But her vibrancy, her bubbly personality, somehow they shine through.

I told her, “Wait until Walker leaves for school, then call me when Blenheim’s home.”

After a week of observation today’s the day.

Scruffy yard, newspapers and flyers littering the front stoop. Oil stains up and down the driveway. His battered Chevy Nova is parked nose-in, facing the closed garage door.

I take off my jacket and fluff up my nipples. With the jacket off, I change my mind about my pistol and take the .38 off my belt and place it in an outside pocket of my green shoulder bag. Unzip the bag. Yep, taser right on top. It’s the fourth time I’ve checked this morning.

I park my red F-150 across the street from his house and stride across his front yard. In a sort of cosmic irony, it’s a beautiful sunny morning and I’m about to turn ugly on a repulsive asshole.

I tuck my white top in tighter. Look down, yes my puppies are doing what they were designed to do.

The doorbell doesn’t work so I open the screen and pound the hollow core door. It echoes loudly and the door flies open. Blenheim is scowling. But the frown disappears when he sees my headlights.

“Mr. Blenheim?”

Still staring, “Yeah?”

“Last four digits of your Social are 8664?”

Frown back, “So?”

“I’m Ms. Roberts from Commerce Bank. There’s been a security breach. It affects only about 600 customers, but I’m afraid you’re one of them. May I come in?”

When he shuts the door behind me, I zap him before he is fully turned around. I’ve used my taser three times, Blenheim is number four. It still amazes me to see big men convulsing on the ground.

Not that Blenheim is that large. He isn’t that much taller than my own five feet seven inches and probably has only 30 or so pounds on me. But he has that freakish strength. I know that if he ever gets his hands on me, I’m finished.

So I stay nine or ten feet away. Give him another 5-second reminder jolt. If necessary, I’ll hold the trigger down for as long as it takes for me to feel safe.

He pisses himself. Good.

As he recovers from the shock, I become more scared than I’ve ever been in my life. A hissing noise is oozing out from between his lips, an almost reptilian sound. There is no light in his hooded eyes as he stares at me, unblinking.

Blenheim is different from the other three guys.

His hands are gnarled claws, opening and closing as if he couldn’t wait to have me in his lethal grasp. I pull the trigger a third time. He spasms, but it seems to bother him less than before. It’s like he willed himself to overcome the pain. He starts to get up off the floor. Holy shit.

I aim down at his face with my Bling Sting pepper spray. My hands are shaky and I miss his entire head the first time. I steady myself. His enraged howl at the sudden excruciating pain in his eyes seems to contract the small living room. I move further away.

Blenheim struggles to his feet and charges blindly around the room, arms outstretched and waving, trying to find me. He crashes into walls, furniture, trips over the coffee table, all the while making that eerie, reptilian hissing sound.

Not taking my eyes off him, I call Bear, “Help.” And immediately move to the other side of the room. I’m trying not to breathe, not to give my presence away.

Please, Bear.

While I no longer use my pal for this kind of work, I always tell him where I’ll be when I’m going after a beater, a hurter.

Four minutes later, Bear bursts through the door. I almost tear up. My best boy had been in the neighborhood. Just in case.

Bear knows the backstory, knows of Blenheim’s legendary strength. He casually yanks out the taser wires and tosses him a ratty towel from a bathroom. Bear waits a few minutes as Blenheim works furiously at his eyes.

Then Bear holds out his hand to the supine man. Blenheim eyes him suspiciously. As would any rational man, given Bear’s size.

But Blenheim has had a lifetime of applying brute power, superior strength, on people. Not just women. Those Marines. Others I didn’t know about.

I set my bag on the carpet once I have my .38 aimed at Blenheim. I hold it in both hands. Tomorrow I’ll go shopping for something with more stopping power. More range too. Maybe an Abrams tank.

Blenheim stands up before lunging for Bear’s hand. Better leverage, maybe, than lying down. Moot point though.

I can see the strain in Blenheim’s facial muscles, in the way the cords of his neck stand out, as he squeezes Bear’s hand with all his might. Bear cocks his head as he studies the man, curious.

The expression on Blenheim’s face goes blank as he realizes that he was having no effect on his giant opponent. He tries pulling his hand away, out of Bear’s grasp.

No.

Without changing expression, Bear starts squeezing. I can hear, clearly hear, bones snapping. Blenheim howls like a cornered animal. He shits himself. His legs buckle, but Bear holds him up by the hand. Casually.

My heart is pounding annoyingly. I’m not quite the cool girl I pride myself on being.

Blenheim is pawing franticly with his left hand, trying futilely to break Bear’s grip. Bear takes that left hand in his own and starts squeezing. It looks like some obscure form of a secret society’s crossed-arms handshake. A secret handshake known only to insiders.

The bone crushing sounds are audible even over the inhuman screams coming from Blenheim.

I put my .38 away and call Sarah. “Go home, don’t come back here.”

Blenheim has passed out and Bear lowers him gently to the stained carpet.

Bear walks me to my truck. I whisper, “Jesus.”

Bear shrugs, probably already thinking about today’s upcoming lunch crowd at his restaurant.

“He won’t hurt anyone again?”

“Not with his hands.”

A few blocks away I call 911 from one of my prepaids. Whisper to disguise my voice. Take out the battery and throw everything away.

At least I hadn’t pissed myself, about my only accomplishment that morning.

Weeks later I contrasted that innocent, sunny day with the damp, fetid climate inside that Holmes Street house. I asked Bear if he had noticed the unhealthy atmosphere, but he just shrugged. Blenheim was already a fading memory to him, a small favor to a pal.

Should this be my calling? My career? Well, I didn’t piss myself, that’s something. Probably a worthy epitaph for this not-so-cool girl. ‘Winter, she didn’t piss herself.’

It’s early Monday morning and our usual start to the weekday. Routine chaos. My 14-year old, Walker Jennings, and I live in the Crossroads district of Kansas City, Missouri. ‘Crossroads’ was one of those marketing labels attached to a once dreary section of the city south of downtown. A lot of old buildings, a lot of them abandoned.

And guess what? It worked. Led by artists looking for cheap spaces. The Crossroads is filled with live-work spaces, art galleries, studios, photographers, restaurants, bars, apartments, lofts, condos. It’s a scene now. ‘First Friday’ draws thousands of nighttime visitors who stroll from gallery to gallery, sipping wine and soaking up the vibe.

I’m Winter Jennings and my upbringing, education, work experience, have somehow led me into the improbable life of a private detective.

But it’s still Monday morning and I still have to jump-start our day.

Walker and I live in a refurbished Crossroads hotel that’s over 100 years old. It’s on a previously seedy stretch of Main Street a few blocks south of downtown Kansas City. It’s near Union Station and traveling salesmen once frequented the six-story Wrigley Hotel. Now why it’s named for a Chicago gum company and ball park is lost in the mists of history.

In any case, a friend of my father’s -- more about homicide captain, Dave Jennings later -- remodeled the fifth floor of the hotel into a New York-style loft for Walker and me. Gene Austin is a kind, generous man, a fill-in father figure for my son.

Ah, Walker. He’s basically a good kid. Even at 14. In fact, about my only oversight duty, my sole maternal responsibility these days, is to get him up and moving in the morning. After that he’s on his own as we go our separate ways.

He has one of the two private bedrooms, each of which comes with its own bath. Walker was in his usual little-boy, dead-body, sprawl. Right arm hanging down off the side of the bed, right leg cocked up, left leg straight. Sheet at waist level. I lifted the sheet. Yep, nude again.

Sometimes he wore his boxer briefs to bed, usually not. I slapped his little butt, none too softly. He’s a sound sleeper though. He frowned and grumbled, still out of it. I glanced at my watch, almost 6, and went into full mom tickle-mode.

This did it. It always did. My slender, blonde son, moaned and squirmed and grumbled and then his brain caught up with the physical sensations. “Hey!” “Okay, okay.” “I’m up.”