Chapter 6

Mindy’s mother, Rebecca Montgomery, brought me a new client. It would turn out to be a case like nothing I had worked on before. Rebecca called to make an appointment, then brought her friend to my office.

Eva Martinez wasn’t Mission Hills, that was obvious at a glance. Women can tell things about other women. I guessed middle class, maybe upper middle. Not in Rebecca’s league, but not hurting either.

Eva was petite, only a couple of inches over five feet tall. Maybe a hundred pounds and nicely put together. She wore her black hair in a no-nonsense ponytail. Latina, with smooth, copper colored skin and a dazzling white smile. But she wasn’t smiling much this afternoon.

White designer jeans, tight and tucked into black, calf-length, high heeled boots. Blue, short-sleeved top, no logos, no words. No ‘I Suck Cocks.’

Eva accepted a cup of espresso, Rebecca declined. Rebecca said, “We came in separate cars, I’m going to go hang with Walker. He’s practically my son-in-law these days.”

“I’ll call him for you, he’s probably on the prowl.”

Rebecca smiled, “Already did. We’re going to that diner that Mindy raves about.” Town Topic. I like Rebecca. Hoped Mindy would grow into the woman that her mother is.

She gave me a brief hug, patted Eva on the shoulder and left. That told me that she didn’t know why her friend needed a private eye. Which further meant that Eva didn’t know anything about Mindy. Mindy and the Creed.

Eva said, “Rebecca and I lived in the same house, freshman through senior years at Smith. I was a scholarship student. We hit it off, stayed in touch because we were both from here.” Eva gave me a small smile, “By here, I don’t mean Mission Hills. I’m from the Argentine.”

Kansas City, Kansas. Blue collar, about as far from Mission Hills as you can be and still be in the same state. Fucking Kansas.

I gave Eva an encouraging nod, sometimes that’s all it takes to keep them talking.

“I married well. A good guy, Frank Martinez. He owns three body shops, is looking at opening a fourth one. Plus he has two dry-cleaning stores and a Jiffy Lube franchise. We moved up to Overland Park. Downtown Overland Park.”

That immediately upped my respect for the woman. Living in Kansas, Johnson County version, is bad enough. But downtown Overland Park is civilized. Retail, restaurants, bars, a good mystery bookstore. Actual pedestrians, something not seen in most of Johnson County. Fucking Kansas.

Eva continued, “We have three kids, two girls and a boy. Then two years ago ... I lost my fourth baby. Miscarriage. A boy. No more kids for us. Which is fine, we’re blessed with the ones we already have.”

I waited, she’d get to it in her own time.

“But it had been eating at me. Like a low grade fever you’re not quite aware of?”

I nodded.

“One morning, Frank leaves for work, the kids catch the bus, I’m doing the breakfast dishes.” She took a deep breath, “I start crying. Out of the blue. Just start crying.”

Eva has the faintest trace of an accent. Charming really, but I bet she’d spent countless hours trying to eradicate it. Smith.

At her twice-yearly checkup her doctor listened, then wisely suggested she seek out a therapist. She gave Eva a list of three. The woman psychiatrist, Eva’s first choice, didn’t have any openings.

The next one, Dr. Frederick Schultz, did.

And that’s when Eva’s troubles really began. But not until he’d been treating her for almost six months. Had gained her confidence, had her halfway in love with him. Not that unusual in therapy. I came to learn he was grooming her. That would come out later.

The closer Eva got to describing her problem, the slower she talked. As if she were walking toward a dreaded destination and unconsciously slowed her pace.

I was used to this, poured her another cup of coffee, and waited patiently.

Every weekend at the Wrigley was now a Mindy Weekend. Which meant that on the first Sunday of this month Walker was introducing her to my parents at their Meyer Boulevard home.

My mom may rail at me -- don’t get married to Richie. Why in the world couldn’t you keep Richie -- but she’s naturally kind. And charming to guests. Especially a guest like Walker’s little girlfriend. Mindy was smothered with genuine affection.

And that was before she met Daddy. Daddy wasn’t charming, but he was such an authority figure. So sure of himself, so centered, so calm.

Even my sister Autumn was, for her, on her best behavior.

Daddy took Walker out back where he was grilling steaks. Steaks in honor of Mindy’s presence. She’d be spared Mom’s cooking, this first time anyway.

It was as pleasant a parents Sunday as I could remember.

Now that Mindy was here at the Wrigley every weekend, it meant that I had two kids to roust and get moving each Monday morning. Mindy didn’t have the slightest hint of embarrassment at being nude in front of me. She didn’t flaunt it, didn’t parade around our loft, but she was clearly comfortable whenever I saw her in the buff. So was I.

But Mindy, and I found this difficult to fathom, was an even deeper sleeper than Walker. Much harder to wake up, let alone get standing on the floor. Fortunately I’m a trained detective and found the solution.

I fill one of my plant-watering bottles with ice water and spritz Mindy. It took some experimenting, but I learned that the small of her back was the ideal target.

Every Monday morning it’s like I was spritzing her for the first time ever. She sleeps so soundly that the ice water is a horrendous shock to her system. Her shriek of outrage does double duty in helping Walker to come to.

The Austins, father and daughter, Gene and Cathy, weren’t weekly dinner guests in our loft, but they were regulars. Good company, good people.

Gene is in his 40s, younger than my father, but they worked out of the same police division for nine years. Until Gene finished law school at night, passed the bar and joined a downtown law firm that specialized in mergers, acquisitions, corporate takeovers. Yawn.

Except that some of their high toned clients found themselves in ethical, if not criminal, trouble. Gene, with his police background worked the underbelly of corporate life.

Along the way his wife died of cancer and he raised Cathy pretty much on his own. Did a hell of a job too.

He and Daddy stayed in touch and Gene’s work sometimes overlapped with the KCPD. The two of them helped each other out when it was legal and appropriate. Or when they wanted to.

Then Gene inherited the Wrigley and some adjacent property from his favorite aunt. Along with enough money to refurbish the hotel the way it deserved. It quickly became obvious to him that acting as the project’s general contractor was far more than an afterwork chore.

So his law practice became a part time job. The Wrigley is now his main gig.

Gene is short in stature, around my height, 5’ 7” or 5’ 8” or somewhere around there. But he’s more than twice as thick as I am. Thick, not fat. He’s made of hard muscle, strong too. Which helps when you take a crowbar to recalcitrant plaster.

Gene’s hair is snow white, worn in the same buzz cut they gave him in the Army.

Looking across our dinner table at his daughter, Cathy, I could see some of Gene in her. A good, strong face, determined chin. Other than her thin, mousy brown hair, Cathy was a good looking girl. High school senior, 17, accepted at Michigan.

She had been Walker’s favorite babysitter and he still adored her. Over the years, her flirting had grown a little more personal, a little more naughty. Walker laps it up.

We owe the two of them so much. And not just for our loft. Gene was there for Walker, Cathy was too, when Richie and I went through the amiable, but still emotional, divorce proceedings.

Gene let Walker hang with him during the building’s remodeling, even had the kid pounding nails, running errands for the crew.

And now they were welcoming Mindy into the Wrigley family. Cathy in particular took Mindy under her wing. Not as a girlfriend, there were three years between them. And not as a mentor, nothing so formal as that.

Cathy was becoming Mindy’s ... what? Older cousin, a favorite cousin. When Cathy took Mindy on this girl errand or that one, Walker watched fondly. Somehow his instincts told him that Mindy would prosper more on her weekends here when she spent some of the time with another girl.

Gene smiled across the dinner table at me. Just grilled, butterflied hot dogs with Mindy’s house-made chips. Red hot Chinese mustard. Nothing fancy, Stella Artois right out of the bottle. Gene said, “You guys have done this place up proud.”

I agreed wholeheartedly, I’ve never been overburdened with modesty.

Our loft is furnished with a mix of everyday stuff -- Ikea rugs, a triangular West Elm mid-century modern floor lamp. Colorful metal Room&Board picture frames. The 16 frames in deep primary colors are themselves artwork. I swap out vintage travel posters with black & white photos from time to time. But it’s the frames themselves that give that particular gallery wall its look.

We have several original paintings and drawings from friends. And I saved some refrigerator art from Walker’s early days. I periodically redo my galleries. Which is a bitch because of the plaster walls. I have to use a power drill, and I’m not that handy.

We do have two originals, both small, that are from fairly well known artists -- David Hockney and Diego Rivera. My property insurance guy wanted me to hang prints and put the originals in a vault. That’s the insurance biz for you.

The Hockney was a divorce-guilt present from Richie. The Rivera was a dumping-you-guilt present from a former boyfriend. I never did believe he would leave his wife and kids. In fact, I didn’t want him to. Even though I was in love. At the time.

Simple black wooden bookcases from Target showcase not only hardcover books, but small sculptures, found objects, gifts like two 4-inch rusty pickups from the 50s. Four 3-inch porcelain bathing beauties in 20s swimwear hand-painted in the Philippines. A red New York Times crossword puzzle cookie jar.

My bar is a red, white and blue plywood desk from a thrift shop, not far from my office, in the stockyards. $36.

The ordinary mixed in with rarer items.

There’s a blue and white Riviera bench from Serena&Lily -- rattan and bamboo -- that was made to live outdoors, but looks great in this one corner. Also meant for a backyard, we have a marvelous olive and red rope rug, based on sailor’s knots. It forms a welcoming entry piece just inside the front door.

Because I’ve taught Walker it’s important to set goals and try your best to attain them, we have a woven Andean basket that is about 1/4 full of wine corks. The intent is to fill it to the brim. And then buy another basket.

Plants. We have plants everywhere. Hanging plants between various mobiles. Potted plants, ivy vines growing through wine racks, small trees, some not so small.

There is a constant need for watering, trimming, adding supplements. Just like Walker and Mindy need nurturing, guidance. Although they’re pretty good on their own, I have to admit.

Once they decided to become lovers, I resisted the urge to give Walker the Clit Lecture. Again. Even though it was premature at the time we began discussing the sacred pleasure center, my son was curious. I’m open by nature. And I’m no PTA version of motherhood.

So I went slowly, made sure he was not only understanding the subject, but understood how important it was to me. And to a healthy percentage of the female population. One or two of whom he may someday be fortunate enough to please.

The lesson plan included a personal show & tell which I stopped when he asked for a third refresher course. It was obvious that he had mastered the basics, understood the principles. The third time it was more than curiosity on his part. Enough.

Eva Martinez told me her story gradually. Rebecca’s college friend had a quiet Latina dignity about her. Growing up in the Argentine, it had to have been a hard-earned gravitas, one she carries well.

The petite woman looked directly at me, “Frank was unfaithful to me, to our marriage, to our family. With one woman. A neighbor back in the Argentine. Guilt got to him, he confessed to me. Begged forgiveness. I got past it. Mostly.”

I could see her digging deep, mentally. She said, “Who am I to judge? I’ve been tempted. What woman hasn’t?”

I smiled, “Saints.”

Eva scoffed, “I’m certainly no saint. Three different men. I almost slept with one of them. Almost.”

She breathed deeply, gathering her thoughts. “Then the blues hit me. Dark blues. Blackness. Never felt anything like it in my life. It was like a cancer on my soul.”

I waited.

“Freddie. Dr. Schultz. Dr. Fredrick Schultz insisted I call him Freddie. What did I know? I’d never been to a psychiatrist before.”

Eva shook her head, “I’m not naive. I’ve read the literature. Patients, women, fall in love with their shrinks. I can relate to that. Understand it intellectually. Well, that didn’t happen to me.”

She was gazing out my large Genessee Street windows. I was backlit by the sunshine, but she wasn’t seeing me. She was talking softly, but more to herself than to me.

“I could see how a woman, vulnerable or not, could fall for Doctor ... fall for Freddie. He’s nice enough looking, but it wasn’t that. He was so ... kind. No, more than that, caring. Confident. He had so much faith in me, in how good I am. In how much better I could become.”

Her voice grew fainter, “The depression, sure, we’d address that, the two of us. But he saw an Eva Martinez beyond that. A post-depression version that had never existed. That I had never imagined. The woman I could grow into.”

Eva’s mind returned to this room, to me. She spoke clearly, calmly, directly. “Then he fucked me. I let him. Then he and a friend fucked me. I let them.”

She didn’t flinch, stared me straight in the eyes, “I’m still letting them. And I don’t want to. Never did want to. He’s got me. Freddie.”

In addition to the super secure window and door locks that Gene Austin installed in our loft, he personally created a little hidey-hole for me in our laundry room. He hid a phantom hinge in the wood paneling. When I pull it open, the paneling and drywall can be pushed forward and then moved to the right like a sliding pocket door. There’s metal trim at the bottom of the drywall so it won’t wear out.

The hidden recess is six feet tall and a little over a foot in depth. There are built-in shelves where I keep stuff. The Ruger SR9c which I should have taken to Mr. Blenheim’s house. It’s a compact semi automatic pistol and I would have felt braver with it in my shaky hand.

Ammo for the Ruger and my Smith & Wesson .38.

Plus my Mossberg 500 pump action shotgun. Just a 20 gauge with a 26 inch barrel. It wouldn’t stop a rhino should one fit in the elevator, but it should serve my purposes. Kevlar, which I’ve never worn on the job. If I need armor, I’ll call Daddy instead. Or Bear. Or both.

Some very good medical marijuana from Colorado. My drug dealer is my financial advisor, Gertie Oppenheimer. I allow Walker, and now Mindy, an occasional toke. They can take it or leave it, so can I.

I keep $10,000 in getaway cash in my little niche. And Walker’s and my passports.

Now, no one can show more haughty contempt for the adult world than a teenage girl. I speak from experience. Fortunately, Mindy is nothing like I was. And she was wowed when I told Walker to show her our stash. Opening the secret door to our secret life was just one more way of welcoming Mindy Montgomery to the Walker and Winter Jennings family.

As she described the sessions with her psychiatrist, Eva Martinez didn’t become emotional. She presented more as a tactician, honestly trying to solve a troubling equation.

As she led me further down the twisted corridors of the unorthodox therapy she and Dr. Fredrick Schultz were conducting, I made a mental note. I needed a professional perspective on this one. Maybe Mindy’s psychiatrist, Dr. Lindsey Conners.

I had liked her the one time I met her to introduce Mindy. Dr. Conners had a calm, no-nonsense manner. She was sympathetic to what Mindy had gone through with the cult, but didn’t treat her like a fragile child. The doctor’s attitude was, ‘Fine. I understand, now let’s get to work.’

The woman I eventually would come to call a friend, Lindsey Conners, became angry at Dr. Fredrick Schultz. She had at first also been sadly amused with her fellow professional. Yet another doctor taking advantage of yet another vulnerable patient. As we talked, amusement turned to pure anger, and that anger to horror. Understated, muted, horror.

Here’s the thing about geography. Local geography anyway.

In Kansas City, Missouri, the state is separated from Kansas by State Line Road. An accurate, but not very inventive, street name. On the east side: MO. Cross the street: KS.

Driving that north-south street, one state will look pretty much like the other.

But there are differences. Taxes. Representation. Liquor laws.

Both states are Republican, but Kansas is decidedly more conservative. Missouri, for the Midwest anyway, is more urban, Kansas more rural. Similar but different at the same time.

More than a handful of my Missouri friends experience a vague unease when on the Kansas side. Especially in Johnson County. Part of it is practical. Many streets, such as the four-lane 75th street are notorious speed traps. I believe, without bothering to check for actual facts, that Missouri-licensed cars are more likely to be pulled over.

But that Kansas angst is more than just traffic tickets. There’s the sense that local, regional, state officials don’t want ‘others’ around. Those of us who are different from the ‘wasn’t it wonderful back then’ crowd. White bread mentality.

Or maybe I’m the one who’s prejudiced. Hope not.

There’s a very special poker game the second and fourth Saturday night of every month. It’s a long-standing Kansas City tradition, inviolable. Even when Christmas falls on one of those Saturdays, the game goes on.

Gene Austin hosts the poker party in a private basement room off the Wrigley speakeasy. Actually, Saturday is a busy night in Gene’s operation. The restaurant and bar upstairs, the alley-entrance speakeasy. Which is the worst kept secret in town.