Chapter 2

I was spending hours with the diminutive, scarlet-haired Sullivan twins, bleary-eyed from the grainy security tapes. Duplicating what more competent investigators with the KCPD were doing.

At home, at dinner, I tried to wear a game face for Walker. He had lost Mindy to California, to Stanford, to a more age-appropriate life. I had lost my friend, Mary Packer, but I was determined not to let the gloom prevail.

After working all day on her dream restaurant, Euforia, Vanessa was overseeing the dinner service at BEAR’s on Broadway. Just a few blocks from our Main Street home.

Walker had gone through a cap period. Ball caps worn sideways, gimme caps backwards, message caps, watch caps ... whatever fad was sweeping through Boyland at the time.

But one day, back before we became lovers, Vanessa ran her fingers through Walker’s thick, blonde hair, “You have the greatest hair, lamb.”

That was all it took. My son was completely ga-ga over the former Miss Indiana. Hell, a good percentage of the town was. Then Mindy had him grow out his hair and the longer style drew a few compliments from the girls in his classes.

Bye-bye caps.

I smiled at Walker across the platter of thick, juicy, bacon burgers he’d just fried. After stuffing them with extra sharp cheddar. Minnesota style, Juicy Lucy style. Accompanied by salty house-made matchstick fries that he had julienned and soaked the night before. Vanessa and Mindy had upped our culinary game considerably.

He was wearing one of an endless supply of obscene tees. ‘My Mom is a Good Girl. (Good Girls Swallow.)’. Tasteful, black with white lettering.

As usual, mine was more refined, ‘I Lick Pussy.’ However, the primary message that Walker was reading on me wasn’t the slogan. Wearing a single garment meant wearing a single garment. No bra! No panties! No nuttin’!

“Winter.” Lower voice register meant: sex question ahead.

“Walk.”

“It’s ... um, pretty hard. With Mindy gone. I mean, I got used to...”

I didn’t help, I rarely do when it comes to sex. I like to see the lad struggle his way to semi-coherence.

He flushed, just a mild case, pink ears only. “What I mean is ... before ... when Mindy...”

Pink was turning to red. I took pity, “Miss the regular pussy, baby?”

Enthusiastic bobble-heading, “Yeah! A lot!”

“Lucky for you, you have a right hand.” Color deepens. “And your mouth.” Full blown red blush at the mention of auto-fellatio.

He said, “I wonder if the Royals will make the playoffs?”

At the sink, doing the dishes, he made his always-tentative move. Stood behind me, hugged my waist. Bent down to nuzzle my neck like he enjoys. Like I sometimes enjoy.

I sighed, the warm, soapy water feeling ... well, warm and soapy. I could feel his eager erection against my butt, then ... BAM! I made one of those instant leaps where something brain-buried connects with something ... something else. Something Tony had said.

Could I have overlooked anything this obvious? Am I that stupid?

I dried my hands and wrists in a daze. Saw the look on Walker’s face, “Sorry, honey, something I just thought of. Mary.”

Lech-look gone, he knows when it’s time to be serious. “Can I help, Winter?”

“Maybe so. Finish clearing the table.”

Working with the Sullivans, we had identified almost every face in those fucking security tapes. I had given everything we had to Sergeant Louise Finch, Daddy’s number two on the case.

Unsurprisingly, some of the men we put names to worked for SafeGuard Protection. They were under contract to cruise by the shelter, but also had several other clients in the Northeast.

What I had neglected to do, hadn’t even thought to do, was compare the men’s tape appearances with the company time sheets. I had grown so used to seeing the same guys, with their short-sleeved white shirts and black caps with the SafeGuard logo, that I wasn’t really seeing them.

I organized the paperwork into two comparison piles -- a calendar of when they were on the tapes and the other on the SafeGuard work schedules that Jessie Sullivan had hacked into for our perusal.

Walker read me the names and work dates on the schedules. I traced my index finger along the calendar printout of every person caught on tape for 30 days.

Shit!

One guy, Marcus Wilson Roosevelt, was on tape, in uniform, three unscheduled nights in a row. All during the week of Sister Mary Packer’s murder. He wasn’t on a tape that night, he probably wouldn’t be that stupid. He knew the camera placements around the shelter and around the neighborhood.

Shit!

I looked at my son who was staring wide-eyed at the dumb-stupid work we’d just done. “Get dressed, baby.”

I was tempted, just for a second, to take everything to Daddy. But, proper procedure, I called Sergeant Finch, “Could I come by?” It was only 10, so I didn’t apologize for the hour.

“Sister Mary?”

“Maybe. I think it could be.” But I also knew it was more than likely that the police had long ago performed the silly little exercise that Walker and I had just done. Still, it felt like the first forward momentum that had occurred on my watch.

Sergeant Louise Finch lives in the Forgotten Northeast. In the same house just off Prospect where she was born, grew up, is now raising her own family. She hugged Walker warmly. Women seem to do that.

“I compared the video captures with the SafeGuard assignment sheets.”

“Shit!” She looked stunned. Something so simple, so logical.

She sighed, “Who?”

“Guy named Marcus Wilson Roosevelt, no priors. That we could find.”

“The Sullivans?”

I nodded.

The sergeant didn’t comment on illegalities, the fact that they were hackers. “They’re good.” But I knew Mr. Roosevelt would be run through the downtown system in the next few minutes.

She dialed headquarters, then Daddy at his Meyer Boulevard home in Brookside. She murmured, “Winter may have spotted something. Winter and Walker.” Pause, “On the way.”

We followed her unmarked Ford. Unmarked, but as obvious to the bad guys as if she had lights flashing and sirens wailing. Five-O.

Daddy, dressed in a sport shirt and khakis, just shook his head. Something so obvious. Like a misspelled word in a headline over body copy that had been proofed a dozen times.

I think, once in a while, of that asymmetrical Tuesday. That glorious roller-blading morning with those magnificent Italian arias just permeating the loft. The graceful way we swooshed around on the hardwood floors.

Then Bulldog. Straight-ahead, no way to cushion it, telling me my friend, Sister Mary Packer, had been strangled. Murdered.

I think about how fragile happiness, innocent happiness, can be. Like cotton candy melting on the tongue.

Then I resolve, yet again, to rollerblade more -- early and often.

Marcus Wilson Roosevelt was arrested on suspicion of murder at 5 in the morning right after we met with Daddy in Brookside. The SWAT team was in place but wasn’t needed. Marcus lived with his mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, two sisters, two nieces and one nephew. In a small, two-bedroom home only three blocks from Sergeant Finch.

His was a small, sad, familiar story. He had somehow scammed his way past SafeGuard Protection’s drug tests. This wasn’t much of a surprise considering the problems the company has in finding warm bodies.

Marcus was hooked on methamphetamine and the need to finance his habit grew with every chip of meth he smoked.

He knew, every patrol guy knew, that the shelter paid cash for groceries and other incidentals. Plus, Mary frequently extended ‘loans’ to the little girls. Knowing that some of the money could be used to further poison their systems. Sister Mary was nonjudgemental. Plus she’d rather fund the little girls than have them hooking.

Marcus Wilson Roosevelt, against the advice of his city-furnished attorney, copped to the murder before lunch. Sergeant Finch told me, “It was like he was relieved.”

As the police profiler had predicted, it was a vaguely thought-out crime, ill-conceived and ill-planned. It was little more than an impulse crime gone horribly wrong. And the police believed Marcus when he said he had no intention of hurting anyone, of killing anyone. Dumb shit just panicked.

He was at once skinny and blubbery from fast food. Looking at him, you wouldn’t think he had the strength to strangle anyone. But the frenzy of the moment sent adrenaline coursing through his slender body. And that was that.

“Winter.”

“Walk.”

“Gary. And Paulie.”

Silence.

“They’re getting a lot of pussy.”

Silence.

“I mean that’s what they say.”

Silence.

“Oh.”

In a way I didn’t mind asking Bulldog Bannerman for a favor. That’s what he does -- favors. What he would expect, someday in return is never spelled out. It’s just understood, that tit will pay for tat.

Mayor Tom Lynch awarded me the $586,730 reward for discovering Sister Mary Packer’s killer.

I had asked Bulldog to keep my name out of it. I would pay Jittery Gerard and Tony-Somebody $10,000 each. Bread upon the waters. They’d spread the word that Winter Jennings comes through. Other eyeballers would be eager to be on my freelancer list.

I asked Gerard and Tony about the amount, “Fair?”

Gerard gave Tony a middle-knuckle bump. Handshake d’jour, I guess.

“Fair?”

Gerard smiled at me, “Dude.”

Tony winked at me, “Pimp-good.”

I assumed these were affirmative answers.

Bulldog, probably with just one phone call, had the media buzzing about the anonymous samaritan who donated the reward money to the Sister Mary Packer Foundation.

I certainly could have used the cash, especially with Euforia gobbling up money, but I didn’t want a certain nun looking down on me in disapproval.

Gertie Oppenheimer is figuring out the tax implications for ‘the dumb cunt who gives away money she can’t afford. Schmuck.’ Regrets, I’ve had a few.

At Sister Mary Packer’s funeral, a sunny, but blustery afternoon, I was oddly pleased to see three Northeast pimps in attendance. Way off to the fringe, unobtrusive, yet somehow in a posture of respect. Harold, Pantone, Bugger.

Mary despised what they did with the girls. And the pimps resented her for the girls she took out of their orbit. But they were the pimps we knew. And I like to think Mary would have accepted the regard, no matter how misbegotten, they exhibited simply by showing up.

The funeral may not have been the best attended in the history of Kansas City, I don’t know about that. But hundreds and hundreds of mourners showed up.

Girls of all ages who had been touched by Mary’s no-nonsense approach. No nonsense and no questions. Just a meal, a shower, a bed. An occasional loan.

Cops from all over. Not just the Northeast and not just Kansas City. In uniform. No 21-gun salute however. Not for Sister Mary Packer.

“What is market capitalization?”

Gertie Oppenheimer, “Multiply the total outstanding shares by the current share price.”

“So it would fluctuate daily.”

“Duh.”

I ignored the slur. Although I may have, mentally, flipped her off. Okay, I did.

Back when I was 14, I was fully aware of how I looked. Especially to boys. I’d had my boobs for over a year. And thanks to our babysitter, Peggy Rawlings and her brother Ryan, I not only knew what went where, but I usually enjoyed the frequent discovery and rediscovery of nature’s design.

My little rat pack, three other girls and myself, were adept at wearing a long, loose tee-shirt to pass maternal scrutiny when we left the house on weekends. Once off the domestic radar screen, the tee went into a slouch bag and we sported exactly what we wanted the boys to see.

This particular Saturday was no different. It was Spring of 1996 and we’d hooked up with six high school boys in Westport. We were fairly good at playing demure. Plus boys were easy, we’d already discovered that.

Thinking back, I won’t claim that the hookup culture was so pervasive that we took giving BJs for granted. But the subject was no longer the fuel for breathless whispers and giggles.

The memory I’m reminiscing about though was the day following the Westport boys. A Sunday morning and I took the 57 Wornal to the Country Club Plaza by myself. Once I doffed my tee, I was Jailbait Personified.

Painted-on pink short-shorts that my mother had never seen. A bare midriff white top that showed off my golden tan and showcased my nipples. White sneakers with heels.

I actually wasn’t looking to hook up with anyone. I just liked how I looked and wanted to be seen on that sunny Sunday.

Mission executed.

No need to fluff my nipples, they were erect from the lusty stares I pretended not to notice. I sat on a bench in Penguin Court and watched little kids splashing and tossing coins into one of the fountains. A man, really old, maybe 30, did a double-take and sat down opposite me. He had a camera on a strap around his neck.

Well coached by Peggy, I drew my right foot up by my butt and untied, then retied my sneaker. God, was I shameless back then. Thighs apart, pussy pointed at the old guy, I did my left shoe.

He crossed the few feet and sat beside me, “I’m Jerry Ralston. Professional photographer. Do you have an agent? Could I meet your parents?”

Well, I hadn’t heard that one before.

Jerry was slender, almost feminine. A little swishy. But he seemed interested in me.

We chatted, then went for iced coffee at Classic Cup. Sat outside and watched the people strolling past.

Jerry nodded to his right and said, “I live in The Walnuts. My studio is there. Darkroom too.”

The Walnuts. Three luxury condo buildings just south of the Plaza. An A-list address, I understood that even back then.

But I also understood that there was no way I would be enticed into going home with a strange man. Growing up with my father as a Homicide Captain had taught me several valuable life lessons.

However I did let him take several photographs of me all around the Plaza. He said the best were taken on the pedestrian bridge over Brush Creek. I wish now I’d thought of some way to get copies.

Jerry shook hands formally, gave me his card, and thanked me for posing.

Years later, I looked him up. He lives in West Hollywood now and specializes in gay fetish photography. Just one of those odd encounters. I have no idea what his interest in me was. I may just look him up if I’m ever out there. I would like to see those childhood photos. Lolita.

There is only one axiom I live by. I call it the Winter Jennings Code: Shake with your right hand, but hold a rock in your left.

I was rescheduled to join The Globe, this time in Valletta. Which, I had to look it up, is the capital of Malta. Which, I also learned is an island nation not that far from Sicily.

In the meantime I was a little concerned about my two roommates, Walker and Vanessa.

Vanessa was, without visibly showing the strain, sweating the opening of her new Brookside restaurant, Euforia. Euforia is Italian for ... well, for just what it sounds like.

Most of the remodeling work, which involved retrofitting a failed liquor store on 63rd street has been completed. Permits asked for and granted. Thank you, Bulldog.

Now, she was hiring. With her years at BEAR’s on Broadway, Vanessa was well connected in the culinary community. She was known to be strict but fair. And she’d pay a little over the going rate to hire the people she wanted.