Chapter 7

When I re-board The Globe, it’ll be with a cover story in place. I’ll be the mistress / courtesan of a Hong Kong import / export whiz. And of his Dallas, oil-money, wife.

While I’m openly shagging Eamon Nilsson, an unwitting accomplice to my investigation.

The reasoning is that a bit of a slut vibe will encourage chatter, maybe a few fellow passengers will open up. Phillip Montgomery didn’t say anything, but I imagine he imagined some of the men would hit on me. Maybe some of the women too after Vanessa joined me for a week or so.

If I’m doing one thing right with Walker, it’s conversation. So far as I can tell, no subject is taboo to him. He asks. I listen. And I don’t bullshit him. Unless it’s necessary.

Vanessa and I sit down with our financial guru Gertie Oppenheimer once a month or so. Vanessa comes down to the stockyards and we meet in Gertie’s office, a couple of floors below mine.

Gertie tells us what we don’t know and then we go out to lunch. Often to the Unicorn Club, it’s only a three or four minute drive. Gertie likes it there. She and the club’s major-domo, Lucy Cuthbert, get along. Two tough broads.

Since Vanessa and I took the plunge and opened Euforia, we’ve been paying closer attention to our cash flow. Actually, we’re in pretty good shape. Thanks to a generous Envoy Assets bonus check. For when I extricated Phillip Montgomery from an uncomfortable situation a while back.

But Euforia is still a ways away from breakeven. And even when it turns the corner, it’ll be a couple of years before we recoup our original investment. If everything goes well. Maybe longer.

And the monthly nut on our Wrigley loft is still $5200.

So, following Gertie’s suggestion, and with Bear’s permission, Vanessa and I rented out the loft above BEAR on Broadway. Where she had been living until we got engaged. And which we bought, again following Gertie’s suggestion.

Even though it’s larger than Wrigley, the Broadway loft rented for only $2800 a month. The building isn’t as cool as the Wrigley. But the main thing was the location. Gertie said the sketchy neighborhood will begin gentrifying within a year or so, but it’s not there yet.

For investment income, our share of the Unicorn Club profits is only $900 a month, but that has been slowly rising.

Our revenue from BEAR on Broadway has been trending down, just a little, since Vanessa left. She’s still the buyer, sommelier, the keeper of books. But she isn’t there every night and things have slipped a bit. So we’ve been averaging around $1100 as our share of the net a month lately.

The revenue from the Broadway loft, BEAR and the Unicorn Club comes to around $4800 a month, before taxes.

Welcome income since Vanessa doesn’t pay herself anything until Euforia is in the black.

I usually generate enough monthly revenue from my regular insurance cases and others like the arson investigation to keep us in a cash-positive posture. Not every month, but most.

“Winter.”

“Walk.”

“What’s the right amount to, you know, to shoot? A guy? In bed?”

“Come sleep with me tonight, pumpkin. I’ll show you.”

“Cool.”

One night, snuggled in bed with Vanessa, she whispered, “Lina told me that Pilar is blowing Walker.”

I thought about it. Not a huge surprise. But an irrevocable step. And Walker hadn’t told me about it. I hope he isn’t starting to close me out.

“How does Lina feel about it?”

Vanessa was behind me, spooning. She kissed the back of my neck softly, “Lina’s cool with it. Not surprised, she and Pilar had been discussing it.”

“Oh.”

Another butterfly kiss, “Walker reciprocates.”

“Lina and Pilar are awfully close.”

“Like you and Walker.”

Got me there.

In Milwaukee with Vanessa, we met with Daddy’s friend, Artie Kowlinski. The two of them had met at a couple of profiling sessions in Quantico. Stayed in touch.

Artie is in his 60s, retired from the Wisconsin State Police. He pulled the pin when he got his 25 in. He’s round. And hard like a bowling ball. White crewcut, eyes as blue as mine. Not as twinkly though. I guess pulling bodies out of car crashes, if he did that, dims some of the light.

It was a Sunday afternoon and we met Artie at a diner. He said, “The pie’s decent.” Vanessa smiled at me. She knows all my weaknesses. Causes some of them.

I went rhubarb. Using the steely self-control for which I am celebrated, I refrained from à-la-moding it. Vanessa stuck with hot water and lemon. Artie did the Boston Cream Pie with a scoop of vanilla and, for nutritional balance, a scoop of strawberry.

I nodded at the waitress, “Hit me.”

Artie ate slowly, precisely, just like Daddy does. Maybe it’s a cop thing.

He said, “Your boy. Arthur Flanders lives in a nursing home, a pretty decent one. St. Catherine on South Muskego Avenue. I called over there. He’s in decent shape, usual problems for a man in his 80s. But he wasn’t a smoker, social drinking only. No drugs.”

Vanessa said, “A peach. Fucking pedophile.”

I flashed on Walker for a moment, then brought myself back to Al’s Diner.

Artie looked at Vanessa thoughtfully. He’d seen a lot. “Dave told me about your grandmother.” Dave. Dave Jennings. The Captain.

Vanessa said, “Sasha Andrushchenko. Flanders bought her from my great-grandmother when Sasha was young. In Kiev, 1965.”

I said, “Does Flanders have all his marbles? Or most of them.”

“That’s my understanding. I wouldn’t have called you if he were out of it. Now what’s your plan? I can get you inside the facility, but...”

Vanessa said, “I just want to see him. Talk to him. I won’t touch him. Cocksucker.”

I knew Vanessa had mixed feelings. It was probably a net good thing that Sasha had been sold. Been taken from Russia before it became Ukraine. American citizenship. But ... shit. Pedophiles.

Artie looked at the remaining pies in the display case. Two lemon, two pecan, one peach. We both looked away.

Lina served us breakfast in our loft that rainy Saturday morning. Arepo con Quisito. Plus Walker’s home fries, tiny cubes so he can easily crisp them up.

And, at 7 AM, Beck’s Dark in glass steins straight from the freezer.

Colombia, United States, Germany.

Lina smiled at Vanessa, at me, at Walker. Finally at Pilar.

She looked back to Vanessa and me, “Pilar and I swam the Rio Grande from Reymosa at three in the morning. Pitch black, no moon. We had $456 left from our $6,200. Nothing else, just the clothes on our back. But we were in America. That was the main thing, we were in America.”

Walker was looking down at his plate, fully concentrating on Lina’s tale. Pilar was that important to him.

“Pilar and I were crying. Quietly, but our hearts were full. We were so thankful.” She paused to look at her daughter. “Then the world exploded in light. Headlights from the truck. Spotlights too. Two men got out. No hurry, they walked toward us. I thought, all this way to be murdered.”

Lina’s accent had become a little more pronounced.

“They told us to undress. All the lights on us. So bright.” She shrugged, “No choice. Even if they hadn’t been large, they had guns. One of them had a big knife in his hand.” Shrugged again, “They took turns, did me on the ground. In those lights. I can still see the dust motes in the headlights.”

Walker put his hand over Pilar’s. She patted it.

“They were calm, those two. Never got excited, never threatened us. It was like another day at the office to them. Pilar and I just did as we were told.”

Lina closed her eyes, remembering. “They let us ride in the back seat. Better than the ... Pilar?”

“Bed of the pickup. It had a camper top.”

Lina nodded, “Better. We drove at night. Stayed in the camper during the day. They took turns driving, fucking me. They used condoms, didn’t want to pick up any Spic diseases.”

Walker swallowed.

“We learned, they talked openly in front of us, that we were heading to Kansas City. I knew vaguely where it was. Tom, that was the mean one. And Bub. The dumb one.”

Lina paused to pour us some more beer.

Pilar patted Walker’s hand, “They checked to make sure I was still a virgin. Then they left me alone. Worth more.”

Walker swallowed again.

Lina said, “They were going to give us to a pimp. Two separate pimps. To pay off a debt. I was to go to someone called King.”

I knew of him. King Cummings. North Kansas City. Out of my usual orbit.

“Then they would take Pilar to Chicago.” Lina’s black eyes hardened. “That would never happen. We would die fighting first.”

Pilar nodded.

I thought: shit and I was worrying about blowjobs.

“So we arrive. Here. Kansas City. They’re high, snorting. Fucking me. Hadn’t slept for two days.”

Lina smiled, “Your girlfriend is amazing, Walker. Pilar never left my side. She watched, watched, watched. Like a hawk. They took turns going outside to pee. One always stayed with us. Tom was outside. Bub was playing with himself, trying to get hard again. Pilar slipped me his knife.”

Holy shit.

“She showed me the car keys. Truck keys. Hidden in her palm. I didn’t say a word, took the knife in both hands and jammed it up Bub’s throat. Twisted it. His eyes almost bulged out of his head. He couldn’t stop the bleeding.”

Lina closed her eyes. Then shook her head. “I jumped in front and started the truck, stomped the gas. We could hear Tom yelling at us. I just kept driving. Turning corners, no idea where I was.”

Pilar smiled at Walker, “Mama’s a warrior. She pulled over by this ditch and we rolled Bub out the back. Got dressed.”

Lina smiled, “We took their billfolds, over $3,000 in cash. $3,224. I’ve seen the TV shows, we wiped down that truck. The best we could. Then walked away. Our first night of freedom. Wiped the knife clean too. Threw it down a...”

Pilar said, “Storm drain, I think it’s called.”

Pilar said, “Sister Mary spotted us early that morning. Heard our story. Called someone. Told us not to worry about the truck. It was gone.”

I knew the rest of the story, it had been well covered, television and the Star. The naked body, Bub. Police picked up a naked guy, Tom. Who told some ridiculous story about Mexican gangbangers who robbed him, stole his truck.

Artie Kowlinski took Vanessa and me to the St. Catherine nursing home. He said, “It’s fairly small, 50 or so beds.”

Vanessa said, “Expensive?”

“Yeah. $3800 a month.”

Arthur Flanders had the money. I’d run his background. He had inherited a string of dry cleaners from his father. A total of 48 retail outlets mostly in Wisconsin, with a few in Minnesota.

When he turned 70, he sold all 48 in a package deal to an investor who planned to sell them individually. I had asked Gertie Oppenheimer what Flanders would have netted.

She explained the rough formula for that industry. “Base it on a multiple of net profit for the past three years. Pick a number... $30,000 per year. Say the buyer, that investor, wanted a 15% return on his money. He’d pay no more than $200,000 per store.”

“Is $30,000 a good estimate?”

“It’s conservative. Depends on how much the owner took out for himself.”

I did the math in my head. Then shook that particular tool and used the calculator on my cell. A little under $10 million. Yeah, Flanders should be able to afford St. Catherine.

The nursing home looked kind of pleasant. Not that I ever intend to reside in one. Nicely landscaped, a curved drive leading to a hot-top parking lot beside a rambling, one-story building, freshly painted. White.

Artie spoke to the heavy receptionist who seemed disinclined to let three strangers talk to a resident without an appointment. He pulled a fat wallet from his hip pocket, flipped it open briefly. I caught a glimpse of a badge. I bought mine online. Maybe Artie just kept his Highway Patrol ID. Wouldn’t surprise me.