Chapter 1

“Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived.”

Isn’t it odd the doggerel we remember from school? In this case, thanks to a quite-possibly demented middle school teacher, Mrs. Hannity. British History. Now why I’m recalling, on Lina Paloma’s wedding day, that Henry VIII guillotined 1/3 of his wives is fodder for a professional analyst. Or semipro maybe.

I don’t think I’ll mention Hank to Lina. Not today.

I’d been hoeing in some pretty high cotton. As we say down on the plantation. I’m fresh off a luxury seastead, The Globe, where residences start at seven figures. Pretty heady for this Midwestern girl.

Yet, I’m simply more comfortable in the demimonde called Kansas City. Where I ply my dubious PI trade. More comfortable and more engaged.

I had bidden adieu, adieu, adieu to the luxe life of The Globe.

Back at Mother Earth, KC version, I’m free to work the cases I know how to work. Insurance scams. Revenge porn. Business betrayals. Runaways and pimps and whores.

I function better at street level than at sea level. Time to get back to the kind of tasks I understand. But you know what they say about plans, make ‘em and god giggles.

“May you build a ladder to the stars And climb on every rung May you stay Forever young”

Okay, close your eyes. Feel the Wrigley freight elevator creak and groan and rattle and wheeze its way up to the fifth floor. Listen to the slatted, wooden gate bifurcate and click open. Open your eyes ... your back is to Main Street so you’re facing west.

Left to right, our magnificent loft is 130-feet wide. And just under 80-feet deep. Almost all of it is one open, glorious room.

There are handsome furniture groupings, colorful area rugs, a large bar area, a modern dining section followed by the copper-rich kitchen in the back of the room. Framed artwork everywhere. Floor and wall sculptures, mobiles, built-in speakers throughout. A Diamond pool table with a blue cloth. About a zillion plants, all sizes, all shapes.

Today, Saturday, our loft is particularly festive. Wedding day.

Lina Paloma and Matt Whitney.

I’m Winter Jennings and I plan to Par-tay. Heartily. I’ll be flying out to San Francisco next week and I’m in over my head on this new case. Before I even leave town.

Why?

Well, I’m a 33-year old private detective who understands thugs. Crooks, hoods, scammers. Bad guys. Things like revenge porn? Pimps? I get it. Abusive husbands? Been there. (Not with my ex, but hubbies and boyfriends of my pro bono clients.)

But I don’t have a Nobel in, say, genetics. Don’t comprehend mitochondria. Not any more than I do glutathione. Sure, I looked them up. That’s easy to do these digital days.

Glutathione is “a powerful antioxidant that protects cells and their mitochondrial, which provide energy.” Huh?

I’m as science-challenged as can be, heading to Silicon Valley because a native Kansas Citian is nervous out there. Robert ‘Bobsy’ Atwater isn’t science-ignorant. He holds three patents on three different ... complicated ... scientific ... somethings. Held patents, past tense, since he sold the rights.

Patents that Alphabet, Microsoft and Apple wanted. They bid against each other and, according to people who follow these things, were pissed that Hayes-Harris, a venture capital firm, ended up with the rights to all three ... somethings.

Bobsy Atwater became an employee of Hayes-Harris. I guess they want first dibs on any new ideas he comes up with.

One Atwater patent, I do sort of understand. It’s like a mashup of that crowd-sourced traffic thing, Waze, and a Tinder type hookup app. Maybe cars get together and fuck. Or maybe I don’t really understand that patent either.

But all of that begins next week. Crank up the music.

The Winter cognoscenti can skip this little backgrounder.

> Winter Jennings, natural blonde, terrific boobs, pretty damned good brain. Tanned and tall. Private eye after three years on the Job. KCPD.

> Walker Jennings, 15, my son. Decent enough kid. Hormones, though. Let me rephrase that. Yea hormones! Why not?

> Vanessa Henderson. Gorgeous. Slavic architecture. Miss Indiana. Foolish enough to marry me. Majority owner, Euforia Restaurant. Wise enough to marry me.

> Pilar Paloma. Hondo, Colombia. Daughter of the bride. Live-in girlfriend, Walker division. Round, dark, almost luminous eyes.

Our loft is in the century-old Wrigley Hotel although it’s not part of the hotel operation. Located in the artsy-crafty Crossroads District, just south of downtown Kansas City.

Bulldog Bannerman’s number one Dragon Lady called me last Tuesday morning, “On the way.” I must be moving up in the world, Bulldog used to just show up, unannounced.

Mr. Behind-the-Scenes. Civic fixer. Getter of things done. In his 70s, hasn’t lost a step. Still wears his white hair in that short, Corps-cut. Still keeps his sinewy, slender body toned.

I looked out my Genessee Street office windows in the Livestock Exchange Building. Located in the now-bustling-again-without-the-stock stockyards neighborhood near the Missouri River.

Emile Chanson, Bulldog’s mysterious driver / bodyguard was opening the rear door of the long, black Cadillac. Bulldog slid gracefully out, followed, awkwardly, by a 12-year old kid. All elbows and eyeglasses.

Emile glanced up at me and I felt a guilty flash. Irrational. I’m allowed to look out my own fucking window. Well, Emile.

Bulldog did the intros, “Winter Jennings. Bobsy Atwater.”

The 12-year old is 23, 10 years younger than I am. Wealthier than 10,000 Winters will ever be. And a little nervous.

Part of his edginess was almost charming. Bobsy is painfully shy, socially inept, probably never been kissed except professionally. If he isn’t still a virgin.

I did look good that morning, credit due. My sleeveless white tee complimented my golden tan. No bra, nipples sedately doing their job. Jobs.

Thick blonde hair, still cut in the short, asymmetrical shag I prefer. Bright blue eyes, cheekbones and chin where they should be. Skinny jeans that clung to the right places more intimately than real denim could have done.

Bobsy stared. I didn’t mind.

But sexual dynamics aside, the kid was a little shook up. When he told me his California story, I sympathized. Eternal life, the quest to make death optional. Some call it the God Pill. And those troubling rumors about what certain Silicon Valley billionaires and scientists were willing to do. Were, in rumor anyway, already starting to do.

How unusual is a Robert ‘Bobsy’ Atwater, boy genius? As rare as someone able to hit a major league fastball? Daddy told me that maybe 100 babies a year would grow up with that talent. Able to hit .350? Maybe one baby a generation.

Bobsy’s no athlete, but I would learn that he’s no commoner either.

Lina Paloma and her daughter, Pilar, made an amazingly courageous journey from Hondo, Colombia to, eventually, Kansas City, Missouri. It was a fear-filled trek, almost seven months long, that included a gang rape, bribes all along the way, extortion, forced sex. Hiding in dark places, sometimes for days. Weeks. Walking, busses, a freight train, more walking, swimming across the Rio Grande.

The fact that they tried at all, let alone succeeded, speaks to their ferocious will power. Cunning, and strength. Lina knew that she’d be forced into having sex; she was able to protect her daughter’s from assaults.

What a difference a year in Kansas City makes. The Colombian mother and daughter are now US citizens. Thanks to a phone call from Bulldog Bannerman. Who may well call for a yet-to-be-specified return favor from me at some yet-to-be specified date. Even in backwater Kansas City, the Favor Bank sanctions deposits and withdrawals 24 / 7.

Lina is the hostess at Vanessa’s popular, and now starting to become profitable, Brookside restaurant, Euforia. Micro-regional Italian cuisine.

She is marrying a regular Euforia customer, Matt Whitney. An attorney, divorced now, and a pretty good guy. I had him checked out by Jessie and Jesse Sullivan, hackers I use from time to time. No, scratch ‘hackers’. Researchers, that sounds better. Diminutive redheaded twins who may be fucking each other. Which is neither here nor there. Nor anywhere else for that matter. Their business.

The early-evening wedding will be followed by a celebration bash, both held here in our Wrigley loft. I resolved to focus on the festivities and have a good time.

I hadn’t been all that surprised at Bobsy Atwater’s tale that some in Silicon Valley -- an elite combine of billionaires, tech geniuses, university labs, research centers, venture capitalists -- were trying to defy nature.

The Internet is a study in disruption. And of unintended consequences. For example, 3-D printing was first used to create stuff like wall hooks and cell phone cases. Now you can make plastic guns that don’t show up on metal detectors.

Or Twitter. Short messages to allow friends to keep in touch in loud nightclubs. By 2017, over 300 million monthly users. Tinder. Unattached college kids hooking up. Now it’s used by some maggots to prey on women.

Uber and Airbnb were founded to defy existing regulations. To ignore, break, or change laws.

So, Silicon Valley -- exemplified by mantras such as “Move fast and break things” and “Make better mistakes tomorrow” -- is understandably fertile territory for the God Pill.

I had hung out my professional shingle -- private investigator -- after three irksome years as a Kansas City cop. The irksomeness was mostly on me, I just don’t do well taking orders. And when everyone except for the other noobs is above me ... well, it wasn’t a salubrious situation.

Business started slow. I got a few recommendations from cops who knew either me or my father. The respected, revered by some, Homicide Captain Dave Jennings.

Then, after some modest successes, a few clients recommended me to a friend, a business acquaintance, someone with a problem he couldn’t resolve by himself.

One client is Phillip Montgomery, who now runs his hedge fund, Envoy Assets, from New York. And that company contracted with me to investigate a luxury residential yacht. One they owned 30% of.

I took an irrational pride in being hired by that hedge fund -- New York fucking City!

But having a referral from Bulldog Bannerman was perhaps an even higher accolade. Bulldog is a Kansas City legend, has been for decades. Although most people have never heard of him and he prefers it that way.

But no mayor, no city councilman, or woman, would be elected if he swiveled his thumb in a downward gesture. Public records would indicate he’s a real estate developer. And those documents would be accurate -- he has projects in both commercial and residential disciplines.

But real estate is only a fraction of what Bulldog oversees. I don’t know about most of his other enterprises, I’m certainly no insider.

Bulldog is both a mirror of Kansas City’s past and an architect of its future.

His introducing me to Robert ‘Bobsy’ Atwater ... well, this young fella will have my full attention. A full court press. Full Monty. Full as full can be.

On the morning of her wedding day, Lina Paloma sat down with Vanessa and me. Pilar by her side.

There was a solemnness to Lina. Understandable. Getting married is a big deal. And should be.

My stylist, Wendy, had shampooed Lina’s lustrous black hair and was now lovingly brushing it, braiding it. And studiously not listening. She also braided Lina’s thick black pubic hair. Lina smiled at us, “Matt likes me hairy.”

Because I’m so sophisticated, cool almost, I decided not to be startled when Lina had walked out of the bathroom stark fucking naked. It surprised me though.

Lina talked quietly about the arduous trek from Hondo, Colombia to Kansas City. Told us, again, about being gang raped the second day of the journey. She spoke without rancor of the bribes she had to pay, the sex she submitted to.

I listened quietly, intently. Lina was talking about that trip, but also about something else. Something obviously important to her. And to Pilar.

“Pilar was with me every second of our travel. She saw everything they did to me. Lina paused, breathing evenly, “We’re ... changed, Pilar and I. But we owe you our allegiance, Winter. And Sister Mary, back when she...”

Was alive.

Lina looked at me, “You and Vanessa. Walker. We’ll give you what we can, but it won’t be everything you want. Especially Walker.”

I understood. Maybe someday my son would too.

“Pilar and I are...” I thought she would say ‘damaged goods, ‘ but she said, “Altered.”

“Irrevocably?”

“I don’t know, Winter, I just can’t say. One way or the other, I just can’t say.”

Vanessa looked at me, we were both thinking the same thing. Lina and Pilar don’t care for Walker as much as he cares for them. And it’s not their fault, nothing they’re doing on purpose. They’ve been ... altered.

Later, thinking about Lina, I think her coming out in the nude was symbolic of what she was trying to communicate. Emotionally she’d been stripped bare.

Thank you, Siggy Freud.

Lina’s bridal shower had been purposely low key. Twenty or so girls counting Vanessa, Pilar and me.

The presents weren’t extravagant, purposely so. No Karen Blixen-style hats imported from Beretta. No custom-beaded handbag from a Maasai clan.

But lots of laughter, fascinating gossip, crisp champagne.

“Pardon the way that I stare There’s nothing else to compare The sight of you leaves me weak There are no words left to speak”

The marriage ceremony was brief, tender, and moving. Lina, so attractive anyway, looked like a bride should look. Pilar was the maid of honor. Matt Whitney, in a kindness probably found only in second weddings, tapped Walker to be his best man.

We had around 60 or 70 guests in our loft -- Lina’s coworkers, Matt’s office buddies, some of Pilar’s friends from school, our friends.

The music, on our terrific sound system, was too loud. There was too much champagne. Way too much laughter. Delicious hors d’oeuvres. Well, that was to be expected, Vanessa oversees the Euforia kitchen.

Lina danced with her husband, then with Walker. While Pilar danced with her new stepfather.

When the newlyweds come back from their San Francisco honeymoon, Pilar’s living arrangements will be a little fluid. She’d spend some time in the Brookside house that Matt had bought for them. He wanted to stay near his 6-year old son.

But mostly, Pilar would stay here, with us. Specifically, with Walker. Walker was 14, so I was okay, legality-wise, when he and Mindy started fucking.

These kids aren’t fucking, not yet. Oh well.

Lina and Matt left for the Rafael Hotel around 10. It’s only a few minutes from the Crossroads to the Country Club Plaza.

The party was just starting to rock.

Walker danced with Vanessa. His confidence is higher when he’s with that gorgeous woman. He looked so comfortable out there on the floor. Of course I can claim some credit. All those kitchen dance lessons when he was 10 and 11.

A slow number, “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You,” cued up and my son held out his hand to me. Jay & The Americans. Walker was fully, proudly, erect and happy to make sure I knew it. Pilar, looking slim and elegant in a calf-length saffron dress, sipping champagne -- is that another felony or just a misdemeanor? -- winked at me.

My head barely comes up to Walker’s shoulders. I rubbed his boner with my tummy and whispered, “Why not have Pilar take care of you, babyboy?”

He slid both hands down to my butt. I was in a ... I don’t know, some kind of don’t-give-a-fuck mood. And proud. Proud of my tall, handsome son. Not yet a young man, but on his way.

Walker whispered back, “I rather you would, Winter.”

I masked my surprise, “That’s just silly. It’s only a hand-job. With me.”

Still slow-dancing, still pressed together, he placed his lips against my ear, “It could be more.”

New territory. And unusual territory. Walker doesn’t take the initiative, not with me. Vanessa had been telling me how much of Pilar’s confidence is spilling over to him. Could be.

“I love you baby And if it’s quite all right I need you baby To warm the lonely nights”

“Walk.”

“Winter.”

“Are you attempting to speak truth to power?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. More, it’s just what I want. Was hoping for.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh pretty baby Don’t bring me down I pray Oh pretty baby Now that I’ve found you stay”

The next song came on and I pulled back, smiling, “No, not tonight, my little darling.” My little darling who is the tallest one in his class, over six feet tall.

I was pleased with ‘not tonight.’ A hint of a promise, but far from a commitment. Give Walker something to sleep on. Or toss and turn on.

I like to think I give every client my full attention. Self-delusion has long been one of my stronger traits.

But Robert ‘Bobsy’ Atwater, coming to me via Bulldog Bannerman, will receive top notch service. Pip-Pip!

When I know nothing about a subject I normally just plunge right in, believing I’ll figure it out as I go along. But this eternal life stuff, the God Pill, I don’t know, maybe I’d better do, like, you know, some actual research.

Professor Google. Obvious, fast, and the price is reasonable. More than online searches, though, I called around. I’m not connected in the way that a Bulldog Bannerman is, but I know people who know ... well, you get the idea.