Chapter 11

Being a trained professional, I decided to create a catalogue raisonné, an encyclopedia of what I knew, in the Atwater affair. Or believed I knew.

I wrote down the names of a few people. Then, Nelson-Eamons. Then, St. Jeremy. Looked at all the blank pages.

Closed the catalogue. Next project.

Felicity said, “We have a tail. White Caddy. Escalade.”

I forced myself not to turn around. “Can you get a license?” It’s a challenge to read backwards.

Felicity went slowly, taking her time with each letter, each number. I zapped it to Sullivan Research. The word ‘hacker’ no longer fits in my brain. Research. Nice and clean. Legal. Proper. That’s me.

I read the response aloud to Felicity, “Stolen plates. Registered to a Beaumont, Helen. Nissan Sentra, Mill Valley.”

“What should I do?”

“It 2:30, let’s grab some lunch.” We were on the 280, heading south to San Jose. We’d stake out the one-time Nelson-Eamons employee, Ernesto Rodriguez. Follow him. See where he led us. We’d just done Dickie Axelrod for a week. Nada.

Felicity pulled into the parking lot for a seafood restaurant in Santa Clara. I studiously didn’t look around for a white Cadillac. It’s called being professional. I try it once in a while.

We both went for scallops. Since I am Duty’s Bitch, I don’t even glance at the wine list.

Felicity sat facing the door. I don’t like having my back to it, but she’d seen the driver. “She’s medium height. Latina. Think I should get my PI license?”

“Maybe.”

Fuck. That reminded me. I’m not licensed in California. Missouri and that fucking Kansas, yes. I’d been meaning to look into what West Coast hoops I’d have to hurdle through. Probably better not to be caught.

I had increased my professional insurance to $1,000,000 -- half for persons, half for property.

Felicity and I took our time. If our tail stuck with us, why make it comfortable for her? We dawdled over dessert, thank you Bobsy, and did the required touchup in front of the bathroom mirror. Two pals, out for lunch.

Before we went out to the parking lot, Felicity said, “There she is, two o’clock.”

I activated my cell video and held it down by my right thigh. Making sure my fingers weren’t over the lens. The Caddy was 30 yards away and the sun wasn’t cooperating, but I had enough to recognize her again.

Continuing south, Felicity said, “She’s still with us. Keep heading for Rodriguez?”

Fuck.

“No, better not. Let’s swing down to Carmel, I’ve never seen the area. We’ll stay the night.”

“Cool.”

As she drove I rolled down my shotgun window, not an arduous task with most new passenger cars. I breathed in nature’s scent. Okay, diesel, fast food, the urban usual.

But also wildflowers, ice plants, scoops of chaparral and fat, sassy succulents growing along the shoulder. California is different.

We got a suite at the Candle Light Inn. Complete with a fireplace and a Jacuzzi. Wine with dinner, brandy after. Blunts courtesy of Felicity Adams.

We didn’t even discuss it, just took separate showers and met at the hot tub. Felicity looked good. A few extra pounds, a little age-sag, but holding up well. She didn’t shave under her arms, nor trim her pubes. But she wasn’t all Nature Girl, her legs were smooth.

I’m a detective, I notice things.

I also noticed that she would be open to a little fling. I wouldn’t be. Awkward working relationship. But I’d ignored that in the past. No, this time around I’m married. And would not do that to Vanessa.

But the way Felicity checked me out still pleased me. It was a steamy moment when we both silently acknowledged the possibility. That used to happen a lot more before I did the whole vows thing.

But, best behavior and all that.

In the morning it would have been easy to lose the Caddy that had followed us down to Carmel. But I didn’t want her to know we knew. I’d called a friend of a friend, Carl Simmons, who lived in Redwood City. He’d meet us at the Four Seasons. Felicity would drop me off and drive home.

The tail would stick with me. At least until she was sure I’m tucked in for the night. Then Simmons would follow her. It’s a cat and mouse game and I’ve always preferred to be pussy.

“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”

Our love life, Vanessa and me, has been particularly robust these days. Or nights. I guess there’s something to that ‘Absence makes the heart’ stuff.

Walker and Pilar, of course, notice when we head for the bedroom early. They’re smart enough not to crack wise.

Vanessa and I take our time, shower and shampoo. We’re both clean-freaks. Every nook and cranny. We neck under the spray. A slow build as we dry each other off. Liking what we see in the mirror. I am so fucking happy to have her in my life. And to be in hers.

She has always preferred the aggressive role. And I love her hunger. She’s a tiger between my thighs. Good thing the walls in the old Wrigley are so thick. Floors and ceilings too.

“Now you’ve listened to my story Here’s the point that I have made Chicks were born to give you fever Be it Fahrenheit or Centigrade”

Sometimes I flip roles. Attack her. Vanessa doesn’t seem to mind. A lot of those times though, I’ll wake up in the morning to find her dining chez Winter.

Half Nelson: Forced fasting to speed up cell repairs? How forced? How long?

Okay, I’m not as slick as I sometimes like to think. My Redwood City contact, Carl Simmons, followed Ms. Latina when she left the Four Seasons parking lot around midnight.

He texted me the address and I tasked Sullivan Research.

Fuck.

Her name is Luciana Morales. Maiden name, Rodriguez. Ernesto’s sister. The peerless private eye fucked up. I had figured this Nelson-Eamons cat would have no idea anyone was following him.

Back home, Daddy continued to have intermittent visits with Robert Atwater III. We both had a sense that Bobsy’s grandfather could be involved in the God Pill chase.

No evidence, not a shred. Just a feeling. Intuition, probably on my part. I’m more intuitive than analytical. A strength and a weakness I guess.

Daddy? Experience. And cynicism.

I asked the Sullivans to tiptoe in a little deeper re: Robert Atwater III. Travel schedules, phone calls, the usual sort of things that once were private.

When I’m traveling, Walker calls frequently. With Pilar’s full blessing. She knows, and apparently approves, of his infatuation. One call startled me though. And a second really got my attention.

I picked up the surprise call around 11 Tuesday night in my Four Seasons room. I was on my third, and final, glass of red, it would be an early night. But 11 in California meant 1 in KC. Later than Walker usually stayed up on a school night.

“Hi babyboy.”

“Hi Winter. Um, Pilar is at Lina’s.”

“Oh?”

“Just for tonight. And Vanessa is at Bear’s.”

“Just for tonight.”

“Yeah.”

“So. You’re Mr. Bachelor tonight.”

“Yeah. And I was kind of, you know, missing you.”

Ah. I didn’t need to don my deerstalker hat to suss this one out. “Let me guess, feeling a little horny, are we?”

“Uh huh.”

“Has Pilar measured you lately?”

Pride, “Eight and three-quarters.”

“And I bet you’re feeling every inch of it right this minute.”

“Yep.”

“Oh my. Well, I wish I were home, I know what I’d do for you.”

“What?”

My white flannel hotel robe had come untied. Somehow. I decided not to tease the lad with cold-shower feints. “Lie down, sexy. On your left side.”

“Okay.”

“I’m right behind you, baby, snuggled up so close.” I gave him a moment to picture / remember. “I know just the spot on the back of your neck to make you shiver.” I do, too.

“Hmm.”

I lowered my voice to a throaty whisper. Turned off my bedside lamp. “You like it when I play with your little nipples, don’t you?”
 “Hmm.”

“But that’s not all I’m playing with. You can feel the back of my left hand against your butt, can’t you?”

“I love it when you cum, Winter.”

I shrugged my robe off. “I know you do, baby, and it’s quite naughty of you.”

Walker’s sigh was as soft as a baby’s.

“But it’s my other hand that has your attention now. Hmm, your tummy is so flat. What’s this? Oh, your Pilar heart. And I know exactly what it points to.”

He breathed in and out.

“God, Walker, I am so fucking proud of you. So big, so hard.”

I cooed into the phone, smiling at the monosyllabism coming from the other end. I carried him along then said, “I’m right on the edge, honey, let me know and we’ll cum together.”

He did and we did.

The wake-up call was also from Walker.

“Hi baby.”

“Hi Mom.”

Uh oh. I’m not ‘Mom’, I’m Winter. “What’s up?”

Casual. “Oh nothing. Just checking in. Aunt Jessie says hi.”

Jessie. Jessie Sullivan. Fuck, something is wrong.

I used the Solarin phone Bobsy had given me to call the Sullivans. Regular burners are SOP when I’m working most cases. Although I sometimes have a crisis of confidence and feel that SOP stands for Stupid on Principle.

The problem with the Solarin, just like with Silent Circle’s Blackphone, is the User Interface. My Solarin isn’t cool, not like an iPhone. It runs an older processor and uses software from over a year ago. Ancient.

It is relatively secure though and these days I prefer that over slickness. Especially in Silicon Valley. I now even used duct tape to cover the camera on my laptop. Just like Mr. Comey, former FBI head. Just in case.

Jessie called me back from a new throwaway, “Winter, someone is creeping your laptop.”

Damn.

“Very light-fingered, Jesse was lucky to spot anything.”

I thought about it. A green SUV had followed me. Registered to a company with indirect ties to Nelson-Eamons. And to Anderson Mothwitz. Then Ms. Anderson called to warn me off Bobsy.

Plus Ernesto Rodriquez had made me. Had his sister, Lucinda Morales tail Felicity and me.

So. Some people in Silicon Valley were aware of me, probably had some idea of what I was up to.

First thing, I had Jessie Sullivan overnight me a new MacBook Air. Purchased for cash in one of the IDs that the Sullivans had. She included online identification in the same name.

The second thing, and I would have thought of it myself if Jessie hadn’t suggested it first, was to keep logging onto my compromised laptop. Except now I would be feeding misinformation to whoever was tiptoeing around in my little digital world. I tried to be subtle. Casual complaints about my lack of progress. How I was cutting back my hours. Would probably return to KC.

It might do some good. And it might keep them from suspecting a second laptop.

I once asked Daddy why everyone was so willing to step in front of a locomotive for Bulldog Bannerman.

“Because you might not get pushed tomorrow.”

Not that Herr Bannerman would do the actual hello-train thing himself. More, it just seemed that good things happened to happen when someone does what he expects them to do.

Bulldog was on my mind because he’d called me at the Four Seasons. For a progress report. Something he’d never done. Not even when Sister Mary Catherine Packer had been murdered. Curious.

Overnight, the Atwater scene changed. Both Dickie Axelrod and Ernesto Rodriguez were now going to work at a gated facility in Oakland. Six, sometimes seven mornings a week. Their usual long hours.

Nelson-Eamons hadn’t shut down. They’d surreptitiously relocated to a larger, more secure site. I recognized several license plates from Fremont and a few of the people we’d followed. Felicity remembered some of the cars.

Okay, back in the hunt.

For some reason, irrational probably, I didn’t mention the new lab to the client who was paying me to tell him things exactly like this. Bobsy Atwater.

Because the Oakland complex had a little guardhouse and a traffic arm like at railroad crossings, we couldn’t get very close. We parked about a hundred yards away, across a four-lane highway with a median strip.

Not ideal -- distance and the constant flow of traffic in the way -- but not too bad either. I had brought my Bushnell Legend Ultra HD 10X42 binoculars from home. Unlike Le Wand, I wasn’t embarrassed to pack them.

I called out as many license plates numbers as I could see and Felicity transcribed them. Then she sent the plates to Sullivan Research. Felicity is fully into the Nancy Drew scene these days. Bobsy will remember to pay her a nifty bonus. If and when.

If and when I ever figure out what the fuck is going on.

Walker and Pilar had a little spat, their first one. Pilar left to stay with her mother and Matt Whitney for a while. Vanessa told me that Walker was trying to stiff-upper-lip it and was faking it fairly well. Still, I worried. About him and about how he and Pilar would commemorate their cessation of hostilities.

Walker wasn’t reaching out to me, not any more than he regularly did. But I had a low-grade concern in the back of my mind. So I flew back to KC for a weekend. Felicity volunteered to keep monitoring the lab, but I told her to take a break, we’d hit Nelson-Eamons and St. Jeremy hard when I returned.