Chapter 4: Fresh Air

There are sidebar effects, ripple effects, to many of my cases. Oasis was the second time I’d worked directly with the SAIC, Hank Morristown. Earlier he and Daddy had helped me out in California.

Hank and I aren’t contemporaries — he’s closer to Daddy’s age. And we certainly aren’t social friends. But we were becoming ... if not fond of each other, familiar.

Daddy invited us to one of his backyard gourmet cookouts. He uses ‘gourmet’ ironically because it’s usually just burgers and hot dogs. But a lot of things taste better outside. Outside and charred.

Sometimes he does chicken or steaks, but usually it’s blue cheese-stuffed burgers on ciabatta buns. With pepper bacon. And a tub of ice-cold Negra Modela.

This Saturday afternoon, in that Meyer Boulevard backyard, Walker was sous chef. Hobo was standing guard beside the grill, ever vigilant. Pilar in a modest-for-her white bikini was taking the sun this late May afternoon.

Vanessa and I were in the kitchen helping my mother prepare a salad. Fortunately, Vanessa had volunteered to concoct the dressing. Otherwise it would be a bottle of French’s Ranch. Instead we’d savor a tart Italian with house made (Vanessa’s house) garlic bread.

Hank Morristown and his wife showed up fashionably late. Ten after two. I poured white wine for Agnes, another Jim Beam on the rocks for Mom, and opened a Modela for Hank. He and I aren’t Facebook pals or anything, but I know he doesn’t want a glass. Straight from the bottle, just like Daddy.

Pilar joined me as I set the picnic table for eight. Hobo would take his usual place of honor beside Daddy at the head of the table. Abandoning his regular Wrigley spot between Pilar and Walker. He gets fed wherever he sits.

We began with the salad and garlic bread. Hank’s demeanor is understandably more relaxed when he’s out of the office, not on assignment. Daddy was under strict orders, standing orders, from my mother not to talk shop.

So I asked Hank, “Any word about the Three Amigos?”

Mom frowned. Vanessa topped off her bourbon while Pilar added a couple more ice cubes. Hank smiled at me; he knew I was just twitting my mother. “The Three Amigos resurfaced. Billings. RightWorld.”

Odd. On a couple of levels. The children of imprisoned David and Charles Meriwether had simply disappeared the day their fathers had been arrested. On charges of supporting the Gunthers, funding the Assassination of the Oasis CEO, Donald Jefferson Winston.

Sam, Strom, Sarah Meriwether. Not wanted for questioning. But very much wanted for curiosity’s sake. Just like Otto Gunther, the Philadelphia stockbroker who had also disappeared, the Three Amigos simply resurfaced without fanfare, without explanation.

And were again openly affiliated with the Meriwether PAC, RightWorld. Which their fathers had incongruously headquartered in Billings Montana. Far away from the DC power center.

Although I guess when you have billions to draw from, the power is wherever you are. RightWorld could headquarters itself wherever the fuck it wanted.

I wonder if the name RightWing had been taken by someone else. Although RightWorld ain’t bad. ‘Right’ could be an adjective describing its place on the political spectrum. Or a verb declaring its global intention.

Hobo, like most dogs has a terrific sense of smell. His hearing is excellent as well. And ever since the Greta Gunther intrusion, Pilar’s loyal border collie drops everything and places himself in front of the elevator whenever it stops on our floor.

He doesn’t growl, but stands at attention, his roan and white back rigidly straight. He watches keenly to see exactly who enters our loft. It’s behavior that’s now so deeply ingrained that I imagine he’ll do it for the rest of his life.

And who can fault him? Hobo saved Pilar’s life by launching himself at Gunther. Crushing her forearm in his powerful jaws, forcing the Glock away from Pilar’s head. The three shots that Gunther involuntarily squeezed off went into our hardwood floor. The bullets were extracted by the FBI, but we’ve left the bullet holes alone for now. Haven’t decided what to do about them yet.

They are a vivid, ugly reminder of a terrifying event. In another way, they’re a paean to courage, to forbearance. Hobo, sure, but Walker and Pilar too. None of us wants to create a shrine-like tableau ... yet it doesn’t feel quite right to simply fill in the holes and re-stain the floor. Oh well, we’ll figure it out.

Pilar, with blessings from Vanessa and me, enrolled Hobo in a training course for guard dogs. It’s quasi-military which I quasi-don’t like, but that’s okay. If it makes our family one ounce safer, so be it.

It trains dogs — usually German Shepherds and Dutch Shepherds. Although currently the most popular breed is the Belgian Malinois. Well I know of a certain border collie, with Pilar leading the charge ... they’ll just shoulder their way in. Even though borders aren’t in the top 10 breeds of choice.

One of the best known companies in the field was started by a former Navy Seal. His organization trains the best of the best dogs to become K-9s. For sniffing out bombs, cadavers, drugs. Crowd control.

Pilar showed Vanessa and me a video where he addressed a TED crowd.

“We have marvelous dogs, dogs at the peak of their game. They’re in demand — police, military, airports. But there wasn’t much of a civilian market. Then the kidnappings, mostly in Latin America, began escalating.”

He spoke in a quiet voice. Calm, matter of fact.

“So, PPDs — personal protection dogs. It began with the 1%. Those most likely to be targets of home invasions, kidnappings, carjackings, and the like. Celebrities, industrialists, internationalists.”

Good looking guy. I wonder ... never mind.

“We train the elite dogs to perform instantaneous Threat Analyses. That’s the key to determining their response. They learn to decide whether to simply alert the owner of a potential problem or attack the perp. They don’t hesitate to strike.”

Hobo.

Someone in the audience asked a question.

“Fully trained PPDs will sell for over $100,000. You can find less expensive ones, but...” Shrug.

Well, we wouldn’t part with Hobo for that paltry amount, nor any other.

Vanessa and I went to an early class to watch a training session. The action took place in a huge limestone cave, north of downtown, north of the Missouri River. The quiet commands echoed around the cavernous room.

In the class we observed, the trainer had retired after a full 20 in the Army. Stints in Iraq and Afghanistan. Kraus wore a ‘bite suit’ so heavily padded it about doubled her size.

We watched the demonstration — a shaggy looking mutt. Pilar whispered, “A Bouvier des Flandres.” Pilar and Hobo watched with even more intensity than they exhibited durning sheepdog trials.

Demo boy carried the friendly-sounding name of Bob. Then he stopped looking friendly. Looked, in fact, deadly. Kraus, almost unrecognizable as a human form became aggressive. Bob’s first strike was in her crotch. Vanessa and I winced. Pilar leaned forward. Hobo was on full alert.

The demonstration took only about five minutes, but it seemed longer. Then Krause smiled at Pilar, nodded to Hobo, “He ready?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Hobo doesn’t have all of the moves yet. But he will. It’s in this phase of his training — the attack phase — that Hobo showed what he does have. Love, devotion, intensity. An intensity that Kraus calls ‘heart’. And Hobo is one of the rare dogs to have as much of it as there is.

Borders aren’t bred to be warriors. But this one is one.

He lunged, made mid-air corrections, jaws gaping. Crotch, wrist, arm, and, thigh, calf, crotch. Tireless, focused, fervent. Committed.

And what is expected of the dog owners, the protectees? Loyalty. Love. Bonding. Fortunately, that is already there, both ways, with Pilar and Hobo.

In a way it’s hard work. But Hobo loves the classes. And especially loves the homework — more training to stop an intruder, an attacker. Walker wears thick protective padding over his right arm and Hobo delights when Pilar gives him the attack signal: “Sit!”

They practice in our loft, up on the roof, in parks when they go on long walks. Pilar believes the training sessions will actually help Hobo in his sheepdog career. Make him even more alert, attentive.

Vanessa and I are amazed at how far Hobo’s powerful back legs can propel him. Even before Gunther, he had taken agility classes and could clear 55-inch fences with ease. We haven’t measured his horizontal leap, but I bet it’s over 10 feet from a standing start. With a run, much longer.

When he’s on elevator duty, Hobo will stare intensely as the wood-slatted door makes its vertical journey upward. Even when it’s Vanessa or me, he’ll continue to watch until he’s certain no one else is coming in. Then he’s ready for his tail-wagging “Good boy” greetings.

When we have company for dinner or a couple of dozen people for a party, Hobo is on elevator alert the entire evening. I’m glad the Gunther incident hasn’t negatively affected his personality. Once people have passed his initial scrutiny, he’s his usual friendly self.

From his first day home, Hobo has just assumed people would like him, would be happy to see him. Not always accurate, not everyone is a dog person; he senses when someone wants to be left alone.

Smart dog.

Now what are the odds that Hobo will have another Greta Gunther episode? Pretty long. But he enjoys the training, the practice. It’s good, fun exercise. The kids feel better, a smidgeon safer. Vanessa too. Hell, maybe even I do.

My investigation into the three Edwin Caruthers candidates yielded ... nada. Zip, nothing. Obviously the fault of the Sullivan twins — Jessie and Jesse.

So, armed only with background folders, I would have to get off my butt and do some hands-on field work. I started with James T. G. Woolsey because he would be the hardest to keep track of. He was currently unemployed so I couldn’t count on several hours at one address.

I began with the obvious: what the fuck does T. G. stand for? Thomas Geoffrey. No matter how closely I studied the four names, I didn’t spot a clue. Tried rearranging the order. Nope.

Woolsey drives a Volvo. Safety first, understandable for someone in the life insurance business. He lives in Overland Park, just like a couple hundred thousand other deluded citizens who chose southern Johnson County in that skin rash of a state, Kansas.

Once again, tailing someone reminded me of how boring most of our lives are. I guess running errands, lunch with friends, catching a movie, may not feel tedious. Not when you’re the one doing them. Or maybe it does. Maybe everyone is bored.

I devoted four full days to Woolsey and didn’t spot one interesting thing. Perhaps that’s appropriate for the life insurance game. Then on the fifth day, he broke his lazy pattern.

I had rented a car to follow him. My red F-150 isn’t that rare, but it does stand out. I was behind the wheel of Anonymity, a tan Toyota. Perhaps a subconscious tribute to Birdy Cummings.

Woolsey headed north and west from his house, taking a series of freeways to reach what turned out to be a race track. There were hundreds of cars in the parking lot and maybe a couple of thousand Saturday spectators in the bleachers.

Because I’m a trained detective, and because I read the photostatted and stapled program, I learned this was an amateur event. No pro teams, uniforms, sponsored cars.

Woolsey emerged from under the stands wearing some sort of white padded getup, a helmet under one arm. He talked with two men who were doing something important under the hood of some kind of souped-up Dodge. Dark green with a lot of decals and the number 14 painted on the two doors.

I wandered through the crowd standing along the oval track. Two miles. Most of the people seemed to know one of the drivers; there was a lot of friendly bantering.

I was bored about five minutes into the noisy race. But, as a professional, I stuck it out. Woolsey came in sixth. Respectable, to me anyway.

I opened one eye, squinted at the red digital readout. 4:07. I closed my eye for a few seconds, then opened both of them. Wide awake, no sense trying to fool myself. I slid out of bed, careful not to disturb Vanessa, and padded nude to a guest bathroom. Performed the usual morning stuff and moseyed into the kitchen.

I drank ice-cold grapefruit juice directly from the bottle. Why not, no one else awake.

Then, legs curled beneath me on our red leather sofa, I scrolled through my mail, jump-starting the day. Actually, I checked my news feeds first. Something I’m doing more of since the last election upended things in DC.

In addition to the screen light, the Main Street windows provided ambient illumination in our otherwise dark loft. I heard Walker before I saw him. He was zombie-walking as Hobo accompanied him to the kitchen. The click-clack of dog toenails on hardwood floors.

Refrigerator light. Grapefruit bottle, deep gulps. I’ll have to speak to Pilar about her little boyfriend. Remind her there is something called civilized behavior. Drinking from the bottle indeed.

Hobo trotted over to the sofa, gave my thigh a cold nose-bump, and continued to the elevator door. Which he sniffed for any sign of impending visitors.

Back to Walker. I smiled at my beautiful boy. I was looking at his 3/4 profile in the refrigerator light. Lovely. Long legs, taut butt, flat tummy. And an erection that pulsed steadily at about a 45-degree angle above horizontal. Youth.

Walker was mostly asleep, had no idea I was there. And I’m sure he was blissfully unaware of his early-morning wood.

He closed the door and headed sleepily back to bed. Hobo walked beside him, gently grazing Walker’s right leg, herding him back to Pilar.

And I had no doubt that Pilar was awake; that girl is intensely aware of everything going on around her. I smiled again, picturing the scene. Walker would curl back into Pilar’s arms just like he does with me. Hobo would snuggle into Pilar’s other side.

Then she’d go back to sleep, surrounded and comforted by the two boys in her life.

Being a trained detective, and, okay, a bit nosy, I had detected some tension between Hank Morristown and his wife, Agnes. No angry glares, no muttered asides. Just an awkward conversational pause, an averted glance.

Growing up, I can’t recall my own parents arguing. Daddy was simply too genial around my mother. Oh, she bitched about his career choice. About turning down promotions because they would take him off the street.

But those were more habit-rants than resentment; just part of the conversational currents that flowed through our home.

Of course what was going on between an FBI agent and his wife fell into the category of Not My Business. So on the drive back to the Wrigley, I asked Vanessa, “Trouble in Paradise?”

I love it that she and I are on the same wavelength, can talk in instantly understandable shorthand.

Pilar answered from the backseat, “Nothing serious. He won’t take his vacation days.”

Hey, I’m the fucking detective in this family.

The Three Amigos —Sam, Strom, and Sara Meriwether — may have gone missing for several weeks, but they hit the ground running. Their PAC, RightWorld, purchased a New York PR firm, called SING.