Chapter 1: Matt Striker

Vanessa cupped my cheek with her palm. She smiled and said, “Mary Oliver.”

I smiled back and recited those haunting lines from Vanessa’s favorite poet,

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

I said, “Emile, I need a sniper. With a laser sight.”

“When?”

Typical, straight-to-the-point response from Emile Chanson. Bulldog Bannerman’s ... um, associate. Driver, bodyguard, man of mystery. A fixer for the fixer.

Most people would have responded, “Are you fucking nuts?” Or looked for the nearest exit. Emile isn’t most people. He didn’t ask why. Nor who, nor where. Just the most practical question of all ... how soon?

My new cowgirl boots saved my butt.

I was admiring my tush — well, all of me really — in a window reflection just outside the LeEnfant Plaza train station. It was Friday night, dark for about an hour. I’d just taken the Fredericksburg train from Quantico, Virginia into DC. In mid-September the air here is still soft, as it is in the South, not even a hint of Fall.

I saw a reflected shape loom behind me and heard a raspy whisper, “Your turn, bitch.”

I whirled. Gasped and stared. At a wicked-looking knife that was being casually tossed from right hand to left, back and forth.

It bothered me a lot that this particular knife was being juggled at about knee level. Underhand, the way the pros go at it. But what terrified me was how casual this stringy-haired guy was. He wasn’t hyped up, wasn’t a mugger, wasn’t the least bit nervous. Calm demeanor, calculating eyes.

Without thinking, without a glimmer of a plan, I whipped my head to the right and terror-screamed, “DON’T SHOOT HIM!”

The guy reflexively jerked his head to his left and I lunged forward, drop-kicking his balls as hard as I could. An adrenaline-laced punt fueled by hysteria. I wanted my right ankle to sever him in half.

By luck, the side of my boot caught the knife in mid-flight and sent it flying off to my right. My scumbag shrieked out a high-pitched scream and collapsed onto the sidewalk, rolling to his side, bringing his knees up to his chest, clutching his crotch with both hands. Thrashing his head from side to side in astonished agony.

Still scared to death, I jumped one step closer and stomped on his face, barely keeping my balance. I bloodied his mouth, splintered his nose. I wasn’t thinking — just reacting. Something manic was loose in me. There was a roaring noise in my head, and I drew my leg back and kicked him in the chin, falling backwards on my butt. I hopped back up, gasping for breath, heart racing. His jaw was lopsided, hanging half-hinged off to one side. Blood streamed from an eye socket.

Three men, strangers, had come running; two of them grabbed the assailant — would-be assailant — and held him down. The third guy, panting and leaning over from the exertion, placed his foot on the knife. He had a Burberry raincoat draped over his left arm; odd the things that register when you’re this frightened.

Two women had called 911 and I could hear sirens. I hugged myself, trembling and crying. Then Matt Striker, seven minutes late, traffic, pulled up to the curb.

Matt jumped from his gleaming black Audi and embraced me, hugging me so tightly. My sobbing was slowing, my shivering was easing. Gasps were morphing into heavy breathing. It felt so fucking good to be in his arms. He silently took in the scene.

Confident that I was okay, or that at least I wouldn’t faint, Matt strode back to his car, reached inside the passenger side and winked at me. Plastic handcuffs. Injection-molded nylon. About ten cents per. He jerked the fucker’s wrists behind him and immobilized the arms just as the first Metro squad car pulled up. The siren Dopplering away into the night.

A beefy cop, face the map of Ireland, heaved himself out and said, “Striker. What the fuck?”

It was dawning on me that maybe I was in some kind of procedural soup. I had acted in self-defense, no question. Nevertheless, there was serious testicular injury involved. And not one, but two, severe face-kicks. Civilian interference from Matt Striker. Bureaucracy. Paperwork.

Matt nodded at me, “She’s one of the good guys, Costello. Taking a course at Quantico.”

“Fucking Feds.”

Daddy told me, “Something odd about this one.”

He handed me a KCPD report on last night’s only local murder. We were sitting at the bar in BEAR’s on Broadway, sipping a smoky German beer — Rauchbier. My best friend Bear rotates different craft beers in and out on a regular basis.

It was late August, the Kansas City temperature still in the 90s at eight this Wednesday evening. The beer was both tasty and refreshing.

This particular killing had been especially gruesome. A young woman’s nude body was found on a muddy patch of ground a few yards south of the Missouri river. I know that neighborhood — it’s not that far from the Unicorn Club.

The Medical Examiner reported — in dry, technical language — that the victim appeared to be in marvelous physical shape. Except that her entire body and face had been ravaged by a savage dog. No, two dogs. She’d been alive when they attacked.

A footnote: “Victim suffered severe hemorrhaging from blood vessels that burst within the vocal folds and leaked onto the vocal cords.”

Screaming.

I had been flattered, inordinately pleased, when the legendary FBI special agent, Ash Collins called me personally. At our loft in the Wrigley. “Winter, if you can free up a month, I can get you into a BAU course at Quantico.”

Behavioral Analysis Units. Mine would be BAU Crimes Against Adults.

And, boy, were there Crimes Against Adults in Kansas City. The most public, the most bizarre ... perpetrated by a serial killer the Kansas City Star dubbed Mr. Television. But all that would come out later.

Mr. Television.

Ash said, “I cleared Quantico with Sandra.” Sandra Fleming, the new SAC in Kansas City. Special Agent in Charge. Down from the Chicago office. KC is smaller, but heading things up here is a promotion.

“How’d she take it?”

He laughed, “Like she should. Irritated. Didn’t want the complication. But she’s a pro, didn’t go all defensive. She’ll live with you in the picture. She knows your past contributions.”

The Gunthers. First Greta, then her cousin, Gunner.

I said, “I can clear my schedule. Thanks, Ash.”

“You’ve earned it.”

Neither Ash nor I mentioned the bonus. Matt Striker lives in DC. A fella I’m sorta fond of.

This is the life I’ve chosen. Winter Jennings, private detective in Kansas City, Missouri. I’d followed my father into a law enforcement career. Retired KCPD Homicide Captain, Dave Jennings. Now a regular consultant to the FBI. Mostly here in town, but he’s called to DC every once in a while.

I’d grown up admiring Daddy, fighting my older sister Autumn for his attention. Affection. He’d been a mythic figure to me as a child. And my admiration didn’t fade as I became more aware of the world around me. Kansas City adores Captain Dave. Quiet, never boasting, doing whatever it takes to get the job done. He had been the face of the police force whenever the mayor was confronted by a particularly vexing criminal challenge.

So. Law enforcement.

I graduated from John Jay College of Criminal Justice on, ahem, time. Then spent three restless years as a nobody in the KCPD before hanging out my own shingle in the Stockyards.

On the personal side ... well, to the outside world my family is probably perceived as being as unconventional as my vocation. I was happily single, then happily married to Richie. Thrilled to become a mother — Walker, now 15. Having a child, such a good boy, has been a life-changer.

A couple of years after Walker was born, Richie traded me in for a younger version. Cliché, but clichés happen.

Thankfully, about ten years after my divorce, Vanessa Henderson agreed to marry me. The former Miss Indiana is more than a Slavic beauty, she’s a miracle.

Vanessa, Walker, and I live in a huge floor-through loft in the gloriously restored Wrigley Hotel. It’s on Main Street in the artsy Crossroads. Just south of downtown, now christened the Power & Light District.

Over the past couple of years, Walker has acquired a live-in girlfriend from Hondo, Colombia. The amazingly self-contained Pilar Paloma. Along with her Border Collie, the competitive Hobo. The very protective Hobo.

I used to worry, not a lot, but some, about Pilar. But sex just seems natural to her. Her co-conspirator, Walker ... well, he’s as unconcerned as she is. As for me, I’m trying to stay cool about the whole thing. I can sang my froid with the best of them. I don’t even need to pop a Molly. Probably not.

Vanessa, Walker, Pilar, and me. Hobo. That’s us.

My first time in Matt Striker’s condo. Georgetown. His crib is sort of small, but very trig. One bedroom and one bath. Not exactly Spartan ... minimalist, I’ll call it. Needs a woman’s touch, obviously. And fortuitously. Mentally, I’d already made three artwork decisions. Hope he can afford me.

We were eating curry at his comfortable breakfast nook in the sun-dappled kitchen. Sitting, shower-fresh, on an L-shaped banquet bench. Red leather. My thick blonde hair and caramel tan looked good against the leather. In the sunlight. I felt pretty.

I glanced down at my new cowgirl boots. And what beauts they are. Reddish-orange, soft, supple leather. A surprise gift from Vanessa, a no-special-occasion present. One of the last hand-crafted pair from the legendary Wheeler Boots family business in Texas. Retirement.

There was a slight nick where I’d kicked that fucking knife away. I could have it burnished out, but I won’t. It’s sort of a badge of pride to me. Like the three Greta Gunther bullet holes in our hardwood floor. We decided to leave them there as a testament to the courage shown by Walker, Pilar, Hobo.

Matt had ordered oceans of Indian food the night before — Tandoori lamb chops as well as chicken from that same oven, veggies, lentils. One of my favorites — kadhai, this version with goat. Steamed rice of course, and onion kulcha. The aromas teased their way out of the white containers — coriander, cumin, turmeric — and had me salivating.

But there was an even more tempting ... um, temptation in the air last night. It involved relief at besting that fucking knife guy, a hasty shower, tangled bed sheets (clean), and two adults eager to re-explore each other.

Last night’s two-bear mambo had been our best ever. Both times. Plus, first thing this morning. We’re getting to know each other; becoming more comfortable. Physically of course. But also mentally, emotionally.

I shall neither confirm nor deny that Matt employed a pair of FlexiCuffs for the second time in one evening.

He had gotten up sometime in the night and stowed our unopened repast in his red Smeg refrigerator. Score!

This morning I reconstituted the rice, warmed everything that needed it. Matt opened two bottles of breakfast beer — Bira 91. On trend, that’s my Matt. A newish craft beer that Vanessa had told me about. For those who think scarfing spicy lamb chops and cold beer for a matutinal meal is odd, here’s a suggestion: don’t knock it until you’ve scarfed it.

Matt smiled across the table at me and that sad Nathan Lane face turned merry, “Leave you alone for a couple of minutes...”

I shrugged modestly, “I try to kick at least one ballsack a week.”

The night before he had told me who I had ruptured. And face-deformed. An underground legend in the wrong circles. The locally infamous Nip Clipper. “Name is Herman Gottlieb. He doesn’t save the nipples, doesn’t take trophies. Just ... slices them off. Monster.”

Just thinking about it made me shudder. I pushed my plate away. God, the damage that would do. Physically of course. I guess there could be reconstructive surgery. But emotionally, mentally ... I couldn’t comprehend the devastation it would cause. I thought about all the pleasant, naked time I’ve spent in front of a mirror. It would never be the same if he had...

I sighed, gathered myself. Buttered another piece of warm kulcha. There, that’s more like it. Gottlieb hadn’t gotten to me. And wouldn’t attack another girl. Not for a really long time anyway.

Matt opened two more beers and the cloud scudded away.

I first learned about Mr. Television before the Kansas City Star bestowed that moniker on him. Even before the Star was aware that a serial killer was loose among us. Vanessa, in an intuitive leap, made the original connection.

But before all of that emerged, before Mr. Television became the talk of the town, I faced a more immediate challenge.

Dragon Lady # 1 called me, “He’s on his way.” Then, uncharacteristically chatty, added, “It’s important, Winter.”

I looked out my office windows in the Livestock Exchange Building on Genessee. Like the Wrigley, this century-old building has been redone, top to bottom. I saw Bulldog Bannerman’s driver, the mystery-shrouded Emile Chanson, open the back door of that long, long, black Cadillac.

I waved, Emile didn’t bother.

Bulldog, as usual, didn’t waste any time, “Tom has a problem.”

Tom. Tom Lynch. Mayor Tom Lynch. In his second, and final, four-year term. He’s already announced for Governor. Which, political gossip has it, would be a stepping stone for his Senatorial bid. He’s popular, around here at least, but it’s tough being a Democrat in Missouri these days.

I asked Bulldog, “How can I help?”

“Make it go away.”

Bulldog Bannerman is the ultimate behind-the-scenes power broker. Quietly pulling the levers of Kansas City government for four decades. A civic fixer extraordinaire. In his 70s, still trim. Probably the same weight as he carried back in his Golden Gloves days. Same Marine Corps brush cut, white now.

“I’ll do whatever I can.” More for Bulldog than Mayor Lynch. I’m in Bulldog-arrears in the Favor Bank.

“Tom’s younger daughter. Amelia. Sex tape.” Bulldog shook his head. Not about the sex; about the stupidity.

“Blackmail?”

“Possible. The tape was hand-delivered to Tom’s office... 42 minutes ago. Marked Personal and Private. Messenger service is clueless.”

“Who’s the sex boy?” I’d met the Lynch family. Amelia, Amy, is shy, especially with such an outgoing father.

“It’s a woman, 20-something.”

Good news and bad. It’s not some hormonal teenager. But it is someone who should be old enough to know she’s playing with nitroglycerine. And someone who has gone ahead and decided to dance with that unstable substance.

Walker said, “Well done, you.”

I suppressed a sigh. My son is still affecting his terrible, really atrocious, British accent. Pilar usually ignores it — she merely nodded at the cooking compliment. Grilled cheese with pepper bacon. Spices in the melted butter.