Chapter 13: Hank

My problem, well there were many, but my most immediate one, was Dixie Wexler. Who, Sarah Meriwether swears, was on a mission that she didn’t initiate and that she couldn’t cancel.

In her RightWorld office, she told me, “It’s not that he’s brilliant, he isn’t. But our people say he’s dogged — he believes his reputation, his image as a man, depends on delivering on his promise. He keeps his word.”

Swell.

“Of course he screws up, he’s no criminal mastermind. But he keeps at it. Just keeps at it. He’s relentless.”

“Why didn’t he kill me in Kansas City? When he ran me off the road?”

“Not sure, but I’d guess he saw you as easy prey. And wanted to milk the Gunthers for as much as he could. Probably showed them photos of you when he was following you. Or showed Greta’s attorney I mean. To prove he’s on the job.”

Wexler did receive three consecutive electronic deposits — $9,500 per month. I made a note to do two things — be at that Stockman bank in Billings when the next payment could be due. It was a long-shot, but Wexler might show. Probably not, but I had a Wexler-itch. An urge to be doing something, anything.

Second, I’ll set up some sort of surveillance on Greta Gunther’s new attorney. Hired after Bob Randolph had been disbarred and dumped in the graybar hotel.

I went through my mental Rolodex to recall the new lawyer’s name. Then called the Sullivans to remember for me.

Bob Linkletter. Another Bob. A graduate of the Dallas College of Law at the University of North Texas.

I called Stella Majors, the Dallas FBI special agent I’d met back when I was fucking up Gunther’s previous attorney. She eventually returned my call and was friendly. We chatted for a few moments before I told her, “I may have a Gunther problem again.”

She was as incredulous as I had been. But she believed it when I passed along the Sarah Meriwether info — Greta and Klaus Gunther had siphoned off several hundred thousand dollars. Money intended to fund anti-government activities across the nation.

Stella said, “How can I help?”

“Can you recommend a local investigator? Private? I need someone to track Gunther’s new attorney, guy named Bob Linkletter.”

“Sure. Allison Fisher. She’s a pro. Straight shooter.”

Two days later I was on an early morning United flight to DFW. Traveling, again, under the nom de guerre of Rachael Adams. Just to be safe. I hadn’t seen a white cowboy hat since DC. But ... just to be safe.

Vanessa and I can look at each other, just a glance actually, and instantly know we’re going to be making love that night. Lately we’d both been especially passionate — probably something to do with Wexler-awareness. A subliminal reminder that life is fragile. And fleeting.

Walker and Pilar don’t comment when Vanessa and I head for our bedroom early in the evening. Not any more than we say anything when Pilar takes Walker’s hand and leads him back to their room.

Vanessa doesn’t like the danger that occasionally comes my way. But she loves me so much; understands on some deep, basic level how vital the work I do is to me.

She bought us a new two-headed dildo, shorter than the other one we have. Requires some close scissors intimacy. I left it out for Walker to see. Toying.

The night before I left for Texas, Vanessa was especially aggressive. She likes to devour me anyway, but sometimes ... well, she can’t get enough. Which is fine with me. With my body. With my soul.

I had startled Sarah Meriwether, telling her that I knew she had called Dixie Wexler the night of our Lincoln Park fandango. But if I can snoop her, boy can the Meriwethers do me. They have a billion dollar enterprise; I have a smile and a shoeshine. Boot-shine.

I told the Sullivans, “Work on the assumption that they know everything we do. They won’t, but they may well be into our lives as deeply as they can.”

The little leprechauns nodded solemnly.

I said, “From now on I’m going to be traveling as Rachael Adams.” My oldest, deepest fake identity. The Sullivans are the only ones in Kansas City aware of Ms. Adams. Well, besides Vanessa. Daddy and Sandra Fleming. I said, “You know this already, but no communications with Rachael Adams. Talk to Winter only and assume the Meriwethers are listening.”

More somber nodding.

Then I thought some more. “Maybe I’m wrong about the Meriwethers. Maybe Wexler is working solely for Greta Gunther. If so, he probably won’t have access to the tech resources that the Meriwethers could fund. And I’m pretty sure that Greta doesn’t have the insider contacts in that field. Not from prison.”

Jessie said, “So it could be a one-man operation. Aimed at you.”

I nodded, “Sarah Meriwether is terrified; I’m convinced of it. So if Gunther is the sole source ... well, I’d rather deal with Wexler working as a lone wolf.”

Jesse said, “Yeah, but you can’t bet on it.”

“No, of course not. And Wexler was savvy enough to hide a tracker in Matt’s car.”

Jesse said, “That takes some skill, but it’s more mechanical than technological.”

Jessie said, “Still.”

We left it that the Sullivans would keep my Winter Jennings devices active. Pretend to be me. Just in case.

For the past few months, I’d been taking a few minutes to visit with Hank Morristown every once in a while. The onetime head of the Kansas City FBI office. It’s chilly today, so I layered up and sat on the damp ground, leaning on the back of his gravestone.

“It’s those fucking Gunthers again. Greta. She sent a killer after me. Guy named Dixie Wexler.”

I let that sink in.

“He shot at me in DC. And now he’s in the wind. But I understand that he won’t give up, won’t stop until he ... kills me.”

I went over everything with Hank. Being run off the road on my way to the Unicorn Club. My Billings surveillance. My stupid burglary of Wexler’s apartment. My even stupider posting of his sad, naked photos.

The DC parking garage. The Meriwether money the Gunthers had siphoned off. Wexler’s dogged determination to finish every assignment.

I thought I could sense what Hank would tell me — Greta Gunther would never call Wexler off. Even if she could. And I had no leverage to make her try.

It helps me, for some reason, to talk with Hank. It frees me to sort out my thoughts. To focus. Let my subconscious work on things.

I looked off into the middle distance, not really seeing the cemetery. But remembering Hank’s funeral. That sunny day, all that law enforcement presence.

I smiled to myself as a half-recalled image of Emile Chanson swam to the surface. How he stood at solemn attention at the graveside. Black Homburg held over his heart for a moment. Then he about-faced and slow-marched at a stately 88 steps per minute over to Bulldog’s Cadillac. Daddy murmured, “French Foreign Legion. That’s their ceremonial pace.”

Cops know things.

The FBI investigation into Oscar Norville continued. Based only on the evidence they currently have, Mr. Television will never see daylight again. The DNA traces from the four murder victims are unequivocal.

There wouldn’t be a federal death penalty prosecution. While that was an early consideration, enthusiasm waned as more details of Norville’s nightmare childhood emerged.

Norville and his court-appointed attorney did agree to hypnosis so long as the four Kansas City murders wouldn’t be introduced. And, the attorney would be present. He would have the right to stop the proceedings at any time.

The FBI psychologist, Deborah Norton had developed somewhat of a rapport with Norville. She flew back to Kansas City once a month. Sandra told Daddy and me, “Norton probably senses a book deal. Movie.”

Norton gradually began extracting more background tidbits. Even Norville’s lawyer agreed when she told Mr. Television, “Look, you can’t get in any more legal trouble. You’re going away for life. Let’s close out the books on anything else in your past that may be significant.”

Norville’s childhood history, once he was physically large enough to defy his mother, was an all-too-familiar refrain. Neighborhood pets began disappearing. Later, cats and small dogs were found in public places. Drowned. Burned. Tortured. Mutilated.

Under hypnosis, Norville alluded to ‘an abandoned building — my playpen.’ Weeks later, a Wichita agent was able to pinpoint it. Three miles west of town — a bike ride — there was a former veterinarian’s hospital. He had died and his partner / wife moved the practice into town. She had never enjoyed the ‘large animal’ aspect that catered to farmers.

She sold most of the furnishings, but the building itself hadn’t found a buyer. Still on the market fifteen years later. Including the crematorium.

This particular one was large enough to provide communal cremations — needed when a fatal disease ravages a herd. Or a pigsty. Certainly the chamber was more than adequate to dispose of human remains. It could accommodate several thousand pounds of flesh and bone at one time.

Sandra Fleming sent a forensic team to Wichita.

Another coffee conversation in my office with Gertie. It’ll be short — she knows she can’t smoke here.

She said, “Gun control. I’m still not sure if it’s going anywhere, but two more companies have jumped into the controversy.”

“YouTube?”

“Yes, they’re starting to ban videos that promote the sale of guns. Even the construction of them.”

“I saw that. Who else?”

“Citigroup.”

“Really?”

“Really. They announced a number of measures to businesses, credit card holders.” Gertie shrugged, “Although they admitted it wasn’t perfect, was just a step.”

“What’s it entail?”

“Bunch of stuff. No firearms sales unless you’ve passed a background check. Can’t be under 21. No bump stocks, no high capacity magazines.”

“And Congress does nothing.”

“No surprise. Not here. Over 90% of people under 25 who are killed by guns are in the US.”

“In the entire world?”

“No. Just in the wealthiest, highest-educated countries. We’re more like violent third world countries when it comes to guns.”

Down in Dallas, Allison Fisher surprised me. Well, her appearance did. She’s, I’d estimate, in her mid 50s. Matronly. Looks like the grandmother she is. A sweet face, a soft sort of velvety body.

But I suspected that her placid exterior masked an innate toughness.

Unlike me, Allison has a secretary. Personal assistant, more properly. A willowy guy, feminine almost, named Ken. An assistant probably means Allison is busier than I am. More established. More successful. More grown-up.

Her two-room office is in a modern downtown high-rise building near the Adolphus Hotel. Not that I was staying overnight — this was an in-and-out trip to initiate some Bob Linkletter action. I read the building directory in the lobby. Accountants, attorneys, energy consultants, two architectural firms, two geological engineering companies. Sort of a Texas version of my Livestock Exchange Building.

Allison smiled that grandmotherly smile, “Stella told me you hosed Greta Gunther. Good for you.”

I smiled back, “Hosed?”

“Grandson.”

“Well, Greta may be back in play again.”

I explained the Wexler connection and Allison nodded, “You want to keep tabs on her new attorney.”

“Yeah.” I handed her a copy of my slim Linkletter file.

Allison glanced through it, “You don’t need me for this. I’ll farm it out, save you some money.”

“But you’ll... ?”

“I’ll keep on top of it. Step in if Jay’s getting over his head. Jay Alexander — he retired from the cops when he got his twenty in. Just starting out in the private sector.” She tapped the file, “Something like this ... he’ll do the prelims for $500.”

“I hate to state the obvious...”

“I have an in at Carswell. She’ll let me know whenever Gunther has a visitor scheduled. Jay will be there. Or I will, one of us.”

“Good.” I handed her a copy of my Gunther file. Much thicker. I said, “This includes a first peek at the Linkletter connection. Gunther gave him a $10,000 retainer.”

“That’s hefty for a gal with no chance of seeing daylight again.”

“That’s what I thought. And another $5,000 is deposited in his account at the Dallas Capital Bank every time he visits her.”

“Dallas Capital is for businesses and entrepreneurs. Professionals. When Stella called me, I took a look at Linkletter. Don’t underestimate him. Even though he went to a second-rate law school and took years to get through.”

“Not a very impressive start.”

“No, but he’s connected. To the Texas underbelly. Mobbed-up underbelly. According to my sources he plays to win. Cuts corners, is ruthless.”

“And Wexler is relentless.”

“And Gunther ... well, you know her better than anyone else on the good guys’ side.”

So. Relentless. Ruthless. And Greta Gunther with her hidden pile of money.

When all four of us — Vanessa, Walker, Pilar and I — are home for dinner, we usually start with a cocktail in the bar area. It’s a new family tradition, if traditions can be new, and it’s fun. The kids sip their drinks politely, but ... well, some drinks are an acquired taste.

Vanessa was finally able to recruit the bartender — excuse me, mixologist — that she’d been courting for some time. Amelia Baxter had been a fixture at the West Bottoms Taverna for almost five years. She was working one night when a zonked out kid wove into the room carrying a rusty old pistol. Vanessa calmed him down, talked him down.

Amelia will take over the drinks menu at Euforia. She will also work behind the bar and supervise the other bartenders.

Lately she’s been showing up for dinner in our loft. Walker, being male, being 15, being a walking hormone, has fallen for her. Pilar isn’t concerned, she simply pretends not to notice that her boyfriend is suddenly tongue-tied, tripping over his own feet.

Amelia has been educating the four of us on the art of the cocktail. Craft cocktails with custom mixes. Cardamom-honey syrup, Peychaud’s bitters, maraschino liquor, and the like.

Pilar pays attention because she likes to know things. Walker because: Amelia. She’s, as my grandmother might say, “Cute as a June bug.” Black hair, pixie cut, gamin face, slim and trim. And fully aware of her secret admirer’s ... um, admiration.

Vanessa and I haven’t bothered to tell the lad that Amelia’s gay. That would probably enflame him even more.

Amelia was unfazed by Nature Boy. I guess a nude elevator operator is the new normal. In the Wrigley anyway.

Ironically, my sniper stunt with Sarah Meriwether may have backfired. It did get her attention and it did scare her into communicating with me. She started taking my calls now. Every time.

But she also had to have told Dixie Wexler about my Lincoln Park escapade. Which — ripple effect — has Greta Gunther meeting with Bob Linkletter almost every month. At $5,000 per.

Allison Fisher’s retired cop, Jay Alexander, communicated with me directly. He kept Allison in the loop, but it was easier, more efficient if he and I talked one-on-one.

I put Jay in direct touch with Sullivan & Sullivan Research. He didn’t have the tech access that they do. I would imagine that Allison does, but there would be no sense — no financial sense — in my paying her people for something that Jessie and Jesse could do right here. Why pay Allison’s markup when I could buy wholesale? That’s my NYC-centric rationale anyway.

There had been no more Dixie Wexler sightings in Kansas City. And I’d been on the lookout for more than just a white cowboy hat. He hadn’t resurfaced in Billings either. According to Sergeant Cathy Riggins and she would know. Nevertheless, I wasted three days up there watching the Stockman Bank.

In retrospect, it was a mistake, stealing Wexler’s iPad and photos. He made the connection to me. And apparently took up residence elsewhere. His Stockman account was still open, but there hadn’t been any activity since I creeped his apartment. Other than automatic payments for rent and utilities.

And it was an even bigger mistake in posting his photos online. I knew better, but went for quick jolt of petty pleasure and guaranteed myself a lifetime enemy. Now he had even more motivation to off me.

For old time’s sake, since I was back in Billings, I had pizza and beer at the Station Pub. But Mr. Sawmill, my best friend in Billings, wasn’t there.

This entire Wexler mess is costing me money. And my only client is me. My only client is I. The verb ‘to be’ takes the nominative case. I believe that’s the rule. Proving, once again, the value of education.

Matt Striker, working for Constance Grayson, and indirectly for her boss, Senator Harper Wainwright, was also looking into Melvin ‘Dixie’ Wexler. He told me, “It doesn’t matter to the senator if Wexler is working for the Gunthers or the Meriwethers. His activities could be connected to both families and Connie has an open file on all things Meriwether.”

Matt and I were at Chaz, the bar in the Raphael Hotel. Just 20 or so blocks from the Wrigley. We’d spent an hour upstairs getting reacquainted. After we showered, again, he called down for fresh linens — sheets and towels. This wasn’t his first assignation.

Fine with me; I like everything, and everyone, soap-and-water clean.

I said, “What would the relationship between Wexler and Gunther be like? Greta.”

“Modus vivendi.”

I nodded as if I knew what that meant.

Matt smiled, “My guess is ... a marriage of convenience. He needs money. She needs...”

“Me.”

“Yes.” He ordered another round. Thought for a moment, “And maybe Wexler needs the action. Likes it. Some guys are like that.”

The previous night I’d sent Matt to dinner in our loft. By himself. I wanted him to get to know Vanessa, Walker, and Pilar better. Without me as a buffer. Plus, he had yet to meet the Proper Villain.

Later, I’d aggressively milk my family — one by one — for their take on my guy. I am a detective, after all.

Amelia Baxter, Vanessa’s new Euforia bartender, was creating a nice buzz. She had a following, built up over five years at the the West Bottoms Taverna, and some of her regulars started stopping in Brookside.

She’s attractive, personable, quick with a laugh. A good flirt — with boys and girls.

But in the long run, it’s her drinks that will make a difference. Vanessa has the best food in Brookside, the strongest wine list. Now Amelia will build the most creative cocktail menu.