Chapter 3: Cathal

Daddy asked me to stop by his office, a cubicle really, in the FBI building at 1300 Summit, west of downtown. While Ace Collins arranged for me to keep my temporary badge, I no longer have a dedicated workspace there. Technically, I’m still available for consultancy duty, but the new SAC, Sandra Fleming, is somehow managing without me.

Daddy handed me a follow-up post-mortem report from the police coroner. The young woman whose nude body had been found near the Missouri River had been identified as Mildred Hawkins, 32. A cocktail waitress at various establishments in the Northland. Although her body had been dumped on the south side of the Missouri River.

Hawkins had been killed by two large dogs. Breeds unknown at this point. Further tests pending.

Daddy pointed to a paragraph about halfway down the page, “Rabies.”

“What! How is that even possible? I thought...”

“It’s still around. Rare, but not unheard of. One or two or three cases a year in America. Usually from bats, not dogs.”

I finished reading the coroner’s report. Nothing about bat bites. Plenty about dog bites. I said, “This is sick.”

Daddy nodded.

“Are you looking into it? For the FBI?”

“No, not yet. It may be a one-off. The SOS will handle it for now.”

KCPD. Special Operations Squad. A transfer opportunity that Daddy had turned down several times. But our friend Sergeant Louise Finch was now part of that elite team. The SOS, mostly freed of red tape, was allowed to cross jurisdictional lines. They could go anywhere in the city, look into any major case they chose.

An honor to be selected. Although it still troubled me that they had a higher kill rate than even the SWAT teams.

“Why did they even think to test for rabies? If it’s so rare?”

“Dr. Daniels is an old-school coroner. He’d seen two other rabies victims. Thirty-some years ago.”

“So when he saw all those dog bites...”

Daddy nodded, a grim look on his face.

Death had been cause by the trauma from dozens and dozens of dog bites. But rabies?

The coroner had been thorough. Tested hair follicles from the nape of Hawkins’ neck. Saliva, serum, spinal fluid. Fluorescent die test. Skin biopsies.

Rabies.

Pilar: “Who would you do if ... you know?”

Vanessa: “If I fucked guys?”

Pilar nodded.

“And if I weren’t married?”

“Of course.”

“Christopher Walken, no question.”

“Really? Why? Why him?”

“Attitude. And the way he moves. He’s a professionally trained dancer. Check out his YouTube videos. Talented as hell. Sexy.”

“I would never have guessed.”

“And those hooded eyes. There’s that sense of suppressed menace when Walken enters a room. Like Joe Pesci.”

“Except taller.”

“Except taller.”

I said to Walker, “Hand me the ice pick, honey.”

I was muttering to myself about the obtuseness of product designers. I had flipped open the hinged lid of a new jar of crushed red pepper. Some genius had affixed a paper cover underneath the five holes.

I positioned the ice pick and drew back the heel of my hand to pierce the first blocked passage. Walker said, “Winter.”

“What?”


He gently took the jar from me, unscrewed the top, and peeled away the paper.

I would have figured it out if I’d bothered to think about it. Pretty sure.

Pilar is the best soccer player in her Brookside school. Understandably so. She grew up playing the game in Hondo, Colombia. She’s a good athlete, better coordination than I have. As far as soccer, she had a head start on most American kids.

She’s typically modest about her accomplishments. Nevertheless, it’s difficult to be the leading scorer and not have the word get out. Vanessa or I, often both of us, try to attend every game, home and away. Walker hasn’t missed one in two years.

Pilar was amused, “Some of the girls were wearing butterfly clips in their hair.” A retro fad that swept through town last year. She shook her head, “I had to tell Coach Kelly that a kicked ball could slam that clip into their skull.”

After a lot of resistance, Pilar was allowed to join the boys’ team. They stopped grousing after the first game. She’d grown up playing on teams with boys who are better than anyone in Kansas City. Playing — starring — on a boys’ team here is a step. A small one, but a step.

I drove Gertie to another pimp meeting in the Forgotten Northeast. It was ten in the morning and she had a thick sheaf of paperwork — mostly contracts — in her case. This would be a watershed day in the life of Harold Hudson.

Gertie got her usual greeting — enthusiastic hugs and cries of ‘Gertie!’ — from the four pink-haired, naked little whores. Two boys, two girls. Who addressed me solemnly as “Ms. Winter.”

We sat down at Harold’s kitchen table, four of us. Harold and Columbo, Gertie and me. Harold had toned down his wardrobe ... today it was a single-breasted navy blazer, white spread collar, muted paisley tie. Ivory slacks, no pleats; black, lace-up brogans. Black business socks which, I assumed, were over-the-calf length.

Gertie smiled up at Columbo, “Big day for you.”

The huge man swallowed, nervous. He nodded, “Yes ma’am.”

Harold was selling everything to his former bodyguard. His house, his one remaining apartment building, and the last of his 18 whores.

Gertie took her time with the paperwork, knowing neither man-child would read through it. She explained each contract, one line at a time. The house — sign and sign. The apartments — sign and sign. The whores, listed as ‘good will’ as well as miscellaneous goods and services — sign and sign.

As instructed, Harold ceremoniously handed over the keys to his empire to Columbo. Former empire.

I popped the cork on a bottle of Veuve Clicquet; it seemed appropriate for the occasion. A rite of passage for both Harold and Columbo. For the little whores? Life goes on.

I looked at Columbo, “One more piece of business. It’s a favor to me — you can say no.”

“What?”

“I want you to give up two of your whores — Honey and BB. Give them back to their mother. I got Sheree a job, full time, at the Sister Mary Packer Shelter. And I made her worthless boyfriend an offer ... to leave town. For good.”

This is news to Gertie. She smiled, “An offer?”

I patted the .40 in my shoulder holster, “A certain abusive Mr. Bixby decided to revisit friends and family in Ardmore, Oklahoma. I don’t think he’ll be back.”

Gertie, Harold, and I looked at Columbo. His first executive decision. It wasn’t that he was exercised all that much about a couple of little whores. Although both boys were popular, were good earners.

No, Columbo was anxious about making the right decision. Would be wondering, worrying, about what Gertie would think. Give the whores away? Didn’t make sense from a business POV.

But, as Columbo and Harold had been learning, there is business and then there is ... a larger picture.

He swallowed, “You always been straight with us, Ms. Winter.”

Ms. Winter? A promotion from ‘cunt’, ‘bitch’, ‘fishbelly’.

He nodded, mostly to himself. “Okay.”

There’s a secret, a dining secret in KC. No, secret isn’t quite the word. It’s like a hidden Easter egg in the Google code. In this case, in Westport, at the Char Bar, it’s an under-marketed dish, mostly off the local foodies’ radar.

Available Sundays only, this joint — built on, and celebrated for BBQ — has the best fried chicken in town. Now Stroud’s, that venerable warhorse, still has its fans. But it’s drifted into blandness. Still good, but never the same since the owner closed that old roadhouse on 85th Street. Stroud’s has gone suburban. Even has a location in fucking Kansas.

Ah, but the Char Bar. Tabasco-Honey Southern Fried Chicken, pan gravy, whipped potatoes, buttermilk biscuit. Half a chicken... $14. Only on Sunday.

Harold Hudson, through Gertie of course, had already made the down on a condo in the Sophian Plaza. An elegant 1922 building next to the Kansas City Art Institute and across Warwick Boulevard from the Nelson Atkins Museum of Art. Just a couple of blocks east of the Country Club Plaza. Rather a contrast from his modest home in the Forgotten Northeast. An even bigger location contrast.

The Sophian is one block from the former home of a particularly nasty psychiatrist. Fredrick Schultz. Former psychiatrist. He’ll be a guest of the state for a couple more decades at least.

Gertie surprised all of us, even me, when she pulled a copy of Architectural Digest — AD now — from her case. Opened it to show Harold a neighbor’s apartment in the Sophian that had been featured in the posh magazine.

He licked his lips, shook his head. He knew he’d been tossed into the deep end. We’ll see how quickly he learns to swim.

I’d already pre-furnished the condo for him. When Gertie told him the plan, Harold not only didn’t argue, he was relieved.

It’s a relatively small unit, just over 1600 square feet. Of course his first priorities were a king-size bed and the largest flatscreen I could find. After that I went for comfort and style, in that order. The artwork was fun — Harold didn’t have any preferences so I filled the walls with stuff I like. No velvet Elvis portraits, no big-eyed kids, no Technicolor nudes.

I’ll let Harold live with it a while; I may go back and refurbish, rearrange. But for now it’s time for him to focus on real estate.

Gertie nixed his request to take along a couple of little whores. Although it would have been interesting to see the reaction of his new neighbors in that tony section of Hyde Park. Pink hair.

Over the years, I had become used to seeing Sergeant Louise Finch in uniform. But since her transfer to the Special Operations Squad she usually wears civilian clothes. Not the grunge that undercover narcs wear, but just regular civvies.

Today it was jeans and a black blouse. She smiled at me across my desk in the Exchange Building. Handed me a sheet of paper. “This didn’t come from the KCPD.”

“Of course not.”

I scanned it quickly. Fingerprints from the fucking Jeep that tried to fuck with me. Did fuck with me — forced me into a ditch. Almost $800 in what looks to a civilian like minor damage. But to the gonifs in the auto repair industry ... well, I’m probably lucky they didn’t try to total it. Tell me they sold it for scrap.

I asked my AAA agent if I should just swallow it; after wrecking my last truck, I was concerned about premiums. Red Lonnigan said, “No, go ahead and file — I’ll waltz it through.”

I’d done him and his wife a daughter-favor a while back. Dividends.

Louise and I were sipping an Argentinian Cab — Ikella — from my office stash. Which I keep in my office fridge. Vanessa had recommended the bottle, “Good value. Fruity with strong tannins.” Flavorful. Especially after it had rested for several minutes after I uncorked it. Sometimes a big cabernet just needs time to breathe. And lose some fridge chill.

Louise said, “Prints from several people, as you’d expect. Whitestone, the owner. Probably friends and family, the car dealer. Only one guy was in our system.”

Uh oh. “Who?”

“Nasty piece of work. Melvin ‘Dixie’ Wexler. Did the Montana rodeo circuit for a couple of years.” Which probably makes him a tough guy. Physically and mentally.

“Lots of bar fights. Assault charges dropped. Revenge porn back when he was still in high school. Started early. Kicked out of middle school, kicked out of high school. It’s not on his official rap sheet, but Billings told me he’s a regional dealer. Oxy, meth, maybe other stuff too.”

“He employed?”

“Supervisor at Butler Brothers Security. Billings.”

Huh. Dixie Wexler.

Vanessa is an unlikely fan of European noir. Crime dramas — films and television shows; she streams them when she has the time. Scandinavia is rich in that arena. The Hornet’s Nest girl for one. Lisbeth Salander.

When I have the time, I watch Vanessa’s favorite shows with her. Hey, I’m in the biz. Plus I just like to hang with her. I enjoyed “Happy Valley” and “Broadchurch” because of the strong women characters. And “Shetland” with its stark, striking scenery set in the islands a hundred miles north of Scotland.

I would have thought Vanessa would binge on cooking shows, celebrity chefs, restaurant porn.

But she’s more complex than that. Beauty may be only skin deep, but Vanessa has an inquisitive mind, a fearless attitude. I remember the first time we kissed; she initiated it. I’d had dinner at BEAR’s. Repaired to the bar for nightcaps. Would Uber it home.

I was at my usual place, seated at the short side of the L-shaped bar. There’s a permanent ‘Reserved for Winter’ sign on that side of the corner. A busboy laid a placemat and flatware in front of me; Louie-Louie was trying to convince me to try a new dessert special called ‘Russia’. Citrusy compote, a sumac meringue, with tangerine sorbet.

Vanesa shooed him away, “Winter doesn’t need anything sweet, not after that smoked-eggplant carpaccio.”

I teased her, we’d been flirting for a couple of weeks, “Oh, I don’t know. Something sweet might hit the spot.”

Vanessa gazed at me, the first time I’d seen her dark eyes turn golden. It was an electric moment, our surroundings faded away. She gently placed her hands on my cheeks. I sighed. She leaned in and my lips surrendered to her tongue.

I didn’t feel a jolt, more of a soft, falling sensation. My heart rate actually slowed; I savored the sensation.