Chapter 1: Gone Girl

“Tink about it, Dollface. Totally out of the ques. No way you find him. Not in a mill years. Absolutely imposs.”

Him. Melvin ‘Dixie’ Wexler. A remorseless sociopath. Relentless. And out there somewhere looking for me. Dollface.

Beryl Thatcher had an executive associate. I knew because a certain Brina Patterson told me so when I answered my office phone. “I’m Brina Patterson, executive associate to Ms. Beryl Thatcher.”

“Okay.”

“I’d like to schedule an appointment for Ms. Thatcher at two this afternoon. Will that be convenient?”

“Let me check. My executive associate is out this week.” I admired my newest framed poster — a blonde Bally girl wearing pink ballet slippers. Black dress, black background, very chic.

“I can fit Ms. Thatcher in at two-thirty. This is in regards to... ?”

“A private matter, thank you.” Brina gave me her own office number in case my plans changed. Very crisp, very professional. Not cold, not unfriendly, just ... professional. And a 212 Area Code. NYC.

It was so unusual for me to have a client actually come calling, I scooted over to the Unicorn Club for an early lunch. Fortification, just in case. I snagged the last place at the bar. Tom Cuthbert smiled at me and straightened the placemat and flatware.

Being professional as fuck myself, I ignored the wine list and sipped ice water. KC Tap. Which nicely complimented the charred Broccolini with macadamia nuts, tart grapes and timur-infused yogurt. The timur gave it a nice peppery kick. A hearty Barolo would have been nice. Sacrifices.

Our majordomo, Lucy Cuthbert, greeted me warmly, but stayed focused on the dining room crowd. She had a no-nonsense attitude and had earned the respect of even the most roisterous lads and lasses.

My waiter, Lucy’s daughter Bess, was just the opposite of her mother. Sassy, casual, flirty, a fan favorite. She set down my plate, which was Instagramable without looking fingered. “No booze?”

“My executive associate overbooked me today.”

Bess snorted. She knew me. “How’s Walker?”

“Doing well, I’ll say hi.”

“Tell him there’s pussy upstairs anytime he wants.”

I nodded, “I’ll say hi to Pilar too.”

Bess mock-shivered and sashayed to the other side of the bar to trifle with a group of four regulars into their second or third pitcher of margaritas.

This was the life I’ve chosen.

And most of the time, it was a good life. I’m Winter Jennings, married to the stupendous Vanessa Henderson. A good son — a good boy when puberty isn’t butt-fucking him — Walker. His live-in girlfriend from Hondo, Colombia, Pilar Paloma.

There’s Pilar’s border collie, Hobo. And our newest family member — a three-and-a-half-legged cat, the Proper Villain.

We lived a noisy, happy, boisterous life in our floor-through loft in the gloriously restored Wrigley Hotel.

But my life, this one that I’ve chosen ... well sometimes our domestic tranquility was interrupted. Threatened. Attacked.

Most of my private detective work was routine. Sometimes even boring. But, recently, Dixie Wexler ... well I was now on the hunt for him. Because he intended to kill me and I would not sit around waiting for him to come to Kansas City. To come for me again. Not again.

Vanessa: “What did the lesbian vampire say?”

Walker & Pilar: “What?”

“See you next month.”

Melvin ‘Dixie’ Wexler escaped from the FBI two weeks ago. Earlier in January. He was one nasty piece of work. A sociopath. A killer. An honorary member of the Aryan Brotherhood. The prison gang also known as “The Brand.”

For fun, Wexler sold opiates on the side. Or he did when he still resided in Billings, Montana. Current address: unknown. He’d been in the wind ever since he’d been allowed to escape from FBI custody. He was last seen on the back of a black Harley Heritage Classic. Disappearing into a dark forest in rural Minnesota.

I was thinking about Wexler, a lot, because I was on his to-do list. He’d been contacted by another Neo-Nazi assassin — Greta Gunther — and Wexler agreed to off me. Torture, then kill. Vanessa Henderson and a Kansas City cop, Cathal Conway, rescued me before I’d suffered much damage. Physically, anyway.

There was a nationwide manhunt; Wexler had a price on his head. Private and public monies totaled almost $300,000. Precisely $289,750 at this point.

The FBI was particularly interested because he escaped while under their care. Embarrassing. And infuriating.

I was after him myself. Slowly, carefully, always trying to stay in the background. Traveling, incognito I hoped, under my Rachael Adams nom de guerre. I’d work other cases too; spend family time, boyfriend time. But underneath, somewhere in my subconscious, there was a constant tick-tock. Me against Wexler.

The FBI had the manpower, the resources, their vast law enforcement community and connections. But they also had a national mandate — terrorism. Now Wexler was a domestic terrorist, but not the kind who personally threatened US security. And as new cases piled up ... well Wexler dropped lower and lower on the Federal priority list.

Myself, I was ... focused. Dedicated. Motivated.

Time to leave Kansas City. Well, Rachael Adams, my alternative ID, would. The night before was family night — dinner at Vanessa’s Brookside restaurant, Euforia. Regional Italian — Piedmontese. Other than red wine, and plenty of it, I wasn’t sure what I’d be having. That would be up to the owner.

Earlier that day I’d met with Daddy and the SAC of the local FBI office, Sandra Fleming.

Daddy said, “What’s your itinerary?”

“DC first. Matt wants to go over my action plan.” Matt Striker, a fella I liked. A connected fella, he worked for Constance Grayson, chief of staff to Senator Harper Wainwright.

Sandra said, “Then it’s retracing Wexler’s final trip for the Meriwethers?”

“Yeah, I’m starting with the last camp he visited. I’ll work his route backwards.”

Camp. Compound. White supremacists, Neo-Nazis, survivalists. Anti-government haters. The Meriwether’s rightwing PAC, RightWorld, had been paying Wexler to spread their anti-government gospel. He was also the money conduit — funds from the billionaire clan to finance civil disruption. Like in Charlottesville.

Daddy glanced at Sandra, “I have Winter’s itinerary. She’ll have to stay flexible, but here’s the rough order.”

The three of us looked at the map. Which I’d marked up from information Sarah Meriwether had begrudgingly given me. Wexler’s last galvanize-the-troops trip.

I pointed, “I’ll start here. East of Pittsburg, New Hampshire.”

Sandra nodded, “Almost at the Maine border. Deserted.”

Daddy said, “Know where they shop? Stock up?”

“They send out two-man teams. West to Vermont, east to Maine. They’ve been spotted up in Canada too. But mostly they keep to themselves. They’re pretty reclusive.”

Sandra said, “How many in this compound?”

“We don’t know for sure. Over two hundred of America’s finest.”

“Including women and children?”

“No, that’s just the soldiers. So-called Soldiers of Christianity.”

Daddy snorted.

I said, “The women are second class citizens. Their primary role is to churn out more babies — baby soldiers — for the cause. Then raise them, indoctrinate them.”

Sandra said, “Lovely.”

For the past three weeks we’ve had a new guest at the Wrigley Hotel. Edwina Rowbottom, Nature Boy’s younger sister. Our nude elevator operator, Reginald.

There was considerable speculation among the Wrigley gossips — 100% of the population — whether Edwina would become a permanent guest like her brother.

She was quite likable, Edwina. Rode up and down in the Wrigley freight elevator with Nature Boy. She was polite, friendly, open. Chatted easily with the guests and laughed a lot.

Like her brother, she had a pleasant, Midwestern demeanor. Sort of pretty, sort of average looking. But I suspected that she was a bit of a live wire. She’d been spotted on the arm of four different men, leaving the hotel for the night.

When she wasn’t out on the town, she slept with her brother. In the queen-size bed in his suite. But I didn’t have the sense — and I have antennae that are pretty finely tuned — that they’re a number. I believe it was simply practicality — Nature Boy had one bed and it was economical to share it.

Before I flew back East, I told Vanessa, Walker, and Pilar, “I’ll try to call every day, but I probably won’t be able to.”

Vanessa started to reassure me, but Walker jumped in, “We’ll be fine, Winter. Just concentrate on ... your job.”

My job. Well these days, there is just one — Dixie Wexler. No, that’s an exaggeration. I couldn’t chase him full time. Family obligations for one. And I had my own little business to run, my own little caseload.

But most of my focus, most of my energy, would be spent trying to ferret out the rat-faced Mr. Wexler.

Then Matt Striker big-footed me.

Beryl Thatcher reminded me of Rebecca Montgomery. That first time she had come to my office, so concerned about her missing daughter, Mindy.

Like Rebecca, Beryl radiated class, dignity. A quiet competence, an inner self-confidence. Plus, Beryl was smartly attired — Ralph Lauren. A blue and white horizontally striped top with an orange polo player, mallet raised, atop a pony. Or maybe a horse. I needed to play a few chukkas, familiarize myself with the game.

Her white khakis sported a brown double O-Ring belt.

Beryl was a little shorter than I was, not that that mattered to me. I stood straighter and held out my hand, “Winter Jennings.” I gestured to one of my two Barcelona guest chairs and sat behind my desk. My .40 was in its usual spot — top right hand drawer. I’d made a top-level decision that someone who had an executive assistant call from New York for an appointment probably wasn’t an imminent threat.

Just like Rebecca Montgomery, Beryl Thacker was seeking a missing girl. I had been right again. My people instincts are so unerringly ... hit and miss.

She handed me a card that stated her name and contact info. Ms. Thatcher was a Senior VP of the International Childcare Network. I’d never heard of it, but that was true of most things in the universe.

The ICN headquarters was in New York City. Brooklyn. Too bad, I could have name-dropped some Manhattan intel, the only borough I sort of knew. Odd though, the ICN area code was 212. That’s Manhattan. Maybe the office had moved to Brooklyn and retained the number. Maybe ICN had gamed the system. Maybe it didn’t matter. Pay attention, Winter.

Beryl smiled at me, “You have quite the rep with the local police.”

“Oh?”

“I filed a Missing Persons Report. It didn’t generate a lot of excitement.” She held up a palm, “Understandably so. So many kids ... wander off. Come back in a day or two.”

“Some don’t. Come back.”

Beryl nodded, short no-nonsense dark brown hair framing a pretty 30-year old face. “I’m in Kansas City for a couple of reasons. Most immediate is this poor little girl.”

She handed me an 8 x 10 portrait, professionally lit. It showed a young teenager, smiling uncertainly at the camera. Wearing what looked like a parochial school uniform, plaid skirt, white blouse. I turned the photo over ... Emily ‘Emmy’ Morton.

Beryl Thatcher used both hands to hook her short hair behind her ears, a casual look I’d always liked. She smiled a nice smile and said, “Let me tell you how the International Childcare Network operates. What we do.”

“Okay.”

“We’re a small nonprofit, but we’re growing. And that’s another reason I’m in Kansas City — we’ll be opening an office here. Our fifth in this country. We have sixteen more in Europe.”

Knowing what Gertie Oppenheimer would ask, I said, “Impressive. Funding?”

Beryl widened her smile; I like that shade of red lipstick — it’s a moisturizing matte liquid from Smashbox. I know because it’s what Lina Paloma wears.

Beryl said, “OPM.” Other people’s money. “We have three families — angel families. One is in transportation, trucking mostly. The Hortons are headquartered in Altoona, Pennsylvania. They’re quite excited about driverless trucks. Tesla especially.”

Made sense.

“Another is in tech. San Jose. The Lawson clan. Greg Lawson. They’re specifically interested in artificial intelligence. AI.”

I nodded. I’d been to Silicon Valley. Had heard a lot about AI. Also virtual reality and its kissing cousin, augmented reality.

“Both families are quiet about the charity side. Modest.” Beryl grinned, “For rich people.”

I was warming to her.

“The third funding family is actually here in Kansas City. The Macklins. Hugh Macklin. Three generations, very active in the pharmaceutical industry. Know them?”

“No. Never heard the name.”

“You’re probably familiar with the Macklin Theater. And Macklin Hall on the UMKC campus.” University of Missouri, Kansas City.

“Yeah, I’ve seen some plays at the theater. Never thought much about the name.”

“The Macklins are very...” she paused, “innovative. Patent specialists. Macklin Innovation Labs will identify a blockbuster drug or a drug in a very profitable niche market. — then they start working on a generic version.”

“Like Viagra?”

“Yes, exactly like Viagra. The Macklin team will reverse engineer the formula. Generics have to be chemically identical to the originally patented medicine in order to get FDA approval. They’ll create a new name, tweak the packaging, create a marketing plan for end users — consumers. Gear up for a patent fight. And when the original patent expires, they have their detail reps calling on doctors, hospitals, pharmacies ... the professionals.”

“They hit the ground running.”

“That they do. And sometimes they hit on an innovation that takes longer for approval, but ends up dominating the market.”