Chapter 2: Best Laid...

I said to Matt, “Okay, what don’t you like?” About my carefully crafted Wexler plan.

He didn’t smile, didn’t attempt to soften the gut-punch. “Everything. I dislike everything.”

I stifled myself. Bit back a two-word obscenity. This was why I was here; to tap into his combat experience. Field experience.

Matt said, “Lose ... what’s her name?”

“Rachael Adams.”

He nodded. “Forget Enterprise, forget Best Western. You’re going off the grid.”

I frowned.

“Another thing. You’re too reliant on burner phones. If Wexler isn’t tracking you from cell towers, the Meriwethers may be. Try to find a pay phone. I know it’s difficult. Keep your cell conversations under 30 seconds.”

Fuck.

I said, “Okay.”

He said, “Not to make you paranoid, but you’re more traceable than you realize. It’s even possible to analyze — long distance — the dust on your cameras lens.”

“So?”

“They can figure out where you are based on environmental factors. And, using passive triangulation of your cell’s battery signals, they can track you.”

Fuck me. Inna ass.

He handed me a Samsung S5. Now, I’m an Apple Annie, but I guess I can ... sacrifice for the greater good. Sigh.

He said, “Use this. It’s from Craigslist. I bought it in another name, cash. I took out the SIM card and restored it to factory settings.”

“Okay.” Didn’t look right, didn’t feel right. Focus, Winter.

“It has a one-time scrambler filter — you can talk for 45 seconds without being detected.”

“Okay.”

“Even if they’re using the latest in voice biometrics, you’ll be okay for a short call.”

“Got it.”

“Here’s a burner email account and an anonymous iTunes account. Now I used an iTunes gift card — yet another name — and downloaded the DontTalk app. It’s a private messaging service from the app store. Here’s your new username.”

He handed me a card with a meaningless series of letters and numbers. “In a pinch, use a public computer, like a library.”

“Got it.”

“DontTalk is just a texting app. You need cell service to get it. So here’s a prepaid SIM card.”

“Right.” This was making my own stealth operation look ... amateurish.

He said, “It’s equipped with a VPN, but keep your cell turned off at all times.”

“Except when I’m using it.”

“Except then. But check for messages twice a day.”

“I will.”

I polished the camera lens with the corner of a linen napkin.

He said, “In a pinch, I’ll give you an MBITR radio and headset. But it shouldn’t come to that.”

Gulp.

“Stand up.”

I stood.

He walked around me, looking me up and down. Not in a way I enjoyed.

He said, “Okay, I know a guy. Does theatrical makeup. He’ll work on you tomorrow. Teach you some tricks.”

“I have that black wig. You know the one...” Bedroom games chez Striker.

“Leave it here. Useless for this stage of the operation. Too nice, too quality. Too expensive. If you’re someone else, a user say, you can’t look like you ... look.”

“I’m going to smear peppermint oil under my eyes. That’ll make the corneas irritated-looking. Red.”

He shook his head, “Maybe last year. But some of those fuckers have caught on to that one. Last thing you want is some mook sniffing your face.”

I was feeling defensive, “That’s only one strategy — opiates. I have other ideas for other Nazi compounds. An undercover narc turned greedy ... a...”

Matt held up his hand, “You’re not that good, no one is.”

Fuck.

Matt Striker would know a makeup artist. Of course he would. Just like he knew where to find the exact car I would need for my journey into darkness. Into the world of haters, misogynists, Christian Patriots. Patriots never imagined by our founding fathers. Mothers either.

The Mortons, James and Jill, showed concern about Emily. Emmy. But it was a controlled anxiety. Well, the little girl had been in their care for only six weeks. Maybe it takes longer than that to really bond. Although that hadn’t been the case with me when Walker came into the world.

They certainly wanted her back. Jill wrote out a $5,000 retainer. And agreed to my daily rate of $775, plus expenses.

James said, “I just wish I could cancel my Panama trip.”

Jill gave him understanding: “You can’t, babe. We both know that.”

It’s a sad reflection of our times, our culture, that I’d hunted for missing kids — usually girls — so many times. Often the best outcome was ... well, I no longer expected miracles. The best was usually a not-too-unhappy result.

Many, probably most, of my missing-kids work was pro bono. That wouldn’t be the case this time.

I started my search for Emily Morton — Emmy — in the usual way. Shoe leather. Knocking on doors. Getting off my butt and doing something. Because it was Sunset Hill, the police had canvased the neighborhood the same day that Beryl Thatcher filed the missing person’s report on behalf of the Mortons.

I was retracing law enforcement steps, but it had to be done. In addition, I’d widen the perimeter. Search a larger area, talk to more people.

I had my Winter Irregulars on the earie. Gossip, hints, any speculation, however vague. Each of them had a copy of the photo that Beryl Thatcher had given me.

Buster Fagin had frowned, “She ain’t from around here, no.”

“She’s from Syria. An orphan. Adopted.”

BJ Kowalski said, “Far away, Faye.”

Because Sunset Hill and environs were relatively upscale, I caught a lot of people home during the day. I was particularly interested in talking with maids, landscapers, drivers. The help. They were unobtrusive, faded into the background. But they were there on the scene, they noticed things. Postmen, delivery guys, utility workers too.

By five that evening, no break for lunch, a faint, faint pattern had begun to emerge. No, not a pattern, more of a hint, a whisper.

One gardener in the 5200 block of Sunset Drive set the tone, “I think I saw her. Pretty sure.”

I looked at her, a husky Latina wearing bib overalls and thick work gloves. “Why did you notice her? Anything special?”

“She looked ... sad. Not crying, just sad. And so ... lonely-looking to be out walking by herself. Kept looking over her shoulder.”

A whisper.

The grim part of every search for a missing child was the dark side of the possibility ledger. For Emmy Morton, I had to check with hospitals, morgues, shelters. Pimps. Canvass neighborhoods where runaways were drawn to. Like the Forgotten Northeast.

After I’d finished with physical locations — churches, shelters, etc. — I went for human intel. Cops I knew, social workers, whores. Pimps. Columbo was no longer hostile; Gertie had civilized him. Mostly. Even Pantone and Shades Johnson were courteous. Ramone would have been were he ... still alive.

Everyone took a copy of Emmy Morton’s photo and promised to stay alert. Some of them probably would.

The second afternoon of my day-two search I went back to the east side of Sunset Hill. This time I’d work until 9 or so. I wanted to catch the residents who hadn’t been home the day before.

It was almost dark, chilly as the sun lowered. I was at that weary stage where I was telling myself, “One more house, one more house.”

It helped, a lot actually, that I was female. An attractive one, nicely put together, nicely dressed. It got me into the living rooms of a lot more homes than most private investigators would ever see. I could have badged my way in, but I didn’t want word of an FBI investigation leaking down to 1300 Summit Street. Plus, in an immature way, I liked that I could vogue my way into these upper middle-class homes.

Three more houses, then I’d call it a night. The only useful thing I’d heard supported what that gardener had told me, “Sad.” Sort of supported.

I was now on Wornal, a relatively busy north-south street on the east side of Loose Park. One woman, rather large, rather florid, shook her head at the photo, “I haven’t seen her. But I know the Mortons. Know of them, I mean. Hmm?”

“Oh?”

“You know who you should talk to? About the Mortons? Lou Parsons. She trades coffee visits with ... the wife. Hmm?”

I looked at her; she seemed sincere. Face a bit flushed — high blood pressure was my professional diagnosis. She wore a white top with dolman sleeves. I had the sense she wanted to tell me something more.

I said, “Any impressions? Of the Mortons? Even third-hand, hmm?”

She closed her door on the smartass.

I did the next two houses, just to cross off that block. Lou Parsons, first thing in the morning. Day three. Day six from Emmy’s point of view.

Tuesday morning. I would still have been pissed at a certain Mr. Striker. Except that the night before he had callously exploited a couple of my character weaknesses — kitchen and bedroom.

We’d talked, mostly he’d talked, from four in the afternoon until after ten that night. I’d gone from shocked at his almost total dismissal of my carefully constructed Wexler-plan to just plain furious. Didn’t take me long either. It was not a meandering drive along a scenic parkway.

Then, around seven in the evening, I began developing some self-doubts. Considered my own lack of field experience. Even Daddy had never gone undercover in his entire 30-year career. Nor had Sandra Fleming. Except for training exercises.

And every strategic detail that Matt tossed out, plus every new wrinkle he added in, was geared to one specific goal — my own safety. Nailing Wexler, yes. But protecting Winter above all.

The first clincher, when he first began to really win me over, began with a doorbell ring around nine. Emergency provisions from Zaytinya. Matt, probably scrambling to get back in my good graces, produced two bottles of Markovitis Xinomavro Naoussa. None of that dreadful retsina crap I drank in college. High school too. This red was berry-rich, strong in tannins, just like I like. Love

Matt raised his glass, “Gia mas.”

“Gia mas.” Whatever the fuck that means. High school dropout showing off. I’ll look it up later.

He started unloading the food onto his plain white plates. Which, if he didn’t shape up, I might start hurling against kitchen walls, shouting, “Opa!” After we’d finished eating, of course.

I placed a white linen napkin on my lap. Every boy — girl too, I guess — had quirks. Matt’s was, one of them was, proper linens. He didn’t use, didn’t even buy, paper napkins. He’d explained it to me the first time I’d been here, “That’s one thing I remember about my mother.” Before she left them when he was five. “She always insisted on setting a nice table, plates, flatware, napkins.” He gave me a sad smile, “She was determined to civilize her men.”

We started with Hommus Ma Lahm — nothing like some ground Jamison lamb to set the tone. Then, Chicken Soup Avgolemono. A Greek cliché, but one I enjoyed. Immensely, in this case.

While Matt had quickly learned that food is one of my weaknesses, he also discovered that it’s one of my strengths too. I had a pretty good palate and a prodigious appetite.

Which explained the Crispy Brussels Afelia, the Cauliflower Tiganites, and the large bowls of olives that preceded our main courses.

And the entrées included more lamb — a huge shoulder that he’d be dining on for days. A spice-rubbed kebob, and a Turkish-braised shank.

It wasn’t all food and wine; we continued our Wexler discussion throughout the feast. Well, mostly I listened.

Later, showered and brushed, I made a more significant contribution to that night’s ... um, dialogue.

Vanessa: “What do you call lesbian twins?”

Walker & Pilar: “What?”

“Lick-a-likes.”

Tuesday morning, my second day in DC. Matt and I came out of the shower — our second one, don’t ask — around nine in the morning. Then, a hearty breakfast — warmed over Greek.

I was still a little miffed though.

Matt said, “Pretend inferiority and encourage his arrogance.”

“Clausewitz?”

“Sun Tzu.”

Fucking high school dropout.

He smiled, “Okay, we’ll get transport out of the way first.”

He opened his gun safe, handed me my DC-residing .40 Heckler & Koch. In a shoulder holster that just happened to fit me. He also took out his own Sig Sauer. Matt and Winter, out on the town.

Neither of us expected Dixie Walker to make another play for me here. But then people didn’t expect to be struck by lightning. Better safe than ... not.

We sat in his shiny, black Audi and I put my rig in his glove compartment. He put his Sig Sauer in a special concealment slot between the gearshift and the center console. Neither of us commented on the weapons. This was the life I’d chosen. And this was the life he’d chosen.

Matt drove like Daddy does, easily, smoothly. Not forcing things. He moved in and out of heavy traffic without stomping on the accelerator, slamming on the brakes. We were soon out of town, in Virginia, heading generally south, generally east.

I was determined to maintain my cool, not be gabby, not be nosy. For about five minutes. “Where the fuck we going?”

He slid easily around a big rig struggling on a slight uphill grade. “Warsaw. Little town about a hundred miles from here.”

“How little?”

“Under two thousand.” He smiled, “But that’s plenty, we only need one.”

“And he is... ?”

“She. She being Vivian. Vivian Villarreal.”

“She take a debit card?”


“No.”

“How about a second-party check drawn on a Nairobi bank?”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Matt, I only brought about eight hundred in cash.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s taken care of.”

I bit back a pretty snappy reply. A technique I’ve been experimenting with. Don’t fly off the handle until I know what the fuck is going on. Then lunge for the jugular.

Or, as Cyrus Vandenberg’s friend, Mabel — Ms. Malaprop, once told me, “Someone crosses me I go for the jaguar vein.”

Edwina Rowbottom was now in her second month in the Wrigley hotel. Like her older brother, Nature Boy, she didn’t seem to have a job. Other than riding up and down in our freight elevator.

She was in her mid-30s and cleaned up pretty nicely. When she was going out on a date, which was a weekly occurrence, Rowena had a fresh-scrubbed, Midwestern wholesomeness about her.

Hobo and the Proper Villain quickly adjusted to a Wrigley life with two elevator operators. Nature Boy turned over driving responsibilities to his sister from time to time.