Chapter 4: Battle

I needed a diversion. Needed to get Jill Morton out of her house. Hubby was in fucking Ecuador. Flew there from Panama. I wanted to talk with the two remaining adoptees. In private. I also needed a Syrian translator. Even though the kids had been in Kansas City for two and three years, I didn’t know how good their English would be. Jill Morton home-schooled them. As she had done with Emmy for the six weeks she was there. Those kids were simply too isolated; the environment too insular.

For the smokescreen, I decided to go old school. A long-shot idea and I was far from confident that Cathal Conway would want any part of it. But with his hard-bitten Northern Ireland background, I suspected that an unorthodox approach might not be all that uncomfortable for him.

Plus he had a daughter. And two, sort of, stepsons. Might be some natural sympathy for the kids who were in that Morton house.

It was roundabout in a way, but probably more efficient considering all the translator challenges. I called Phillip Montgomery in New York. Like many top echelon execs, he listened carefully. Asked a couple of detailed questions. Agreed with my conclusions.

“I’ll make a call, Winter. To DC — Morgan.”

Morgan Fleetwood, if that was still the name he was using. If he was still with State. If he ever was. But he was a man who knew people. Got things done.

Despite my focus on the Mortons, on Beryl Thatcher, there was also that subliminal Wexler tick-tock nagging at me. Tick-Tocking somewhere down deep.

Pilar looked at Gertie solemnly, “How come that oinker is getting more popular?”

“Trump touched a nerve, connected with a certain part of America.”

“Womp-womp.”

Gertie looked down at her Tanqueray.

I gained some confidence that my Morton caper might actually be doable when Dr. Lindsey Conners agreed to meet with the two Syrian kids. Under certain conditions.

“If your suspicions are correct, of course I want to see them. But I won’t know— can’t know — anything about how Mrs. Morton came to leave the house. Leave her kids there alone.”

She thought some more, “I’ll agree to a one-time consult at the request of the Kansas City Police Department. You’ll need to set up something official for me.”

Back to Cathal Conway. He listened to my account, my surmises, quietly. His face seemed to grow sadder. Then, no hesitation, “I’ll do it.” Didn’t justify it, didn’t say it could have been Riley. Just, “I’ll do it.”

We talked tactics. He’d need another cop. A partner. Vanessa volunteered to buy a uniform. It would pass muster at night. In the middle of a panicked night. But I wouldn’t let her. She’s too noticeable for one. And she was Vanessa, my Vanessa.

Cathal recruited another cop, a woman he trusted. Meg Reynosa. Only a year on the Job, but he trusted her.

The Sullivans had no hesitation. After some of the stuff they’d done for me this was, technically, a yawner. They’d disable the four exterior security cameras. It might look suspicious if there were an investigation, but I could live with that. Probably.

Cathal and I continued to refine the operation. We talked late into Monday night. It would go down Tuesday, around midnight. I had rented a vacant second-floor office on Broadway, not that far from BEAR’s. It was furnished with a desk and three office chairs. A filing cabinet. Cathal added some police bumf — folders, a calendar, KCPD coffee mugs. They’d take Jill Morton there. Hold her long enough for the adoptees to be interviewed. Layal and Ali. The girl and the boy.

It was time.

Morgan Fleetwood, or someone reporting to him, found me a translator. After an assistant interrogated me about the missing girl. Emily (Emmy) Morton. Née Maya Algafari.

Turned out I didn’t need a Syrian translator. I answered the assistant’s questions; Where is Maya from? Flipping through my notes, not wanting to waste my government’s time... “Deir ez-Zor.”

“Good. Ad-Deir. Algafari means she’s an Arab, almost certainly Muslim. So you need an Arabic translator. Not Kurdish, not Armenian. Certainly not Turkish. Arabic.”

So, Lely Nasri. She’d been in this country almost 30 years. Taught ceramics at the Kansas City Art Institute. Dark hair, dark skin. Wearing a tan hijab covering her hair, but leaving her face open.

She smiled nicely, “Deir ez-Zor. On the Euphrates, around 200,000. Free again. For now.” She shook her head, “What my country has been through.”

Interesting background, but time was tight. We were in my stockyards office, four of us — Lely, Cathal, Dr. Conners, and me. It was around 9 on the target-Tuesday night. Cathal had dispatched his junior partner — Meg Reynosa, in uniform — to watch the Morton house. Cathal was wearing his KCPD uniform too. We’d stage the raid around midnight. After the house lights had been out for an hour or so.

I went over it one more time, mostly for Lely’s sake. “I believe that the two adopted kids are, in effect, unpaid domestic ... slaves, for want of a better word.”

She shook her head in sadness.

I said, “Based on my experience, on what a couple of neighbors have said, I think it’s possible that the kids are being physically abused too. If that’s the case, it’s probably sexual. I believe that Emmy ran away and that’s the reason why.”

It was more than a hunch. Those two kids never left the house. Lou Parsons was the only social visitor at the Mortons. I figured that she had done her Welcome Wagon thing and caught Jill off-guard. Made it awkward to avoid some minimum socializing. And Jill wasn’t about to let me talk with her kids.

“Cathal and Meg will pull into the driveway, no siren, but leave the police strobes on. Pound on the front door.” I looked at Lely, “You and Dr. Conners will be with me, in my truck, down the street. If they get Jill Morton into their car, we’ll walk to the house and ... wake the kids. Gently. Lely, you get them calm, keep them calm. Translate for Dr. Conners.”

No warrant, no legal reason for Jill Morton to comply. My bet was she’d be so shook up, so alarmed at the flashing lights in her driveway, cowed by the uniforms, dazed from just waking up ... well, it could work.

Cathal and I had discussed having a third cop pose as a social worker, someone to ostensibly see to the kids while Morton was away. That’s what Jill would be told. We nixed it. There were already too many people involved in ... well, an illegal operation.

Shock and awe, that’s what it boiled down to. Worked out for Rumsfeld. Right? Right?

My original Wexler plan had been to become sort of a modern day camp follower. Except instead of soldiers, it would be Neo-Nazis, the Klan, skinheads, survivalists. The creme de la...

Using my Rachael Adams ID, I’d cleverly pass myself off as part-time user. Infiltrate, keep my eyes and ears open for news of Wexler.

Matt Striker’s strategy was more nuanced. More indirect and more direct at the same time. On paper it looked ... smarter. With a better chance of success.

We’ll see.

Edwina Rowbottom teamed up with Pilar. Made shy, little Wally Maypole a project.

Pilar had already started bringing him out of his shell. Just a little. Walking with Hobo and the Proper Villain. Playing Stick in Washington Square Park across from Union Station.

At dinner one night, Pilar said, “Edwina decided Wally needs some pussy.”

Walker sat up. Pussy. Hobo looked at Pilar quizzically. The PV was asleep.

Vanessa smiled, “Is Edwina volunteering?”

Pilar nodded, “Yeah but she wants your go-ahead. You and Winter.”

Vanessa looked at me. We shrugged at the same time.

Pilar smiled, “Fine.”

Jessie Sullivan called me, “It’s not even a rumor, Winter. Just a whisper.”

“Okay.”

“Those ICN adoptions? Well ... now, we haven’t been able to substantiate anything. Still working on it.”

“Okay.”

“There’s a family in Spain. Málaga. That’s down south. Around half a million people.”

“Okay.”

“The local police may or may not have raided a wealthy family’s home. Pablo Machado. He’s a wheeler-dealer, big man in commercial construction.”

“What’s the rumor?”

“The Machados — husband, wife, his parents, his grandparents — are known for ... frugality. They’re cheap bastards.”

“Okay.” I thought I knew where this was going.

“The Machados have adopted four ICN orphans — all teenagers. The two boys don’t seem to attend school; they work in one of daddy’s crews. Mother claims to homeschool them.”

What about the other two? The girls?”

“They never seem to leave the house. Jesse and I suspect...”

“Domestic labor. Unpaid.” Fuck.

Matt Striker was in charge of field operations for Constance Grayson’s Meriwether ... quest. She was running several lines of inquiry at once. I was working just one of the avenues she was pursuing.

So, in a way, Matt was now my boss. I had to admit that his Wexler plan was shrewder than mine. But just to be sure, to be comfortable, I wanted Daddy’s input too. Because ... well, Daddy.

Vanessa and Pilar were surprised at my new do. Walker was shocked, but tried to hide it. He’d been going out of his way to support me these days. Anything that might make me safer from Wexler ... he was all in. Even my half-inch haircut.

Actually, I kind of liked it, in a kicky sort of way. It highlighted the strength of my facial features. When I squinted my eyes at the mirror, I could see, sort of, Demi Moore as G. I. Jane.

Pilar told him, “It’ll grow back, Papi.” She tilted her head to the side, “I like it this way.”

Vanessa said, “Winter’s beautiful.” Girl had my back.

Daddy came by my Exchange Building office. Not to avoid the FBI, not exactly. I poured us espressos from my nifty little machine and sat beside him on the client side of my desk.

He listened, it seemed to me, with even more focus, more intensity than usual. I was, after all, one of his favorite daughters.

I went through everything with him. Starting with the compromised Mildred Hawkins ID. Took my time, shared as many DC details as I could remember. Including Matt’s killing of the forger, Bones. Especially that.

It was a three-espresso conversation.

As he usually did, Daddy listened without interruption, holding his questions until the big picture was clear in his mind.

Around three, I ordered prime rib sandwiches from the newly-reopened Golden Ox. Like the Plaza III, it had been a Kansas City landmark. Until it closed. The Ox had lasted 65 years and was just resurrected by two young restaurateurs who also are opening a brewery in the venerable space in the building next to my office.

Daddy and I both had bottles of Negra Modela from my office fridge. Two each. Bottles, not fridges.

I said, “I have time before my next trip. Matt’s still gathering Wexler intel. Hoffstatter info. Trying to. He’s following up on a money rumor.”

“The diamonds.”

“The diamonds.”

Daddy had been chagrined at how amateurish our original find-Wexler plan had seemed to Matt. Daddy was a veteran cop, but had never been an undercover operator. It bothered him a lot that I would have been in such immediate danger. Had I followed my original plan and gone straight at that New Hampshire compound as Rachael Adams. That ID was still good, so far as we knew, but a single wig? Hardly a stealth campaign.

I cleaned up our lunch debris and looked at Daddy, “It horrified me. When Matt shot that forger. No warning, no discussion.”

Daddy shrugged, “Matt’s a hard man.”

And that was the extent of his ... judgement. No opinions offered, no editorial comments.

But he looked at me shrewdly. Suspecting, correctly, that while I had been stunned at Matt’s sudden action, I wasn’t really horrified. In fact, as the details emerged, the surprise-killing bothered me less and less.

And, I think Matt sensed that too. But allowed me my pro forma hissy fit. A way to ... I don’t know, blow off steam. Assert my middle class, middle American values.

Fuck.

I checked in with Matt every two or three days. I was working with him long distance to refine my contributions to the search for Dixie Wexler. At this stage, it looked like I’d have a two-mission assignment.

The first would be a follow-the-money quest. There’s a cop saying, “When you follow the dope, you find dopers. When you follow the money, it can lead you anywhere. To anyone.”

In this case, Matt was sending me to the periphery of the action. To a relatively safe zone. Overprotective? Maybe. But probably not. In phase two, I’d be back on the hunt.

Unless things changed. Unless new intel came in. Matt and Constance had several joint operations in play, so...

In the meantime, I had time. My intention was to wrap up the one other case that was really bugging me. That poor missing little girl, Maya Algafari. Emily Morton. To be done with it once and for all.

But you know what kind of road is paved with intentions ... or whatever the fuck that saying is.

Matt called to twit me. “You live in Kansas, right?”

I hung up.

A minute later, “What’s up with your Secretary of State?”

I had to laugh. Kris Kobach, proudly elected state official in Kansas, fucking Kansas, got his butt handed to him. He’d previously gained some national attention by heading up a bogus DC voter-fraud investigation.

In Topeka, he’d honchoed through a proof-of-citizenship law that kept voters — mostly poor — from exercising their civic rights. A Federal judge handed down a blistering report that cited violations of both the Constitution and the National Voter Registration Act.

But what had even some Kansas Republicans chuckling was that the judge ordered Kobach to go back to school — to take six hours of remedial education on civil rules of procedure.

I told Matt, “I hope Teach makes him sit in the back of the class.”

Although Kobach is currently running for governor. And ... it’s Kansas. Where voters continually punch a hole in the space-time continuum.

The Morton caper went south in the very first minute. What Meg Reynosa told us later explained why Jill Morton went berserk when she saw two police officers on her front steps at 12:20 in the morning.

Lely, Dr. Conners, and I were watching from half a block away. The details that the three of us didn’t know at the time — what Meg was relaying to Cathal before they turned on the strobes and bulled into the Morton driveway — explained a lot.

Meg had been positioned in her personal car, a little Fiat, keeping an eye on the Morton house since about 9 that evening. The police cruiser was parked out of sight, around the corner. At a little after 9, four men in a black Mercedes sedan parked on the street and were ushered in by a smiling Jill Morton. Meg photographed the men, the car, and license plate. The luxury automobile was the AMG S 63 model. About $150,000.