Chapter 12: Cheesecake

Eons ago, Walker and I were having a Saturday lunch at the Unicorn Club. Back then it was tottering its way toward the rocky shoals of Chapter 11. Before Bear and Vanessa took over and saved us from BK ignominy.

Walker and I had ordered hot dogs — butterflied and grilled. We were seated at a table in the bar section. He was at that age where he had recently noticed the woman he was living with was a living, breathing person. With boobs. Something other than just a mom.

I’m sure he believed his chest glances were surreptitious. Of course he was about as subtle as a dumpster fire. Okay, maybe I should have worn a bra under my silky white tee.

Then Walker sucked in his breath, staring over my shoulder. I glanced around. A friend of mine, Millicent — Millie — was performing fellatio on a bottle of Corona. To the delight of three boisterous lads.

Walker leaned forward, all earnestness and curiosity and excitement, “Winter.”

“Yes, baby.”

“Is that ... sex?”

His cheeks were red. Embarrassment mingled with awe.

I leaned forward, face-to-face. Oops, cleavage. Serious C. I whispered, “Yes it is, honeybunch. I mean she’s just pretending to suck a cock. She’s teasing the boys.”

He lifted his eyes from my boobs, stared at me in wonder. “Is it wrong? I mean you wouldn’t...”

“Of course not. I’m a mother. A professional detective. Licensed by the state of Missouri. Oh good, here’s lunch.”

I took the butterflied hot dog out of the ciabatta bun, folded it back into a cylinder and, looking my son in his baby-blues, started sucking. Bobbing my head up and down, “Mmm.”

Much as I’d like to go directly at Hugh Macklin, I’d learned from Matt Striker that attacking the head could be counterproductive. Miss the target, and you’ve alerted him. Smarter, tougher people could be brought in as extra protective layers.

The New Jersey raid had missed the target, but Hugh Macklin himself had not been mentioned in the warrant. Was he aware of it? Of course; the man is a brilliant tactician. For now, he seemed content to let underlings remain on the front lines.

Besides his natural sense of the street, Matt had formally studied with cultural anthropologists and learned that crosscut targeting could be more productive than hitting the top guy. Like taking out the heir apparent, in this case his daughter, Grace. But she seemed ... peripheral.

Grace Macklin was constantly on the road — shooting, or directing, a documentary on American healthcare. Primarily, according to industry gossip, its many weaknesses as evinced through the community hospital system.

While healthcare tied in — ironically in her case — with the pharmaceutical field, Grace had little direct involvement with Triple-I. She did have a seat on Macklin’s Board, but as a non-voting member. She had very little day-today involvement with her father’s company.

There were key VPs — Research, Development, Distribution, Finance, Marketing — but no one in particular that Macklin appeared to be grooming.

I didn’t study the organization charts the way Gloria and Constance did, but I agreed with their assessment — Security seemed to be the obvious lever into the Executive Suite.

I’d spent, off and on, almost two weeks planning my next break-in. My break-in at Fowler Crescent, at the cul-de-sac where Drake Fowler and four of his former Army buddies lived. Five houses, heavily-gated entrance, security cameras and alarms up the wazoo. As we say in surveillance-speak.

My bet would be that the five men would be over-reliant on their perimeter defense. We’ll see. My second bet was that I would feel my cell vibrate if Fowler were coming home. We’ll see about that too.

Not for the first time, my plans included sex. And a favor from Ash Collins.

DC again. Constance Grayson seemed almost bemused at my scheme. I gave her the barest hint of an outline — Matt had told me many times she didn’t want to know operational details. But I had to share enough to interest her, to enlist her, in helping me with Ash.

I’d overthought it. Constance was more than happy to go along. She was as frustrated as I had been when the Missouri National Guard investigation led us nowhere. Nowhere that any savvy prosecutor would take to court.

She exchanged phone pleasantries with Ash. Then, “Can you meet with Winter? Ten minutes, anytime today.”

The tall, elegant black man seemed genuinely pleased to see me. We’d been through a few things together. “How can the weight and majesty of the Federal Bureau of Investigation be of service to Winter Jennings?”

Sarcasm. No, gentler than that — sardonicism.

I gave him a bare-bones overview. Ash listened like Daddy does — fully engaged, intensely focused.

He smiled, beamed really, “Have I got the man for you. Agent Clint Callahan. New Yorker, New York Agent. He’ll love it. Best of all, he’s sharp. Won’t overplay his role. Won’t go all diva on you.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Quiet guy, but he delivers. Wouldn’t be in the New York office otherwise. He’s a Supervisory Special Agent. Which in our rat’s nest of an organization chart means he’s just one rank below the Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge.”

Boy, am I glad I had my own little company.

Ash trusted Clint Callahan. Agent Clint Callahan. So I did too. At some point in any major case, a leap of faith was required. Careful research, due diligence, Sullivan probes, endless strategy meetings ... all of that got me only so far.

I was now working on my fourth break-in in four nights. Rowley, Rowley, Nowak ... Fowler.

Agent Callahan and I were noshing on Junior’s cheesecake. Flatbush Avenue. A Brooklyn cliché, but a very tasty one. I went with Dulce De Leche Caramel. His slice was Boston Cream Pie. Cheesecake of course. The waitress had smiled at our order. Good choices. Of course they’d smile if you ordered strychnine.

One week before Fowler Crescent.

He looked steadily at me, “Ash says you’re good people.”

“Okay.”

“You married?”

“Yes.”

“Fool around?”

“No.” Fingers crossed. Metaphorically. He was wearing a gold wedding band.

Callahan was around 40, maybe a little under. Thick, from the shoulders down. Like he had put some Idaho into himself over the years. But I didn’t think he was soft. Mentally or physically. He was around six feet, probably 200 pounds. Nice looking, chiseled features, but ... I don’t know ... hard.

“Tell me about what you want.”

“Deep background or... ?”

“Hum the melody, I’ll pick up the lyrics.”

“I want to creep the house of the Deputy Director of Security at INTERNATIONAL INNOVATIONS INCUBATOR.”

“Sixth Avenue.”

“Right. Here’s where he lives, Queens.” I pinched my map open.

Callahan adjusted it, zoomed in and out, right and left. Handed my cell back without comment.

I eyed the menu. Our harried waitress, snood, refilled our coffee. “Anything else?”

My plate was half full. “Check back later.”

Callahan looked at me, “You’re from Kansas.”

“No!” Tone it down, Winter. “Kansas City, that’s on the Missouri side.” I started to tell him about John Jay; decided not to. Callahan didn’t need to be impressed, even if I could. Which I doubted.

He peered at me steadily, penetrating green eyes, “Tell me about Fowler.”

“Army MP in Iraq. Came back home with some money and started his own security firm. Specialized in startups. Had a stint at Citi, then Macklin hired him for Triple-I.”

Short. Succinct. Professional.

“What’s your plan?”

I told Callahan about the four other guys in Fowler Crescent. “Former Army buddies of Fowler. Two work at Triple-I, the others are still at Citi.”

“All in security?”

“Yes.”

When I got to the whores that the Fab Four had ordered in the previous Tuesday, Callahan grinned. Now we were getting to it.

He said, “Let me guess. You followed the hookers back to their crib.”

“Apartment building out by LaGuardia. All four live there. Share a pimp.”

I showed Callahan a photo of a natty looking black guy in a loose-fitting seersucker. “Jackson Greene, with an ‘e’. He’s 28, a grad student at NYU. Economics.”

Callahan leaned back in the booth, looked at something far in the distance. Possibly thinking of mankind’s stupidity. Grad student at one of the finest schools in the country running whores. The waitress cruised by. I made a circular motion over our plates. Callahan drifted back to Junior’s. “Switch ‘em.”

A man after my own ... tummy.

He looked into my eyes again, “Tell me.”

“Greene drives them to Crescent Fowler, that’s what I call the cul-de-sac.”

He nodded impatiently, get to it, lady.

“It’s a van — a new GMC Savana 2500.”

Callahan nodded again, “Can seat up to 12. More if you crowd ‘em in.”

“It’s black.”

“Okay, what you want from me?”

The Boston Cream Pie was almost as good as my first choice. “I want to know when the next ... delivery is. And I want to be in that van.”

“Okay. We can deal with that. I’ll look into Mr. Greene.”

I reached into my yellow leather shoulder bag, handed him the Greene folder. “Preliminary research. Jessie and Jesse Sullivan. They consult with the FBI in Kansas City.”

“Missouri.”

“Missouri.”

He read through the two sheets. “Pretty thorough.” He had an air of quiet competency about him.

He looked up at me, “Can you do frump?”

I hid my smile. Tough New Yorker worried about my safety.

“Yes. Very well.” My Mildred Hawkins get-up was still in Matt’s garage. Gray-streaked wig, fake dugs, compression stockings. Old woman’s clothes. I wouldn’t need the tattoos. I could do the wrinkles myself. The slump, the slight limp.

“You sure?”

“Very.”

Callahan called me while I was back in DC. Packing up Mildred Hawkins.

“I can go in hard or soft.”

Jackson Greene.

“Which do you recommend?”

“I’d start with soft. Offer him some cash. A thou.”

“Fine, I’ll be back in New York this evening.”

Clint Callahan was very ... precise in handling money. I handed him an envelope with $1,000 for Jackson Greene. Clint carefully wrote out a receipt for me. Signed it, had me countersign his copy.

I twitted him, “Very professional.”

He shrugged and those massive shoulders threatened to split his blazer, “I don’t fuck with internal investigations. ICU. Triple-I is an international company.”

“ICU?”

“Internal Corruption Unit. Nobody messes with them.”

Okay, but I had a slight suspicion that Callahan was a closet straight-arrow.

It had gone down like this.

Callahan had two young agents pluck Jackson Greene from the NYU campus.

Callahan smiled at me, “Scared the fuck out of him.”

“Good.”

“We parked him in an observation room. Left him alone for almost eleven hours.”

I nodded.

“Greene tried to go coolio. We ignored him. Then he tried anger. Screaming about the Constitution. We ignored him.” This wasn’t Callahan’s first steer-wrestling event.

“Around midnight I sent in one of the secretaries; been with us about 75 years. Hair up in a bun, steel-rimmed glasses, friendly as an IRS auditor. She told Greene, “Homeland Security is coming up from DC. Don’t say another word.”

I could just picture the scene. Greene strolling across the campus to attend a lecture on the economic effects of global antitrust policies. Two grim-faced men flash IDs, grab him by both arms and hustle him into a waiting van. No conversation, no Miranda, just “Homeland Security, come with us.”

Callahan told me, “They took him to the Metropolitan Correction Center.”

In lower Manhattan. I’d been there while at John Jay. Known, in some circles, as the Guantanamo of New York

Then Greene was left to stew. And stew.

In a way, I could almost work up some sympathy for him. One individual caught up in the grand maw of Homeland Security. Not unknown for its horrific civil rights violations in the name of anti-terrorism.

But this fucker was a pimp. Exploiting weak women. Plus I needed him to get me into Fowler Crescent. Bespoke ethics again.

L’affaire Greene had been a mere blip on the FBI’s day. One of dozens of chores. It had been an ordeal for the prisoner, but took only about ten minutes of Callahan’s time.

“I waltzed into the room. Turned on the camera, read him his rights, told him everything was being recorded. He asked to go to the bathroom. I told him after he signed the affidavit.” Callahan grinned, used a lower register voice, “Under oath or penalty of perjury.”

Affidavit?

Callahan handed me a signed sheet with an embossed seal on it. I ran my finger over the seal. “One of the secretary’s a notary for Prudential Real Estate on weekends. More money there than in law enforcement.”

I scanned the document. Take out the legal mumbo, and jumbo, and Jackson Greene had signed a written confession to consorting with four men suspected of terrorist ties. Organization and foreign country not mentioned.

I said, “You got him.”

“You do. Here’s your thousand back. This was more fun.”

I signed another receipt.

We were having a no-reason celebratory dinner at the Unicorn Club. New sconces — Uni pranced up on his hind hooves like a rodeo stallion — held customer-flattering LED bulbs. As per my original logo design, Uni’s erection matched his horn in girth and length.

It was around ten on a Friday evening, so the dining room was starting to slow down as the bar became more boisterous. Although it was a contained gaiety under the watchful eye of our major-domo, Lucy Cuthbert.

Pilar looked at Gertie, “Do you think Uni models would sell?”

Gertie turned to check out the sconce behind her. Pulled Uni’s cock down to turn the light off. Pushed it back up. “Maybe. Or maybe sell the sconces themselves.”

Bess Cuthbert, pert and sassy, came to our table followed by two lesser waiters. They parceled out an array of Gullah dishes — Lowcountry cuisine with recipes going back hundreds of years. Going back to West Africa and the slaves who brought their beloved traditions with them.

Stewed veggies, oyster rice, conch stew, slow-cocked perloo, tomato-based okra soup. Peanut cake for dessert.

Bess put her hand on Walker’s shoulder, “Come upstairs, my man, I’ll take sweet care of you.”

Pilar shrugged, “Help yourself.”

Walker tried to casual it, tried to pretend that two girls fighting over him was, yawn, an everyday occurrence. The two lesser waiters, tasks completed, departed.

Vanessa warned, “Be careful, Pilar, be very careful.”

Another shrug, “No biggie.”

Bess winked at Pilar, “That’s not what I heard.”

She sashayed off to torment some other boys just as two couples in four red MAGA caps burst inside the Unicorn, laughing uproariously. They headed straight to the bar, the women still giggling.

Pilar started to say something, closed her mouth. Looked down at her plate. Walker patted her thigh. But the caps reminded her, “Gertie, have you read that Woodward book everyone is talking about?”

“Yeah, friend sent me her advance copy.”

“What did you think?”

“He said, she said.”

Vanessa said, “But he’s been covering the White House for like 50 years.”

I said, “Two Pulitzer Prizes.”

“He said, she said.”

Vanessa, “What about that anonymous editorial in the Times? The White House insider spilling the beans?”

I said, “The ‘lodestar’ clue.”

“He said, she said.”

Of course Gertie wasn’t about to ignore the opportunity for a lesson. “Look around you, Pilar. The Unicorn demographic is white. Membership about evenly divided, male and female. Average age is 34.5.”