Chapter 16: Bespoke

That night, Felicity and I checked into the Beverly Wilshire around eleven. Thank you, Carmen. I felt wrung out. I’d gone from a sugar high — copping Bolton’s digital data — to just plain scared.

Felicity was nervous too, but she hadn’t been personally involved in the Macklin case like I had. Mostly she was enjoying the sights — Los Angeles, Beverly Hills, this hotel.

I went to sleep, forgetting to let Vanessa and the kids know where I was.

I woke up with the faintest, faintest notion of a notion. A wisp of a hint, a trace of a remembered conversation. Hugh Macklin’s daughter, Grace.

I spoke to Gloria, “Long-shot idea. I’d like to use the Sullivans.”

Sharp look, “Why?”

I told her. Succinctly, with an emphasis on how long-shottish my reasoning was.

She looked off into space, much like Matt used to do. Nodded to herself, “Pinkham told me Pittsburgh is the best. The Sullivans are good, better than we had, but they’d probably be duplicating efforts. Go ahead. Tell Carmen to give you Fourteen.”

Fourteen turned out to be a small, windowless conference room. But filled with everything we needed including a fully stocked fridge. Coffee maker. Snacks that involved Gloria’s mini Snickers bars. Which the Sullivans were on like wolverines.

Echoing Daddy, I said, “Let’s put the tech stuff aside for now. Refocus on the people.”

Jessie and Jesse glanced at each other; came to an agreement. Nodded.

“Tell me what you know about Eric Roberts.”

Like always, they tag-teamed each other.

Roberts was California-born to parents of modest means. Early video game ace. Computer whiz. Stanford scholarship. Heavily recruited in Silicon Valley. Within two years, he’d worked his way up to head of security in a Foster City startup specializing in Artificial Intelligence. AI.

Jessie said, “He was offered more cash at Dell and Hewlett Packard, you know, old-timey companies. But he went for stock options. Ground floor.”

I said, “Why security?”

Jesse said, “That’s what he majored in at Stanford — writing security code. He was sort of a campus legend in that field.”

I frowned, “Didn’t Roberts leave Silicon Valley under some sort of cloud? When Macklin hired him?”

Jessie, “Yeah. No official charges out here. But supposedly he was selling company stock before he was fully vested. In another name.”

“Whose?”

Jesse was scrolling, ‘Holy fuck! John Bolton!”

Okay. Nothing, as the lawyers say, probative. Nothing linking Bolton himself to the Macklins. To the Obliteration Virus. But as Daddy says, better to know than not.

Felicity was listening intently.

Unbidden, Carmen sent in lunch from The Ivy. Even I’ve heard of it. Wisely, Carmen joined us.

Fresh-squeezed tangerine juice. Cold poached artichoke. Wild swordfish tacos. Ricky’s fried chicken. Snickers for dessert.

Back to work.

I looked at Jessie, at Jesse. “Talk to me about Grace Macklin.”

Another glance-exchange. Puzzled this time.

Jesse was scrolling, scrolling. Jessie said, “We stopped looking at her after that first pass.”

Jesse said, “Okay, Caltech. Apparently genius level.” He raised a little hand about shoulder-high, “Roberts was a campus legend.” He held his other hand above his head, “Grace Macklin was up here.”

I looked at my handwritten hotel notes from this morning. Smiled at the leprechaun twins, “Again, let’s forget about the tech-tech side of things. Look at this as a ... a puzzle. Logic puzzle.”

They nodded uncertainly.

“Roberts was a code-writer extraordinaire. We think that he created a ... an anti-security virus. The flip side of what he did at Stanford.”

Jessie and Jesse frowned.

“But where, exactly, is that virus? You spotted a hint of it. Maybe, probably, aimed at Gloria Allen and Gathers and Gates. But the clock is tick-tocking. The Feds are combing the country for Roberts. Why hasn’t he activated the Obliteration Virus?”

Jessie held up her little hand, a child back in the classroom.

“Yes?”

Jesse asked the question for her, “Maybe because he can’t? He created something very sophisticated, but got stalled when he tried to activate it?”

Jessie said, “It’s not so much that he couldn’t figure out how to launch the Obliteration Virus. It’s ... he couldn’t control it, couldn’t limit the spread.”

I nodded, “And who could deploy the virus with more ... confidence?”

Jessie, “A hacker! Grace Macklin.”

The Sullivans and Felicity and I took our raggedy-ass theory to Carmen and Sistine. Who brought us into Gloria’s office. With the New York trophy wall.

I said, “This isn’t technology, Gloria. You have the Sullivans and Pittsburgh for that.”

She rolled her hand in a get-to-it motion.

“Grace Macklin was humiliated at the firestorm of Triple-I exposure. Public exposure, world-wide exposure. Personally, she hasn’t been charged with anything.”

“I know.” Move it along, Winter.

“But what if there were a way to ... obfuscate everything. Maybe even make the human experiments go away. The charges against her father anyway. I mean the taint will always be there, but if proof of the human trials went away...”

“The Obliteration Virus.”

“Right. Let’s say Roberts, the code-writer, created it. But didn’t quite know how to activate it safely. Needed a hacker, genius hacker.”

“Grace?”

Jessie said, “Caltech.”

Jesse said, “She even put on an anti-hacking tutorial for freshmen.”

Jessie, “While she was still in school.”

Gloria frowned, “So ... a ... two-step process. Create the virus. And hack your way into a controlled distribution.”

Gloria nodded to herself, smiled at me, “Lawyers chase shadows. You chase the people who cast shadows.”

She frowned again, “Where is Grace Macklin? New York? Kansas City?”

I shook my head, “We weren’t tracking her. When she first disappeared, she went back home. Mission Hills, just across State Line from Kansas City.”

Gloria looked at Jessie, at Jesse, “Find her.”

She looked at me, “I’ll call Pinkham.”

If my reasoning were anywhere near accurate, Eric Roberts was fighting for his freedom. His life. Attacking.

Grace Macklin ... it was more complicated. She could never hope to clear the family name, but maybe obscure things enough to have some credibility reestablished.

And there was her father, Hugh. I had no idea what their relationship was like. Apparently he kept her segregated from the Triple-I’s day-to-day. At the same time, he’d created a non-voting seat for her on the Board.

Did Grace hope to muddy the legal waters enough to get the charges against him dropped? Or at least reduced enough that he might come home to fight it. Plead it down.

Daddy had often told me, “People are never just one thing.”

Fuck.

The FBI was deep-delving into the Obliteration Virus. Searching northern California for Eric Roberts.

They’d obtained a warrant and were still closely monitoring every device John Bolton owned. And were reinvestigating the stock he’d sold for Roberts.

Also, they were quietly trying to suss out the whereabouts of Grace Macklin. She hadn’t been charged with anything, but they didn’t want her suddenly startled enough to flee for a bolthole. Like her father.

The NSA had obtained a FISA warrant to monitor all electronic communications from Hugh Macklin. The Feds were limited to Doha, however. Macklin hadn’t been sighted there since his Gulfstream had landed at Hamad International Airport.

But he hadn’t been spotted leaving Qatar either.

Low-level diplomatic inquiries were made. Those were somewhat complicated by DC’s uneven response to the Saudi-Qatar contretemps.

Rewards for Macklin-info were street-whispered among the domestics — low-level employees mostly from the Philippines, Indonesia, East Africa. Hotel maids, maintenance workers, personal servants ... the underground network was abuzz with the news — $100,000 US, no questions asked.

Senator Wainwright had been concerned enough about the Obliteration Virus to appoint a Congressional subcommittee to study the threat from a national security perspective.

Privately, he’d tasked Constance with assigning two investigators to look into the current Macklin imbroglio. Once that would have been Matt Striker.

I was back in Kansas City, feeling very much as it I’d been sidelined. Truth was, there wasn’t much of a role for me these days. The FBI — tech teams working on the Obliteration Virus and agents on the ground scouring Northern California for Eric Roberts — made me redundant.

Even with that frustration, it was good to be back home. Vanessa, Walker, Pilar, Hobo, the Proper Villain.

I’m not one of those people who is surprised that things change when I’m not around. Well, I guess I sort of am.

In order to become a permanent resident at the The Wrigley — or even a hotel / restaurant / bar / regular guest — you have to pass a Gossip Aptitude Test. The current buzz centered around Edwina Rowbottom. She had moved in with Wally Maypole. Shy little Wally. Edwina hadn’t had a falling out with her brother — she still accompanied Nature Boy as he reported to work every morning.

Pilar confided in Vanessa and me, “Wally was a virgin.”

Not exactly stop-the-presses news. More of a confirmation of what the hotel had believed all along.

As for Wally, there were tentative ... stirrings. Hints of possible changes. He wasn’t slapping people on the back, cracking one-liners, nothing like that. But he had a little spring in his step. Like he was ... undergoing a slow-motion personality-molt.

His sister’s absence — overnight absence — didn’t seem to affect Nature Boy. He still drove the elevator every day, still nude, often erect. With the exception of new guests, none of his passengers seemed to take much notice.

But for me, for Vanessa and me, a change was brewing. One that involved Gertie, our money, and Harold Hudson. The once preeminent pimp of the Forgotten Northeast.

Last year, with a gulp and a bit of a tummy flutter, I entered the classroom — Contracts I — on my first day of law school at UMKC. The next class — Criminal Law would be that afternoon.

Now, will a Juris Doctor help me in my career? Or will it lead to different career? Not sure, but I was ... determined if nothing else. Vanessa, of course, had my back.

Walker was proud that I was a private detective, but he would be proud of me as a soda jerk. Daddy was also supportive; he always has been in whatever Autumn and I undertook.

I had considered taking a joint degree back at John Jay; a lot of students did. But I decided to graduate, then enter law school. When that day came, decision day, I was too hungry to get out on the streets. To follow Daddy into the Cop Shop.

Then, ten years later, it was time.

I wasn’t the oldest student in my first ever law class. There were a couple of guys in their 40s; I figured midlife crisis, nothing to do with me.

I kept up — sporadically — with Eric Roberts and Grace Macklin through Carmen Ortega and Sandra Fleming.

Carmen updated me on what the rest of the Gloria Allen team was doing. Sandra gave me the FBI skinny that trickled down from DC and back from California.

Their mutual lack of progress made me regret my bench-time even more. Yet, what should I be doing? If I knew, I’d be out there kicking butt. But, like Daddy told me, “Sometimes you just have to let other people run with the ball.”

“And then step in when the timing’s right?”

“Sometimes.”

Carmen called me from LA, “Gloria talked with her DC connection. FBI connection.” Pinkham.

“Red Maplethorpe thinks he may have confirmed why it’s taking so long for them to deploy that Obliteration Virus.”

“Why?”

“The hacker, whether it’s Grace Macklin or someone else, can’t control the ... perimeter. Can’t keep it from spreading everywhere. That would be a national disaster.”

“So they’re afraid to unleash it.”


“That’s what Red thinks.”

Of course they could eventually solve that problem. Or, just say fuck-it.

Gertie looked at Vanessa, looked at me. “You guys are sitting on some serious cash.”

My inheritance from Matt, my bonus from Gloria, brighter than anticipated earnings from Euforia.

Gertie stirred her Tanqueray with her finger and looked around BEAR’s from our favorite corner booth. It was almost three, most of the lunch crowd had returned to work.

Harold, tall and skinny and black, looked almost natty in his black summer-weight blazer. Spread collar, no tie. He kept glancing nervously at Bear. Who had plopped down a chair from a neighboring table, turned it around and was resting his massive arms on the back.

Bear didn’t react to the scrutiny; if I didn’t know him so well I might think he was unaware of the furtive looks.

Gertie said, “We have a narrow-window opportunity to buy the Robert Louis Stevenson.”

Vanessa said, “The whole building?”

“The whole building.” Gertie sat back, a crafty expression that I’d seen before. Back when she moved some of my money into Alzheimer’s care.

Of course Vanessa and I were familiar with the RLS. Through Gertie, we’d purchased a luxury co-op that encompassed the entire top floor, the seventh floor. Rented it out to four young women who had been good tenants for two years.

The RLS had, like its neighbors, been a rental building ever since it was constructed in 1925. Plaza location. On a prime street — Jefferson between Brush Creek and 48th Street. Across from two hot restaurants — Parkway Social Kitchen and The Oliver.

Unlike its neighbors — Mark Twain, Lowell, Longfellow, etc. that were also in the Poet’s District — the RLS had gone condo a few years back.

Louie-Louie brought a fresh basket of house-made chips. He glanced at Bear who made a circle-the-wagons gesture. Another Tanqueray, ice tea for Harold, red for Vanessa and me, water for the proprietor.

Gertie said, “Harold has purchased three one-bedroom apartments on the second floor. Over time, I’ve bought four two-bedroom units on one and three.”

I said, “Why is the building even available?” I knew from our previous transaction that the conversion to condos hadn’t been that successful. About half the joint was still vacant. And most of the owners used their apartments only as a pied-à-terre. So, according to our real estate agent, Cindy McGovern, the building was ‘a little sleepy’.

Gertie smiled, shark-like, “Crandall Hopewell has a case of the shorts. Bad case.” The owner. “And the few people who have bought units are up in arms. Maintenance fees are too high and the work is shoddy. The Condo Board has agreed to convert the building to co-ops if we take over.”

Vanessa said, “How is a co-op different from a condo?”

Gertie said, “Winter.” Calling on my oceans of New York experience.

I smiled at Vanessa, “If we turn the RLS co-op, each apartment owner owns a percentage of the building. Not the individual unit.”

“What’s the advantage to us?”

Gertie said, “We own the building. Or the company we’re forming does. The apartments are like shares of stock.”

“Okay.”

“Plus the property taxes are changed from individual units to one single-property tax assessment. Now, income tax deductions are trickier on co-ops, but I’ll show everyone how to navigate those waters.”

Louie-Louie reappeared, deftly balancing a tray of small plates. “Chicken-liver mousse. Compliments of Herr Hesse.”

Vanessa and I raised a glass in the direction of the imperious, stiff-postured martinet. Who returned our greeting with a head nod so abrupt that it would have been easy to miss.

I spread some mousse on a cracker. Oh my. Salty, buttery, slightly tart. Decadent.

Vanessa sighed, “This is the gateway-drug to offal addiction.”

Bear smiled.

“Hey Jude” was playing softly in the background.

Gertie handed a cracker to Harold. He took a tentative bite, his eyes closed like a child. Then he smiled, “Hey.”

Gertie addressed Vanessa and me, “I’m putting in five hundred. Harold another hundred. Bear’s in for a hundred. You guys... ?”

Vanessa said, “Suggestion?”

“One hundred each.”

Gertie didn’t try to sell us. Didn’t mention how strong our current ... um, liquidity was. She was twirling an unfiltered Camel; the meeting was about to be adjourned.

Vanessa looked at me. I looked at Vanessa. We both nodded.

I had been, irrationally, driving past the Macklin house on West 59th Street in Mission Hills. Fucking Kansas, that urinal cake of a state. Did I expect to see Grace Macklin mowing the lawn? Sunbathing? No.

Yet I was still drawn.

One of the richest enclaves in the country, Mission Hills has some of the most gorgeous homes in the area. Some monstrosities too.

The town was part of the southern expansion of Kansas City that included the Country Club Plaza in the early 20s. The MH population is only three or four thousand — not many people can fade the entry fee.

I had to credit the Macklins — in this case, Grant Macklin. The house was large, but nicely proportional. Seven two-story pillars in front, three dormer windows above them. The house had an enormous front yard, probably a couple of prime acres.

I teased myself with the idea of simply ringing the front doorbell, “Hi, Gracie in?”

Sometimes I just want to run with the wolves.

Of course I think of Matt; it would be unhealthy, almost morbid, not to. He was always careful, so meticulous in his operational planning.

I remember he once told me, “The rests in music are just as important as the notes.”

“Fuck does that mean?”

“Sometimes it’s better to pass up an opportunity to strike. A missed shot can be far worse than no shot.”

As Dixie Wexler and Karl Hoffstatter learned. True, they hadn’t missed Matt, but they hadn’t hit me.

Walker was looking pretty pleased with himself at breakfast. He wasn’t smug, not strutting around — that wouldn’t have been him. Plus he knows better. He’d be sleeping with the fishes.

Pilar, who plays the flattery game as well as any grown woman, gushed, “I am spent. Nothing left. Last night ... Walker... “ She shook her head, let her voice trail off.

Vanessa glanced at me, “Maybe we should commemorate the occasion. An oil painting, say.”

Pilar hummed “Master of the House.”

I said, “Or a severed head.”

Walker touched his throat reflexively.

Constance Grayson called me herself. “Harper subpoenaed John Bolton. He’ll be interrogated by one of our investigators in San Francisco. Like to sit in?”

“God! I’d love to. Can I tell Gloria?”

“We want you to. She can draw up a list of her own questions.”

Gloria Allen had invested a lot of money in me. Or, Gathers and Gates had. But I felt their investment had already paid off. ZB8687 was, so far as we knew, out of play. Hugh Macklin was in hiding. Big Pharma, the opioids slice of it, was hastily negotiating a settlement.

And, thanks to my John Bolton research, the Sullivans had uncovered a hint of what may turn out to be a deadly software virus. Aimed directly at Gloria Allen and her team.

So I felt like the addition of a Senator Wainwright subpoena was ... what? A dividend. Gloria had hired me mainly because of my connection to Matt. And, indirectly to the senator. I hadn’t worked for her when Matt was still ... alive, but she’d researched me. Typical Gloria Allen.

She had been calculating, and, at the same time, correct. It was unlikely that any other congressman — House or Senate — would have even known about Bolton, let alone targeted him.

In a way, I imagine that a probe spearheaded by a United States Senator would be even more worrisome than a visit from the police. DC represented the weight and majesty of the federal government. Of the entire Homeland Security apparatus.

The imposing federal building on Golden Gate Avenue in San Francisco housed an unassuming FBI conference room with an unassuming investigator working for Constance Grayson.

A slightly plump, slightly frowsy, middle-aged woman smiled and shook hands with Gloria and me, “Hi. Florence Nelson.”

Gray, two-piece herringbone suit, sensible shoes.

“Gloria Allen.”

“Barbara Reynolds.” I wasn’t in costume, no lifter-boots, no wig. But if, in some labyrinthian way, news got back to Fowler; and, in some other, circuitous way was passed on to Eric Roberts ... well this was the girl they knew about. Barbara Reynolds who looked like Winter Jennings.

If the interview transcript ever ended up in some court proceedings, Barbara Reynolds would be identified as a part-time consultant to the FBI.

Convoluted, but designed to protect the civilian. Professional civilian. Professional as fuck.

Nelson handed Gloria a file folder, “Questions for Bolton. I understand you have your own list?”

The two attorneys scanned each other’s lines of inquiry.

Gloria nodded, “Good. We’re thinking along similar lines.”

Nelson pressed a button on a complicated desktop communications instrument, “We’re ready.”

John Bolton and a distinguished-looking man in his 60s were ushered in. Mr. Attorney smiled and held out his hand, “Gloria.”

“Ashford. This is Florence Nelson and Barbara Reynolds. Florence is in charge — she has a few questions.”

“While my client is not here voluntarily, he is happy to provide his full cooperation to ... the appropriate authorities.”

Senatorial clout.

Bolton glanced at me without the slightest hint of recognition. Not from The Alchemist. Nor, apparently, from any third or fourth-hand description that could have come through Eric Roberts. Good.

Florence Nelson went for the jugular. First question, “When did you last communicate with Eric Roberts?”

Bolton knew from the subpoena that we’d accessed his devices. And that we knew he knew Roberts was wanted by the FBI. Bolton was already guilty — he and his attorney simply wanted to limit the damage.

And, fact was, Bolton was of only peripheral interest to the good guys. We wanted Roberts and had little interest in Bolton’s not having blown the whistle on his buddy.

Of course none of that was conveyed to him.

Nelson’s questions to Bolton were quiet, but firm. Direct, nothing lawyerly about them.

One hour and forty-five minutes of interrogation boiled down to five points:

• Bolton had not seen Eric Roberts in over a year.

• They had not talked on the phone during that time.

• The only communications were through encrypted emails.

• Roberts was terrified.

• Bolton had no idea where Roberts was.

Florence Nelson, representing Senator Wainwright — and Gloria Allen, representing her own interests — agreed with the FBI’s plan. Bolton was to wait until Roberts contacted him again. Bolton was not to initiate anything. Might make Roberts skittish.

All Eric Roberts messages would be seen simultaneously by Red Maplethorpe and his team. Even if Roberts started using library computers, they could geo-locate his general whereabouts.

Because the authorities had frozen all of Roberts’ financial accounts, he was almost certainly hurting for money. Even if he had an Earthquake Fund from his Silicon Valley days, it probably wouldn’t keep him afloat that long.

Roberts had left his Aston Martin Vanquish Volante in his parking spot in a lower Manhattan garage. We didn’t know what he was driving. If anything. He could be paying cash to ride the dog. And, with his security background, probably had at least one alternative ID.

One way or another, he’d traveled from New York to Mendocino.

Jessie invited me to come by their little bungalow. It was around 10 on a warm August evening.

I said, “Burgers? Hogshead?”

“Perfect.”

Hogshead was a fairly new restaurant on the Country Club Plaza. We’d discovered it before it even opened — they had a food booth at the Plaza Art Fair. Cheeseburgers, expensive at $14, but worth it. Bacon from Daily’s. Farm egg, KCCCo hops pickles. Red onions, brioche buns.

Even though the Sullivans are diminutive, they have healthy appetites. I doubled the burger — only three more bucks, a bargain. A value. Because I didn’t want them to feel embarrassed, I went ahead and doubled my own order. Manners.

Chinese-red PJs this time around. We sat at their kitchen table and dug in. Icy cold PBRs, perfect for summer supping. And sipping.

Jesse said, “We went back to Caltech.”

Jessie said, “Yearbooks, school paper, off-campus clubs, social media.”

Grace Macklin.

Jesse, “Macklin crossed paths several times with a classmate, Valerie Slotskie. Especially their senior year. Two classes, chess club, fencing lessons.”

Jessie, “Epee.”

The twins were loving it. They’d found something and were drawing the conversation out. Fine. If they had even a single breadcrumb, it was more than I did.

Jesse brought fresh beers. “Slotskie flew here, to Kansas City, July 14th.”

Right after the Triple-I media explosion. The day Roberts disappeared, and Hugh Macklin flew to Doha.

I said, “She a hacker?”

Jessie shook her head, “We don’t think so. Geological and Planetary Sciences.”

“So, a friend?”

Jesse, “We think so.”

“Okay, where the fuck is Slotskie?”

Jessie didn’t try to hide her grin, “Mission Hills.”

Fuck me. Ass.

“The whole time? Over a month?”

Jesse, “No record of her leaving.”

I started with Daddy. Old-school.

“A friend of Grace Macklin’s, Valerie Slotskie, flew in last month and may still be with Macklin. In that Mission Hills house.”

“Mission Hills. That’s the Prairie Village PD.”

“Suggestions? I don’t know if the Feds could get a warrant to search the house again.” They’d given it a thorough going-over when Hugh Macklin fled the country. And Grace wasn’t wanted for anything.

“You want to see if Grace is there, right?”

“Right. And if she’s involved with the Obliteration Virus.”

“Let me make a call.” Daddy would have a pal in every police department in the area. Even in Prairie Village. Fucking Johnson County. Fucking Kansas.

Okay, Operation GM. Grace Macklin.

But, maybe I’m maturing. Or maybe still absorbing Matt Striker cautionary lessons. Rather than just rushing in, I decided to clear it with my boss, Gloria Allen. And with the FBI.

Daddy agreed with me. Probably was quite proud of his younger daughter.

I explained the old-school scheme to Carmen Ortega. She said, “I’m transferring you to Sistine.”

Sistine said, “Sounds good to me. Gloria will call you when she’s out of her Streep meeting.”

Streep? Meryl fucking Streep?

Gloria returned my call about an hour later, “I don’t see a downside, do you?”

“Not if it goes smoothly. But you know...”

“Worst case.”

“Grace Macklin tumbles to the ruse. Then she’ll know that we’re onto her. For something. And if she’s the hacker, she’ll suss it out. Might force her to take a chance on the virus.”



“What does the FBI say?”

“You were my first call.” Suck-up.

“Good. Let me call Connie. Carmen will get back to you.”

That was Monday.

I drove by the Macklin house twice more. Nada.

Carmen called me Tuesday afternoon, “Can you move in tomorrow?”

“I’ll double check with Daddy, but it was a go last I heard.”

Operation GM was a tricky bastard to pull off. Only one Prairie Village official — Daddy’s police buddy, Mac McDavis, was in on it. And he knew only one thing — I wanted inside the Macklin house.

His role, very peripheral, very minor, would be that of gatekeeper. After the accident, he would clipboard-record everyone who left and entered the house.

One of my Winter Irregulars, Mingo Bernhard Cochran, would be responsible for the utility failures. Five houses, and five houses only, would lose electrical power. Three of those houses would have a minor gas leak.

What Mingo wanted, more than anything, was access to the three houses that were to be evacuated. A light-fingered shopping spree. Instead, he accepted a take-it-or-forget it donation from me. Five thousand. From Gathers and Gates. Well, I’d worry about the expense report later.

Jesse Sullivan and I were in white coveralls. White van. The lettering on both sides of the van read:

KANSAS CORPORATION COMMISSION Utilities Division

Headquartered in the state capitol, Topeka, so it shouldn’t seem remarkable that no Johnson County officials recognized us.

Two big ifs of course. Was Grace Macklin even there? And what about her laptop?

I could have cloned the contents myself; I’d done it with Drake Fowler. But Jesse would be faster, surer. And, I could run interference — get him in, get him out. Keep watch.