Chapter 4: Honus Wagner

I found myself drifting off course in the Macklin affair. I kept reminding myself that I wasn’t taking on a cause, a crusade. A big-picture understanding can be helpful. But my work, my career, is ... individuals, not industries.

I’d gotten caught up in the American Nazi movement, but my main focus was on Dixie Wexler all along.

So ... Big Pharma. Fine. Individual companies like Macklin. Fine. But somewhere out there was a Dixie Wexler. I just didn’t yet know who he was. Or she.

What is so rare as a day in June? Well, I suppose the next day. And the day after ... never mind. Besides, it was night, around ten.

I was June-swooning my way back home after a pleasant evening in Excelsior Springs. A resort town about half an hour north of KC. I had been arranging a surprise birthday party for Pilar. Sweet Fifteen. Sixteen will have to wait for a few months. Twelve, if you’re counting. Or if you’re not.

The associate manager of The Elms had put together a nifty weekend package — a spa day, accommodations for Pilar, Lina and her husband Matt Whitney. Vanessa, Walker, and me. Three suites; Pilar could sleep with her parents and Poppy or with Walker. Birthday girl’s call.

While we’re being pampered, the guys will have to provide their own entertainment ... golf or bowling or ... I don’t know, birdwatching.

The highlight, besides spa treatments, would be the birthday dinner at the fancy place — called, oddly, 88 at The Elms.

I’d cleared everything with Vanessa and Lina; the rest of the celebrants would be surprised.

The food ... well I’d just finished dinner at the 88 and it was pretty good. Restaurants like Euforia and BEAR’s have spoiled me, but we’ll soldier through. I had mistakenly ordered the pan-fried sea bass. But that was a good lesson — now I knew to avoid seafood for the big night.

Humming to myself, I was looking out at the comparatively high vista seen from my F-150. I was doing my usual backroads meandering. No need for 69 — the highway, not the ... other. And I’d skip I-35 altogether. Vanessa and Walker and Pilar were too polite to yawn as I had recited my Los Angeles surface-street triumphs.

Suddenly, bright, bright lights flashed on in my rearview. Way high, some sort of monster truck. I was barely a mile past the Excelsior outskirts and I tried to hit the accelerator when — WHAM! The fucker rammed me, sending the rear of my truck spinning to the right.

I was in shock, fighting the wheel, ears ringing, half-blinded. It was a second, maybe two or three, when he crashed into the driver’s side cargo area. The impact sent me flying sideways into a guardrail which flipped my truck. Even airborne, I was panic-turning the wheel, stomping on the brake.

My Ford landed on the passenger side, rolled upside down. The momentum and the torque from the guardrail lift kept me rolling — one complete revolution — passenger side, upside-down, driver’s side, rightsize up. And then two more half rolls. I ended up hanging upside-down from my seatbelt.

I was unconscious by that time though, so everything I learned was told to me over the next few days.

I woke up, came to really, in a soft white bed. Surrounded by Vanessa, Walker, Pilar, and my mother and father. Blinding headache, sore all over. My head was wrapped in white gauze, my left arm strapped against my side.

Daddy placed his big paw over my right hand. Of course he would speak for everyone. “You’re in St. Luke’s. Bottom line, you’re okay, Winter. Full recovery.”

I tried to say, “Okay.” It was a mangled gurgle. My mother placed a cantilevered straw between my cracked lips. Once a parent...

Daddy said, “You have a concussion. More than mild, but not too threatening. You whacked your head pretty hard against your window. The side airbag didn’t deploy.”

He took a breath, “Your left collarbone has a hairline fracture. And, you have three cracked ribs. Also on the left.”

I croaked, “Okay.”

“Extensive bruising from the airbag. And getting bounced all over the cab. But the bottom line is you should make a complete recovery.”

I’d been air-lifted to St. Luke’s, just off the Country Club Plaza. Where they kept me for four nights. Vanessa, Walker, and Pilar brought me home in Daddy’s old Crown Vic.

I was sore, furious, scared ... and, mostly, puzzled. Who the fuck had come after me? It was too early, way too early, to be part of the Macklin case. I’d done nothing except background research. No progress, not any. No personal visibility.

A revenge echo from Wexler / Gunther / Meriwether? Certainly a possibility. Except that logic and common sense told me the Meriwethers weren’t involved. Not when they believed that the fatalities wouldn’t end with me. Sarah Meriwether called me my first day home to plead her case. I believed her.

Greta Gunther was still serving a life sentence. And the signs indicated that Asset Forfeiture had wiped out the Gunther resources. No visits from her Dallas attorney, Bob Linkletter, since the last time I’d been in Texas.

And Wexler, that fucker, was dead.

The tow truck that had rammed me had been stolen that same evening from Stan’s AutoBody in Liberty. A small town between Excelsior Springs and Kansas City. The truck had been abandoned in a farmer’s cornfield and completely torched. Some sort of explosive devise had ignited the gasoline-soaked interior. No chance of prints, DNA. Footprints had been scuffed away.

Sandra Fleming manipulated some forms and the case was now treated as an attack on a federal agent.

She waited until I’d been home for three days to update me. Vanessa took the day off; the kids were at their summer jobs. Daddy escorted Sandra to the Wrigley.

Sandra said, “There’s a lot we don’t know.” She smiled grimly, “But we’ve learned some things.”

“Good.”

“We found a tracking device in the Ford emblem on your grill. A sophisticated piece of work.”

“Oh.”

“The driver of the tow truck got out and fired three rounds at you.” I digested that. “Sig Sauer. P220. He was shooting .45s.”

“Okay.” New info, I’d been unconscious.

“Because your truck was upside down, the passenger side was facing him. It was more difficult to hit you. Then two other cars pulled up — it was a pretty spectacular crash, one of your headlights was pointing up like a spotlight. Horn blaring.”

I said, “Any description?”

Sandra shook her head, “Conflicting. Understandable. He showed the two drivers his gun and they ducked down. Both were calling 911. About the only thing they agreed on was the gun and that he was wearing a dark baseball cap. Maybe Royals, maybe not.”

“Then you found the burned-out truck.”

“That’s right. Nothing there for us. The explosive devise appeared to have been homemade. Crude, nothing too sophisticated. You can download plans from the Web.”

Daddy said, “But a local cop — Excelsior Springs PD — was smart enough to rope off the area of your crash. The scene was pretty well preserved except where the EMTs trampled over everything.”

Vanessa said, “As they should.”

Sandra said, “Absolutely. Saving Winter was Job One.”

Daddy said, “But the shooter was a pro. Or a very savvy amateur.”

“Why’s that?”

“Footprints. We didn’t learn anything about him except that he was wearing a size 11 1/2 EEE. Wide shoes. Thom McAn.”

“Which you can buy anywhere.”

Daddy said, “True, but there’s more. They were brand new shoes. Either an unlikely coincidence or an experienced shooter.”

“Why? What does that mean — new shoes?”

Sandra said, “It’s called the Schallamach pattern. Shoes that have been worn even for a few days pick up dings and cracks. Nicks and tiny gouges.”

Daddy said, “It can be as distinctive as a fingerprint. Quantico developed the science and the courts accept it now.”

I said, “But new shoes...”

“No pattern.”

Sandra said, “But we have a pretty good size estimation from the shoe indentations and the length of stride. He’s probably five-ten or five-eleven and around a hundred eighty pounds.”

No one said: so are millions of men.

As a result of my crash, we now had an everyday problem, a practical problem — transportation. For the second time in as many years, I’d totaled a truck. Well, this time I guess it was totaled out from under me.

Vanessa took me back to the hospital where they unwrapped the gauze around my head. Cleaned up the gashes and replaced seven stitches with two butterfly bandages. I felt better without that white dressing making my head feel twice as big.

My hair would grow back. Again.

Gloria Allen called me, “Winter, I understand perfectly if you want to drop out.”


“No, not at all. I’m restless. Want the work. Need the work.”

“Good girl. Now you remember last time you were in LA, you paid me a dollar. I’m your attorney of record.”

“Um ... oh yeah.”

“You can sign the paperwork next time you’re out here. I took the liberty of calling AAA. And Commerce. You’ll be fully reimbursed for your vehicle. Of course the premiums won’t go up. Not in an instance like this.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Hadn’t even thought about truck payments, insurance rates. I smiled — I’d have liked to have heard that conversation between Gloria and Red Lonnigan.

“Winter, you don’t imagine that attack had anything to do with the Macklin case?”

“No, that wouldn’t make any sense. I’ve barely started. I’m certainly no threat to the Macklins.”

“Good. I’ll see you when I see you.”

But the fact remained ... I needed a car. Vanessa had her XKE. But it’s a two seater. Walker and Pilar haven’t shown any interest in learning how to drive, but ... I needed a car.

That night, lying in Vanessa’s arms, I said, “Would it bother you if I brought Matt’s Audi home? It’s just sitting in his garage. Besides, I like it.”

She kissed the back of my neck, “If you like it, I love it. I’ll fly to DC with you and drive it back.”

And that’s how Vanessa, Walker, Pilar, and I ended up on United. It was Saturday morning, June 23. The kids would spend the night with us in Matt’s condo, then fly back on Sunday. Summer jobs.

Vanessa and Walker and Pilar were seeing that Georgetown apartment for the first time. Seeing DC for the first time. I resolved to bring them back for a proper visit before school started in September.

Vanessa had volunteered to bring the kids to Matt’s funeral. And offered to keep them home too. I said, “It’s going to be tough enough just getting through it.”

She nodded sympathetically, “We’ll be there in spirit.”

The three of them looked around the apartment. Approvingly. Vanessa said, “This is so Matt. Perfect.”

Pilar breathed, “Yes.”

Walker nodded.

Tonight I was both the hostess and Constance Grayson’s guest. She was having dinner catered in Matt’s place. A special kindness from a busy woman who takes the time, and trouble, to perform acts of thoughtfulness.

She had told me, “Take your family out today — show them DC. Or at least Georgetown. I’ll take care of everything.”

Everything included cocktails, food, wine, dinnerware, a long, white tablecloth with thin black cross-marks. i recognized it from my Unison catalog. The caterer, Jane Gibbons, had her own business. And did functions for Constance. And occasionally for Senator Wainwright as well.

Constance introduced Jane, a pleasant, chubby woman in her early 50s, “Vanessa, I hope you don’t mind, I promised Jane you’d help out.”

Another kindness. Vanessa would be intensely curious about what a big city professional provisioner would be up to.

Even I learned one culinary trick. Jane and her crew of two young men prepared not quite enough of each appetizer, entrée, side dish. I mean there was enough for everyone to be served, but it left us wanting ... just a little more. Especially the Peking Duck prepared seven ways.

Senator Harper Wainwright showed up around 10:30 for dessert and brandy. Spent enough time talking with Walker and Pilar — in Spanish — to make it more than simply a perfunctory visit. I knew it was out of respect for Constance, but I still appreciated it.

That night, Vanessa and I made love in Matt’s bed.

Walker, of course, over-worried about me. My health. The aftermath of that crash. He lowered his voice register, placed a palm over the back of my hand, “Winter, how are you? I mean, really?”

“Child, what be your name?”

Sunday morning, a quick breakfast — English muffins with orange marmalade and coffee with whatever you wanted in it. Vanessa driving Matt’s Audi, we dropped the kids at Reagan. Daddy would pick them up.

Then it was back to their summer jobs. Working for the same pest-control company I had done when I was 12, 13, and 14. The next summer I had fake ID, real boobs, and a job promoting Stolichnaya in bars around town.

Neither Vanessa nor I was in the mood for sightseeing, so we spent a lazy Sunday just hanging out. We vacuumed, dusted, cleaned, ran two loads of laundry. Discussed how to finish decorating Matt’s apartment.