Chapter 14: Inside Man

Once Fowler started babbling, it became almost anticlimactic. Bear started the video recorder and even Fowler’s voice seemed to have lost its resonance. He confessed without emotion. He answered every question — no longer defiant, no longer any vitality in his voice, his posture. Mr. November was resigned, had given up.

The last call he’d made, to Ryder and Mologna — “It’s her. Do it.” — turned out to be an order for them to go back to Richmond. To tear the Barbara Reynolds apartment to pieces. To find something — anything — on me.

Fowler never had made the Winter Jennings connection and I intended to remain the Mystery Lady. He had too many army buddies, too many hard men now in civilian law enforcement still out there.

When I’d extracted everything I wanted, I called Callahan, “He’s yours.”

Then I turned off the video and carefully swabbed Fowler’s left shoulder. Bear’s giant hand squeezed up a vein. Fowler started screaming, “I told you everything! This isn’t...”

The harmless saline solution went in effortlessly. I taped a small cotton ball over the pinprick entrance.

Hand sanitizer. I shared some with Bear.

If Clint Callahan were excited about busting Fowler, he hid it well. I’d guess that he’d cuffed his share of scrotes. But his posture did straighten when he spotted Fowler, still taped to the chair. Still naked from the waist up.

I made the intros, “Bear, Clint. Clint, Bear.”

They shook hands. Clint didn’t react to Bear’s physique like most people do. Even though Bear is approximately the size of a minor Alp. Clint just said, “Fowler give you any trouble?”

Bear shrugged; not many people gave him trouble.

“He sang?”

I said, “Like a castrato.”

Clint nodded at the syringe, “What’s that?”

“Happy juice.”

“Huh.” Clint looked me up and down. I felt my cheeks turning pink at the frank appraisal. Probably because Bear was in the house.

Clint looked at Fowler. Clint seemed ... I don’t know ... harder, more focused, than he’d been in Junior’s. Maybe being on duty did that.

Dr. Samantha Rowley hadn’t been the human-experiment instigator, but she had taken an active role as head of ZB8687 research. While she didn’t personally inject anyone, she prescribed dosages, furnished the drug and the syringes.

She also kept detailed test results in the Chub safe at Fowler Crescent. The safe also housed an obscene necklace — Iraqi souvenirs.

Rowley sang. Fowler sang. So did two lesser players — both medical doctors in that Edison lab.

Homeland Security may never find everyone with guilty knowledge. But they know how to work one jail-bound loser off against another. The choir will continue to grow.

Three weeks after we had rammed Fowler’s ride on 6th Avenue, Gloria Allen invited me to a senior partners meeting at the leased offices that Gathers and Gates was using for their prosecution of Hugh Macklin and his INTERNATIONAL INNOVATIONS INCUBATOR. And other Big Pharma companies.

Gloria and I took the express up to the top floor of the north building at the Time Warner Center on Columbus Circle. Avery Alonzo Washington met us. Beaming. Still tall, still black, still elegant.

Hugs all around. He led us to the swankiest conference room I’d ever seen. Glass everywhere, views stretching to the curvature of the earth. Almost. Polished marble conference table that I recognized from 1stdibs. Fourteen leather Eames chairs from Herman Miller.

And about a dozen smiling men and women.

Zo said, “You all know Gloria. This is Winter Jennings.”

They stood, one by one, and started applauding. I blushed.

Hughwell Albertson Macklin fled the country in one of two corporate Gulfstream jets — a G650. Last sighting was when he landed in Doha, on the Persian Gulf. Qatar is the world’s wealthiest country; its only land border is to the south, Saudi Arabia. It’s wicked hot, but, I guess, better than prison.

Macklin was still a billionaire and was still fighting extradition. Even if Homeland Security waived the death penalty, there was a good chance he’d be able to remain in Qatar for the rest of his life. But Asset Forfeiture was moving as quickly as a lumbering bureaucracy can. Macklin’s fortune will be dwindling. Someday. If a lot of things fell into place ... grand jury, international arrest warrant, State Department cooperation.

Maybe everything would work out. He’d been named, personally named in the Gathers and Gates indictment. But he’d jetted off into the sunset before anyone could touch him. Sunrise, actually.

Gloria told me, “Smart man. He may or may not have been arrested. But he would be testifying under oath no matter what. Fowler’s already singing. And Macklin is in the lyrics.”

“What about pleading the Fifth?” Asked the non-lawyer.

“They’ll RICO him. Murder, controlled substances. And they’ll add more charges. They get their hands on Macklin, he’s finished one way or another. He can plead as much as he wants.”

Macklin’s daughter, Grace, fled in a different way. Humiliation. She simply disappeared. Quit filming her healthcare documentary; didn’t return calls from anyone. There were no warrants for her arrest, no charges filed. But the court of public opinion renders some pretty harsh judgments. Ask the Madoffs.

The lab in Edison — the opioids section — was still in operation. And the epidemic continued to ravage America. In terms of the number of deaths, it was like a 9/11 every three weeks or so. But with the latest Macklin revelations ... well, Gathers & Gates was closing in on the entire opioids industry.

And the Triple-I stock plunged almost 30% before the NYSE called a trading halt. The short position that Gertie had taken, had paid off already. But she told Vanessa and me, “Stay tuned, that stock is really going to tank.”

The PTSD lab in Indore, India had only a skeleton crew. ZB8687 was no longer being produced, no longer being tested. At least so far as the experts could determine.

I never bothered to go see Carter ‘Red’ Ryder. Nor Vincent Mologna. Rhymes with bologna. The charges they’re facing in the International Criminal Court in The Hague made their injection of me legally meaningless. I read up on the Geneva Conventions and Protocols. With some satisfaction. With temporary, perhaps fleeting, enthusiasm.

Of course, DC rejected the ICC jurisdiction. As Bush and Obama had. Now, with Mr. Bolton as National Security Adviser ... well, no telling what will become of Ryder and Mologna. The FBI had them under house arrest; they’d face Winter Jennings charges if nothing else.

Earlier, they had told Clint that Fowler told them to nervous me up. Not to kill me, nothing like that. But they couldn’t explain the injection. Miscalculation on their part.

If they appeared before the ICC, Carter and Mologna would be tried as “Part of a plan or policy or as part of a large-scale commission of such crimes.” Which reached back to Abu Ghraib and other Iraqi gambols. Probably no aspects of the ongoing investigation made Cheney and Rumsfeld happy.

But that was a larger problem for more important people to consider.

It was a champagne celebration chez Wrigley. Vanessa had had Euforia deliver Duck Seven Ways. With appropriate sides and starters and dessert. But mainly ... Veuve Clicquot Brut.

Walker couldn’t take his eyes off me. Well, I looked good. Felt good. In my old ‘I Lick Pussy’ tee.

A lot of laughter, several toasts to mom. Over the lemon soufflé, Walker asked, “It’s really over, right?”

I started to speak. Stopped. Walker, Pilar, and Vanessa were staring at me.

Jessie had called me just before the first cork pop. “Remember when Jesse told you how we broke into Fowler’s messaging app?”

The description hadn’t meant that much to me at the time:

“We infected ... a virus that changed the password ... entered LS-New dash New / hit Return. Saw the numbers 0502. Found a red icon — end-to-end encrypted message app. No backdoors, no zero-day vulnerabilities. Open TOR browser ... tracked it down on the darknet.”

“Yeah, vaguely. I never really understood the details.”

“Well, we just found the build time-stamps embedded in the code. Everything is buried — subterranean buried — in the Macklin Security department desktops.”

“Okay.”

“Then someone modified the virus from a department laptop.”

“Okay.”

“Those built-in time-stamps? They were secreted in Eric Roberts’ IP address. A day before Fowler or anyone else in Security had access.”

I looked at Vanessa. At Pilar, at Walker, “Okay, the guy I thought was guilty was guilty. Drake Fowler. I believed he and Dr. Rowley tried to set up the head of Security — Eric Roberts. Copied him on a lot of the ZB8687 material.”

Walker was frowning; champagne glow fading, “But... ?”

“But Roberts may have been the driving force all along. Working with Hugh Macklin all along.”

Vanessa kissed my cheek, “You’ll get him.”

I called Gloria Allen, “I think you and Sistine were right about Eric Roberts. He may be the guy behind everything. Working directly with Macklin.”

And I, of course, was the genius who’d told them Roberts was a red herring. That he was being framed.

Gloria didn’t lash out; she remained calm, “Tell me.”

I told her.

Her reaction surprised me, “Your Sullivans have been ahead of us all along. Will you let me fly them out to LA?”

I thought about it. They’d be thrilled — the trip itself, the Beverly Wilshire, Gloria Allen, Hollywood.

Gloria said, “Winter?”

“Of course. I’ll tell them to clear their schedule as soon as they can. It’s just...”

“Yes?”

“Some of their methods are a bit ... unorthodox.”

Gloria laughed, “Winter, I am not a naif. I’ve ... well, never mind what I’ve done. But I am aware of the hacker culture. The stogy old establishment is falling further and further behind the techies. We need new tools, new approaches, new ... blood.”

“Got it. Just so you know, they’re back working on Roberts.”

“So are we. Never stopped.”

Carmen Ortega called me. Courtesy call, “I have the itinerary for Jessie and Jesse Sullivan. Want me to run it past you?”

I laughed, “No, they don’t belong to me. Deal with them directly, that’ll be more efficient.”

“Good. I reserved your driver for them. Mitchum. Adjoining rooms at the hotel.”

“One room will do.”

Silence. “I was under the impression that they’re brother and sister. Twins.”

“They are.”

“Oh. Okay.”

I had never really been in danger the night we took Drake Fowler down. I mean I guess the potential was there; it possibly could have gone south. The crash. Fowler an ex-combat veteran.

Nevertheless, I downplayed it at home. “Daddy and Bear were magnificent. I was mainly along for the ride.”

Still, Vanessa knows me so well. And knows my body, my needs, her needs, our needs. We went to bed shortly after dinner three nights in a row. Walker and Pilar seemed to approve. Hobo and the Proper Villain held their own counsel.

Vanessa and I would emerge from our shower and she became a tiger. Hungry, ferocious, greedy. Needy. And relentless.

I fell asleep in her arms ... spent. Physically, emotionally, sexually. And woke up feeling better than ever.

Most of the time, our bed time, she preferred to be the aggressor. Oral and digital aggressor. No one has ever known my body like Vanessa. But it goes beyond physical familiarity. She knows my triggers, the links to setting me free, to unleashing my passions. She can surf my emotions as well as my body.

Not that I neglected her. I love every form of intimacy — licking her, fingering her, kissing her. Sometimes we’re in the mood for toys — a vibrator, two-headed dildo. Mostly though, all we do is love each other.

Clint Callahan called me, “Free for dinner?”

“You’re in town? In Kansas City? Tonight?” Stop babbling.

“Passing through.”

I thought: wedding band.

But he’d done me a pimp favor. Although, balancing the scales, he got credit for busting Drake Fowler and a couple of his henchmen. But ... professional courtesy. Besides, it wouldn’t be like a date-date.

“It’s a simple question, Winter.” New York.

“Tell you what, come by here for dinner. Home cooked, you can meet my family. And pets.” Stop babbling.

“What time?”

After I’ve had a heart-to-heart with Vanessa. And Walker. Pilar won’t mind; I’m not sure about Hobo. The Proper Villain will probably be on the nod.

Now back before I was affianced to Vanessa, I had full Walker-approval to date married men. Single men. Any man, so long as I shared bedroom stories with him.

Now? Well, his attitude has vacillated. Post-marriage, post-Matt. We’ll see.

The kids were staring at me as I held the phone; was a man entering the picture? I said, “Clint?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t wear those pantyhose with the seams up the back. You look like a ten-cents-a-dance harpy.”

I was admiring myself in the mirror. Nude except for my new woven straw trilby. No, it does not make me look like a Palermo pimp. Heathens.

Later, Pilar noticed I was wearing one of my favorite flippy skirts. Stage whisper, “Did she shave her legs?”

Vanessa said, “Duh.”

“Winter and Clint, sitting in a tree. K - I - S - S - I - N - G.”

I said, ‘Hold on, I’m looking up ‘aneurysm’.”

Pilar is smart. Intuitive. And pays attention to what’s around her. In this case, Clint Callahan.

Walker had fallen all over himself to assure me that he was cool with the idea of another guy knocking at my door. After Matt ... well, Walker was going out of his way to be supportive. Good kid.

Vanessa said, “I’m really looking forward to meeting him.” Got my back, that girl.

Clint didn’t comment on the naked elevator operator. New York.

I’m not sure why I was nervous. Tummy-flutter. It wasn’t like I was going to take him to bed. Annoyingly, he seemed perfectly at ease. And he was the one meeting all the new folks.

Wrong dynamics. I teased him, “You look like Alfalfa coming to pick up Darla.” There, that put a momentary hitch in his stride. Quick recovery though, “Is Darla available?” Meaning a certain blonde hadn’t been.

Clint’s chiseled features were as Roman-coin as I remembered. Same thick shoulders, solid torso. Piercing green eyes.

I stage-whispered to Pilar, “Make sure he doesn’t accidentally stick his finger in a socket.”

She grinned.

Clint ignored me and squatted down on his haunches to let Hobo and the Proper Villain do their usual due diligence. He smiled up at Pilar, “Ash Collins told me about this guy.”

Pilar ruffled Hobo behind the ears; he sighed.

When Clint spotted Vanessa, he stopped. Said, “Oh. I understand.” A compliment he didn’t have to spell out. Almost anyone would see why I’d fallen so hard.

He made a half bow and handed her a bottle of red — Domaine Michel Lafarge Volnay Vendanges Selectionées. Vanessa scanned the label, raised her eyebrows. Impressed.

He was just too comfortable. Fucker. I felt like goosing him. But, as Monsieur Aesop observed, “We would often be sorry if our wishes were granted.” Thought about it though.

Clint’s invitation had been sort of last-minute, so we just ordered food up from the Wrigley Restaurant. Not home cooked, but at least house cooked. Nature boy helped the waitress wheel in the meal.

Chopped green salad with anchovy dressing. Egg and rabbit liver tartine. For entrées we went for variety — shareables. Braised rabbit, smoked goat, grilled pork tongue.

It wasn’t often that we passed on the Wrigley’s famed pork soup; should have ordered some to heat up for breakfast. Lesson learned.

Clint ate like Daddy does, neatly, economically, no wasted movement.

Pilar, in that way that girls learn to do when they’re about seven or eight, started with flattery. “Is it dangerous, being an FBI agent?”

Women have known it, instinctively, for millenniums. Get a guy talking about himself.

Clint, no stranger to the male-female cha-cha, smiled down at her. “Mostly paperwork. Want to hear about my most exciting case?”