Chapter 10: “Nor innocence suffer...”

It didn’t really register until I’d seen the second brochure on our kitchen counter — “Faith-Based Assisted Living Facility”.

I’d meant to ask Vanessa about the one from yesterday — “Crossroads Manor Nursing Home”.

Then it hit me. I whirled around. There was Walker trying to look po-faced. Innocent, but concerned about his decrepit mother. Little fucker.

Vanessa was trying to keep a straight face. Hobo was looking off into the distance as if he weren’t an unindicted co-conspirator.

I retained my dignity, head held high, and marched back to take a shower. I heard my son whisper to Pilar, “Won’t be long, poor dear.”

“Shh.”

Walker: “A dog walks into a bar and hops up on a stool. He looks the bartender in the eye and says, ‘Hey, guess what? I can talk. Have you ever seen a talking dog before? How about a drink?’”

Pilar: “Sure, toilet’s right around the corner.”

Vanessa and I take our maternal duties seriously. Like what to wear to parent-teacher conferences. Just enough to enflame the dads without crossing a certain line of decorum. We’re all about decorum.

Walker is, understandably, proud of us. Of how we look, of course. It’s been eons since anyone teased him about having two mothers. In fact, he isn’t the only Pembroke student with that distinction.

But, and this is where Vanessa and I are blessed, he also likes us, genuinely likes us. And it shows when he introduces us to his friends, his teachers, his counselor.

With Pilar — well, since Lina married Matt Whitney, and especially since Poppy was born — Vanessa and I have moved gradually to the sidelines at her school. The family’s neighborhood visibility helps maintain the fiction that Pilar lives in Brookside. Instead of in sin in the sinful Crossroads.

Unless Vanessa and I do it on purpose, we don’t dress matchy-matchy. At the last Pembroke function, to plan the Spring fundraiser, she wore black skintight leggings under a white micro-mini skirt with open-toe flats. Her green blouse, demurely buttoned all the way to the top, completed the sexy, but staid look. Purposely mixed signals.

I started with three-inch heels to make us the same height. A simple, gray linen shift, sleeveless to highlight my tan and my guns.

As we were leaving the Wrigley, Walker conducted a formal inspection. He frowned at me, “Commando?”

Pilar mock-slapped him, “Papi!”

Vanessa grinned and lifted the hem of my knee-length skirt.

Our ride, the freight elevator, arrived just as I patted the instant bulge.

Sandy and Caitlin Seaver. I could do one thing. If my boss approved. I called Dragon Lady # 2, “Seven.” Click.

Bulldog Bannerman didn’t want interim reports; he wanted solutions. But I had to do something about Duke Arlington. To protect our nonpaying client, the Kansas City Royals. Who didn’t know about point spreads. Nor, at this point, did the next Democratic candidate for governor of Missouri, Tom Lynch.

City Hall, up to the 42nd floor. Adam and I wove through the Dragon Ladies who, among the three of them, were utilizing three laptops, one tablet, and one cell. Emile nodded, turned the page on Le Monde. Well, he had been in the French Foreign Legion.

Bulldog gestured to a chair, but I remained standing. Ms. Biz. I laid out the yearbook sheets; Emile came over.

“Duke Arlington is blackmailing Sandy Seaver. He’s giving up hits in certain games.”

Emile muttered, “Point spread.” Bulldog nodded.

I said, “I want to keep that quiet for now.”

Bulldog shrugged, “Offseason.”

“Yeah, but there’s more. Arlington is a possible suspect in two killings. California and Alabama. FBI knows about Arlington, locals don’t.”

Bulldog took a moment to think. Emile said, “Seaver is our concern, not Arlington.”

I said, “I’d like to tell Chip. About the FBI, not Seaver.”

Bulldog said, “You need O’Grady to keep quiet about the investigation?”

“Yeah. But he should dump Arlington. Before...”

Bulldog waved an impatient hand — no need to spell out the obvious. The Royals would rearrange their scouting department. Part of an ongoing effort to improve. Easily understandable given the team’s last-place finish. One of the worst records in all of baseball.

Then, when and if charges were brought ... well, Arlington would no longer be a member of the Royals family. Still a scandal, still embarrassing, but better that way.

Bulldog was put through right away. “Chip, better come see me.” / “No, right now.”

Emile went back to his paper. I collected the yearbook pages. None of Chip’s business, not yet anyway. The murder investigation of his Head Scout would be enough.

Chip O’Grady had taken the Duke Arlington news calmly. “The scouting hasn’t been that good the last two, three years. That’s what I’ll tell the press.”

He eyeballed me up and down. Bulldog and Emile ignored him.

I said, “The FBI doesn’t have any proof. Not yet. But I think Arlington’s a wrongo.”

Chip smiled, “Women’s intuition?”

Bulldog spoke mildly, “She’s a pro, Chip.”

Chip laughed, threw up his hands, “Okay, okay. Arlington’s history.”

Emile says, “And we didn’t have this conversation.”

Chip smiled at me, “Catch a drink?”

Why not?

I said, “Meet me at Euforia. Eight o’clock.”

I had chosen to meet Chip O’Grady at Euforia for a couple of reasons. He didn’t know it, but I was working on the Sandy Seaver case. Caitlin Seaver. And my becoming better acquainted with the Royals’ GM, keeping him in my orbit, could be useful down the road. Maybe.

Plus, I wanted to introduce him to Vanessa. He knew I was married, had met Walker at the ballpark. But I imagine he was thinking of a more conventional household. Good, keep him off balance.

The question niggling at a far corner of my mind was, why was I shaving my legs for the second time in three days? Chip was cute, divorced, interesting. Had a job that would be considered glamorous in some circles. Not mine, but some.

Actually, Vanessa was shaving my legs. We were in our freestanding Oceanus bathtub. Sensuous curvy design. We’d gone with the white gloss finish as opposed to matte. The tub was a splurge, but there was free shipping. Isn’t it silly the way we can justify buying whatever makes our hearts go pitter. And patter.

Vanessa had my right ankle resting on her left shoulder. Smooth, smooth razor-strokes. She smiled that heartbreaker smile, “How do you want to play it tonight? With your baseball guy?”

I was feeling impish, “Hmm ... we’ll stand when you approach our table. I’ll introduce my lovely wife. You deep kiss me.”

Vanessa giggled, “Sweet dreams, Mr. Baseball.”

Chip was waiting for me at the bar in Euforia. He stood, cheek kiss, as I came in. He was wearing the usual business-casual uniform of the day — navy blazer, white button-down shirt, no tie. Chinos, loafers. He looked good, actually. Preppy, but good.

Adam was on full alert and he turned several heads as the Euforia customers caught their first glimpse of him. I had not only gotten used to the Cane Corso, I had grown fond of him. And, I know it was mostly psychological, felt safer with him at my side.

The bar was full, two and three deep for the tail end of Happy Hour. Amelia Baxter, gamin-like, waved to me from behind the bar. She and two other girls were working steadily, but not showing any tension. It was a jolly crowd, more social than booze-needy. No one minded a bit of a wait as the staff hustled to catch up.

Vanessa swanned over in tight white Capri pants. She whisked away a Reserved sign and Chip and I had a window-side two-top looking south across 63rd Street.

“Chip, this is my wife, Vanessa Henderson.”

Quick recovery, credit due. I closed my eyes as Vanessa’s tongue explored my mouth, but I imagine Chip stayed alert.

We had just gotten settled when Vanessa brought over a tray of Mezcal Sun-Risa drinks. She smiled, “Amelia is pushing these tonight.”

I sipped, bright floral flavor. “Nice, what’s in it?”

“Tequila, bitter orange, hibiscus.”

Chip was, unconsciously, staring at Vanessa as she glided away. He turned to me, “Oh.”

So much in that one word.

We sipped and chatted.

He said, “It’s all set. I’m meeting Arlington in the morning. Nine o’clock. Debbie has the paperwork, the exit package. Then I’m meeting with the Star and Channel Four. Two o’clock and three.”

“Friendly contacts?”

He shrugged, “We maintain good relations with the media.”

Meaning ... yeah, the Royals had a couple of lapdogs who would spin the scouting shakeup however the team wanted. I liked that Chip didn’t spell it out, didn’t brag.

Lina Paloma came over with appetizers. She charmed Chip as well, “Fiddlehead ferns with grilled white miso.”

He looked at me, “I’ve heard of this place, but never been here. Is it serious food?”

“Italian regional. Piedmont. Vanessa and her staff put a lot of effort into the food, but I wouldn’t call it serious. More fun than studious.”

“She owns the place?”

“She does. And part of BEAR’s on Broadway.”

“The gay place.”

“The gay place. Terrific food too.”

Chip didn’t look too certain, but that was fine. Not everyone assimilated at the same pace. Gay marriage used to garner a shockingly negative response. Now, with every new generation, it’s the norm. What was all that fuss about?

My musings were interrupted when Chip stood, smiled, held out his hand. “Hello Buddy. You hang out here?”

I shook hands with the 60-year old man. I’d seen him here before, but never met him. Calloused hands, thick chest, hard-looking belly. Bandy-legged, a couple of inches shorter than I was.

Chip said, “Buddy Guy is with the Royals. In charge of Latin America scouting. Which, by the way, why aren’t you south of the border earning your oversized paycheck?”

They bantered back and forth. Chip had a nice, easy way with people and I was glad to see it extended to underlings.

I looked at Buddy, “People ask you to sing the blues?”

“All the time. Shoulda been born black.”

Buddy wandered back to the bar and Chip and I had a second round. He walked me to Matt’s Audi and said, “Some dog.”

“Adam’s a pussycat.”

“Yeah. Huh ... I enjoyed this evening. Do it again?”

“Call me.”

Simply maintaining my business contacts.

I visited the Blue Cat two days, well, nights, after Duke Arlington had taken early retirement to ‘take a breather from the corporate pressure’. He scooted right over, not a care in the world.

I hid my loathing behind a fixed smile. I was still on the job. Even more so now that I knew what he’d been up to with Caitlin.

I had convinced myself that the two Arlington felonies — blackmail and murder — were unrelated to each other. Fucking over Sandy Seaver was business. Knife-killing was pleasure.

I smiled at Arlington, “Wow. Big changes.”

Shrug, indifferent pose, “I was getting ground down. Constant pressure. This lousy season. Travel.”

“Good time to reassess. Rest up, look at other opportunities. Your phone is probably already ringing.”

“Yeah, the Cards are flirting again. White Sox. Maybe the Dodgers.”

“Good deal.”

“Yeah, gonna cost the Royals. I was on my way to Costa Rica. Would have left a couple of days after I got the ax. Small-town prospect, a left-hander I’ve had my eye on for a few months. Off the radar. Well, he’ll never play for Kansas City.”

“He’s like a ‘hire-me’ present for your new team.”

Arlington nodded, flashed a hard smile, “And the Royals had to eat my airfare to Puerto Limón. Nonrefundable.”

His calm, smiling demeanor made me want to slug him. I settled for planning my own felony against Douglas ‘Duke’ Arlington.

First, I had to talk him out of one of the stupidest ideas a professional thief ever had. “Mingo, you can’t, Can Not, rob the Federal Reserve Bank.”

His head jerked up, “How’d you know? Who blabbed?”

“You did. Lunch at BEAR’s. The million dollar score. Where else could it be but the Money Museum?”

“There’s also a gold bar — half a mil, maybe more.”

“Yeah, but you think they haven’t thought through the security? Any place where you can see millions of dollars in currency being processed. Impenetrable glass. Armed guards, security cams everywhere. Alarms throughout the building.”

“I’ve got an ... never mind, you don’t know what I know.”

“No, but I know what I know. Unless you have a death wish. Suicide By Cop.”

He argued, trying to convince me that he had worked everything out. Probably had an inside connection. Mingo was a good thief, but Cary Grant couldn’t rob the Federal Reserve.

We left it that he didn’t have anything planned for the immediate future. And that I had a more realistic opportunity for him.

“Mingo, this is a take-it-or-leave-it offer. Yes or no. Right now.”

Mingo Bernard Cochran. Light-fingered thief, one of the slickest in the greater metro area.

The diminutive scamster said, “Five gees is on the low side. Especially for a two-entry job.”

I’d wait him out. He’d soft-shoe me for a while, trying to nudge the honorarium northward.

He tried to hide a crafty look, “Plus expenses.”

“Up to two grand. Seven in total. And no sticky fingers. Photos only.”

He sighed, weight of the world. Shook his head, “You’re squeezing me.”

I waited.

He said, “Half up front — thirty-five hundred.”

I raised my hand to Louie-Louie, “Check please.” My favorite waiter was sharp enough to bring a bill over, “Right away, Winter.” Adam watched silently.

Mingo said, “You’re killing me. Where’s the job?”

“Burbs.”

Louie-Louie wandered away.

“Risk factor?”

“Very little. Unless you trip an alarm.”

“Or the owner comes home early.”

“He’ll be with me.”

“Oh. Okay. Tell me about the layout.”

Two nights earlier, when I was sure Arlington was comfortably settled in at The Alibi, I’d visited his ranch-style house. A quiet early-to-bed Independence neighborhood and no one saw me slip inside.

I looked at Mingo, “Back door leads to the kitchen. There’s a nightlight on the baseboard. Small dining room, then the living room. There’s a door to the right that leads to the office.”

“To the right coming in from the back.”

“That’s right.” I unfolded the floor plan. “This is accurate. From the Building Permits and Inspections office.”

He frowned in concentration, “Okay.”

I had drawn in the desk, office chair, guest chair, filing cabinet. “Living room, dining room, office, are wall-to-wall carpet.” I pointed to the filing cabinet, “The safe is under there. He cut out a section of the carpet.”

“Manufacturer?” All business.

“We’ll come to that. First — and you do this both nights — take photos of the office. Of everything that you’re going to touch.”

“Winter.”

Mingo would know how to replace everything — from file folders to pencils — just right. But, as I did with Walker, I went over everything. Step by step.

I pulled out a three-dimensional, CAD sketch that showed the office walls. Used a pencil, “Place a camera here ... and here.”

Mingo studied, nodded, “He’ll open the safe when he’s facing this window. So one of the cameras, both if we’re lucky, will...”

“Capture the combination. But put a third one here.”

“The ceiling?”

“I’ll give you a new smoke detector. With a camera.”

“Timing for the second phase?”

“The night after I get the combination. So stay flexible.”

“I got other commitments, Winter.” The bite.

“An extra five hundred.”

“Thousand.”

I pretended to fret. I was well under budget. Of course I hadn’t accomplished anything yet.

“All right, six thousand total.”

“Plus expenses.”

“Here’s a thousand in earnest money.”

Mingo counted twice, disappeared the bills, and smiled. We were on.

I had selected Mingo Bernard Cochran for a couple of reasons — talent and experience.

Years earlier, Bulldog had told me, “Listen to Mingo. Guy knows his stuff.”

Emile said, “Keep your hands on your wallet.”

I did listen. And learned. Mingo was like a lot of people; he liked to talk about himself. At least about his successes.

“So I follow this heavy hitter from the Argosy. Happened to have my tools in the trunk.”

I nodded. I imagine that Mingo was seldom far from his tools.

“He’s not staying at the casino — he cabs it downtown. Fancy place, Hotel X.”

“Okay.”

“Fat guy, flashy, loud, signs for drinks in the bar. I lamp the tab, room 1212. He’s still got that briefcase full of cash and chips. I could hear them rattle around.”

“Got it.”

“Now I’ve had occasion to visit the X in the past. Twice. A ... friend works there, palms me a ... facilitator.” Master card-key.

“It’s a little after 11, my guy is swilling bourbon on the rocks. I visit his room, bed’s turned down, that little safe in the closet is locked. Something in it.” Mingo rubbed his thumb across his fingertips, “Going to be more in it later that night.”

I smiled, “Locked room, no problem. But the safe?”

“My guy’s a smoker, this was before you couldn’t. I head for the safe. You swing open one of the closet doors, the light comes on. Automatic.”

“Not good.” Not when you’re in a stranger’s hotel room while he’s sawing wood.

“I unscrewed the bulb. The bet is he’s too drunk to notice. Okay first problem is he’s got one of those electronic gizmos that hooks on the doorknob.”

“Loud as hell if the clip in the doorjamb is moved.”

“Right. And I can’t count on he’ll be too drunk to forget it. So I open the alarm and clip the conductor and ground wires. Then I wound them together and slip this rubber sleeve over them. That closed the circuit that the clip would do.”

“What about the signal light that shows the battery is still charged?”

“It’s still glowing, don’t know no better. Next I have to deal with the chain. It’s the standard Hartford model, B-371. I happen to have three extra links — Badda Bing.” Too much television.

“The safe?”

Sly grin, “Bailey three-digit LED screen. I dust each key with Hallow’s Compound. Only shows up with infrared goggles. Course, if he’s so drunk that he smears a lot of keys — well I end up with just a wallet.”

“How many combinations are there with three numbers?”

Hard grin, “Hotel X is a cheap bastard. Should have bought a five-digit safe. Now I only gotta worry about 648 numbers. And if he’s drunk...”

“You’d have time.”

“Unless he brings a hooker up.”

“Did he?”

“Nope.”

“How’d you do?”

He looked off into the distance, “Made expenses.”

Which told me it was a big score. Even piecing some of it off to the hotel guy, Mingo must have walked out of the joint with a nice bundle. I liked the fact that he downplayed the result. Of course, the main thing was that Bulldog had introduced him to me.