Chapter 11: Promethazine

Two of the FBI’s Chicago agents arrested Duke Arlington late on a Tuesday afternoon. Charge: murdering Gustav Hindenburg in Ft. Payne, Alabama. It was a quiet bust, no media alerts, no perp walk.

It turned out that Gustav Hindenburg, had been a DEA snitch. I would later learn that he hadn’t been particularly reliable. He lied repeatedly to his handler. But he had provided one key lead regarding the Opium Highway from South Florida through Georgia and the Carolinas on up to the Washington DC area.

There was an I-95 rest-stop near the intersection of US 17, US 25, and US 341. The drug truck, a Peterbilt 386 hauling produce, would pull off and spend the night near Brunswick, Georgia. At irregular intervals, bikers would pull into the rest stop, use the john, and pick up a package. The Southeast distribution map looked like a spiderweb.

Thanks to Hindenburg, the feds made a righteous bust, hitting over a dozen regional distribution centers simultaneously.

The murder of Hindenburg was classified as a federal beef because it was drug-related. One undercover DEA agent noted that almost one hundred thousand dollars worth of H was missing.

In Chicago, the FBI agents had been tailing Arlington ever since he landed at O’Hare. He had had a three-hour meeting with the Assistant GM of the White Sox. Followed by a lunch with two of the team’s executives.

Arlington then cabbed north to the Miracle Mile, checked into the Drake where the team had reserved a room for him. More meetings were scheduled for Wednesday.

Around four o’clock, Arlington took a cab to a Holly Brothers Sporting Goods store up in Evanston. The female agent shot a video of him buying a Zero Tolerance folding knife. $266.87, on sale.

Her partner called Sandra Fleming and they jointly agreed to haul Arlington in. Transport his butt back to KC. Sandra told Daddy, “We can’t wait until he stabs someone. Not worth the risk.”

He told me, “If Arlington had fought extradition, they’d have been happy to try his butt up in Chicago. His attorney may try a venue-change to Alabama. No matter what, he won’t be walking around with that knife.”

Daddy had agreed with the decision to arrest Arlington, even though the prosecution process would be a slog. Circumstantial evidence. No murder weapon. The defense would call it, not incorrectly, a fishing expedition.

I looked it up in the law library. The legal rationale for the arrest wasn’t 100% clear, but a ruling from the U. S. Court of Appeals for the First Circuit might give Sandra some cover under the exigent circumstances rules.

Left unspoken was the toxic atmosphere in DC. With prominent members of the executive and legislative branches engaged in relentless verbal attacks on federal law enforcement ... well, the FBI wouldn’t risk having Duke Arlington kill someone while he was under active surveillance.

But beyond the political optics, the organization also wouldn’t risk the life of an innocent, or relatively innocent, person.

I could, but wouldn’t, demonstrate that Arlington was blackmailing Sandy Seaver. That was, I was almost certain, unrelated to any murder charges. Bringing the Seaver mess out in the open would be agony for Caitlin and Sandy. No, my focus, like the prosecutor’s, would be on the charge of murder.

Sandra put me on the FBI team. Investigator. And, since I’d followed Arlington to three different states, a witness. Witness for the Prosecution.

Walker called a family meeting; usually it’s Pilar.

He looked steadily at me, “I’m going to be a lawyer.”

Pilar patted his shoulder, “You’ll be a good one, Papi. Great.”

Almost every mother goes through the usual litany. Astronaut. First baseman with the Royals. Cop. But the kid is getting older...

Vanessa said, “I’m glad that creep is off the street, but how could they arrest Arlington for something he might do? Isn’t that ‘prior restraint’ or something?”

I smiled across our kitchen table at my love. My gorgeous love. She and Pilar, and especially Walker, had been helping me study. Walker, on his own, had been reading my textbooks.

“I think prior restraint limits the government’s ability to restrict free speech. As far as arresting Arlington ... well, anyone with a badge can arrest anyone for anything. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but Sandra Fleming brought Arlington in for a couple of reasons.”

Pilar said, “To keep the fucker from killing someone in Chicago.”

“Yeah, in the short term. But if it hadn’t been Chicago, it could have been his next trip. Or the one after or the one after...”

“What was the second reason?”

“To let him know the FBI, local law enforcement, had eyes on him. That he was an active suspect under active investigation.”

“So he won’t kill anyone. Anyone else.”

“Not for a while. Probably a good, long while. Sandra figured it was better to deter a crime than try to solve the next murder. But she also tipped her hand. And opened up the possibility of a lawsuit.”

Walker looked up, “Wrongful arrest?”

“Yeah, false arrest is when the cops don’t have a warrant or probable cause. Of course if Arlington is convicted...”

Vanessa, “But you think that’s going to be difficult.”

“Very. But there’s precedent for arresting someone when you fear for the public’s safety. The FBI recently did it in Michigan with a guy who was stockpiling so many weapons even the gun dealer called the cops.”

“What happened to him?”

“They couldn’t keep him forever, not based on just suspicions. Even with all of his crazed social media postings. So they have him under psychiatric observation. The hope is they can get him some help.”

“Before he hits a school or a synagogue.”

“Or before he kills himself.”

I had a flash of brilliance. Made an appointment to see Sandra Fleming.

She smiled at me; we got along — two girls in a man’s profession. In a man’s world.

I said, “Okay two murders. Security footage puts Arlington in the Monkey Paw an hour or so before Bruno Hoffman was stabbed to death.”

Sandra nodded.

“Fast-forward to Ft. Payne, Alabama. Another fatal stabbing. No security cams, but I saw — well, figured out — that Arlington bought a knife earlier that day. The day that Gustav Hindenburg was killed.”

Sandra nodded again.

I said, “Both Hoffman and Hindenburg were bikers. Both were black, both had German surnames. I thought that while you’re retracing Arlington’s travel records...”

“We might look for knifings where the vics were black bikers. With Germanic names.”

“You already though of that.”

She smiled.

Walker said, “Okay, what’s a first-appearance hearing?”

The wannabe lawyer was accompanying the not-yet-a-lawyer to Duke Arlington’s first public event since he’d been arrested. The Honorable William Randolph behind the bench.

I said, “First-appearance is just the start of the judicial process. The prosecutor will read the charges — murder — and Judge Randolph will set an arraignment date.”

“What happens at the arraignment?”

“Arlington will enter his plea — not guilty.”

“Will they hold him in jail until then?”

“Probably not. Today he gets to request bail. It’ll be granted. Almost certainly.”

“Why?”

“Solid member of the community. No priors. And the evidence is so circumstantial the courthouse kibitzers are wondering why charges were even filed in the first place.”

This was Thursday morning and Judge Randolph set the arraignment date for the following Monday. And released Arlington on OR — his own recognizance. But he had to post a $100,000 property lien as collateral to secure the bond. The source? His mother’s house in Arlington.

The judge didn’t say anything specific, but his attitude, facial expression, posture, indicated puzzlement that charges had even been brought.

Although Arlington’s arrest had garnered considerable local attention — his connection to the Royals — the first-appearance hearing didn’t attract much press notice. It was a perfunctory step; the arraignment would draw more attention. Of course, the trial itself would be the main attraction.

The sparsity of media didn’t stop Arlington’s attorney — Richard ‘Slick Dick’ Hyder from holding a hallway presser. Hyder wasn’t nationally prominent, but he was pretty well known around the Kansas City legal circuit.

In his 60s, Hyder was tall with thick white hair combed straight back. Impeccable tailoring, ramrod posture. A quiet, soothing baritone that had juries leaning forward to hear the pearls of wisdom. Formidable litigator.

“Frankly, I am surprised that my client was even arrested. The Prosecution usually exercises more ... sensibility. In any case, the matter should be swiftly resolved and the innocent exonerated.”

Hyder ignored two reporters’ questions in order to announce his typical aggressive strategy, “We will not be waiving our right to a speedy trial.”

Sixty days from the arraignment to trial. More pressure on the People to come up with something concrete — like a murder weapon linked to Arlington.

I called Chip O’Grady. Naturally, he came right to the phone. Boobs.

“Favor. I’d like to see Duke Arlington’s office. His work space. The personal stuff he came back to try to collect after you fired him.”

He teased me, “Got a warrant?”

“Nope.”

“Come on out. It’s not Arlington’s office anymore; it’s the team’s. There’s a box of junk we haven’t gotten around to sending him yet. The FBI has already been through everything.”

“This afternoon?”

“Sure, anytime after two.”

Chip’s face didn’t fall when he saw Walker by my side. He was actually pretty cool about it. My son had been impressed when I punched in the four-digit entry code — 3333 — to the office complex entrance in the K.

I threaded around desks, through various offices, following the same path that Emile Chanson had taken on my first visit to the K. Chip shook hands with Walker, double cheek-kissed me, very Continental.

Chip escorted us down two levels, through another labyrinth, and into the section that housed all the scouting executives. Male scouting executives. I was aware of the scrutiny. I wore a black linen double-breasted blazer, no blouse, over white skinny-leg jeans. No bra either. Black faux suede block heel sandals that added a couple of inches. No bra.

Arlington’s former office was still full of work product. Files, stacks of paper, reams of statistics, maps, hand-scribbled notes. Someone had not fully embraced the digital revolution. Which was fine with me; I liked ink-on-paper myself.

I started with Arlington’s personal stuff. Louis L’Amour paperbacks — Westerns. Un-filed expense reports, which I guess were both personal and business. A baseball autographed by Fernando Valenzuela. An old iPod.

No clues, no hints, no knives.

Chip winked at Walker, “Want to go out on the field?”

“Yes!”

Chip led us to an unmarked elevator, through a maze of corridors, through the Royals locker room. Walker stared, open-mouthed. Lots of hot tubs, massage tables. Hmm ... We emerged into the dugout on what Walker said was the “First base side.”

Even though the Royals’ season was over, the infield and outfield grass was still trimmed. In fact, a crew of four was raking the dirt. Now why there’s dirt inside a baseball park is one of those mysteries that I’m not curious enough about to ask. Chip and Walker seemed to know.

But I had to admit it was a magnificent sight. The stadium towered all around us, making me feel like a little ant. I could almost imagine what it would be like filled with tens of thousands of people staring down at you. Cheering wildly. I would tip my cap to casually acknowledge ... never mind.

Chip touched Walker’s arm, smiled, and said, “C’mon.”

We walked to the middle of the diamond and stood on what I now knew was the pitcher’s mound. He could barely breathe.

Chip pulled a ball from his windbreaker, tossed it to my son, nodded at the plate, “Throw a strike.”

Walker tried that sudden-composure move that fools no one. Nodded briskly, yep, everyday occurrence, and turned to face an imaginary batter. I wish I could say he zoomed one in, but the ball kicked up dirt and bounced.

Chip said, “Good direction. Right at it.”

Then he touched my back, “Turn around.”

He pointed to the giant scoreboard I’d remembered from the games Walker and I attended. Even without all the flashing lights, bells, videos, it was impressive. Huge.

Chip said, “Years ago, before I got here, the Royals were accused of stealing signs. Rumor was they had a guy inside the board.”

Walker, “Catcher’s signs?”

“Yeah, relaying it to our dugout. And a coach would signal our third base coach who would signal the batter. Big advantage to know when a breaking ball is coming at you.”

I said, “That’s one massive board.”

Chip nodded, “It’s evolved over time. Had to. Scores used to be posted by hand. Then mechanically. Of course it’s all digital now.”

“Like the train board in Grand Central Terminal.” Chip wasn’t the only board-literate one on that pitcher’s mound.

On the drive back to the Wrigley, it was like Walker was on a sugar high. He couldn’t stop babbling about the insider tour Chip had given us. Then he got that innocent-imp look on his face and pulled open the left side of my blazer. Tweaked a bare nipple with his index finger.

“Chip was sure checking out your pups.”

“Surely.”

“Don’t call me Shirley.”

“Walker.”

“Winter.”

“Scientists now believe that the primary biological function of breasts is to make men stupid.”

He pulled my blazer wider.

“Hands off the merchandise.”

He twirled my nipple, “Or... ?”

“I’ll disconnect the passenger airbag.”

Gregory Williams, Pilar’s classmate and Walker’s ... um, friend, wasn’t a weekly visitor to the Wrigley. But it wasn’t unusual to see him in our loft when Vanessa or I came home.

He seemed surprisingly at ease given the raison d’être for his visit. Even Walker seemed ... comfortable. And Pilar didn’t vary the routine just because an adult happened to be around. Shower first. Playtime. Shower.

Naturally, Pilar would push the envelope. At our kitchen table — fried empanadas for snacks — she winked at me. Kissed Gregory on the cheek, “He’s such a marvelous little cocksucker, Winter.”

Gregory reached for another empanada. Unruffled. Walker looked down at his plate, a small smile on his face. Mr. Sophisticate.

Mindy Montgomery called me from Stanford every once in a while. Just staying in touch prior to moving in with us.

“I’m still working on the shooting script. Since everything will be at one location, I can afford to change my mind about the order I shoot the scenes in. But I want to have a clear outline in mind before I start.”

“Of course. We’re all excited here.”

“Pilar is cool?”

“Très. Oh, Mindy, you should know ... Walker has a little boyfriend now. In addition to Pilar. In fact, he’s Pilar’s friend too.”

“They share him?”

“Um, maybe. Walker is growing up. Some.”

“Wow. I mean, wow.”

Walker: “Guy sees an old woman fishing with a stick and a string in a puddle by the sidewalk. Thinks, ‘She must be a poor old fool,’ and out of the kindness of his heart, he invites the woman into a bar for a drink.”