Chapter 13: The Panic Room

Walker: “We don’t serve time travelers in here.”

Pilar: “A time traveler walks into a bar.”

Saturday morning breakfast, sun streaming in our Main Street windows. Pilar glanced at Walker’s face, looked under the kitchen table, sighed. “Vanessa, what would our family be like if Papi were ... like, normal?”

Vanessa laughed, “Well, we’ll never know, will we?”

I shook my head, “A mother’s burden...”

Pilar held out her hand, “Come on, Papi, I’ll take care of it. Again.”

Gregory stood, “No, I will. Again.”

We watched the two slender, blonde boys, holding hands, walk away. Pilar winked at us, “Fourth time this morning.”

While Birnam was following my hunch, my Hemet Yearbook hunch, the murder trial for Duke Arlington was drawing closer and closer.

Two unrelated cases — blackmail and murder — that revolved around one man. Arlington may or may not be a murderer. My gut told me, yes. And, he may or may not be a blackmailer. My gut told me, yes. And my California investigations told me, YES! And YES!

Proof? Circumstantial-only on the murder rap. But starting to swim into focus on blackmail.

But the timing, the timing on Caitlin and Sandy first meeting each other, didn’t dovetail with the theory I was working on. So, research time, Sullivan time.

The redheaded little leprechauns looked up at me expectantly.

“Okay guys, you know I’m your biggest fan. But I’m afraid this may be beyond even your capabilities.”

Jesse looked at his twin sister, “Reverse psychology?”

“Or clumsy motivational mumbo-jumbo?”

“Probably both.”

Jessie nodded in agreement. They both looked back at me. I laughed, “Okay, okay. I’ll skip the song and dance. Here’s what I need. Go back to when Sandy Seaver first signed with the Royals.”

Jessie said, “He got a $735,000 signing bonus.”

Jesse, “But he only made a couple of thousand a month with the Omaha Storm Chasers.”

“That’s okay. And it’s that time in Nebraska that I want you to focus on.”

Jessie got there a second before her brother, “Because Omaha is in the Pacific League.”

Jesse caught up, “And they played some games in Fresno. And Sacramento.”


Jesse, “So. You want Sandy Seaver’s travel to Orange County back then.”

Jessie, “And any unexplained expenses we can track.”

“Yeah, my mistake was focusing on his Major League career. I should have started earlier. Just like with Duke Arlington.”

Because I was an official FBI investigator on the Arlington case, the prosecutor, Ned Daniels, invited me to sit in on some of the trial strategy meetings. Well, the secretary for his second chair did.

I resolved to observe and learn. Keep my yap shut; I didn’t need to impress anyone; hell, I hadn’t even taken the bar. And that was why I didn’t let Sandra Fleming’s legal team know I’d graduated from law school.

The second chair, Hilary Dunne, a 40-something overweight woman with thinning gray hair, would sit next to Daniels during the trial. On the righthand table facing the judge. Closer to the jury than the Defense table. Hilary would do a lot of the pre-trial interviews and would question some of the Defense and State witnesses on the stand.

If Hilary Dunne resented working for a wunderkind a decade younger, she didn’t let on. And Ned seemed to be indifferent to the age / gender issues. He was focused, focused, focused.

I had asked Sandy why people referred to Ned as Batboy. She smiled, “You’ll see. I hope.”

We were in an FBI conference room assigned to the Arlington prosecutorial team for the duration. 1300 Summit was familiar territory for me. Walker and Pilar had accepted citizens’ bravery awards in a nearby room. The Greta Gunther imbroglio. Dixie Wexler had been allowed to escape from an interview room one floor up.

Ned Daniels, nodded, “Hilary.”

She stood, plump and stooped, weary-looking. “We’ve assigned a media unit to monitor the Arlington coverage. Every press conference, every interview, every article, every column. Every social media post. Everything Arlington and Slick Dick Hyder do, say, imply, hint at. Print and broadcast. Social media.”

She looked around the room. One secretary recording the meeting. One lowly investigator. Two attorneys. But with the weight and majesty of the People behind us.

Ned looked at me, the noob, “We’ll be looking for inconsistencies, slip-ups, hints. Anything that will reveal trial strategy, a strategic witness. An edge.”

He seemed so sure of himself. Fordham Law. Made me want to tell him that I knew New York. Manhattan. John Jay College of Criminal Justice. But I kept my trap shut. He probably already knew my background anyway.

Hillary said, “We believe that Defense will offer up another suspect for the Alabama killing. Alternative suspect.”

Ned nodded, “Hypothesis of innocence. A jury will be more likely to come to believe in reasonable doubt if there’s a non-Arlington explanation. The Defense doesn’t need to prove someone else killed Hindenburg, just that someone else could have.”

Hillary gave me a tired smile, “So, it’s back to Alabama for you. Here are the three Ft. Payne names on Hyder’s witness list. So far. Hyder may try to slip another one in at the last minute, so sniff around while you’re down there.”

I resisted the impulse, childish, to go, “Sniff-sniff.”

Ned said, “Talk about the Defense team.”

Hilary smiled, “Tell Winter what the single most important thing you do on the first day of trial.”

“Make sure my zipper is zipped. Now, Defense.”

Hilary nodded, “Richard Hyder is good. Theatrical, but prepared. Aggressive, but he won’t cross the line.”

Ned looked at me, “He’s a showman. Know where Hyder’s office is?”

“No.”

“Fifth Street in River Market. It’s a storefront office and he sits right in the front window for all to see. Just like Melvin Belli did in San Francisco. Montgomery Street, heart of the financial district.”

“I see.”

Ned turned back to Hilary, “His number two?”

“Anita Bloomfield is young. Attractive. Bank on her lack of experience and you’ll pay. Yale Law, top ten in her graduating class. She’s a demon on prepping a case. She’ll know more about us, about our strategies, than we do.”

Ned smiled at me, “Exaggeration, but not by much. We’re in for a fight.”

Hilary nodded, “We need more evidence.”

Sometimes I catch a glimpse of Vanessa and it just takes my breath away. I don’t take her beauty for granted ... it can be a different angle, a slant of sunlight...

We were alone — the kids had taken Hobo and the Proper Villain on some sort of Saturday morning errand.

She smiled, “Joint?”

“Absolutely.”

She drew it in, reached across our kitchen table, handed it to me. I held my nose, I closed my eyes ... no, no, not Love Potion Number Nine.

I said, “Wow, this is sweet.”

“New mixture. Dotty had ‘em add a little more sativa hybrid. Little less indicia.”

“I like it.”

“It’s like a cross between Sofa Surfer and Rack-Rack.” She smiled at me, “With a little TableFan thrown in to reinforce the THC.”

“I like it. A lot.”

More frequent flyer miles. Because I wasn’t a full-time FBI employee, I got to keep my mileage. Health insurance would have been nicer, but I’d take what I could.

Unlike my earlier visit to Ft. Payne, I could now be more open with the Alabama SBI agent, Sarah Richardson.

I said, “First off, your biker — Gustav Hindenburg was an on-again, off-again snitch for the DEA.”

She sighed, “They never tell us anything.”

“There’s more. The FBI arrested this man while he was up in Chicago.” I handed her Arlington’s booking photo. Gave her his background — baseball. Told her about the fatal stabbing in Anaheim. She made careful notes.

“I followed Arlington to Stevenson. About an hour from here. He was scouting a high school prospect. He also went to a gun shop — Dot’s and Doc’s just outside of town.”

I told her about the knife purchase. Showed her a photo of the Benchmade Adamas Folding Knife. I told her how I’d had to abandon my quest when Poppy got sick. I flew back to Kansas City shortly before Gustav Hindenburg had been murdered. Stabbed four times.

Sarah took her time, digested everything. Kept glancing at the photo of Arlington, of the knife.

She said, “There have been Fédérales snooping around. Didn’t have the courtesy to check in with us. Police Department either. Nor the DeKalb County Sheriff.”

“That was the FBI. Preliminary investigation before they arrested Arlington. I’m the official liaison now. And I promise to keep you informed.” I showed her my badge.

“I thought you were private.”

“I am. Mostly. But I do some consultations when ... when they ask me to. Now the Anaheim killing was a single thrust, then the killer gutted upward.”

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t the same perp who did my guy. Bar fights have different dynamics. Lots of variables — amount of booze and drugs, size, anger ... hell, phase of the moon with some of those crazies.”

“Many killings around here?”

“In Ft. Payne? No. The population is only about 15,000. Going back to 2002 ... let’s see. We’ve had none in five of those years. Other years ... one. And Hindenburg is the only one this year.”

I nodded. Just confirmed what I already knew. I reached into my yellow leather shoulder bag, “Here’s the file on the Anaheim stabbing. Your contact is Lieutenant Hector Sanchez — he’s expecting your call. He’s in Priority Homicide.”

Sarah was warming to the more-cooperative Winter. “Thank you.”

I leaned forward, “Now this is what I heard about Douglas ‘Duke’ Arlington. When he was a child. It won’t have any bearing on our investigation, on his trial; it’s just better to know than not.”

I told her what I’d learned from the former Santa Ana cop / current social worker, Luciana Gutierrez. But first I said, “This is off the record; in fact, I’m not even supposed to know about it. But it should give you some perspective.”

My respect for Sarah notched up when she pushed aside her notebook, folded her arms, and just listened.

When I finished, she said, “Well.”

Then, “I still have a dead biker in my backyard.”

I nodded.

She said, “And over $90,000 in H is missing.”

The DEA snitch was killed in a bar fight. And, apparently, the killer — or maybe someone else — ran off with an unexpected bonus.

Then Sarah shared some previously undisclosed intel with me. Fair enough; I hadn’t been all that forthcoming with her during our first meeting.

She turned an evidence photo around to show me; items found in Hindenburg’s possession after he was killed. A wooden ruler on the left side provided scale.

She pointed with the eraser end of a pencil, “A packet of oral syringes.”

I nodded, “Junkies use them as suppositories — they inject in the rectum.” I shivered, “Or vagina.”

Sarah nodded and pointed to the center of the photograph, “Twenty-two plastique envelopes. White powder.”

“Coke?”

“No, it didn’t numb the tongue. But there was a faint vinegary smell.”

I said, “A by-product of converting morphine to heroin?”

“Yep.” A Southern drawl even with a one-syllable word.

“What’d he cut it with? Vitamin B and quinine?”

“Not this time — he crushed up some Tylenol and added a bit of Fentanyl for some extra kick.”

I quoted, maybe, Bob Frost, “The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.”

Another slanted look. I’m used to it.

I hadn’t told Sarah Richardson about my parallel case with Arlington. I had convinced myself that Caitlin and Sandy Seaver had nothing to do with the knife-murders. However many there turned out to be.

And, I hadn’t mentioned the Seavers to Hector Sanchez. Most significantly, I hadn’t said anything to my boss, Sandra Fleming.

But I did tell Daddy. Who agreed with me. However, he added, “If you come across anything that links the blackmail with the murders...”

“Of course.”

I spent three days in Ft. Payne, Alabama and environs. Interviewed the three Defense witnesses. Bar employees whose depositions would state they hadn’t seen Duke Arlington the night of the stabbing.

I talked with the local police in their South Ft. Payne office. With the DeKalb County Sheriff’s Department. I pledged the full cooperation of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. They were polite about it. Masked their skepticism. Having terrific boobs can pay dividends. Short term anyway.

I talked with the owner of Buddy’s Bar. Then the manager, the bartender, both waitresses who had been working the night Hindenburg was killed. I believed them when they said that they hadn’t seen the deceased leave the tavern. Which meant they hadn’t seen anyone leave with him. No one recognized Arlington.

None of the customers admitted to having been in Buddy’s the night of the murder. It was a cash-only saloon, so no credit card receipts to trace.

We needed more. And I still had that annoying mosquito-like buzz interrupting my thoughts every once in a while. “Winter, you know where Arlington hid those knives.”

Gregory Williams was now a Wrigley fixture. He didn’t spend every weekend with Walker and Pilar, but he was here more than not. Plus he rode the bus with Pilar quite a few afternoons when school let out.

Vanessa seemed bemused. “I was home last Tuesday when Pilar and Gregory got here. Snacks and juice, then back to the bedroom. Shower was running by the time Walker got here.”

Did that mean that Pilar and Gregory were getting it on? Not necessarily. Maybe she was just prepping him for Walker. Maybe.

Three slender teenagers, hormones aflame, absolutely at ease in front of Vanessa and me. Not that they did anything overt ... it’s just they didn’t have the slightest hint of embarrassment, of hesitation, when they strolled off to beddy-bye.

Vanessa checked in with Gregory’s father every once in a while. Just to let him know things were cool in the Crossroads. And, taking his temperature. For whatever reason — he had no clue or he didn’t care or who knows? — he didn’t seem to mind that his only son was practically living with us.

Gregory’s mother? An unknown.

Walker and Pilar shared laundry duties; then Gregory started pitching in. Fair’s fair.

Murder trumped blackmail. And the impending Arlington trial also dictated my calendar.

I was curious about Sandy Seaver though. Now that the blackmailer, presumed blackmailer, had been arrested, did that mean Sandy was off the hook? Not necessarily. And even if Arlington were found guilty and put behind bars, he could still ... well, no sense in speculating at this stage. Too many unknowns. Unknown unknowns.

The Sunday morning loft atmosphere was ... steamy. Vanessa and I had gotten up, eaten an early breakfast with Walker, Pilar, and Gregory. Then she and I exchanged a glance, smiled, and headed back to bed, holding hands.

Walker, sotto voce, “Our role models.”

Vanessa and I, heads held high, ignored him. Little fucker.

I held the side of her head with my hands and thighs as she went through the alphabet backwards. Got as far as T before I shuddered to my first climax. She intensified her tongue and finger action; she likes to get me bucking like crazy.

She takes care of herself, good care, while doing me. I love it that turning me on gets her so excited.

Second shower of the morning. Back with the kids, sipping espresso. Vanessa winked at Pilar, “Winter’s little guy in the boat was especially frisky.”

Pilar grinned; Walker tried to act casual; Gregory looked puzzled.

Pilar took Gregory’s hand, “C’mon, honey, show and tell.”

Walker watched them walk away, his face not displaying a soupçon of jealousy. Vanessa said, “Why aren’t you going with them, baby?”

“Pilar likes ... Pilar and I like for her to have private time with Gregory. A lot to teach him.”

Vanessa stood behind me, reached around, unbelted my kimona. “Winter has a thing or two to teach you, baby.”

Walker stared as I shrugged the silky garment off. Kept staring as it puddled around my bare feet. I squeezed the sudden bulge, “Extra credits if you remember your nautical lessons.”

As we walked by, we heard Pilar screaming, “Yes, Yes, Yes!”

The FBI received full credit for stopping the Aaron Grayhock massacre at St. Dominic. I stayed in the background, but the Feds knew it was my idea, my original plan to target Grayhock with the trackers in the NATO ammunition cartons. And they were grateful, specifically Ash Collins.

He had already agreed to my Greta Gunther suggestion. In fact, liked the idea of a more primitive justice. I had waited until the Grayhock imbroglio was behind us to remind him of the favor I wanted. The Gunther favor.

Ash called me three days later, “Next week. Tuesday, work for you?”

“I’ll make it work. Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

It was my third trip to visit Greta Gunther in Ft. Worth. And definitely my last. Ash and I went through the FMC Carswell drill, surrendering cells, his pistol ... emptying our pockets. Ash showed them his case contained only papers.

Greta didn’t have to meet us, but I knew she would. A change of pace from one dreary day after another dreary day. A chance to gloat about Matt Striker’s death.

Even if I’d had something to gloat back about, I wouldn’t have. Certainly not with Ash there. But even alone ... well, I like to think I wouldn’t stoop to her level. Besides, what I had in mind would trump any petty conversational exchanges.

And, arguing with her, I’d have been at a disadvantage. I had loved Matt. Gunther didn’t care anything about Dixie Wexler and Karl Hoffstatter.

A guard led us into the interview room. The door locked automatically behind him.

“So ... the dyke and the nigger. Perfect. Make any pickaninnies yet?”

Ash just smiled and pulled out a single sheet of paper.

Gunther glared at me, her misshapen face in a permanent scowl, “Too bad about Striker. Breaks me up to see a cop go down.”

Ash eased the paper across the metal table. Gunther glanced at it and went suddenly still. We could see just the top of her head as she bent closer to read it again. An involuntary moan escaped through her lips.

She looked up, furious, and pounded both fists on the table. The guard looked through the little window in the door, then moved away.

“You fuckers ... you ... you ... you can’t do this.”

Ash stood, “Actually, we can. And did.”

Greta Gunther would be transferred into the general population starting tomorrow. The mainline. From her current Carswell wing — the Special-Prisoner Protective Wing. The warden would make sure she wasn’t killed in the yard, but she would be ... out there. Meat. White meat.

I followed Ash to the door. He turned to Gunther, “Winter’s idea. Gen pop is about 70% black and brown. Have fun.”

I didn’t say a word.

The guard closed the door on Gunther’s enraged howl.

My mother, not giddy, but giggly, sipped at her second bourbon. She always enjoyed dinner at BEAR’s — the food, of course. But the outré atmosphere — at least compared with Brookside — with openly gay men, women, couples, would provide delicious stories for her friends.

“At least he was wearing shorts...” / Muscles on muscles...” / Whispered, “My god, the ... bulge on that waiter...”

She followed Herr Hesse to our favorite corner booth, accepted a hug from Bear, beamed as Louie-Louie handed her a bourbon/rocks.

Daddy shook hands with Bear. Two disparate men who respected each other. Two men’s men who overlooked their differences and lived their own lives as they saw fit. Including helping one Winter Jennings in a New York caper involving ... well, a lot.

My mother, Flora, patted Daddy on the thigh and winked at Vanessa, “I wasn’t Dave’s first girlfriend, you know.”