Chapter 15: EEEE!

Richard Hyder was apoplectic, “Your Honor! This is outrageous! Trial by ambush! I’ve never seen anything so ... underhanded, so deceitful, in my forty-one years before the bar.”

“Is there an objection in there?” Judge Graves seemed more amused than annoyed.

“Yes! Yes there is. The Defense hasn’t even begun to present its case and this ... this ... private eye miraculously points the way ... I object! This ... these items cannot be entered into evidence.”

“Grounds?”

“Illegal search and seizure.” He continued fuming, “I ask for an immediate stay to take the matter up on appeal.” Anita Bloomfield was tugging at his sleeve, trying to calm him down. Judges resent even the mere mention of an appeal.

“Approach the bench.”

Hyder and Bloomfield, Daniels and Dunne gathered around the judge. He turned on the sound-masking device. A sort of white-noise wall that would prevent the jurors from hearing anything. Although I did hear the word ‘fungible’ seep out; Hyder must have practically screamed it.

As usual, this Friday morning the judge had the thermostat cranked way down. He preferred a chilly room to keep the jurors awake and alert. Well, they certainly were riveted by the latest drama. Although Ms. Influenza still had the sniffles. And a hacking cough.

Something interesting was happening after Judge Graves reminded me I was still under oath. It took a while for me to become aware of Arlington’s change of focus, his shift of attention. Angry attention.

Ned had put me back on the stand to explain my rationale, my logic, in intuiting where Arlington’s knives might be hidden. He led me through the backstory — the day that Walker and I visited the K. The day that Chip led us out onto the field. For texture, maybe for verisimilitude, Ned had me describe the visit to the pitcher’s mound. Walker’s toss in the direction of an imaginary batter.

I smiled at Ned, “My son bounced it in the dirt.” Verisimilitude that.

Ned plowed gamely along, “And... ?”

“Mr. O’Grady told us a story, before his time, when it was rumored the Royals had a spy hidden up in the scoreboard. Signaling ... signs to ... the batter.” I couldn’t remember the fucking details.

Fortunately Ned was a fan. “The spy would signal someone in the dugout who would flash a sign to the third base coach. Who would tell the batter whether the next pitch would be a fastball, breaking ball.”

I nodded, “Yes, exactly like that.” Ms. Inside Baseball.

Richard Hyder, barely bothering to disguise his irritation with the upstart private eye, was objecting, objecting, objecting. I knew enough about the courtroom dance to understand that part of Hyder’s strategy was to interrupt Ned’s rhythm. To disrupt the flow of the narrative.

But the judge was consistently overruling Hyder and was also growing irritated. I glanced at the jury box. Other than Ms. Influenza who seemed lost in her own phlegmy world, the jurors seemed to be annoyed as well. It was, fair enough, an interesting morning and they wanted to hear the latest skinny.

That was when I first noticed that Duke Arlington was turning some of his visible ire from me to his attorney. Hyder had fought hard, in chambers, to suppress the knives. Judge Graves did make one concession, “You can have your own expert present when the knives are tested.”

Ned Daniels didn’t object.

The FBI lab would run Arlington’s fingerprints against any they found on the knives. Unless he’d wiped them incredibly sterile, there should be a match from the weapons or from the case. Preferably both.

That would be done over the weekend. Searching for blood traces and then a match with Hindenburg — perhaps the key to the entire trial — would follow.

Each time they returned from a sidebar, or from an in-camera session, Hyder would sit beside Arlington, whispering updates. And most of those terse bulletins were not good news for the Defense table.

It was fascinating in a ghoulish way to watch Arlington’s transformation as the trial progressed that Friday morning. He still glowered whenever he looked at me on the stand. But more and more of his frustration was directed at his own attorney, Richard Hyder.

The fact that Hyder, the entire Defense team, had been blindsided with the scoreboard discovery didn’t seem to register with Arlington. He was just furious at the day’s turn of events.

When Ned finished leading me through my Royals testimony, Hyder stood, “No questions at this time, your Honor.” Arlington clenched his fists, a vein throbbed in his forehead.

As I stepped down from the witness stand, someone said, “Oh,” very softly. I looked over to the jury box and Ms. Influenza, face pale, leaned over the rail and vomited through the tissues she clutched with both hands.

I stepped back instinctively as a loud alarm went off in the hallway. Judge Graves had pressed the panic button on the side of his desk and two deputies and two paramedics rushed inside the courtroom.

The bailiff, a 60-year old black man, seen-it-all, was already back with a bucket and mop. The courtroom was abuzz despite the repeated gavel-bangings coming from on high.

Judge Graves finally brought the room to order. Two paramedics had placed the sick juror on a stretcher and wheeled her off.

Duke Armstrong was scowling, staring down at the Defense table.

The judge adjusted his microphone and addressed the jury, “It’s now 11:29. Ordinarily I would break for an early lunch, but ... we’ve had enough excitement for one day. We’ll reconvene at 9 AM sharp on Monday. I hope the Juror Number Seven will have recovered by then. Do not discuss the case, do not watch news reports, do not read about the case. This applies to the alternates as well. Thank you.”

He banged his gavel especially sharply, annoyed at losing the afternoon, “Court adjourned.”

Ned, smiling, said, “Quick strategy meeting.” He and Hilary led me to the same waiting room I’d ... um, waited in on my first day of testimony. I looked at Walker, “Wanna hang for a while?”

“That’s okay, I’ll fade.” No telling how long I’d be. Plus, Pilar would be bringing Gregory home once school let out.

Ned closed the door and said, “I now officially believe in women’s intuition.”

Hilary said, “You rescued the case, Winter.”

“What if there aren’t any fingerprints? Or blood traces?”

Ned, “We’re still far, far better off than we were.” He folded his arms, “I refuse to believe that anyone else with access to Kauffman Stadium just happened to stash a Benchmark Adamas Folding Knife in the Butcher Board.”

“Butcher Board?”

Hilary said, “That’s what a stringer for the Star blogged a few minutes ago.”

I remembered that Ned had a media watchdog unit. Butcher Board. The Royals won’t like that. Butcher Board.

As we were leaving, I said, “I heard Hyder say ‘fungible’ at the sidebar.”

Hilary nodded, “Only argument he could come up with on the fly. He was trying to claim that the knives were interchangeable. Meaningless as evidence.”

Ned said, “That would work only if we didn’t have a narrative. Your visit to the Alabama gun shop, the owner’s identification of Arlington. His access to Kauffman Stadium. We have both a story and witnesses.”

I would learn about the Friday afternoon massacre later that day.

My courthouse meeting with Ned and Hilary lasted only about 15 minutes. I drove home to collect Adam. Then we’d head to Brookside. Daddy was grilling hamburgers that evening and I’d meet Vanessa there.

The kids, including Gregory, would find their own way to Meyer Boulevard. If they could tear themselves out of bed. My mother didn’t quite know what to make of the fact that her beloved Walker now had a little boyfriend. Daddy, as usual, was equanimous. Probably figured — correctly — that his grandson was simply a 15-year old hormonally enriched boy.

Back at the courthouse, Agent Randy Ogden, tasked with trailing Arlington, followed the Defense team over the freeways and back to Hyder’s office on 5th. Hyder drove a Mercedes, just like Arlington. Who had parked his own car in the lot next to his attorney’s storefront office.

Ogden watched Hyder park and observed the three of them walking into the office to discuss the morning’s disastrous turn. When the delivery boy from Brown and Loe dropped off a carton of food, Ogden drove over to the City Diner and grabbed a burger and fries to go.

As Hyder’s paralegal, Jennifer Adamski, was transferring their lunch from to-go cartons to plates, Arlington went out to his car and pulled a KA-BAR 5018 combat knife from his glove compartment.

Security footage would show that he walked with solemn determination, knife held point-down by his right thigh.

The crime scene reconstruction, aided principally by blood-splatter analyses, indicated that Arlington came up behind the seated Hyder, wrapped his left arm around his head, and sliced through both jugular veins and the carotid artery. It took manic strength to penetrate as deeply as Arlington did.

Arlington immediately pivoted to his right, lunged across the conference table, and stabbed Anita Bloomfield in the lower neck, gouging and twisting upwards. She had half-fallen backwards in her chair by the time Arlington reached her.

Adamski had been nearest to the conference room door and made it as far as her desk eleven paces away. Arlington tackled her from behind, the 7-inch steel blade slicing through her right thigh. Arlington then straddled her back and stabbed down 13 times.

The coroner wrote, “Fueled by fury.”

Arlington was splattered in blood from his shoulders to his waist.

Still carrying the U. S. Marine Corps knife, he walked back to his Mercedes and headed toward The Wrigley.

“Thank you, Nature Boy.”

“Ms. Winter.”

Adam watched as I gave Hobo his beloved stroking. I poured out a snack for Hobo and the Proper Villain. Pilar would feed them again before she left for the Brookside cookout.

Adam padded back to my bedroom, watched indifferently as I undressed, took a quick shower. I pulled on a bra, looked at Adam, “Daddy.”

It was mid-November, but temperatures were still in the low 70s so I opted for a white V-neck, just a hint of cleavage. I was still nude from the waist down when Chip called, “How’d it go?”

“Monday will be the key day. They’re testing the knives over the weekend.”

“Dinner? Next week?”

“Hmm ... that’s a possibility. Call me Monday night.”

“You’ve never been to my place.”

“Haven’t I? So many boys, so many places, I lose track.”

“Winter.”

“Call me next week. Walker’s knock, knock, knocking at my door. Bye.”

I called out, “Yes?”

“What do you think about these flowers? For Flora?” His grandmother. Little suck-up.

“They’re fine.”

“Winter.”

“Enter at your own risk.”

He opened the door; stopped short, staring. “Oh.”

I held out my hands, “Flowers.”

He daze-walked over, handed me a nice bouquet. Still staring.

I said, “Lovely. Rosetti’s?”

Walker nodded dumbly.

I tossed him the flowers, “Slice on the diagonal, place in water. Insert tongue back in mouth.”

“God, Winter, you’re ... you are...”

Poor lad, gobsmacked. His right hand went unconsciously to his bulge.

I hefted my boobs, “Chill. I’m wearing a bra.”

He blinked back into consciousness. Nodded judiciously, “Yes you are.” He tweaked my left nipple, my right. “But I can still see your headlights.”

“Hey, no fair.”

Adam watched closely.

“Winter...” His voice cracked.

“Walk.”

“You are ... magnificent.”

“I know.” I ran my index finger down his tumescent protuberance, “It’s about 12:30.”

“Okay.”

Up and down, up and down. “What time will Pilar deliver Gregory?”

“Uh ... around 3:30, little after.”

I stroked with the palm of my hand, “Oh, just three hours, you’ll be fine.”

“Winter.”

I strolled over to my dresser, selected pink and sheer and silky. Sat down on the end of the bed facing Walker. Smiled innocently and extended my left leg, pulled the panties over my toes, over my foot, up my ankle, up my calf, up my thigh.

His face had gone from pink to red.

I leaned back on my elbows, smiling, “I’ve always enjoyed seeing a boy so flummoxed.”

He was staring, pink panties, tan thigh, pink, tan. I felt a tingle myself. Shivered just a tad.

Adam looked solemnly on.

I brought my right heel up to my butt, “Honey?”

“Yes?” Croak.

I stretched my left leg out, rubbed the throbbing lump with the bottom of my foot, “Is it painful?” My nipples were diamond-hard rubbing against my bra. My panties felt so soft on my thigh.

“Yes. I mean, no ... I dunno.”

I continued my foot massage, toying with him. I lowered my right knee sideways to the sheet. “You don’t know?”

He was looking from my foot, along my leg, to me, to my other leg, back to me. The room felt steamy. I slowly metronomed my right knee back up, back to the sheet, back up.

He thrust gently against my foot, “It feels good, but also...”

I scooted my butt forward an inch or so. “But also... ?”

Such hunger in his eyes. “You make me want to...”

“To?”

“You know.”

“Tell me, baby boy.”

“Explode.”

“Ah. Why didn’t you say so? Take off your jeans. This instant.” Mom voice.

He kicked off his sneakers and socks, lost his jeans in a second. Thumbs under the waistband of his white boxer-briefs.

I held up a palm; he froze.

I placed my hands on his butt, drew him too me. Grinned up, “Explode.”

I licked my way down to his starkly outlined head. Gave him a quick nip, then sucked through the soft cotton. He moaned and ran his hands through my hair.

Didn’t take long; I continued the sucking motion for several seconds after he had finished spurting.

I stood, smiled up at him, my handsome, slender, beautiful, blonde boy.

“Winter.”

“Walk.”

“I love you. So much.”

“Of course you do.”

I peeled off my tee, unhooked my bra. Grinned at Walker as I shimmied my left leg to puddle my panties on the floor.

“I need another shower. So do you. Scoot.”

But I stood there a few seconds allowing him to drink everything in. My nipples were fully engorged, my pussy moist, my nerves tingling in an anticipatory way.

“God, Winter.”

“I know.”

In the shower, I sat on the horizontal bench under the water and brought myself off right away. No need for toys, no need for foreplay. My middle finger found the mark and my “EEEE!” echoed in the tiled enclosure.

Adam had heard me masturbate before, hell, had watched me a few times, so he didn’t attempt a bathroom rescue.

I brought the hand-held attachment down and slouched so I could direct the flow fore and aft at the same time. I started diddling myself with my right hand, thumb at Mission Control. Even if I had I bothered to consider that my screams and yelps of joy could be heard all over the loft, I wouldn’t have slowed down.

I was in heat.

The relief of finding the knives. The flirty call from Chip. The unexpected entrance by Walker. The ravenous hunger in his expression. I looked good, knew it, I worked hard at looking good.

And our middle-of-the-workday encounter — unplanned, totally spontaneous. If I had intended to ambush the lad, I would have been ... more ... something.

But, above all, the unalloyed yearning in Walker’s eyes.

I brought the nozzle closer and closer, finally touching it against me. I had a quick second orgasm. Then a third, a fourth. I let out my breath. Sat up, replaced the hand-held.

As I dried myself, I couldn’t stop smiling. I’d thought, off and on over the years, about sucking Walker off. Vanessa encouraged me to, but I’d held back for some reason. What I’d given him a few minutes earlier hadn’t been a blowjob, but it hadn’t not been one either.

It wasn’t a moral dilemma for me, not hardly. My hesitation stemmed from what it might do to Walker. I would bet, a lot actually, that his overall reaction would be purely positive. Short term for sure, but long term as well.

Oh well, philosophical thoughts for another time.

Walker, hair still damp, was in the kitchen. “Lunch? I could heat up some of Pilar’s stew.”

“No thanks, I’m going to head to Brookside.”

He grinned a teenage grin, “You sure were loud. Cum much?” Cheeky lout.

“Oh?” I strode toward him, backing him against a counter.

He grinned down at me. How the fuck did he get so tall?

“I must have really turned you on, Winter.”

“Turn on? You think you know how to turn someone on?”

He tossed his head back and went, “EEEE!”

I hid my smile, stifled my laughter, “Tell you what, buddy boy. Next time I’m going to make you cum without even touching you.”

That threw him. “Uh? How?”

“You’ll see.”

Pilar: “A three-legged dog walks into a bar, his spurs clinking, his six-shooter slapping at his furry hip.”

Walker: “I’m looking for the man who shot my paw.”

Sometimes I teased Adam, just for a mo. I pushed the elevator button and he made a quiet protest sound, deep in his chest.

“Oh, sorry, Adam, I forgot.”

He sighed in pleasure as I Velcroed his black chest protector on.

“Thank you, Nature Boy.”

“Ms. Winter.”

We walked through the section of the Wrigley lobby that led to the back door. Adam was a familiar sight by now. I waved to Mrs. Flores behind the counter.

“Where’s Walker?”

“Upstairs, probably getting into trouble.”

“Not that angel.”

Ho.

I looked through the diamond-shaped window before exiting to the alley. A habit dating back to my Greta Gunther days. Adam stared at the steel door as if he could see through it.

In the alley, Adam and I did our usual 180, looking to our left — south toward Union Station. Straight ahead, the parking garage. Right — north, downtown. All clear.

We turned right, eased left across the alley, and I pushed open the pneumatic door to the garage. I was thinking about this evening. My mother would have the house in immaculate shape even though we’d be mostly in the backyard.

Daddy allowed Walker, and no one else, to assist at the grill. Sous-chef.

Guest list ... Lina and Matt Whitney. Poppy of course. Luzon López and her son, Ennio. Walker, Pilar, and Gregory. Vanessa and me. I counted off mentally ... with my parents, an even dozen. Plus any neighbors my mother might invite.

Well, burgers and beer, not the most difficult dinner to organize. Bourbon for my mother...

Adam tensed, sniffing the air. A barely audible, throaty growl.

“Adam. What is it?” I reached for Heckler & Koch in my shoulder holster just as Arlington, screaming in rage, flung himself at my back across the hood of the Chrysler parked next to Matt’s Audi.

I jumped at the sound just as Arlington slashed his knife down at me. I felt a white hot pain — he buried two or three inches in my right buttock.

Adam was a heat-seeking missile, his jaws hinged wide open. He clamped down with his teeth, capturing Arlington’s entire face, ear to ear. The force of his leap knocked Arlington on his back, the knife stuck in place.

I lay, dazed, on my left side trying to comprehend what had just happened.

Arlington’s muffled screams were swallowed in the cavern of Adam’s huge maw. He was clawing at Adam, then pounding him with fists. Adam shifted his stance slightly, centered himself more steadily.

Adam was braced on his four paws, starting to shake his head back and forth. I blinked, forcing myself to think. Adam could either bite through Arlington’s head or break his neck.

I gasped out, “Stay, Adam.”

No reaction.

What the fuck was the French command? My mind was reeling — should I pull the knife out? Would that send blood spurting? I settled for pulling my pistol out and aiming at Arlington’s chest; I was still lying on my left side.

“RESTER! Adam, RESTER!”

The focused Cane Corso, the massive Cane Corso, stopped shaking his head. Stood stock-still, paws still anchored to the concrete floor. Arlington’s face still trapped in his jaw. My pain was intensifying.

I called Daddy.

I didn’t lose consciousness and that was not necessarily a blessing.

Two paramedics, first on the scene, ignored Arlington and Adam. Talk about focus. They both wore purple nitrile gloves. One of them raised my head and cradled it in her lap. Her partner snipped my jeans open around the knife. He held up a sterilized pressure pad, “I’m going to remove the knife. Then I’ll tape the pad tightly. That’ll slow the bleeding until we get you to St. Luke’s.”

“Save the knife. And my pistol.”

The woman held up two plastic evidence bags. Not their first emergency call. They’d hand the evidence over to the first cops on the scene. Who were there almost immediately.

A black and white careened around the corner, two uniforms jumped out, while the car was still rocking. They had pistols pointing at the ceiling. They stood on either side of Arlington who was still on his back, still trapped in the jaws of death.

The older cop said, “Lady, can you call him off?”

His partner said, “We don’t want to have to shoot him.”

“Shut up, Jeff.”

I said, “Adam!”

His ears pricked up, but he didn’t move, didn’t turn to look at me.

“Libérer, Adam, libérer.”

It registered, I could just tell. Adam let out a deep sigh, opened his jaws just a little wider and stepped back. Daintily, placing his paws carefully. Arlington moaned, “Fucking Christ.” Deep teeth marks, bleeding freely, pockmarked the perimeter of his face.

Daddy arrived while they were loading me into the ambulance. He was in civvies, no uniform, no badge, but in full command mode. He looked at the driver, “Dog goes too.”

No argument; Adam hopped up into the back of the ambulance.

Daddy followed the ambulance to the emergency room; Bulldog and Emile were minutes later. Then Vanessa, Sandra Fleming, Sergeant Louise Finch, Sergeant Cathal Conway.

The media coverage, thank you, Bulldog, identified me only as ‘an FBI investigator’. Who received ‘an upper thigh’ wound. My anonymity would hold until formal attempted-murder and assault charges were filed against Arlington. By then the feeding frenzy should have abated.

Adam stayed with me both nights in the hospital. I’d lost some blood, but nothing life-threatening. I had 32 mini-stitches, endured too many ‘pain in the butt’ jokes. Ate some bland hospital food and was 100% ready to go home.

I was sore, of course. Sat on my left haunch. Slept on my left side. I’d have a scar, but the surgeon assured me it would be almost imperceptible. She smiled, “Now if it had been a little lower, where you’re tanned...”

I wouldn’t worry about it. Anyone seeing my ... um, upper thigh would be someone I was pretty intimate with.

Clint flew out from New York while I was still at St. Luke’s. Vanessa, bless her, juggled Clint and Chip visits. For some reason, I didn’t feel guilty about having two suitors.

Clint was already my long-distance lover and he was a treasure. But I just didn’t love him. Not yet, anyway. Not the way I had Matt Striker.

Chip? Well, we’ll see. I doubt, no I knew, that he’d never be a serious boyfriend. But it’s delicious to be pursued, even with an upper thigh scar. Besides, Chip was a playful cove, I doubted that he wanted any girl to get serious about him.

Of course no one would come anywhere close to Vanessa.

Then it was time. Vanessa took Walker, Pilar, and Gregory out to a Saturday lunch. Hobo and the Proper Villain too.

René Reynard was right on the button, two o’clock.

Adam barked joyfully as René stepped off the freight elevator. Then Adam stopped. Looked back at me. He knew.

René had brought his wheeled dog carrier with him. I laid out Adam’s protective vest, which, thankfully, he hadn’t needed. He whimpered softly.

René said, “We do this all at once. Now.”

I got on my knees, tears streaming, hugged Adam tightly. His massive body trembled slightly; he whined, the first time I’d heard that.

René spoke sharply, “Entrer, Adam. Entrer.”

Moving slowly, looking over his shoulder at me, Adam walked into the carrier.

René said, “He will recover.”

“Thank you, René, Adam saved my life.”

Shrug, “War dog.”

The Duke Arlington story had legs. Went national. ‘Butcher Board’ with photos of the K’s scoreboard lit up. ‘Savage Scout’. Photos and video of the former major leaguer.

The FBI had found Arlington’s prints on the three knives in the Halliburton case. And on the case itself. Blood traces on the Benchmade Adamas Folding Knife matched the Ft. Payne victim, Gustav Hindenburg.

Minuscule droplets on a second knife matched a fatal stabbing victim, another biker, also black, in Cleveland. While Arlington had been in town.

Every major police department with an open case — a stabbing homicide — was in contact with Sandra Fleming’s office.

No proof yet on the Monkey Paw murder in Anaheim, but that case was being revisited. Intensely.

There had been some considerable speculation, and negative press, when the Arlington trial had first started. Why had the jackbooted FBI arrested an upright citizen for simply buying a knife? Both the suspicious right-wing and the liberal lefties were united in their condemnations.

But as news of the three white-on-black murders emerged, the opposition quieted down. Although, predictably, Arlington was being celebrated in postings and speeches from white supremacists. Now the FBI had to be alert for copycat killers.

In addition to the Ft. Payne and Cleveland murders, Arlington was charged with killing Richard Hyder, Anita Bloomfield, and Jennifer Adamski. And the attempted murder of one Winter Jennings.

Of all the charges he would be facing, Sandra Fleming and I were most pleased with the Alabama one. She’d had Arlington arrested for that murder and had been proven right. It had been a gamble picking him up just because he’d purchased another knife. The whole thing could have turned south.

It would be months before Duke Arlington stepped into another courtroom. New defense attorneys of course. Evidence was still being collected. Witnesses interviewed.

The wheels of justice would grind slowly for a while, but Arlington would never take another breath of free air. Unfortunately, though, he wasn’t quite finished with his malevolent ways.

I’m not jogging yet — upper thigh injuries can be tricky — but I’m back to walking five miles a day. Minimum.

The scar is under two inches long. A hard, white ridge, raised a little. Vanessa often traces her finger along it. At night, in our bed.

Hobo, and this may be projection on my part, seemed to miss Adam. The Proper Villain? Played his cards pretty close to his vest.

The Kansas City Royals didn’t savor the publicity, but there wasn’t much they could do about it. At my suggestion — tendered through Bulldog to Mayor Tom Lynch — the Royals Board of Directors voted to hire a two-person PR team from New York. North and North Communications.

They had earned considerable behind-the-scenes esteem during my John Jay days. At first, for keeping prominent clients out of unwanted spotlights.

But in this lightning-round digital age, there wasn’t much that the husband and wife team could do to slow the sensationalist juggernaut that was the Arlington Express. They countered as best they could with player interviews, press releases, blogs, vlogs, cable and broadcast appearances, live streams. A highlight World Series retrospective. A focus on the upcoming spring training season. It may have done some good.

But the media machine would crank up again once the murder trials began. Butcher Board.

While we were waiting for the next court date — Arlington’s first go-round had been declared a mistrial — Mindy Montgomery moved back to Kansas City, moved into our loft. She was ready to start on her documentary — “The Wrigley” — for her first UCLA Film School project. Technically the UCLA School of Theater, Film and Television.

Vanessa and I were most interested in Pilar’s reaction. She wasn’t the jealous type; in fact she’d delivered Gregory to Walker. Still, Mindy had been Walker’s very first girlfriend. First kiss, first necking, first ... well, first everything. From masturbation to oral sex to ... well, everything.

Mindy had shorn her hair and grown her boobs. Both looked good on her. Hair and boobs, I mean. Well, both boobs too. Never mind.

It wasn’t a buzz cut, but it was shorter than a pixie. Highlighted Mindy’s strong facial features. A sophisticated look. She’d just turned 18 and had so much self-confidence compared with when she first left here for California.

I was surprised — Mindy had brought just one case with her. Well, she’d be traveling back and forth to LA.