Chapter 11: A Bouquet of Pheasants

On a hunch, Clint asked his Vanguard counterpart in Boise to go through the old surveillance videos before the raid on the Gunther compound in northern Idaho. A raid clandestinely approved and funded by Senator Harper Wainwright. And orchestrated by his chief of staff, Constance Grayson. And field-directed by Matt Striker.

Boise called back the next day. Winner-winner, chicken dinner!

Martin Folsom again.

That tied him to two American Nazi compounds. And also made me start reconsidering the strategic importance of Dixie Wexler’s ambassadorial rounds. Working through Greta Gunther, who was indirectly tied to the Meriwethers, Wexler had roamed from compound to compound. His buddy, Karl Hoffstatter, had performed a similar role in arms procurement.

I had thought that, in addition to spreading the gospel, Wexler was coordinating a nationwide protest, White Patriots Day. I guess it didn’t really matter — the last time I saw him he was lying dead in a Wyoming field.

But maybe he’d been more of a front, a distraction. The Meriwethers were certainly capable of playing three-dimensional chess. So if we could tie Martin Folsom to a few hate compounds outside of Idaho...

Unfortunately, the ‘we’ was now the FBI. Clint knew my desire to stay involved, but told me, “We can’t keep this Folsom intel to ourselves. Not if The Restoration really is planning a nationwide assassination campaign.”

I knew Clint was right and I didn’t argue. J. Edgar had the manpower, the budget, the technological resources. And the legal mandate to obtain warrants.

Still.

Gene Austin’s new plan for the Wrigley was an acknowledgement that the Crossroads gentrification had changed both the demographics and the dynamics of the neighborhood.

He’d been ahead of the trend in recognizing the potential of the neighborhood back when he first bought the hotel. And I’d been one of the first urban pioneers in town to grasp the NYC magic of loft-living. Or, more accurately, to appreciate the creation of a loft-like space from fifteen or so hotel rooms in a building more than a century old.

Gene told us, “I could convert the entire hotel to residential units but I want to keep the bottom four floors as hotel rooms. There are some tax advantages, but mainly I just like all the changing faces, the public interactions.” He smiled, “And the restaurant customers.”

Gertie Oppenheimer sat in on the second, and final, decision-meeting. Vanessa and I could read the numbers ourselves, but why not include a savvy barracuda on our side of the table?

Although there turned out not to be any financial negotiations. Gene simply wanted to do the conversion and offered us the top floor with no change in the monthly rent — the $5,200 would stay the same. And, no change in the 10% that went toward our eventual ownership of the loft; our growing equity would just be transferred from floor five to six.

Gertie said, “Go for it, ladies.”

Of course there were a million details — selling the fifth-floor loft. The move upstairs. Reconfiguring the elevator card key access to six. Closing off the public stairway to the roof. Oh, and we’d need a similar secret room. Just for guns and bullets and cash and stuff. And I needed to think about that section of hardwood flooring that had three Greta Gunther bullet holes in it.

But we had a 100% family accord. Vanessa, Walker, Pilar, Hobo, The Proper Villain. Et moi.

That’s church, yo.

Somehow I didn’t find Sabbath’s request all that odd. Even though the Pedro Morales confrontation was now squarely in my rearview mirror, I agreed to meet with him.

“It might help him come to grips with his ... circumstances, Winter.”

Maybe, maybe not. But I suspected that Sabbath thought it might also help me. Maybe it would, although I rarely thought of that flame-filled kitchen incident any more. The only tie Morales had to me had been my search for Blowtorch. And all of that was firmly in the past.

Sabbath first introduced me to the owner of the little bungalow, a nice lady named Consuela Ortiz. She said, “He’s no trouble at all, very quiet. I like him. He’s helping me with my English.”

The furnished room that Pedro lived in was tidy, a little dusty, but generally clean. The small sofa and both chairs were upholstered, no hard edges. The bathroom door was open and I could see that the shower had newly installed grab rails. There was also a new office-sized refrigerator next to a Formica table. I imagine Sabbath bought it to make things easier for him. He wouldn’t have to navigate his way to the shared kitchen just to get a cold drink.

The encounter was less awkward than I had anticipated. Sabbath and Morales hugged briefly and she asked, “Are you still praying?”

“Sometimes.”

“Good. This is Winter Jennings; you and I talked about her.”

He held his hand out vaguely in my direction. I shook it, “Hello.”

Morales looked horrible, but probably not as bad as he would when the rest of the bandages came off his head. The skin that I could see was raw and red and mottled. Dark, dark sunglasses were secured tightly to his head with an elastic band. Both ears were gnarled, discolored, misshapen. He had two hearing aids, which I knew had to have come from Sabbath.

We didn’t talk about his past other than when Sabbath said, “Winter is sorry about how all this turned out, Pedro.”

“Me too.”

If either of us apologized to the other one, that had been it.

As we stood to leave, Sabbath held both of his hands and spoke so softly I could barely hear, “You’ll be welcomed into Paradise, Pedro. Where there will be no sorrow, no weeping, no pain. Peace and joy forever.”

Q: Was it okay not to tell Clint about Duke?

A: Yes.

Probably.

As I worked on a case, I tried to be conscientious about maintaining my file notes. At the end, I always went back and made corrections, additions, deletions. It was a practice I learned from Daddy.

When I was around eight or nine he told me, “It helps me remember the players, Winter. And with a lot of these cocksuckers, I’ll run into them more than once.”

My mother added, “He’s right about those cocksuckers, Winter. Pay attention.”

As I read, I reviewed my interactions — direct and indirect — with the Meriwethers. The brothers, Charles and David, were still guests at FPC Pensacola. A typical Club Fed with liberal visitor regulations, a light touch on security. As good a secured setting as any for them to plan and implement their lengthy appeals claims.

Their three children — Strom, Sam, and Sarah — had taken over multiple business operations. One of which really interested me — their ultraconservative PAC, RightWorld. And Sarah seemed to be the main player there, although with the secrecy that family maintained, it was hard to be certain.

Constance had told me, “The kids are picking up where Charles and David left off. They work hard — long hours. But more than that, they work smart. Don’t underestimate Sarah, Winter.”

It’s odd, interesting I guess, how two people can look at the same thing and see two completely different perspectives. Even a fairy tale can be open to conflicting interpretations.

Another backyard conversation...

Warren Hardmore, “The pinnacle of civilization, white civilization, was reached, and will be reached again, in Germany.”

Maeve, “Hear, hear.”

“Have you all read ‘Vril’? Also known as ‘Vril, the Power of the Coming Race’. A sci-fi novel about a master race that lived underground.”

Maeve, “It was ahead of its time. Visionary. Published in 1871.”

Warren, “It was also the inspiration for the Nazi Erbengemeinschaft der Tempelritter whose members founded the Tempelhofgesellschaft movement in the 1980s. No matter which iteration you read, the story involves plans for the war in which we will fight to the death to prevail.”

Maeve, “You can learn so much through discriminating research into proper German culture. The real culture, not the pablum they teach these days.”

Mike Grimes said, “Like what? Hitler?”

Warren, “Hitler is an obvious example, Mike. But look a little further back in history; study the Brothers Grimm back in the early 1800s.”

Maeve laughed, teasing her husband, “Oh no! Not ‘Hänsel und Grethel’ again.”

Joe-Harlan said, “Again?”

“It’s an obsession with Warren. Not that he’s wrong about it.”

Mike, “An old fairy tale?”

Warren, “Hansel and Gretel, brother and sister. Smart, self-sufficient, ruthless when they needed to be. Imagine two handsome young kids, blonde, blue-eyed, abandoned to starve to death in an uncaring world.”

Joe-Harlan, “That’s the one where they burn the witch, right? In an oven.”

Warren, “Think about it, about the underlying symbolism. The witch is obviously Jewish. She had tricked Hansel and Gretel into staying with her. She was fattening them up, getting them ready for her to eat.”

Mike, “Jews.”

Maeve, “Well, that’s why Warren loves the story — history would repeat itself on a much grander scale a hundred and forty years later. Think Hitler Youth.”

Warren, “Hitler-Jugend. And think Generalplan Ost.”

Holy Hannah!

Jessie’s canary yellow pajama top was unbuttoned down to her waist. Jesse had his usual lowrider bottoms on.

Jessie, “Okay, Martin Folsom. Georgetown University. President Young Conservatives Club. But he resigned after a couple of months. They were too liberal for him. Then Georgetown Law. First job — RightWorld lobbyist.”

“But he didn’t stay there?”

“After a couple of years, he opened his own firm, moved to another office in a different building. He has a higher profile now. You’ll see.”

Jesse, “Washington insider, born and bred.”

Which meant that Constance Grayson would know him. If Ash weren’t already pursuing that line, I might make a discreet call. Not to nose my way under the tent; just to ... um, help.

Constance and I hadn’t drifted apart after Matt was killed. It’s just that he had been what we had in common. Who we had in common. And she was so busy. So, it would be almost a social propriety for me to reconnect with her. Not nosy at all.

The Sullivans had found a retro appliance from the 50s — the Flying Saucer. And I approved; it was time for certain UFOs to make a return.

I watched as Jessie filled hamburger buns with Sloppy Joe mix. Sandwiches that she seasoned liberally with Slap Ya Mama Cajun spices. She passed the fixings, one by one, to Jesse who placed each one in a contraption that folded like a waffle iron and simultaneously sealed the edges and steamed the buns.

Delicious. I’d contributed a paper sack of Walker’s homemade chips and a six pack of Negra Modelo. Two sandwiches each, two icy beers each. The high life.

I leafed through the paper file that the Sullivans knew I liked. Their digital file would be richer, contain links to articles and videos. And I’d study that as well. But I still liked the old-school ways.

I said, “So Folsom is a third generation attorney. His father had ties to the John Birch Society. Bartholomew Folsom. Married to Maxine Folsom, née Waters. No record of her being a Bircher.”

Jesse, “Which supposedly peaked in the 70s.”

Jessie, “But its influence is still pretty strong these days.”

I continued scanning as Jesse plated a second sandwich for me, “Grandfather, also Bartholomew, was accused of Klan connections.”

Jesse, “Which he neither confirmed or denied.”

Jessie, “Only odd thing we could find was that Maxine suddenly split with her husband, took Martin with her when he was only three.”

I shrugged; divorce happens. I turned the page of the report, “So Martin Folsom went from working K Street for RightWorld to running his own firm.”

Jessie, “And look at this, Winter.” She bent forward to point and both boobs were clearly visible. I checked Jesse; yep, another little boner.

Jessie continued, “Folsom recently took an office at RightWorld again. But spends almost all of his time in his own building. Nothing to do with the Meriwethers. Nothing obvious, anyway.”

Jesse, “We can’t tell for certain, but we think his personal office might be where he does the dirty work for Sarah Meriwether. Independent of any visible connection to RightWorld.”

“Then why go back to RightWorld?”

Jesse, “A false front.”

Jessie, “Like a double bluff. Ordinary job at RightWorld. Secret mission for RightWorld in the other building.”

Jesse, “Hiding in plain sight.”

“Jessie, “Would explain any public interactions with the Meriwethers.”

Made sense to me. Confirmation bias? Maybe, maybe not.

Jessie stood behind her brother and started massaging his neck. He closed his eyes, sighed, and his little boner pulsed inside his yellow PJ bottoms.

As I left, I said, “Dig a little deeper into that divorce.” Like Daddy says, better to know than not. Usually.

I called Phillip Montgomery, “Folsom is back on the official RightWorld payroll. But he retained that office at his own firm.”

“My people haven’t connected him to any more Nazi compounds. Just Cupid’s Creek and Gunther.”

“That’s enough for me, Phillip. Hell, one was enough.”

“It tells us who he is, but not why he’s suing our Foundation. You have time to go to DC, look around?”

“Absolutely.” I wouldn’t be interfering in the FBI’s investigation of The Restoration. Merely puzzling out why Martin Folsom was suing the Sister Mary Packer Shelter.

“Good, you’re back on the Envoy payroll. I like that Clint Callahan, by the way.”

“He’s okay.”

Duke didn’t call me again this week. Not that I was expecting him to. Fucker.

Clint said, “When you go to DC, are you Winter Jennings or Vanguard Security?”

Oops.

“Uh...”

“Think it through.”

“Well, Envoy is paying me, my little company. Which is in the Vanguard network.”

“Think it through.”

“I still think it would have been better to name it Winter Jennings & Associates, LLC.”

“Winter.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s see ... if I’m investigating Folsom for Vanguard, that allows us to sort of backdoor our way into the whole white supremacist gallimaufry without really getting in the FBI’s way. Since we’ll be looking at Folsom because of the lawsuit he filed.”

“Good thinking.”

“And the only reason I could come up with as to why he filed suit against a tiny shelter way out in Kansas City was because of Sarah Meriwether. She still has it in for me.”

“And going after your shelter is more than just a personal poke in the eye. It’s the opening salvo in the Meriwether’s national campaign against government waste.”

“You’ve been talking with Phillip.”

“Yes, and I agree with the conclusions he’s starting to arrive at.”

“Clint, I need to tell Ash what I’m up to, don’t I?”

“Absolutely. You’re one of my main squeezes and I don’t want to be tainted by your inept bumbling around.”

“Oh, I understand. Totally.”

“Plus, if you go anywhere near Folsom, Ash will find out.”

“Well, I want to see Ash anyway. On a related matter.”

“Which is?”

When I told him about my Charles and David Meriwether idea, Clint laughed out loud. I wonder if he does that with all of his squeezes. Better not.

The first time I saw Martin Folsom in person he was playing vicious tennis on one of the outdoor courts at the Rock Creek Park Tennis Center. I later learned that his opponent was one of the public park’s teaching pros and I was watching a private lesson. Which ran $90 an hour.

Folsom was about my age, 32, tall and rangy and strong looking. And, that morning anyway, furious at someone or something. He moved gracefully, almost gliding, but he swung his racquet as savagely as he could, rocketing the ball across the net.

Professionals — psychologists and social workers and marriage counselors — have long understood how a husband or boyfriend can drive a woman crazy by simply sitting there quietly, smiling, nodding, agreeing to everything she said during a counseling session. A smile, a nod, a “Yes, Dear.” A smirk without smirking.

I flashed on that because that tennis pro, a blonde cutie around 19 or 20, was calmly returning each livid fireball with a casual flick of his racquet. The ball would float over the net, causing Folsom to run far to his right, then his left, left again. Back and forth, back and forth.

He wasn’t getting angrier though, because he was already at his peak.

I left before the lesson ended. I didn’t want him seeing me.

I was ensconced in Matt’s Georgetown condo, using ride-share apps for transportation. I wondered if I could keep from giggling if I had to tell a driver, “Follow that car!”

I also wondered what Folsom had been so enraged about.

I pulled Le Wand out of a drawer. I’d think about Folsom later. Maybe in the morning.

Duke called me again. Finally.

I was a little relieved and a little disappointed to tell him, “Sorry, I’m out of town on business.”

He managed to weather the news, “Another time.”

That Monte Carlo certainly wasn’t the only back seat I’d been in. Not even the first. But, gun to my head, still my favorite. My all-time favorite.

Once Constance Grayson and Ash Collins agreed to see me, I put together my DC itinerary. Clint and I would hook up over the weekend, but for now I was All-Business Jennings.

Ash was probably a little annoyed that I was butting, even indirectly, into the Meriwether family, but he didn’t show it. I was, fair play, the one who had uncovered The Restoration in the first place.

Plus, his daughter Alicia was dating my best friend, Bear. Circles within circles.

“Ash, anything I stumble across goes straight to you. Or Mary.” Mary Albers who was coordinating the day-to-day for Ash.

He nodded.

I handed him a copy of my Martin Folsom file, “Everything I know about him.” Which would be considerably less than he knew.

“Thank you.”

As I was leaving his office, I mentioned the Meriwether idea I’d thought of. He smiled, “Let me look into it. Talk with a couple of people.”

I could tell he was intrigued. Of course if he did have someone implement the plan, I’d have to hope like hell it didn’t backfire.

Constance was both pleased to see me and harried. Not atypical, the harried part. “Emergency Intelligence Committee meeting. Five minutes, sorry, Winter, one of those days.”

I went fast, “A DC attorney named Martin Folsom is suing the Sister Mary Packer Foundation back in Kansas City. Phillip Montgomery is handling the legal side, but I wondered what you could tell me about Folsom.”

No hesitation, “A snake, a poisonous one, even by DC standards. A bigot, a hater, almost misanthropic.” She shook her head, “Unless you’re white, male, racist.”

I nodded.

“Folsom is cold-blooded, ruthless, and treacherous.” She gave me a merry grin, “Which means highly respected here in town.”

She said, “But you already knew all that. What else? Folsom is the backdoor man for the Meriwethers. What he does for them specifically, I’m not sure. He’s as secretive as they are.”

I nodded again. She glanced at her watch.

We stood and she walked me to the door, “I’ll ask around about Folsom, Winter. And I know it’s not just the shelter you’re concerned about — it’s The Restoration. Ash is keeping Harper and me up to speed.”

“Good.”

At the doorway, she said, “Staying at Matt’s?”

“Yes.”

“Good. And Clint?”

“He took me to meet his parents.”

“Very good. Excellent.” Then, “Watch your six with Folsom.”

“Always.”

The 21c Hotel chain is based, I believe, in Louisville. It’s an interesting concept — boutique hotel, good restaurant, and an art gallery featuring the local talent in each city. Since the poster theft ring is still active — the insurance companies haven’t identified the thief and the seller yet — perhaps I should check out the 21c art scene.

Perhaps not.

Room 521, turn right at the elevator.

I stayed in intermittent touch with Sabbath. I liked her, for one thing. And we’d been through some stuff — HAVEN, the Columbia hospital, Carol Sue Parker, Pedro Morales.

“Do you miss Leisurely Lane? Being an influencer?’’

She laughed, “Now that I’m studying to be a pastor, I shouldn’t, but I do. Not a lot, but some.”

“Do you still have your list of followers?”