Chapter 3: A Pandemonium of Parrots

2019

That was then; this was now, four years later.

A lot had changed in my life since I told Carol Sue Parker goodbye at O’Hare. Of course, a lot would change in any four-year period; it’s just that I ended up measuring that particular span in terms of a young woman I had thought I’d never see again.

Life goes on. Walker was now 15; I was 33. I was married, deliciously so, to Vanessa Henderson. Walker had a live-in girlfriend, his second, named Pilar Paloma.

I was still doing a daily full-mirror appraisal and continued be pleased at what I saw. A sexy lady, blonde and tan and slender, full boobs, a very smart blunt-cut bob, and deep blue eyes. Not bad, not bad at all. Even when Mercury was in retrograde.

Daddy had retired from the KCPD, but was now a frequent consultant to the FBI.

Walker and I, and now Pilar, still lived in our fifth-floor loft in the Wrigley Hotel on Main Street. We had acquired a border collie named Hobo and a three-and-a-half legged cat named The Proper Villain.

About the only visible change at the Wrigley was that we now had a naked elevator operator, Nature Boy. One of the five permanent hotel guests.

My friend, and Sabbath’s savior, Sister Mary Packer, had been strangled to death by a stupid burglar who had panicked when she woke up to find him ransacking the shelter for cash and drugs. But her name and legacy lived on. A New York hedge funder, Phillip Montgomery, started the Sister Mary Packer Foundation. Generous donations and annual fundraisers allowed the shelter to not only continue operating, but to expand. In fact, it was thriving. Which was good news for the poor little girls in the Forgotten Northeast. But overall, it meant that poverty had its roots planted in Kansas City just as deeply as ever.

A second death — my boyfriend, Matt Striker, had been killed by a rifle shot from a white supremacist, Dixie Wexler. I saw Matt die ten feet from me.

I now had a semi-serious boyfriend, Clint Callahan. I say ‘semi’ mainly because he lived in New York. That geographical separation — half a country apart — wasn’t all negative. When we did get together, here or there, it was usually fresh and fun.

I hooked up with Clint after dodging his advances for months. He had made two trips to KC and, eventually, my family approved of our affair. Walker had been the most reluctant — he worships the relationship, the marriage, that Vanessa and I have.

Clint and I were sort of in the same biz; he was an FBI agent in the most prestigious field office in the country. I guess DC would be the ultimate posting, but he had zero interest in joining that bureaucratic swamp.

My best friend, all 320 pounds of him — Bear — was having an affair with Alicia Collins in New York. Fine, except Bear was gay and was committed to Barry Hopkins. What the fuck was he thinking? That would be like me marrying Vanessa and ... never mind.

Although the unlicensed psychiatrist in me equated Bear’s new hair color to Barry-guilt, Bear himself didn’t seem the slightest bit morose. Jessie Sullivan had been trying for years to convince him that redheads had more fun. And one day, without warning, there he was.

Bright red, shoulder-length hair had replaced bright platinum, shoulder-length hair. His middle finger to straight America. Since most of straight America was about half his size, no one gave him any grief. Not to his face, anyway.

As for me, my own office in the Stockyards looked the same unless you noticed a new steel door to the hallway. And two Medeco locks — on the new door and on the inner door from the reception area to my place of work. Still kept the office Mossberg handy. And, I still stowed my .38 in the upper right-hand drawer of my desk. The current version had a four-inch barrel instead of two.

Think a couple of inches doesn’t mean much? Just ask any naked boy as he carefully self-measures.

CAROL SUE PARKER

They say you can get used to anything. Maybe they, whoever they are, are right. However, I wasn’t there yet.

I was settling, settling in so many ways. Settling in to a new town, a new life. Settling for turning my back on Sabbath Louise Armstrong forever. Settling for giving up everyone I had ever known.

In a way, it was like when I was a little girl imagining who mi madre really was. Creating a magical world from nothing. For some reason, I rarely speculated about mi padre. I’d have an occasional childhood flash — handsome prince, movie star, millionaire, the usual clichés. But mainly it was mi madre. And now, like back then, I would have to build my life with all new people.

On the positive side, I felt safe. When I had been living in Columbia, I had a vague sense of unease. That my stalker would, or could, or might, find me. But out here, there was a sense of separation, of freedom, an absence of worry. At least so far as any physical danger was concerned.

WINTER JENNIFER JENNINGS

Gertie said, “No more ‘a man walks into a bar’ jokes?”

Walker, “Just one more.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Pilar: “A grasshopper walked into a bar and hopped up onto the stool.”

Walker: “The bartender says, ‘Hey, we got a drink named after you.”

“Me? Leonard?”

Vanessa, “That’s the last one?”

Walker, “Yep.”

I said, “Just as well.”

Hobo looked away, but I could tell he agreed with me.

My mother had warned me not to join the police department. “It’s no place for a girl.”

When I left the force to launch my little business she shook her head sadly, “Winter, why in the world are you giving up a steady job with benefits? You’ll never make it out there on your own.”

What’s that saying — ‘often wrong, never uncertain’. Something like that. But, credit due, the mater approved instantly and wholeheartedly of my marriage to Vanessa. And she had doted on Walker from day one. And the idea of a grandchild even before day one.

While my income had its ups and downs, it averaged out to more than I’d ever made on the cops. Vanessa’s Brookside restaurant, her dream, Euforia, had turned the financial corner. We still hadn’t recouped all of our original investment, but the place was churning out a relatively steady net profit, month after month. The catering operation and the takeout option helped.

Although the delivery experiment had been a bust. We never could find a way to keep the prices competitive, meet roller coaster demand, maintain the food quality, and break even. But, that was a minor blip, something we felt we had to try.

In an industry where over half of all new restaurants don’t make it past the first year or so, Vanessa Henderson was beating the odds. No surprise there, not to me.

I am fully aware of my own good fortune. My ability, my capacity, to enjoy sex to the fullest. My body, and my mind, are able to let loose, to open, to delight, in the vivid sensations that ripple through me.

Vanessa was the best lover I’ve ever had.

Men? My ex, Richie Sanders, was my second favorite boy. Matt Striker not that far behind him. Because of his girth, between the thighs girth, Clint Callahan was a little lower in the rankings. But I was getting more and more used to him and I won’t be surprised if he moved up in the batting order.

Of course any boy can rise to the occasion on any given night, so my personal favorites list wasn’t etched in stone.

But after Vanessa, my all-time favorite bedmate was a bad boy, two years younger than me, named Jake (Duke) Chancellor. Duke and I had a history. Even though he was younger, we had a history.

Peggy Rawlings first seduced me, a very willing seducee, when she was our family babysitter. She gave me, again willing, to her older brother Ryan.

Then Duke came into my life.

He had an attitude, Duke. Handsome, confident, the kind of boy mothers warned you about. Mine did, but at the same time she was intrigued by him. He was so confident, but not annoying. Sure of himself, but always polite. The whitest smile I ever saw. Dazzling.

Daddy saw him, knew him instantly, knew his type. And Daddy left me to make up my own mind. He usually did with Autumn and me.

I hadn’t been Duke’s first girlfriend and I was never his only one. But we were drawn together and rarely left each other’s orbit. Middle school, high school. He broke a lot of hearts, but not mine. We both were selfish lovers and used each other cheerfully. He wasn’t husband material and back then I wasn’t shopping for one anyway.

While I was at John Jay, Duke went to Vegas and worked at a variety of casino jobs. We stayed in touch. Now he was back in Kansas City and wanted to see me again.

Of course, my life had its ups and downs, but overall, things were looking pretty good in June of 2019.

CAROL SUE PARKER

The second I walked out of the jetway and into the airport terminal, I got a small sinking feeling. I rode a taxi into the downtown of a city I’d never seen before. Checked into a hotel that I would live in for almost a month as I began trying to piece together a new life.

I knew better, but couldn’t stop thinking of everyone and everything I had left behind. It wasn’t healthy, but I began following the news about Kansas City on my new laptop. Took out digital subscriptions to various KC sites. It was especially excruciating to watch Leisurely Lane slowly erode, slowly go downhill. Shortly after I had said goodbye to Kansas City, my sometimes boyfriend, Kevin Burke, left to work for a bank in Minneapolis. And without the two of us ... well, the online spark had slowly died out. Our six friends who had been trying to keep things going were losing followers, which meant losing sponsors.

Well, I needed to focus on myself, needed to pull myself together. I’d thought long and hard about where to begin my new life. Winter had given me a number of pointers. Pick a city that wasn’t economically depressed. One with a dynamic business environment, one with a lot of people moving in and out.

“Extra points for colleges and universities. A lot of young people, a lot of turnover. Rent first. You may decide to buy a place when you’re more comfortable and that’s fine. But for now, choose an apartment complex with plenty of people your age. Pay attention to how they dress, where they shop, where they go out to eat.”

I said, “Blend.”

“That’s right, blend and pay attention. Don’t be paranoid, but keep your eyes open. You’re the only one who knows where you are, but stay alert anyway.”

WINTER JENNIFER JENNINGS

I had finished puttering around my office and was heading home in Matt’s Audi. I parked in my usual spot in the garage in the alley behind the Wrigley Hotel. Nature Boy, nude as usual, erect as he often was, drove the creaky old freight elevator up to our floor-through loft on five. Walker and me, two peas in a ... loft. Three, now, with Vanessa. Four — Pilar.

A few months after puberty had started butt-fucking him, Walker came to me with a question. I probably make some horrible parenting decisions — I never claimed to be a PTA mom — but I am proud of the way he and I communicate.

The rule is he can ask me anything. We can talk about anything. And, he understood that I would give him the straight skinny. Or, at worst, tell him why it wasn’t something I could talk about with him. That rarely happened and only when it involved a sensitive case I was working on.

Other than that, no matter how personal, how embarrassing, it was open season.

“Winter, is it okay to like sex? A lot?”

Uh oh.

“Come sit beside me. So, sex.”

He snuggled in next to me and I put his arm around my shoulders like we both like.

“First of all, sex can kill you.”

Walker gasped.

“Do you know what the body goes through when it orgasms? Your pupils dilate. Your arteries constrict. Your core temperature zooms up. Your heart races and your blood pressure skyrockets. You’re breathing like you’re in a race. Your brain fires bursts of electrical impulses from nowhere to nowhere.”

He was frowning in concentration.

“Secretions spit out of every gland. Muscles tense and spasm like you’re lifting weights. It’s violent and ugly and messy.”

I hugged him tighter and whispered, “And I love it! So will you.”

Saturday morning around the campfire. Okay, the kitchen table. Walker was preparing breakfast empanadas, and Pilar no longer felt the need to monitor the process. He could fry ‘em up as well as any boy back in Hondo, Colombia.

It was a coincidence — we’d dressed independently that morning — but the distaff side of our family was wearing themed tees. Vanessa: Winter Sucks Cock. Pilar: Winter Sucks Cock. Me: I Suck Cock. Walker hadn’t gotten the memo.

Vanessa, “When does Mindy get here?”

Walker perked up. Mindy Montgomery had been his first ever girlfriend.

I said, “It’s not just Mindy. She’s flying to New York first and Rebecca and Phillip are coming too.”

It was sort of a big deal, locally. KC would be hosting the world premiere of Mindy’s documentary, “The Wrigley”. She’d shot it on her iPhone, under the loose, long-distance supervision of her UCLA film professor.

Dr. Jeffery Eisenstein would be here for the event as well.

Walker tried for, and failed to achieve, casual, “Will she be staying with us?”

I said, “Up to her. She may bunk in with her mom and dad.” In the Mission Hills house they saw no reason to sell when they moved back East.

Vanessa pepped the lad up, “Even if she stays there, she’ll probably want to hang out here too.”

It’s not that Walker didn’t care about “The Wrigley”; he did. It’s just that his 15-year old libido cared more about getting Mindy — an older woman! — back in bed with Pilar and him. Mindy had been pretty casual with her favors when she stayed with us while shooting her documentary.

Pilar swatted his butt, “Down, boy.”

A lot of my work arrived via insurance companies, which meant a lot of my work was boring. Tedious even. But that was often how I made the monthly nut and I rarely turned down an assignment. Even then, it was usually because of calendar conflicts.

Now that I had passed the bar, three insurance companies had me writing ‘expert witness’ reports. It was usually soul-crushing dreariness, but at $275 an hour, I kept my yap shut. And it didn’t bother me that medical expert witnesses were paid $500. Not at all.

As for my regular detective work, people weren’t lined up around the block, but the workflow was usually pretty steady. Which was a marked change from when I first threw open my office door to the world.

Currently I was chasing down a suspected fraudster for AAA. My client, Red Lonnigan, sent me a pretty steady stream of business. Early on, I’d gotten his daughter out of a sex tape jam and he felt he owed me. Of course, he stopped sending cases my way in the immediate aftermath; he had to demonstrate, mostly to himself, that he didn’t play favorites.

Once that nonsense had been taken care of ... well, Red and I got along. I had to deliver of course; but that was true with all my clients.

Red sat me down across from his desk and said, “Background first.”

“Okay.”

“Art. Art and fraud. We cover artwork of course. Either through homeowners’ policies or riders for the more valuable pieces.”

“Got it.”

“The last few years have seen a marked increase in fake prints. And not just Warhol and Lichtenstein. Picasso of course. Klee, Chagal, Miró, Matisse, Dali. But also Georg Baselitz, Gerhard Richter, Edvard Munch.”

“And more fakes are coming on the market?”

“A lot more. The Artists Rights Society sends out ‘take down’ notices every day.”

“Why the explosion of fakes?”

“A couple of reasons — manufacturing and distribution. Photomechanical advances have made reproduction easier. And cheaper. Many of the scammers specialize in targeting novice buyers who are usually not very discriminating.”

“Okay.”

“Distribution also. The FBI’s art crime team said the Internet changed the game. Before you had to find a way to physically get a print into a store. Now you just post it online.”

“Where no one is monitoring it.”

“Oh, the big platforms like Etsy and eBay and Amazon created protocols to weed out the fakes. But that doesn’t address the problem of eternal-recurrence.”

“Which is?”

“Unless the authorities seize and destroy the counterfeit goods, the posters are just put back in the online marketplace.”

“You have an example to show me?”

We moved into a conference room where a framed poster — Roy Lichtenstein’s “Crying Girl” — was sitting on an easel. I had two of his prints at home and I said, “Looks real to me.”

It was signed and numbered: 32/200.

Red handed me the Certificate of Authenticity. I read it and said, “Looks legit.”

“Except no one — the artist, his estate, the Roy Lichtenstein Foundation — has ever issued a certificate.”

“Oops. And that’s why you wanted to see me? You have a local fraudster?”

“All of that was just background, Winter. Fortunately they haven’t targeted Kansas City with fake artworks yet. My problem is someone is stealing legitimate, signed posters. But ones by lesser known artists. Each one is worth a few thousand bucks.”

“So it’s a more straightforward crime — theft instead of forgery. Instead of fraud.”

“That’s right.”

For this particular case, there was a reason he had picked me instead of using one the company’s own investigators. The guy in question — Joe-Harlan Pewtie — was suspected of diddling more than one Kansas City insurance company.

Pewtie turned out to be a syrupy ole boy who grew up on a small sorghum farm in Deaf Smith County, Texas. In the High Plains area of the Panhandle. The county capital, Hereford, was named for that breed of cattle. But its real claim to fame was the title, “The Town Without a Toothache”. Something about fluoride in the water.

Joe-Harlan was, by one measure, the family superstar. Of the seven Pewtie boys, he was the only one never to have spent a night in jail. He was the second oldest, and perhaps the smartest. Smart enough to stay out of durance vile anyway.

All of that, and a lot more, was in the digital and paper files that Red gave me. My challenge was to figure out how a sorghum farmer from Deaf Smith County became a semi well-known art dealer in Kansas City. One suspected of running a pretty clever scam.

I couldn’t remember when it started, but Walker and Pilar started having nonsense conversations with each other using Latin phrases.

Pilar, pretending anger, “E pluribus unum!”

Walker, shrugging, “Ipso facto.”

I had, recently and indirectly, worked with the former mayor, Tom Lynch, on a case involving the Kansas City Royals. Tom was term-limited out of office in the summer of 2019 and was now focusing on his gubernatorial run.

As a Democrat in a state trending red, he’d be an automatic underdog to whoever won the Republican primary in August of next year. The current polls all showed Tom leading on the D side, but it was early innings. As we baseball adepts say. And since Missouri was an open primary state, there was always room for surprises. For mischief.

And that worked on the Republican side as well. Bulldog Bannerman would be involved behind the scenes and this wouldn’t be his first mud-wrestling match. He told me, “Connie and Harper and I have an idea about who they want Tom’s opponent to be.”

Constance Grayson, chief of staff to the US senator from Wyoming, Harper Wainwright.

I would follow the race anyway — I knew Tom and Bulldog. Plus Daddy — always by example, not by lectures from a certain mother I could name — showed Autumn and me that it was sort of our civic duty to keep track of what was going on around us.

And, after that mess with the Royals was more or less sorted out, Tom had told me he wanted me on his team. Was there anyone not susceptible to flattery?

The three of us, usually joined by Hobo, tried to attend self-defense classes every week. Vanessa was the most natural. So graceful and coordinated. Pilar was the quickest by a noticeable margin. Me? I was ruthless.

We were still working on a discipline called Krav Maga — using defense and offense simultaneously. It wasn’t intuitive for me, not yet. I still lost a fraction of a second thinking through the moves.

But the ongoing mantra, preached at every lesson, was to do everything possible to avoid a fight. Run, scream, use pepper-spray ... anything was better than letting a man get his paws on you. Repeated over and over, “The best fight is the one you don’t have.”

Of course Hobo was the star athlete — endless enthusiasm and boundless energy. Plus he was battle-tested. Greta Gunther. Fucker.

CAROL SUE PARKER

A large part of me knew better. But something, somewhere deep down, didn’t care. I felt doubly abandoned — at birth and once again now that I’d had to erase my entire life and start over.

I was lucky in a lot of ways and I tried to concentrate on the positives. Just being alive was the big one. I was healthy, physically healthy, had money in the bank. A decent, low-key job as a library researcher in the local university. Not much pressure, nice people to work with.

A lot of muchachas would love to trade places with me and I realized that. But I still felt a kind of emptiness inside me. Like a phantom pain from a missing limb. But my loneliness was more than just a mirage.

I had already been sharing an occasional toke with my friends in school when vaping exploded on the scene. Pot was legal here, around a couple hundred bucks an ounce.

I hadn’t formed any real relationships yet; Winter had told me to take my time, get to know people before getting too close. So it was nice, after work, after dinner, in my solitude, to power up my tabletop vaporizer and chill with a little ganja.