Chapter 4: An Ostentation of Peacocks

I drove to Waldo to meet with my two favorite hackers -- um, make that researchers -- Jessie and Jesse Sullivan. Twins, redheaded little munchkins. I was still driving Matt Striker’s black Audi. Technically, it was mine. He left it to me in his will, along with his Georgetown condo in DC, life insurance money, the works. But I still thought of it as Matt’s Audi. Probably always would.

Jessie and Jesse lived in a two-bedroom bungalow just east of Waldo’s main drag, Wornal Road. One of the bedrooms was their tech-filled office. Sleeping arrangements, their business.

As usual they were dressed to match — shorts and tees. I handed Jesse a large pizza from Spin and Jessie a check for $1,000. “Background me on Joe-Harlan Pewtie and his art gallery. The Discretionary Contemporary.”

Jessie said, “How deep?”

As we fanged down slice after slice, I explained the tenuous link between Pewtie and the eleven minor thefts. Jesse opened a second round of Red Stripe beers.

I didn’t need to remind them to tiptoe through Pewtie’s digital life; their own livelihood depended on discretion. And talent of course.

When the pizza was history, I handed Jessie another $1,000 check. “Martin Folsom; he’s an attorney in DC. Who’s suing the Sister Mary Packer Foundation.”

The twins glanced at each other. They knew how close I’d been to the saintly nun.

CAROL SUE PARKER

I had cut back on la droga, then said, “Fuck it with moderation.” As long as I stay home, don’t drive, why not? Although I decided to stay straight on Saturdays. Church the next morning.

I settled on the Calvary Apostolic Church. I wasn’t yet a true believer again, but I found an old comfort in their vision of the future — “Jesus Christ is coming again to receive His church into Heaven. In the end will be the final resurrection and the final judgment. The righteous will inherit eternal life, and the unrighteous eternal death.”

Like Holy Pentecostal back home, they believed that the Bible was the infallible word of Dios.

These days I had a little trouble with that one.

WINTER JENNIFER JENNINGS

Phillip Montgomery told me, “Martin Folsom has those three affidavits. In addition, he has a signed deposition from Sabbath Louise Armstrong. Stating that Sister Mary Packer whored her out for six years.”

I explained the lawsuit to Vanessa.

She got it. “So you have to find Sabbath, and she’s using another name. But you know what it is. She’ll be in another city somewhere. And you don’t know where, but you’ll figure that out. When you do find her, you’ll have to bring her back to testify. To swear that the deposition is fraudulent.”

“Yes to all of the above. Now, the question is, why did the Meriwethers pick Sabbath? They didn’t know her. And they didn’t know that I had any connection to her.”

“Are you thinking that the Blowtorch guy is involved? That this is all some sort of ruse to bring her back to town?”

“I have to consider the possibility.”

“Which means?”

“While I’m trying to find Sabbath, I’m going to open up that cold case and start hunting for Blowtorch. I probably should have been doing that anyway.”

I loved it that Vanessa didn’t tell me that the KCPD had spent several fruitless months looking for him. Instead, “Tell me how I can help.”

I met Phillip for a late lunch in River Market. At Brown and Loe, where we’d eaten once before when he contracted with me to figure out what was going on with The Globe. Envoy Assets had had a 30% interest in the luxury condominium yacht.

Monday’s special was a burger and beer for ten bucks. Done and done.

“Okay, Winter, you’re on our payroll as of today. How much time can you devote to finding Sabbath?”

“Short answer is plenty. I have one active case, insurance fraud, and I’ll work it when I can. With Sabbath, I’m going to use a two-prong approach. I’ll look for her and I’ll start searching for Blowtorch.”

Like Vanessa, Phillip didn’t question my strategy.

“Can you find Sabbath?”

“Pretty sure. I know her new name and I think I know the type of city she’d have relocated to. Blowtorch? That’s another story.”

“A thousand a day plus expenses. Sound okay?”

“Sounds generous. Weekly updates?”

“Only when you have news for me.”

I had kept the Sabbath Louise Armstrong ID current except for the drivers license which had expired a couple of years after she left town. I made online purchases to keep her credit and debit cards active. Paid them with her checking account where I made periodic deposits.

I purchased stuff that I would have bought for myself anyway. My goods, mostly clothes, my money, my time, Sabbath’s name.

I had told her, “The hope is that someday, all this will be over and you can reclaim your ... yourself.”

She agreed, but without a lot of enthusiasm. Understandable. I’d probably be feeling a little numb if I had to disappear like she did.

Since I hadn’t had any contact with her for four years, my bet was that she was still using the Carol Sue Parker identity. Being extra cautious, I didn’t task Sullivan & Sullivan Research with tracking her down. I was the only one other than Sabbath who knew her new name. Well, Melvin Otter.

I started with a simple Google search on a Plaza Library computer. A common name, a lot of hits, the majority of them obituaries. I added her age — 32 — to the search field. That narrowed it down and I ended up with seventeen possibles. I would start with the four who were located in cities that best fit the urban profile I’d suggested to her.

Boston, Atlanta, Denver, San Diego. Big enough, vibrant enough, universities, economically viable.

I would have to visit each city in person; I wasn’t about to startle Sabbath over the phone. Looking at the map, I decided to fly to Boston, then down to Atlanta. Then, if necessary, zip back to Denver and on to San Diego. In a selfish, immature way, I was rooting for San Diego. Sun and sand and surf. And my new bikini. Midnight blue.

Instead, I ended up flying to the closest of the four cities to meet Sabbath in Denver.

Sergeant Louise Finch and I were pals now. Unlike when I’d been an impatient rookie under her patient command at the KCPD. She was now a member of the elite Special Operations Squad. The SOS mandate was to go wherever a major case took them and do whatever was necessary to resolve it. It was an honor to be chosen, although personally I was uncomfortable with the number of shooting incidents. Higher even than SWAT.

She had traded her tiny office to sit at one of two desks shoved together, back to back. As usual, phones were ringing, people walking in and out of the bullpen, lousy coffee was percolating, a florescent light was flickering on and off.

We caught up, it had been a few months, and then she made a call for me. “See Rachael Cramer over at Investigations.”

“Linwood Boulevard?”

“That’s right, good luck.”

In my search for Carol Sue, I stopped by the FBI office at 1300 Summit. I’d been an off-and-on consultant and knew everyone fairly well.

“Hi Marcie, can I steal a little computer time?”

“Sure, need any help?”

“I don’t think so; I’m just trying to track down a woman about a deposition. I want to check the DMVs in four cities.”

“Have at it.”

I packed a case that night and was on an early morning flight to Denver. With Sabbath’s address as of one year ago. With that info, I was able to backtrack her car, place of employment, and, should I have pursued it, what brand of shampoo she was using these days.

Privacy? Ha!

The station at 1200 Linwood housed the Central Patrol Division and the Investigations Unit where Sergeant Rachel Cramer was waiting for me in a small conference room.

She was black, skinny, and alert. “So, Blowtorch. This file hasn’t been touched for three years. It’s a cold, cold case.” She patted the heavy-duty cardboard storage box. The lid was off and it was filled almost to the top with worn manila folders.

I understood why the case had faded into the background. HAVEN had been disbanded and new crimes cried for attention every single day. Those two assaults, even upgraded to attempted murder ... well, time and troubles shoved Blowtorch pretty far down on the priority ladder.

“Can I make copies?”

“Sergeant Finch said full cooperation. You used to be on the Job?”

“Yeah, I was a rising star in the department.”

“Uh HUH, that’s exactly what I heard. Like some coffee?”

“No thanks.” Could still taste the bilge from SOS.

I took everything out of the box and sorted the files into three rows. I wanted a quick overview of the search for the male unsub known as Blowtorch. There had been two instances involving Sabbath — the cigarette lighter here in Kansas City and the blowtorch in Columbia.

There were two witnesses to the first attack. The married couple who had rounded the corner just as Blowtorch grabbed Sabbath. Their descriptions of the guy matched Sabbath’s — around 5’ 10” and slight of build. He was wearing a ski mask, gray hooded sweatshirt, and, probably, jeans.

Sabbath hadn’t had anything to add to his description from the Columbia assault. Understandably so, with a terrifying flame aimed at her face.

In both cases, the police canvassed the neighborhoods, but didn’t come up with anything more that would help identify the creep.

I had known that much when I walked into the Linwood station. And, three hours later, I still knew that much.

For their investigation, the HAVEN task force had concentrated on Sabbath’s digital life, on the Leisurely Lane connection. Which was logical since everyone, including me, thought that the one most abusive online hater was also her real-life assailant. But that search led into dead end after dead end.

This time around, I decided to take a different approach.

Walker, “In loco parentis.”

Pilar shook her head, ““Para bellum.”

I flew into Denver on a Friday morning and verified that Sabbath was still employed at the University of Denver. Still worked in the three-story research library at the Strum College of Law. Being a professional detective, licensed, I also determined that the building was named for two bankers — Donald and Susan Strum. Perhaps that had something to do with a twenty million dollar donation.

Because I wanted to contact Sabbath in private, I merely kept a loose eye on her that day. Lunch at the rebuilt Student Union with two girls from her office. That afternoon I walked around campus and decided that I could still pass for a student. And that the boys would still be interested in me. Maybe more the latter than the former.

A little after five, relaxed working hours, she strolled to her parking space and headed off the campus in a sporty Jeep Wrangler. Metallic blue.

I followed her a short distance to a Whole Foods and waited in the parking lot. Twenty minutes later, with two full canvas totes, she drove to her apartment in the York Street Lofts.

Carol Sue Parker, née Sabbath Louise Armstrong, was still slender and pretty, but now had a more confident air than the last time I’d seen her. She wore her dark hair at shoulder length and looked good. I wondered if she ever still wore the wigs I had bought her.

During the short time I’d followed Sabbath, she hadn’t been looking around, didn’t seem particularly cautious. Which was a good sign so far as regaining her equilibrium was concerned. Besides, how vigilant can you remain year after year?