Chapter 7: A Siege of Herons

I sent Clint some suggestions for the name of our firm. For incorporation purposes, he would be the equivalent of a CEO, but no one seemed to be interested in titles. To the clients, potential clients, each one of us would be the Indian Chief in our home town.

As for a corporate name, I was leaning toward Winter Jennings & Associates, LLC.

A second stolen print ended up for sale in Omaha, then a third in Des Moines. Little Rock, Denver, St. Louis. I push-pinned a map and noted that Kansas City was roughly the geographic epicenter of the scam.

Red Lonnigan called insurance associates in each city starting with Peoria. And Peoria turned out to be the exception to the rule. Every other city where there was a rogue poster for sale had experienced its own claims for stolen property.

Red told me, “Okay, we’re on it. It’ll take some time, but we’ll start piecing together the jigsaw puzzle. What was stolen from where. And every city and gallery where something reappears. We’re monitoring sites in every Midwestern market of any size.”

“Okay, I’ll pull the Sullivans off and send you an invoice.”

“I’ll pay it, thanks.”

“There has to be someone behind this, Red. I’d like to keep looking at Pewtie.”

“I agree. Have at him, but my budget isn’t unlimited. We don’t like being scammed, but this isn’t serious money.”

I didn’t tell Red about my Texas Panhandle probe. If it didn’t lead anywhere, I’d have to eat the expense.

> Discreet Inquiries, LLC.

> Federal Justice, LLC.

> Professional Security, LLC.

> National Experience, LLC.

Stinkers all.

We needed a name that hinted at all the FBI experience the eleven agents had. But I didn’t think a corporate name using those three particular letters, in that particular sequence, would go over well at J. Edgar.

Clint sent a CV for Daddy and another one for me to his ten fellow agents. And he sent us brief bios of them. Six men, four women. That there were that many women surprised and pleased me. Clint and the other ten retired, or retiring agents, had plenty of street experience; not a paper pusher among them.

I would be the youngest of the group and Daddy would be the other bookend, age-wise.

All of the info that Clint shared was couched in discreet terms. He did not mention that I’d shot and killed three men. Gunner Gunther. Karl Hoffstatter. Dixie Wexler.

Nor did he state that Daddy had never fired his service pistol at anyone.

All in all, I thought that Clint had done a good job in introducing the two noobs to the team. They all knew each other, to one degree or another. Daddy and I represented an unknown element. And we added a twelfth city, Kansas City, to the roster.

New York was the most glamorous, with LA not that far behind. Chicago and Minneapolis. Seattle, Sacramento, Columbus, Atlanta, Dallas, Phoenix. And Boise, which used to be Siberia in the FBI’s internal rankings. But now, with the rise of the white supremacists, it was no longer thought of as a punitive backwater.

> Creative Investigations, LLC.

> Security Solutions, LLC.

Fuck.

Phillip called me from New York.

“Another Meriwether entanglement.”

“Oh?”

“A representative from Altamont Creative approached Mindy about taking over the commercial distribution of “The Wrigley”.

“God, they’re everywhere.”

“You already knew about Altamont Creative?”

“Yes, a while back Constance Grayson told me ... gave me some background and perspective on the Meriwether empire.”

“Like what?”

“They started with timber and copper mining and ranching, standard Montana stuff. Expanded into transportation, ski resorts, luxury real estate, anything and everything to make a buck.”

“And politics.”

“Yeah, RightWorld. But Constance told me not to underestimate them. They started out in traditional industries, but they’re smart. Sharp. They saw what Netflix was doing when they first pivoted away from renting out DVDs.”

“So the Meriwethers got into ... what is Altamont exactly?”

“They started out as a content provider. Mostly animated shorts and features. But Constance says they’re moving into distribution, are looking at starting their own streaming service. Is that why they’re interested in “The Wrigley”?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m becoming a little paranoid. But it seems to be a rather remarkable coincidence that they may have targeted the Sister Mary Foundation and now are coming after another Kansas City-related project — the documentary.”

What Phillip didn’t need to point out was my personal involvement with both the shelter and Mindy’s film.

“What did you tell Mindy?”

“I told her to learn what she could about Altamont Creative and make her own decisions.”

Like Daddy did with Autumn and me. Gave us enough freedom to decide between yes and no, between right and wrong.

Altamont Creative. Sarah Meriwether.

Fuck.

In one sense, I shouldn’t feel any different about being armed than when I wore a uniform. But I did.

Getting dressed every morning as a cop was just ... natural. I’d grown up seeing Daddy leave with a dark uniform and a belt full of the tools of his trade.

When I checked myself in the mirror before leaving for work at the cop shop, I didn’t really register the pistol, the cuffs, the baton, the rest of the equipment. Just accessories. The only thing I had to remember was to lock up all my weapons at home. Walker.

But now it’s a conscious decision to place my .38 in one of my ever-present shoulder bags. And my pepper-spray too. On top. I’m licensed for concealed carry in Missouri and pepper-spray is legal in all 50 states.

I’d much rather stop someone with capsaicin made from chili peppers than with a bullet. Although the one time I’d sprayed an attacker — Hugo Blenheim — it slowed him down, but didn’t incapacitate him like the training films showed. I’d also used a taser, but that hadn’t been enough either. He was failing blindly around the room, desperate to get his hands on me. I’d had to call Bear for help. By the time he arrived I had my .38 pointed at the monster.

These days, I shop the product aisles even more carefully. I read labels so that I can max out on the CRC — capsaicin and contributing ingredients — at 3%.

The last time I’d stocked up at the friendly neighborhood pepper-spray emporium, Jerry Olsen had told me, “Winter, they make propellants with inert gasses now.”

“I know.”

“Not butane.”

“I know.”

He rang me up.

I met with Jessie and Jesse at the Unicorn Club. They were almost always available for a free lunch, even though that was supposedly something there ain’t no such thing as.

Matching Bermuda shorts and tees in contrasting colors.

It was a balmy Tuesday and we sat outside at a patio table, looking over the Missouri River. The redolent Missouri River.

The Unicorn specialized in Gullah cuisine. We studied the list of specials. Whatever one Sullivan twin ordered, the other had the same. Sautéed shrimp and okra, this time. I looked at Bess Cuthbert, “I’ll have the Charleston red rice with tomato paste and bacon. And none of your sass.”

She breezily lifted the hem of her tee and flashed her perky tits. “Tell Walker what he missed.”

Jessie and Jesse stared.

After lunch we strolled down to a pocket park right by the river and sat on a bench. I was sandwiched between the twins and pulled out my tablet to show them the two Pewtie videos, mother and son.

I started with Joe-Harlan and froze the video on his one bookcase. There were only a few books. Mostly it was photos and knickknacks and small sports trophies. One cactus plant about four inches high.

I pointed to a plain black book with white sans serif type that was lying on its side. Jesse tilted his head and read the title, “Vigilantes of Christendom: The History of the Phineas Priesthood.”

Jessie frowned, “That sounds familiar, Phineas Priesthood.”

I said, “It’s a fave with white supremacists. In the Old Testament, a dude named Phineas killed an interfaith couple. God supposedly rewarded him. Then, around 1990, a guy named Richard Kelly Hoskins wrote “Vigilantes” which called for true Americans to murder race-mixers and their fellow travelers.”

Jesse said, “Fellow travelers?”

“Blacks, Jews, multiculturalists, Muslims, gays, Mexicans, probably metrosexuals ... you know, round up the usual suspects.”

Jessie muttered, “Fucker.”

“Hoskins was a member of ‘Christian Identity’. A lovely sect who had a unique interpretation of the Bible.”

Jesse said, “Like what?”

“Oh, let’s see. Jews are direct biological descendants of Eve and Satan. People of color aren’t human beings and don’t have souls.”

Jessie shook her head, “Joe-Harlan Pewtie. We’ll take another look at him.”

“And his mother. Here, check out Ruthann’s collection.”

I stopped the video on the north wall. Then the east one. I’d had to look up several of the titles, but the theme was obvious.

> “Mein Kampf”.

> Books and tracts by Rockwell, Goering, Dixon, Rosenberg, Lovecraft.

> “The International Jew”.

> Another copy of “Vigilantes”.

There was also an embroidery in a plain black frame hanging above one of the bookcases. A single word in a red chain stitch — SITE*R — was centered on the cloth. With an asterisk between the last two letters.

Jesse pointed, “What’s that?”

“I had to look it up; it’s a musical instrument, like a zither.”

Jessie, “Shouldn’t it be sitar?”

“Maybe, that’s Indian. Subcontinent. A siter is Javanese. But somehow I doubt that Ruthann’s SITE*R has anything to do with music.”

“We’ll check it out.”

“I’ll send you the videos.”

Jessie said, “And we’ll look for an American Nazi tie-in with the Pewtie clan.”

I was conflicted, just a little, over Joe-Harlan. In a way, I found his rustic schtick, that gawd-awful twang, charming. Nice smile too. Maybe that fluoride thing was real. The town without a toothache.

But almost certainly, he was involved in the insurance scam. And, judging from the family reading material, he was possibly a participant in some sort of white supremacist activities. That was far more disturbing to me than being part of a quirky art theft ring.

Although those object-specific burglaries were interesting — the payoff wasn’t that large, but neither was the risk. It was becoming obvious that the thieves were concentrating on a specific niche. Limited-edition posters, professionally matted and framed. Signed by the artist. Each poster usually came with a Certificate of Authenticity.

The art gang didn’t have to worry about fencing something and receiving only ten percent or so of the value. They simply resold the posters in a different state. In theory, a single piece of art could be sold and stolen multiple times. For gradually escalating prices.

Who would suspect a Midwestern cabal of art galleries?

While Red and the other insurance agents reported the burglaries to the local police, those cases wouldn’t rank very high on the priorities list. It didn’t make that much difference even when the burglary victims themselves showed up at the station because they needed a police report for insurance purposes. The cops simply had too many other crimes, far more serious crimes, to investigate.

I was in the process of convincing myself that Pewtie was the ringleader. Confirmation bias on my part? Maybe. Probably. I just didn’t like American Nazis. Or any brand of Nazism, for that matter.

I decided to take a closer look at Joe-Harlan Pewtie and would use one of my Irregulars to aid and abet. Mingo Bernard Cunningham. A light-fingered, little scamster. He was diminutive, but you didn’t want to leave anything valuable unlocked when he was around. Come to think of it ... locks didn’t much bother our Mingo. He once told me, “I don’t steal anything, Winter, I just happen to find it before it’s lost.”

One of the many scams he ran took place where people were congregated in small crowds. Like shuffling in line for concert tickets, gathered at a political rally, and the like. He had a confederate, dressed in KCPD uniform, walk around quietly alerting people, “There’s a pickpocket working this event. Be alert, stay safe.”

Inevitably, the men would pat whichever pocket contained a billfold. Mingo would watch casually and follow the one or two marks he’d selected. Lifting a wallet took a lot of practice, and a lot of nerve, but he’d never been nabbed for pickpocketing. Nor anything else so far.

I told Mingo, “It’s a 2013 GMC Sierra. White. Expired Texas plates.” I handed him a photo of the truck with the license number. “Parked in the lot at 20th and Locust, southeast corner.”

Mingo and I were at BEAR’s on Broadway, in my favorite booth that the establishment had placed on permanent reserve for me. I’d arrived first and Louie-Louie escorted Mingo over to my corner. I didn’t look, but I knew his feet wouldn’t quite reach the floor when he scooted in.

Bear and Mingo nodded at each other, one professional to another.

“Winter, I never do a job for less than five thousand.”

I laughed, “Liar.”

Mingo stiffened with injured dignity, “It’s not a lie.”

“Oh?”

“It’s just delayed honesty.”

I kept a straight face, “The offer is still one thousand, Mingo. Not a penny more.”

“No way.”

“Okay, I’ll do it myself. Vanessa can stand watch.”

Mingo squirmed in his seat; he wasn’t about to let a Grover Cleveland stroll out the door. “Photos only?”

“That’s right. And everything replaced just so.”

“Winter.”

“Sorry, Mingo, you’re the pro. You know how to do it.”

He glanced at the picture of the truck, and I said, “As you can see, it’s a four-door cab and the truck bed has a tri-fold tonneau cover. I want to know what’s underneath.”

“And it’s this Friday night.”

“That’s right. It’s First Friday and the guy owns an art gallery.”

Mingo sipped his iced tea and asked several questions about First Friday and the local art scene itself. Never could tell when some new datapoint might prove valuable in his line of work. I knew better than to tell him about the poster thefts. He’d be out there looking for a personal edge in the world of art appreciation.

“Timing?”

“Peak hours are usually between eight and nine, nine-thirty.”

“Still plenty of light, this time of year.”

“That’s why I’m contracting with a pro.”

“Winter, I don’t want to end up alone in a room with two guys who don’t smile and a table that’s screwed to the floor.”

“Nice try, Mingo. A thousand is generous and you know it.”

My physical search for Blowtorch began at the Sister Mary Packer Foundation. And a conversation with Gloria VanLandingham, the new Sister Mary. Large woman, black, strong, a former druggie and hooker. The little girls adored her, well most of them did.

Although one of them had signed an affidavit swearing Gloria had whored her out the previous year. That fucking DC lawyer, Martin Folsom. Plus whoever was behind him. And that someone almost certainly had to have some connection to Kansas City. The Foundation was known locally, and appreciated locally, but it had no footprint outside the metro area.

Gloria and I were sipping icy cold cans of Bud as the place quieted down around 10 that night. If she were concerned about the lawsuit, I couldn’t tell. She knew that Phillip Montgomery had her back; would hire a werewolf of a defense attorney. And would cover all of the Foundation’s legal costs.

I told her, “Sabbath Louise Armstrong testified on camera. She categorically denied ever having sex of any kind while she was living here.”

“Sabbath is kind of a shelter legend. Even after all these years.”

“She accomplished so much. Coming from where she did, no known parents, a never-ending series of foster homes. Then being raised in the shelter.”

We visited for a while, listening to the whispers, giggles, “Shushes,” as the girls settled down for the night. In the morning, they’d have a hot breakfast, a bus ride to school, a bus ride back. And a sack lunch too. As much structure as Gloria and her team could provide.

“Gloria, how good are the records here? The paper records. And how far back do they go?”

“Why?”

I told her about Blowtorch. The first attack hadn’t been covered by the local media. The assault in Columbia was, because of the sheer awfulness of the weapon. And the colorful name, ‘Blowtorch’. But it had been four years and memories faded.

I said, “A woman named Miranda something, her sister, and two male cousins brought Sabbath to Sister Mary when Miranda’s common law husband was caught with his hand down Sabbath’s panties. His name was Pedro Morales.”

Gloria wasn’t shocked; getting felt up was minor league compared to what some of her little charges had been through. But she wasn’t indifferent either.

“Castrate the fucker. All of them fuckers.”

“Is there any chance you have any info on him? After all these years?”

“Not likely. Sister Mary didn’t put much in writing. Didn’t trust what was left of the Diocese. Had friends at the local precinct, but she didn’t want cops in her business. At most, she’d write down the first name and last initial of the girls. And a sort of shorthand note on the circumstances.”

“That’s how I remember it too.”

“If there were medical conditions, if a doctor came, she’d get into more specifics.”

I nodded.

Gloria smiled in rueful admiration, “She did keep detailed notes on all the neighborhood pimps, Harold, Pantone, Ramone. Harold especially.”

“Yeah, he liked ‘em young.” Before Gertie Oppenheimer moved him from selling flesh into real estate. Arguably, an even more skeevy endeavor.

“You’re welcome to look at everything we have, Winter. Sheree Nelson organized all the old files by year. Sabbath came here in ... what was it... 1995?”

“Late 1994. If it’s all right, I’ll come back in the morning, start fresh.”

“You really think this Morales dude might be Blowtorch?”

“It’s a stretch. But the police didn’t look at him. Probably didn’t even know about his ancient history with Sabbath. And I don’t have anything else.”

Other than that one-word utterance. A memory that surfaced only when Doctor Lindsey Conners hypnotized Sabbath. A curse that Blowtorch spat out when Sabbath escaped him in Columbia.

“COÑO!”

Spanish for ‘cunt’.

Pilar, “In vitro.”

Walker shook his head, “Modus operandi.”

It was our third First Friday visit to the Discretionary Contemporary. Vanessa and I were regulars now. Cheek-kissable. At least this time I wouldn’t be sneaking upstairs; all I had to do was keep a casual eye on Pewtie. And text Mingo if he left the premises.

I teased Pewtie, “The wine is a little better tonight.” And it was.

He leaned in to whisper an insider secret, “I have the artist pay for the wine and cheese.”

Vanessa said, “Even the starving artists?”

He winked, “The ones I represent aren’t starving.”

We wandered around; I was looking more closely at Pewtie’s limited-edition posters. Curious if any of them had been sold before they showed up in Kansas City.

At 9:17 Mingo texted me. All clear.

Vanessa and I drove to BEAR’s. I’d pay Mingo the remaining $800 and he’d show me pictures.

Feebs, LLC.

No, not that one.

Sunrise Security Solutions, LLC.

Both generic and lame.

Fuck, this was taking more time than I wanted. I liked ‘Apex Security’ because of the apex predator connotation. But it was taken. So was ‘Garland Security’ and a dozen others I came up with.

I did like the words ‘security’ and ‘national’. Then I changed my mind about ‘national’. Most of the clients who would come to us had local problems. And while it could lead to activity in another city, most of the cases wouldn’t involve crossing state lines. Unless I had to drive west over State Line Road to fucking Kansas, that herpes sore of a state.