Chapter 8: A Clutch of Chickens

Sometimes things just work out.

The Discretionary Contemporary was dark on Sundays and Pewtie left his parking lot at 2:11 in the afternoon and drove straight to Warren Hardmore’s home on West 73rd Street. A real-life connection to take the merely speculative out of my theory.

I called the Sullivans from my loft, “One of you drive by Hardmore’s place.”

I didn’t need to tell them not to stop, not to gawk, to just do a quickie.

Jessie called back a few minutes later, “Backyard bar-b-que. Two other cars, we’ll run the plates.”

The two touch points I had for Sabbath’s early life were the Foundation and Holy Pentecostal. The one maybe-lead from Sister Mary’s was the foster mother’s name, Miranda López.

Holy Pentecostal had been shuttered for years, but I went online to reread the early stories about the miracle baby. The only name I could find that was associated with Sabbath was José López — the handyman who had discovered the abandoned baby just as the sun was coming up.

The pastor, Eldin de Léon, had ascended, maybe, into heaven in 2012.

López was certainly a common name, so it didn’t have to mean that Miranda and José were related. But the two of them were the only threads I had to follow in my search for Pedro Morales. Who may or may not be Blowtorch.

Sabbath had been found October 18, 1987 — 32 years ago. First question: was either Miranda or José even alive today? And, if so, still around? And, if not, could they be traced?

Miranda was my primary target; she’d been Pedro’s common law wife. Which, living in sin, wasn’t all that common with the Kansas City Latino community back then and I was curious why they’d never married.

I had to assume, without really knowing one way or another, that Pedro Morales had attended Holy Pentecostal along with Miranda. If so, José the handyman would probably have known him.

Pretty sketchy leads, but pretty sketchy was what I had.

Pewtie attended another Hardmore bar-b-que the following Sunday afternoon, then missed the next week. And the one after that. Both of those weekends he stayed mostly at home. Ran a couple of errands to Walgreens and the Consentino’s Market on Main. Because it was a Sunday afternoon, downtown street parking shouldn’t have been much of a hassle.

And following him was no hassle at all. I just glanced at my screen from time to time.

The Sullivans did a couple of drive-bys and there hadn’t been any sign of backyard company at the Hardmore hacienda on the Sundays that Pewtie skipped. So they continued their digital digging. They didn’t spot any red flags when they backgrounded Warren and Maeve.

Jessie, “Solid middle-class family, both of them work, no kids.”

Jesse, “He owns the trucking fleet — eleven vehicles — free and clear.”

Later, Gertie would tell me that Hardmore was making a typical entrepreneurial mistake in not taking advantage of the tax and P&L benefits earned through interest payments on financing. Like tax write-offs on mortgage payments for home owners.

She said, “Not atypical for the anti-government crowd. Hardmore could be using cash leverage to his greater advantage. But a lot of them don’t want anything to do with anything that touches the Federal Reserve.”

Jessie, “She works part time at UMKC, creative writing, and made $27,000 last year.”

Jesse, “His company declared a net income of a little over $137,000.”

“What about those other two guests?”

Jessie, “Guy named Mike Grimes works for Hardmore; he’s a driver. Been with him six years. He’s 32, lives in a trailer in Sunny Grove. Made $69,000 last year. Including overtime.”

Jesse, “Larry Horton is a pharmacist, owns one-third of an independent drugstore in Raytown. Owns a bungalow there. Netted $92,000 last year. He’s 34.”

Walker, all innocence, asked, “Winter, did you ever post that western story you wrote? What was it called?”

Pilar, all innocence, “Frontiers.”

Vanessa kept a straight face. Hobo looked on with interest. The Proper Villain was power-napping.

“Oh, I don’t even remember. Maybe.”

No sign of Miranda López, nor her sister, first name unknown. Their two male cousins who helped deliver Sabbath to the shelter ... also MIA.

I found José López, through intelligence, perseverance, experience, and dogged detective work.

He was working as a handyman at the first Northeast church I stopped at.

I had downloaded a list of every church, Pentecostal or not, in the Northeast section of Kansas City. Using Google Maps, I ... um, mapped out my search vector for the most efficient routes.

The main east-west drag, Independence Avenue and its cross streets, housed several houses of worship. I noticed more and more Asian signs, which must piss off the nativists. Spanish was bad enough. What’s next, Cyrillic?

My first stop was a Vietnamese Buddhist joint, the Tu Bi Temble-Chùa Từ Bi. Located, with some irony, on White Avenue.

José López was easy to spot. He was at least a foot taller than everyone else. And coal black. He had an open, friendly manner and when he heard it was about Sabbath, become instantly cooperative. I quickly brought him up to date. About the Kansas City attack, Columbia, Blowtorch. He vaguely remembered the Blowtorch coverage and was shocked to learn that Sabbath had been the target.

It was fairly early, around 10 in the morning, but he lit up when I suggested we step out for some pho. There was a joint I’d been to a couple of blocks away and he said, “It’s righteous.”

The tiny lady behind the order counter beamed up at José and they exchanged greetings in Vietnamese. What I assumed was Vietnamese.

José López was around 70, and still stood tall. Wide shoulders, strong-looking hands. No relation, as it turned out to Miranda L. We talked about his background.

“Was raised Catholic, but lost my faith over there.”

“Vietnam?”

“Two tours. Then I became like Cassius Clay — Man, I ain’t got no quarrel with them Viet Cong.”

José spoke softly, without bitterness. It was difficult to imagine what his life had been like. Volunteered for combat; came home to a country more divided than ever. To a neighborhood in decline.

“Very many Vietnamese move here? To Kansas City?”

He nodded, “A lot of churches got shut down over there. It was several years back. Central Highlanders, Montagnards — Mnong mostly — went over to Cambodia. And some of them scattered to the four winds. Ended up here, in Canada, all over.”

“What’s it like where you’re working?”

“I have a little language, that helps. More than a lot of them have English.”

He smiled when the wizened woman brought our pho. He had selected beef, I had gone with chicken. The old gal kept coming over — exotic condiments, more ice water, extra napkins. José was well liked.

“Pastor Tran Dinh is a good man. As good as I’ve seen in any church. He don’t preach down, not like at Holy Pentecostal. The pastor there, name of de León, Eldin de León ... that man had no quit in him. You going to hell, you don’t do 100% what he says.”

We were both bent over, happily slurping.

José shook his head, “Meant well, most of them do. But Eldin, man, he wear you down. His religion was hard-boiled and deep-fried. Most preachers tell us that Adam and Eve sinned. Eldin put all the blame on Eve. So women had to be subservient, were second class citizens in his sermons.”

He was thinking back, blinked, and smiled at me, “Something I know a little about — second class citizens.”

“Did you know Pedro Morales? He was Sabbath’s foster father for a while.”

“Sure, I remember Morales. Surprised me, that business with Sabbath. Shocked me, but I guess we never really know another human being.”

I explained my mission — track Morales down, if possible. Try to determine if he were Blowtorch.

José shook his head sadly, “She kept in touch, Sabbath did. Sent me a little money when she could. But then she just disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“She had to after that first attack here in town. The police got her some new ID and moved her to Columbia. The cops made sure she didn’t contact anyone back here. Then that second attack and they couldn’t figure out how Blowtorch had found her in Columbia. So I helped her build a new life in another city. But I just met with her, she’s doing fine. She’s back going to church every week. And she knows I’m looking for that creep. So anything you can tell me will be appreciated.”

José looked off into some middle distance, “Morales was a short-order cook. Never heard no complaints bout him. Not until all that Sabbath mess.”

“You remember where he worked?”

“It was a diner, don’t rightly recollect the name. Near the farmer’s market though. Not all that far from here.”

Whoa! Could that be an actual clue? Been a while, not sure I’d recognize one. But the City Diner was not only still in business, it was a personal favorite of mine.

I handed José my new Vanguard business card and a couple of hundred-dollar bills. He didn’t protest.

“I’m on an expense account. Ask around and let me know if you hear anything about Miranda López or Pedro Morales. Anything at all.”

I didn’t really have a Blowtorch expense account. Not unless he was somehow connected to the Foundation lawsuit, which had seemed unlikely from the get-go.

Jessie and Jesse had uncovered several iterations of Pedro Morales. A common enough name. But we disqualified all of them in the metro area. Too young, too old, too dead. A couple were guests of the county during one or both assaults.

That meant he wasn’t in Kansas City, or that he was and we couldn’t trace him digitally.

Next step: breakfast at City Diner. I wish now I’d made the ‘FBI Consultant’ type larger on my business cards.

The Hardmore gatherings didn’t happen every Sunday, but not a month went by without Pewtie showing up there. Along with the other two, Grimes and Horton.

I knew Pewtie was a racist. And both Handsome Tony and Joey Viagra passed along rumors that Hardmore was too. Logically, his wife, Maeve also. It wasn’t a great leap to toss Grimes and Horton into the same toxic stew.

A lot of assumptions? Of course. But over the years I’d learned to listen to my gut. And my instincts told me that the Hardmore coven was worth keeping an eye on.

Like medical doctors who have to be re-certified every few years, I kept up on the best-practices standards of my profession. In other words, I read catalogs, talked with other detectives, studied industry bulletins from both the police and FBI.

Mainly, I was interested in the newest and niftiest toys.

And I had a specific one in mind when I checked out the Hardmore house on West 73rd Street, just off Wornal. Which, Wornal, used to be part of the Santa Fe Trail. I’m not sure that was a clue, though.

Because Vanessa’s a professional, our kitchen at home was stocked with some pretty sporty appliances. However, the one I used the most was a simple toaster-oven from Hamilton Beach.

It wasn’t anything fancy, just a one-rack toaster. But ideal for warming up morning bagels and bialys, reconstituting house-made chips. Heating up an open-face sandwich. Like that.

Unfortunately, the timer that you twist clockwise from OFF to X-number of minutes didn’t always kick the oven into action. I found that bitch-slapping the dial usually did the trick.

I think it was a measure of Vanessa’s love for me that when she walked in just as I gave the device a love-tap and muttered, “You better,” she didn’t find it the least bit odd that I was talking to a machine.

The spy toy I was interested in vis-à-vis Hardmore and that crew was a parabolic dish. From my online research I learned that it collected and focused sound waves into a transducer. Whatever the fuck that was.

Nothing new about parabolic dishes; they’d eavesdropped on conversations going back at least as far as WWII.

It was the disguise and deployment that intrigued me. Specifically masquerading one as a TV satellite dish. Aimed at the Hardmore’s backyard, it should capture those bar-b-que discussions adequately enough.

The challenge? Where to position one, how to justify its presence.

I had decided on a newish model, Silent Sam. Corny as it was, I liked the name, the silent part. And, in my imagination, a connection to Sam Spade.

West 73rd Street runs east and west. The Sullivans decided the house next door to the Hardmore residence on the east side of it would do nicely. I made a couple of passes and agreed. Now it was up to me to convince Mrs. Adele Ransome that she needed to add an ugly satellite dish to her roof. Despite being a Google Fiber customer.

Like a lot of us in Kansas City, she had signed up as soon as Google started its first-ever citywide fiber program. Her package, thank you Sullivan twins, was the top plan available — Fiber 1000 + TV.

Internet, streaming, phone ... all your digital needs in one package. And, you didn’t have to deal with a Comcast or an AT&T. Nor mar your roofline’s symmetry with a dish.

Mrs. Ransome, 72, had been widowed for twelve years. Lived alone; her son and daughter had moved to Fresno and Bakersfield, respectively. She was active in the Ward Parkway Presbyterian Church that was just a few blocks away.

Her husband, Kenneth, had been in an Army combat engineering unit; a lifer with a total of 28 years in service. Health issues kept him from reaching his 30. He had done a quick six, dropped out to go to college at Georgia Tech and re-upped as an officer. Ended up as a light colonel. He had been stationed all over the map; sometimes Adele went on a posting with him, sometimes not.

Their Kansas City home had been her parents’ house, built to their specs.

So, a solidly middle class woman, a senior citizen, an Army widow, a churchgoer.

I waited in the Presbyterian parking lot until the 10:30 worship service was over. Then I waited until the 11:30 fellowship was over.

Adele was a short woman, a little florid, a little overweight. Not fubsy, just a little plump. Friendly. She visited on the sidewalk with the pastor, then various couples, a few singletons.

As the parking lot emptied out, I moved a couple of spaces nearer her white Buick, a 2015 Enclave. A four-door, which looked to me like a large car for one person. Maybe she was a Buick person. Maybe her parents were. Maybe it didn’t matter.

I got out and leaned against Matt’s Audi, enjoying the sun and the soft breeze, as she slowly walked my way.

“Hello, Mrs. Ransome. Can you spare a minute?”

I sat at the left side of City Diner’s counter, facing the door to the kitchen. There were tables behind me and to my left in an auxiliary room. But we diner aficionados, true aficionados, eat at the counter. It’s a rule, a federal one in fact.

The key to diner breakfasts lies in the choice of potatoes. A lot of noobs go for the hash browns. Not a disaster; in fact quite tasty when you asked this particular kitchen for a crispy rendition.

But City Diner-wise, the country fries are a better choice. A large Idaho, cubed into quarter-inch ... um, cubes and fried and salted and delicious.

Eggs however you like ‘em. Breakfast meat? Fried ham, Italian sausage, Italian steak, bacon, country-fried steak ... pick ‘em. Bread? Biscuit, of course — next question.

I waited until a little after ten in the morning, between prime times for the two daily meals they served.

I handed my Vanguard card to the oldest waitress, a genuine Flo type. And asked her about a former short-order cook, Pedro Morales.

She was already shaking her head, “I been here the longest and he must have been before my time. Best bet is you ask the former owners; they sold the place some years back. The Corsinis.”

I didn’t bother with the other staff; I felt confident that the institutional memory resided with the gal who hadn’t known Morales, nor known of him. On to the previous proprietors.

Mrs. Ransome had all of her marbles. Or, if she’d lost some, she’d started out with more than many people had.

She looked at me sharply, “Why are you interested in the Hardmores?”

It wasn’t an accusatory question, she seemed genuinely intrigued.

Tell her about the possible racist tie-in or not? Not. For now anyway.

I handed her a Vanguard card. At this rate, I’d need to restock pretty soon. “I’m investigating an acquaintance of the Hardmores regarding a burglary ring. That’s about all I can say because it’s gone interstate and the Feds may become involved.”

I pointed to the words ‘FBI consultant’ on my card. Mrs. Ransome didn’t swoon, but she was still curious.

“And Maeve and Warren?”

I made a zipper motion across my lips, something I should probably institute as a best-practices policy.

In the end, Ms. Mysteriosa was successful. Or Mrs. Ransome’s curiosity simply won out.

Another widow, this time Estella Corsini. She and her husband had owned the City Diner for 24 years. She still lived in the River Market district, even though the residential part of the neighborhood had ebbed and flowed as the economy and demographics brought so many changes to the area. What had once been mostly Italian was now more mixed. And younger and more gentrified these days, especially with all the loft conversions in former factories and warehouses.

Mrs. Corsini, 76 years old, still lived in the same single-family home she’d been born in.

I had called ahead and she set out hot water with lemon and a plate of homemade sugar cookies. In her 70s, a tall and handsome woman. We were in the living room that probably hadn’t seen much company in decades. The sofa still had the factory-installed plastic cover. Protection from the few butts that ever sat on it.

“Sure, I remember Pedro. Reliable. Always on time, always willing to fill in when someone needed some time off.”