Chapter 9: A Pitying of Turtledoves

The police responded in under three minutes; two ambulances right behind them. One of them said, “Gun!” and I felt, but couldn’t see, one cop grab my shoulder bag where he removed the .38. The other one cuffed me, hands behind my back.

Morales and I were rushed to University hospital. I ended up on the second floor of the Critical Care Tower. Morales was in the same building, but in the burn unit.

When Suzette aimed at me, I had ducked my head and squeezed my eyes shut. That helped, but my face had instantly felt like it was coated in ice. My eyes burned, but two of the nurses diligently rinsed and dabbed, rinsed and dabbed. My skin felt chapped and raw. Of course my minor injuries were nothing like what Morales was going through.

Suzette had reacted almost as quickly as I had. She doused Morales’ flaming head and turned immediately to me. She had no idea who I was, just some madwoman who had set her cook on fire. I learned later that she also had the presence of mind to secure the torch before she called 911. It was the second call; one of the dining room customers had already summoned help.

The legal tangles took weeks to sort through, but eventually no charges were filed against me. When it became clear, or at least probable, that Morales had assaulted Sabbath Armstrong twice, the second time possibly with the same Williams Sonoma torch that he would have used on me, my plea of self-defense carried the day.

No one considered charging Suzette Fournier with anything. And I was fine with that. She had probably saved Morales’ life. And her attack on me, a complete stranger, was understandable. Even to me.

By the time a hospital orderly carried a dinner tray into my room, I was no longer cuffed to the bed. All I could stomach was a little of the tapioca pudding. I never did get my takeout order of cassoulet.

CAROL SUE PARKER

I was still attending church twice a week, but wasn’t as comfortable with religion as I had been as a child. Back then I hadn’t realized there were life alternatives — other houses of worship, other faiths, agnosticism I guess. And just plain not thinking about Holy Pentecostal.

Feeling a little restless, I again started exploring different churches, other religions. Not because I didn’t like the pastor and congregation at Calvary Apostolic; I did. But I had growing reservations about things like the complete infallibility of the Bible. And speaking in tongues, the idea of it, had always given me trouble, even as a child. I guess I simply no longer had the foursquare certainty of a true believer.

At the same time, even after four years, Denver still didn’t feel like home. It just felt different from Kansas City. Not bad different; in fact I enjoyed the sense that there was more of an openness in the Rocky Mountain region. A vibe maybe attributable to the outdoorsy life.

So those two intertwined themes — religion and home — were working in my subconscious.

Going back to Kansas City for my deposition felt a bit surreal. A homecoming in a way. But to a home I could no longer live in.

I told myself to count my blessings. My research library salary — $62,900 — was less than I made with Leisurely Lane. But it was more than enough to get by. I lived quietly these days and usually was able to add a little to my savings account at the end of the month. Plus, I still had my investments from the settlement that Kansas City paid me.

But my spiritual and physical homes still seemed transient.

I did have a part-time boyfriend, but we didn’t really go out all that often. So, I had a lot of time to think, to speculate, and to philosophize. Maybe too much time. I smoked some ganja, sometimes drank wine, listened to jazz, meditated, prayed, did yoga, and considered my life.

As I read about the potential dangers of teenage vaping, I mostly switched to old fashioned joints. And considered my life.

WINTER JENNIFER JENNINGS

I never did check in on Pedro Morales. I knew he was blinded for life, horribly disfigured for life. I felt some remorse, but not any guilt. Not much, anyway. He’d played the hand and would have seared my face off if he could have. It had been a panic reaction on his part, but the damage to me would have been monstrous.

Still, I’d never forget that explosion of flame as the blaze hit the butane and ignited the capsaicin mixture. That inhuman scream.

The incident probably didn’t rise to the level of “Headless Body in Topless Bar”, but it was horrific enough.

My own face was still raw and chapped and red and blotchy. But that would fade. Time and careful applications of makeup would take care of any temporary blemishes.

Vanessa and Walker and Pilar flew to Columbia to collect me. She drove us home in Matt’s Audi. It had been towed from a ‘No Parking After 10 PM’ zone. I checked it out fairly carefully and couldn’t detect any damage. Other than $200 in towing and storage fees.

The fact that I’d registered with the Columbia PD helped to save my butt. And meant that they returned my S&W .38. They kept the pepper-spray though. Evidence.

As I was signing the Property Return form, a Sergeant Perkins said, “They make pepper-sprays with inert gas, you know.”

“I know.”

But, in fact, I didn’t know if it was the butane from my pepper-spray or the butane from the blowtorch itself that ignited the capsaicin mixture. Maybe both? Perhaps it was rationalization on my part, but I didn’t really care. I wasn’t about to wave my Forgiveness Wand over Blowtorch’s mummified head.

In any case, I needed to tell Sabbath that Blowtorch was now in police custody. That she could resume her life without worrying about him.

Red Lonnigan worked in concert with the four other KC insurance agencies where art-theft claims had been filed. It wasn’t the heist of the century so they didn’t spend a lot of resources on the project.

One of Lonnigan’s outside security companies did midnight installations — exterior security cams that were focused on the Kansas City galleries that were known to offer stolen merchandise for sale. Illegal surveillance? Probably. AAA-deniability? Definitely.

He told me, “The fact is that many of those art dealers may well be innocent. Even limited-edition prints are fungible. It’s not like a Caravaccio where every transaction is recorded for posterity.”

I said, “So If someone brought in a print, the gallery would have no way of knowing that it had already been sold in Omaha.”

“That’s the clever part. Each one is worth a few thousand dollars, which means it’s worth stealing and selling again. But not any one item is valuable enough to attract auction-like attention.”

The cams, some of them on the actual gallery buildings, some across the street, would feed videos to AAA’s security office. They’d do the analyses for all the insurance agencies and share everything with them. I imagined Red would turn a modest profit on the operation.

But I wasn’t sure what they would accomplish. Deliveries arrived via the post office, FedEx, UPS, private delivery vans, walk-ins.

In the meantime, I’d keep on monitoring Pewtie. For the scam and for the other thing.

“Warren, when can we begin the ground game?”

“Next week, Larry, next week.”

“Really! Outstanding. Who’s up?”

“You are. Then Joe-Harlan, then Mike. Are you ready, Larry? It’s no longer a drill.”

“More than ready. Just point me in the right direction.”

“Houston, Texas. Drive a load of furniture down to Oklahoma City on Tuesday; a car will be available at our depot. Along with a list of Houston targets. Take your time, pick the best one, the one you’re most comfortable with.”

“Excellent. I won’t let you down.”

Maeve, “Recite it, Larry.”

“Search. Identify. Terminate. Escape. Repeat.”

“And what’s the single most important element?”

“Escape. Live to fight another day.”

SITE*R.

CAROL SUE PARKER

When Winter told me about Blowtorch, about Pedro Morales, I became faint, had to sit down. A blizzard of emotions. Shock, relief, that faint memory of his hand down my panties.

Winter’s instincts had been right. Blowtorch wasn’t some tech-obsessed genius. He had followed me online, stalked me, and eventually attacked me in Kansas City. And then merely happened to spot me on the streets of Columbia a year later. Even If I had eaten in Chez Suzette, I wouldn’t have recognized a man whose face I hadn’t seen for well over twenty years.

Winter updated me over the next few weeks. A public defender had been assigned; he kept Morales from admitting to his assaults on me. But the police in Kansas City were backtracking his movements. HAVEN had failed and apparently there was still some residual resentment in the ranks.

Winter told me, “It’s piecemeal. Some of it’s gossip, some of it’s probably true. The short version is that after they turned you over to Sister Mary, the community ostracized Morales. He never attended church again. He moved to Kansas City, Kansas and had a series of menial jobs. Landscaping, loading freight, security guard, like that.”

I didn’t feel sorry for him, but I didn’t take any particular pleasure over his hardships.

“Then he got back into kitchen work. Was pretty good at it. But there was a burning resentment of the little girl who had tempted him at bath time. Who screamed in the night.”

“And he nurtured that hatred.”

“Especially after you came back to town. All grown up, a college graduate, that slew of media stories about the miracle baby from the Northeast. And once he read about Leisurely Lane ... well, the pot boiled over.”

“And he grabbed me, tried to set me on fire.”

“Yeah, and that’s where things turned tricky. He was so obsessed with you that he convinced himself that everyone would know he was the one who had attacked you. So he caught the dog and got off in Columbia. Looking over his shoulder for months.”

“I wonder if all those fire and brimstone sermons from Holy Pentecostal made him like he his.”

“Could be. Could explain the blowtorch. In some twisted way. In any case he fled town believing that everyone would see his connection to you as clearly as he did.”

“And then he spotted me on the street.”

“And then he spotted you on the street. Must have seemed like a gift from God to him.”

“And all that time he could have just stayed in Kansas City. No one had thought to link him to the attack on me.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t have any way of knowing that. You were so much inside his head he thought everyone else would make the association. And that’s probably why he flipped out and tried to attack me when I said your name.”

WINTER JENNIFER JENNINGS

The Hardmore recordings I listened to were usually more social than strategic. But a tidbit here, an aside there ... a disturbing picture was slowly emerging.

> Warren Hardmore seemed to be the regional honcho of a subterranean movement called The Restoration. A national organization of white supremacists.

> The first stage of their campaign would be a series of executions targeting preselected African-American and Latino community leaders. The permanent removal of effective men and women of color.

> The demoralization of the ones left behind would be a welcome byproduct. As each new target was killed, confusion would turn to concern among the other community leaders. Concern would eventually evolve into to fear.

> The murders and the subsequent reaction in minority communities would serve as inspiration to the other heroes of the American Nazi movement.

> The assassinations would be quiet, professional hits. Military precision. Carefully chosen targets, scouted and stalked. All killings done by out-of-town talent.

> No mass shootings; one victim at a time.

> No claiming credit; every act would be anonymous. The Restoration would never be mentioned outside of its own membership.

Some of this was informed speculation on my part. Filling in the blanks. But if I were wrong on some of the details, I wouldn’t be that far off.

SITE*R.

CAROL SUE PARKER

Something deep inside me, something I didn’t quite understand, drew me to Pedro Morales, to Columbia, to his hospital. I became a regular, long-distance visitor to the man who had attacked me twice. Three times, counting that bedroom visit.

At the same time, I was rethinking my life. The timing was just a coincidence, but my yearly lease at the York Street Lofts would be coming up for renewal in a couple of months.

I had argued with myself for several days. Weighing the pros and cons, but mostly I was fooling myself.

I gave my boss at the Strum College of Law research library a month’s notice. I was moving back to Kansas City. Moving back home.

But first, I needed to reconsider my ... life, I guess. I’d been feeling alone, feeling sorry for myself. Mi madre had abandoned me when I was only a day old. A series of foster parents.

Then, later on, when I had to give up my friends and career, I had gotten that old outcast feeling of isolation. Well, weed helped for a while. Then I did a mental shrug and bought some meth from my neighbor’s boyfriend. Just a quick toot, just once in a while.

It was like I was hovering above myself, watching dispassionately. I placed my Visa card over the crystals, ran my door key over the card, crushing the shards into dust until it was as fine a powder as I could make it. Like milling it with a mortar and pestle.

I could, somehow, see myself like in a movie as I cut it into two lines, then bent over like a penitent in prayer. I watched myself dreamily as I walked my nose up and down; using a fresh, short straw every time. About three or four minutes to liftoff.

Buzzard dust.

WINTER JENNIFER JENNINGS

Houston averaged under three hundred homicides a year — less than one a day. I had a strong feeling I should be doing something more proactive than going online to read about the most recent murders.

But what?

I suppose I could call the Houston police and say a hitman was on the way. “No officer, sorry, no idea who the victim will be. Oh, wait, he’ll be African-American. Or she will. Or maybe Latino. Or Latina.”

There was always a chance that I misinterpreted the recorded conversations. Or that it was a bunch of hot air.

Still.

So I called Clint, gave him the CliffsNotes version. Vanguard had an agent, an ex-agent named Doug Hanley, in Dallas, so maybe...

Clint saw my intel in two ways, “We can’t just sit on it, Winter. Hanley will have some police contacts in Houston. He can alert them to be on the lookout for Horton.”

His second thought was practical, “Could be good for Vanguard either way. They catch Horton in the act, or they’ll have a suspect after the fact. We were the ones who blew the early-warning whistle.”

Then Clint’s FBI training kicked in. “Can you bring me the recordings? No, wait, I’ll go to KC. I want to check out the scene. If this group turns out to be anything like you’ve described, I’ll have to bring Ash in. If your Kansas City guy...”

“Warren Hardmore.”

“If Hardmore is really just a regional player, if The Restoration is national, it’s a Federal case.”

Back to the entrepreneur, “And giving Ash the lead first, won’t hurt Vanguard at all.”

I called Clint right back, “Look, I stumbled across this Hardmore guy because I was investigating an insurance fraud case — stolen artwork — for Triple-A. A suspect, a guy named Joe-Harlan Pewtie, turned out to be part of Hardmore’s little cadre of haters. And I know now he’s connected to the art scam, so he’s more than just a suspect.”

“And you’re saying that if Triple-A is getting ready to blow the whistle, it could scare the whole team away.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be in by 11 tomorrow. Can you set up a meet?”

“Sure. Red Lonnigan adores me.”

Silence.

“I have him wrapped around my little finger. You’d better learn to strangle your jealousy.”

More of the same.

“Okay, okay. He’s married, with child. I’ll pick you up at the airport and we’ll go straight to his office.”

I really shouldn’t twit Clint about another fella. Not after the little fandango I’d had with Chip O’Grady. Back in my baseball maven days.

CAROL SUE PARKER

I experimented with a new glass pipe and liked it a lot. Fill it about halfway, strike a fire to the bowl, take a long drag, let my thumb off the carb. Squint as I hold my breath as long as I can. So long there is hardly any smoke left when I exhale.

Righteous.

WINTER JENNIFER JENNINGS

Clint didn’t play the Homeland Security card with Red. For one thing he hadn’t yet listened to my Hardmore recordings. But he did tell Red that one of the art gallery owners, Jo-Harlan Pewtie, might be tied into a bigger crime. One that might lead to a nationwide investigation by the FBI.

It was interesting seeing Clint in action. Low key, didn’t tout his federal experience. But it was obvious he was a player.

And Red wasn’t slow; he got it right away. “So, our investigation could jeopardize something more important than poster thefts.”

The two men came to an agreement — the AAA investigation would proceed quietly, but no action would be taken against any of the players until the larger issue had been resolved. The two men and me; the three of us came to an agreement.

As we stood to leave, Clint turned to me, “You didn’t take any notes, Winter. I’ll need two copies of our memorandum of understanding in my hands by two this afternoon.”

Teach me to tease him about another boy.

“Yes sir.”

Red and I had agreed that the insurance companies would take over the art theft scam. Through the Sullivans, I had found the first resale poster in Peoria. And gotten the same estate-sale-in-Pennsylvania story that Pewtie had given Red.

Red told me, “You earned your money; the rest is just mopping up.”

CAROL SUE PARKER

A little recreational dope is one thing, not a big thing, not as long as I don’t let it get out of hand. And remember to refocus on the next stage of my life.

To become a Pentecostal pastor, I’d have to find a less conservative church, one that would affirm women.

I’d have to meet the requirements as outlined in Titus 1:6-9 and First Timothy 3:1-16. Basically, I would have to have the ability to teach, I’d have to be sober-minded, have a good reputation. I would need leadership qualities that would convince the congregation to follow the vision statement.

In addition, I’d need the theological training required to fully understand the ordinance of baptism and the Lord’s Supper.

Fine, all of that was fine.

But I couldn’t go along with ‘Speaking in tongues or a language I did not previously know’.

Ironically, that roadblock made me even more determined to pursue a pastoral career. I was quitting my job, moving back to Kansas City. And I felt a growing need to do something good, something worthy, something meaningful.

Plus, I’d cut back on la droga too. Probably as soon as I got settled back in KC.

WINTER JENNIFER JENNINGS

Maeve, “Joe-Harlan, did Mee-Maw watch you boys doing the chickens?”

Warren, “First, let’s address an item more immediate to The Restoration if you don’t mind, Maeve.”

“Of course.”

“Larry, I don’t know it you and Mike heard, but Joe-Harlan just made a $12,000 donation to our movement.”

Maeve, “Joe-Harlan, where in the world did you get that art poster idea?”

“It wasn’t actually my idea. I was drilling this girl from the Art Institute. She was into painting Western landscapes and was telling me about this book she’d read ... I think it was called “The Frontier”, something like that. It’s a Western out in Wyoming or maybe Montana. Anyway, two or three guys set up this real estate hustle, pretty slick.”

“What kind of hustle?”

“They staked out a hundred or so building lots on some empty prairie land outside of town. And then sold each lot as many times as they could. Sold them to out-of-state goobers and what could they do about it once they’d come a hundred miles or so?”

Warren, “Brilliant. Sell a poster. Steal it back. Sell it again.”

Maeve, “Joe-Harlan did Mee-Maw watch you boys do the chickens?”

I could hear the shrug in his answer, “Oh, if she was walking by, on her way to the barn or something. You know, it was just like jacking off, only better.”

After a few moments, he added, “Of course she had to check on Pud every once in a while. Make sure he remembered how.”

That exaggerated twang; the image that I couldn’t blink away. The bell I couldn’t unring.

Whenever I wanted an outside perspective, I checked in with someone not directly connected with the case I was working on. Often it was Gertie Oppenheimer. Retired from a financial career in NYC, she’d seen a lot over the years. We settled into my office because I didn’t want smoke in my hair, on my clothes. She’d spend a few minutes with me, then go back downstairs and fire up one of her unfiltered Camels.