First Do No Harm Winter JenningsChapter 15 Eagle
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First, Do No Harm: Winter JenningsChapter 5: Vermin free porn video
I issued a family BOLO as soon as I had a mugshot of Cozad Dillinger. I told Vanessa and the kids, “This may be the mook that rammed my truck.”
We all studied the surprisingly clear photo. And read the description.
Cozad was 26. Five feet, nine. Hundred and seventy. Minor stuff — bar fights, two motorcycle crashes, two DUIs. Dropped out, or kicked out, of North Kansas City High School.
Possession of weed; released for time served.
I said, “Nothing to indicate murderous intent. And it’s just a rumor. But it was started — whispered — by a couple of bikers in the Street Saints gang.”
Pilar said, “What does that mean?”
“Probably that they don’t trust him. Don’t want him around.”
Walker, wiseass, said, “Cannon. Division: loose.”
Vanessa head-thumped him with the heel of her hand. Pilar grinned.
Walker and Pilar were bent over their cells, mentally buried in digital diversions.
Pilar thrust her device to Gertie, “See! The Oinker-in-Chief is going down.”
Gertie, gently, “How so?”
Pilar, understandably, was worked up over the Administration’s treatment of immigrants. She and are mother are two. Walker, naturally, had his girlfriend’s back.
“Look at this! Campaign manager and personal attorney. Guilty. Both of them.”
“So... ?”
“Impeachment. At the least. Jail time, I hope.”
“Aw, honey.”
“What?”
“Impeachment talk — at this stage anyway — is ludicrous. Liberal masturbation. FantasyLand.”
“But ... but...”
“This President has the highest base approval rating of anyone since W right after 9/11. So, one aide found guilty of some obscure charges. Another pleaded ... meh.”
“Meh! Gertie!”
“Look, honey, this Congress is ... full of ostrich Republicans. See no evil. They’re just like the Democrats were with Clinton. Hopeless.”
I said, “Reductio ad absurdum,” because I’d read it recently.
Pilar, “Fuck!”
Walker put his palm gently on Pilar’s hand. Calm down, Chica.
I distributed Cozad Dillinger mugshots to my Irregulars. Went to the cop shop and brought Louise Finch and Cathal Conway up to speed. Louise put a loose, very loose, tail on the wannabe. More of an occasional drive-by than a tail.
Myself ... not so loose. I wouldn’t go right at him, not yet. Both Sandra Fleming and Daddy had urged caution. To gather background info, to determine, if we could, where he had been the night of the crash.
I wanted, so badly, for Cozad to be the one. For it not to be a legion of white supremacists, a gang of zealots. For it not to be someone backed by rightwing billionaires. A wannabe, that I can live with. Literally.
I parked Matt’s Audi, illegally, on Main Street. In front of Macklin’s INTERNATIONAL INNOVATIONS INCUBATOR. Without the slightest modicum of guilt, I placed my CLERGY sign on the dash. Never gotten a parking ticket yet.
Besides, my ride still had DC plates on it. Let ‘em try to collect long distance. From an estate.
I would be just a minute — I wanted to see the joint firsthand. Before anyone connected with Macklin had any idea who I was. I wouldn’t meet with any of the employees — I just wanted to ... um, snoop.
Impressive. A soaring lobby, easily five or six stories high. There was a huge Lichtenstein painting, a good thirty feet across. One of my favorite artists. There were some large mobiles too. Calder, or someone in the Calder school.
Two security guards sat behind a wide desk with several video monitors. I watched covertly as everyone who entered the elevator area swiped an ID through a slot. Six elevators, set up to be digitally efficient. You entered your floor number into a center console and a sign flashed, directing you to the elevator that would get you to your designated floor the fastest.
Sort of slick, sort of corporate. Give me naked ‘ole Nature Boy any day.
Well, I’d had my look. Didn’t spot any lobby security cameras, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.
Back outside, a meter maid was standing beside her three-wheel scooter eyeing my Audi suspiciously. I brushed past her, “Last rites.” And drove away.
It was a lazy Sunday morning. Vanessa and I — impulse — decided to burn a little ganja before we started breakfast.
An hour or so later, we heard the kids’s shower turn off and Walker and Pilar wandered into the kitchen. The smell of bacon doing its primal come-hither.
Walker sniffed, looked at me, said, “Winter’s higher than a giraffe’s pussy.”
I had to laugh, “How long you been saving that one?”
He shook his head sadly, “What a role model.”
“Yeah? Model this.”
The psychic weight had lifted somewhat. But until I knew for certain that Cozad Dillinger had run me off the road, I’d still have some worry-burden to carry around.
He lived, with his mother, in a small North Kansas City bungalow. Well maintained neighborhood. I drove by, wearing shades and my redheaded Barbara Reynolds wig. Dillinger was dutifully pushing a hand lawnmower up and down a tiny yard. A woman, in her 50s, was sipping something from a glass with a paper napkin rubber-banded to it. She sat in a green Adirondack chair, overseeing the operation.
It wasn’t that much of an enterprise. The lawn hardly called for reincarnating Capability Brown for landscaping duties.
Dillinger wore a blue Royals cap, sweat-stained. I wanted to stop the car and shoot him.
I wouldn’t of course. But that uninvited impulse bothered me. Something had been gnawing at me lately. Two somethings. Not the toss-and-turn, lose-sleep type of anxiety. Just that annoying brain-tickle, mostly below the surface of consciousness.
Over the course of my short career, I’d been ... sliding into shortcuts. Skirting the edge of the law. Okay, breaking it. Zapping my sister’s former boyfriend, Sol Ainsworth, with my stun gun. 900,000 volts. Just to retrieve nude photos of her. Having Jill Morton fake-arrested so I could get inside her house.
Good intentions, good results. For me anyway. But it was ... questionable behavior. Okay, illegal.
The second thing that was nagging at me was my dependence on others. The Sullivan twins for digital snooping. Bear for muscle. Earlier, Matt Striker for ... for a lot of things. Daddy, Sergeant Louise Finch. Cathal Conway.
I wished, part of me did, that I didn’t need an occasional crutch.
Yet, there was a pragmatic side to my ... weaknesses. Daddy always said, “Get the job done. Use whatever you have to. Whoever.”
Still...
Cozad Dillinger, if it were him — if it were he? — had to have had at least one accomplice when he crashed into me. Someone to meet him beside the cornfield where he’d burned the stolen tow truck.
Phone records didn’t tell us anything. Anyone who watched television knew about throwaway phones.
The FBI processed the cornfield scene pretty thoroughly. No carelessly dropped calendar with a ‘kill Winter Jennings’ notation.
Stan’s AutoBody hadn’t had a working security cam. Now they did.
I hadn’t asked Bulldog how reliable Legal Stiegel was. There wouldn’t have been an introduction if...
I was no longer a too-cool-for-school girl. Every time I turned back to the Macklin case, Cozad Dillinger crowded his way back in. Gentle waves lapping at the shore. Tap, tap, tapping at my door. I could always become a Nobel poet if this gig didn’t work out.
I called Carmen Ortega, “Please apologize to Sistine and Gloria. I have a possible lead on the guy who tried to kill me. I need to focus on him.”
“Of course, completely understandable.”
But she worked for Gloria Allen and asked, “When do you think you’ll be back on board?”
I didn’t have an answer, “As soon as I can. But I need to ... fix this first.”
Back when I was 12, and Autumn was 14, Daddy gave us the choice — summer camp or summer job.
Autumn said, “Camp”
Partly to be contrarian, I said, “What kind of job?”
“Perkins Pest Control. Pays eight bucks an hour.”
Autumn said, “Ew,” which meant I had to say, “Job.” My mother hated the idea, which was an added bonus.
Peter ‘Call me Pete’ Perkins was a thoughtful, methodical man. Old, of course — probably almost 40. He did our house twice a year, but Daddy had gotten to know him because Pete and his family lived in Brookside.
Autumn left for camp on a Saturday; I started my new career the following Monday. I asked Daddy, “Any pointers?”
“You know what to do, Winter.” Typical Daddy. I knew fuck-all about pest control, but he wanted — expected — me to figure it out.
I’d had my boobs for a couple of years; was immensely pleased about it. But, instinctively, I knew to dress down for work. I didn’t mind old men checking me out; often enjoyed it. But this ... well, it was important to please Daddy. Especially with Autumn out of my hair.
Pete Perkins didn’t talk much, but I learned to listen when he did. Even to the yucky stuff.
“Most of my business is rodents — rats and mice.”
“Okay.”
“So I studied them, got to know them. How they get into a building. What they eat, how they breed, how many there are.”
I would accompany him as he walked the perimeter of a home. Pacing slowly, studying everything. Up into the attic; down to the basement. It was interesting seeing the inside of other people’s homes.
But I learned — over the three summers that I worked for Pete — that he was a hunter, a skilled one. Doing reconnaissance before he made a plan of attack.
I came to understand, as best as a young girl could, that the extermination business was between Pete and the rodents. The homeowner wasn’t a factor — this was war between two adversaries. Years later, I would begin to realize how primal it was.
Another thing I learned from Pete — marketing. He made sure that his customers saw the battlefield results. He carried out the carcasses in transparent plastic bags.
By the end of my third summer, age 14, I realized that Pete respected the creatures he hunted. They were doing what they were born to do — find food, seek shelter, raise families. The relationship with Pete was adversarial, but he respected the other side. Even sympathized with them.
Over the centuries, the rodents had learned to share housing with humans. Who used it mainly during the day, leaving their home available to the night denizens.
Each house took about a week. Pete checked every day to make sure he had blocked every single egress. Had the strychnine-laced corn been eaten? Or just nibbled? Or carried off? Were the mice chewing their way out?
Exterminating had similar traits to detecting. Surveillance, research, steady, logical, grinding procedural work. And now, twenty years later, Walker and Pilar were learning their own life lessons from Pete Perkins. At $12 per hour.
I took Jessie and Jesse to a Saturday lunch at Michael Forbes Bar & Grill. In Brookside, across 63rd from Euforia. Treating my research team — and my Irregulars — to an occasional meal may or may not pay off in the long run.
But it wasn’t about the money, not entirely, anyway. It personalized the relationship; provided periodic reminders of who I was and why I needed them. And that there were perks for a job well done.
The little leprechauns were a matched set again. White short-shorts, green tees, black, retro high-topped Keds. Looking at them, it was difficult to imagine that they were actually tech-consultants with the FBI. A fact that made them immensely proud.
We started with crispy shrimp in a red chili aioli. Tall Boys — 16-ounce PBRs — to complement the heat.
Jessie said, “Macklin Security.”
Jesse said, “We tiptoed in — no traceback to you.”
I thought: maybe. I’m less confident these days. The digital world changes so quickly. An impenetrable firewall suddenly ... isn’t.
Jessie said, “Okay, the overall head of security is a former Silicon Valley guy named Eric Roberts.” She patted the Gloria Allen file, “As you know.”
Jesse said, “Roberts left Silicon Valley under a cloud. We didn’t dig very deep.”
Jessie, “But we can. It had something to do with money — with his company shares. He was third-party selling them before he was fully vested. At least that’s what we think.”
I said, “Leave it alone for now. That could explain his change of scenery. We can revisit that later. What else?”
Jesse, “Roberts is up here.” He held his little hand above his head. “A senior Vice President. Sits in on Board meetings, investor presentations.”
Jessie, “Which there are a lot of — Macklin is buying back shares as fast as they can.”
I thought: It’s unusual for even a senior VP to sit in on Board meetings. Maybe there’s more to the Hugh Macklin - Eric Roberts relationship than just employer - employee.
Jesse, “The operations guy, the street guy, is named Drake Fowler.”
Jessie chimed in cheerfully, “He’s a real hard-ass.”
“How so?”
Our waiter showed up, balancing three heavy plates on her arms. The Sullivans each went with the house meatloaf smothered in red wine gravy. I had chosen chicken fried chicken, a fave.
Jesse, “Fowler came from Citi, had a no-nonsense attitude there. Fired a lot of division heads — Digital, Travel, Protection, Investigation. Put his own people in.”
Jessie smoothed out a Macklin organization chart — “He did the same thing here. The names in red are his new hires.”
I daintily stuffed a fistful of fried onion straws into my maw. Wiped my hands and ran an index finger down the sheet, “All men.”
Jesse, “Eight new hires — six of them followed him from Citi.”
I said, “Interesting.” Meaning, you got anything I can use?
Jessie smiled and patted the Allen file again. “One other thing. And you won’t find it here.”
“Shoot.”
Jesse, “Fowler has a mole inside Macklin. A biochemist named Samantha Rowley. She’s in Research. Doctor Samantha Rowley.”
Jessie said, “He’s probably boning her.”
Jesse nodded, “Probably.”
Vanessa and I made a presentation to Gertie. Well, mostly Vanessa did. I was there to show support. Although, I had worked on the numbers too.
Vanessa said, “We want to eliminate two tables in the dining room, bust out part of the kitchen wall and put in a bakery display case. Henderson will do it for just under six thousand.”
Gertie remained calm. “Two tables. You average ... about $450 per table. Counting lunch and two turns at dinner. Think you can sell $900 worth of baked goods?”
“No. Nowhere close. But we have a higher margin on bakery items. And it’ll showcase our cakes and pies and other desserts. Breads too. Which could help our catering arm.”
Gertie shrugged.
“There’s a practical reason too. We still do two full turns on Fridays and Saturdays. But not every night.”
“You don’t like the atmospherics.”
“We don’t.”
“Do it. You can afford to take a little hit. You’ll still be beating the industry numbers.”
Pansy
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