Super Chief (A John Tall Wolf Novel Book 3) Read online

  “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” John said.

  Walker smiled. “Right, but eventually we plan to build our own rail spur right up to the building. We’re fundraising for that right now.”

  Chapter 31

  Flying west

  John watched his plane leave the lights of Chicago behind. He was all but certain now that Native Americans had stolen the Super Chief. He likely even knew the name of at least one of the ringleaders: Alan White River. The museum CEO, Cullum Walker, had provided him with a complete file of all the people who had objected to the museum’s underplaying all the sorrows that the building of America’s railroads had inflicted on its first inhabitants.

  Some other names might be revealed as important, people who played leadership roles in the plot to steal the Super Chief, but as of that moment, Alan White River was the man who stood out.

  John picked up his phone and called Marlene Flower Moon. He was less than surprised when she didn’t answer and his call went to voice mail. “Marlene, this is John. We have a lead in the Super Chief theft. We need to look at a man named Alan White River, tribal membership unknown, but my guess is he’s someone you must have encountered in some context. He was described to me as highly intelligent and articulate. Please call back as soon as you can.”

  He broke the connection, uncertain how soon or even if he’d receive a reply.

  It depended, he thought, on how much Marlene believed he’d push her for the position of Secretary of the Interior. That and whether his support would actually mean anything. He thought it might, and he was certain if he hadn’t raised the possibility of advancing Marlene’s career he’d never again receive any help from her.

  He’d only just put his phone down when it rang.

  Answering, he said, “Tall Wolf.”

  But it wasn’t Marlene, it was Byron DeWitt.

  He told John, “We’ve found Albert Wicker.”

  John placed the name. “Lead engineer on the Super Chief, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Recovering from heart surgery in Cheyenne, Wyoming. He was dropped at the hospital by an ambulance that turned out to be stolen.”

  Ignoring Wicker’s condition or prognosis for the moment, John asked, “Any video of the ambulance crew?”

  “Yeah, a couple of cowboy-looking types who’d be more at home working a ranch than providing medical care.”

  John said, “Stand-ins, guys hired to drive the ambulance and alert the ER staff at the hospital.”

  “That’s our thinking,” DeWitt said. “But the hospital people our agents in Wyoming talked to said Wicker had received some professional care before he got to them. There were meds in his system and he had an IV line in place.”

  “So whoever hired the cowboys also had at least one doctor on the payroll, too. Does it look like Wicker is going to make it?”

  “Outcome uncertain is what we hear. What’s obvious, though, is whoever grabbed the crew could have just let the man die, buried him somewhere he never would have been found. Kept their chances of being found much lower. What’s that say to you?”

  John replied, “That they know they can’t hide forever, and they don’t want a capital murder charge filed against them when they’re caught.”

  “Yeah, but beyond that,” DeWitt said, “it gives them higher ground, if they have a political statement to make. Lets them say: ‘See, we did our best to save this guy’s life. We really aren’t so bad.’ It’s probably a public relations move as much as a humanitarian gesture.”

  John said, “I can see that. I’ve got a name for you to check out.”

  He told DeWitt about Alan White River. “I tried to reach Marlene to ask whether she knows the man, and I’m sure she does, but she didn’t answer my call.”

  “Still peeved about your promotion?” DeWitt asked.

  “Most likely. She knows I didn’t seek it, but it’s still got to rankle.”

  DeWitt said, “I’ll see if I can reach her. Maybe she’ll take my call.”

  John said he’d transmit all the information he’d received from Cullum Walker to DeWitt.

  The deputy director added, “I had one other interesting call today; it came from Arthur Halston, former chief counsel of Positron and Edward Danner’s former personal lawyer.”

  “The man has cleared out?” John wanted to make sure he had things straight.

  “Yes, he has. He said he couldn’t reveal any information that would violate lawyer-client privilege, but he plainly wanted the FBI to know he was distancing himself from Danner. He said he tried to call you first but couldn’t reach you through the BIA bureaucracy.”

  Marlene’s doing. John didn’t even bother to voice his conclusion.

  He focused on another point. “Halston’s call leaves us to wonder if he knows Danner is breaking the law or just has his suspicions.”

  “I’m checking on Halston’s background right now to see which would be the better guess, but it’s clear he wants to be outside the splatter zone when the doo-doo hits the fan, and my people are checking out the accusations Brian Kirby made to you.”

  “I think I might be able to help you get a clearer picture on Halston,” John told DeWitt.

  “Good. Turning back to Wicker, you think there’s any significance to his turning up in a town with a Native American name? I have to tell you I’m leaning toward the Super Chief thieves being Native American.”

  “Yeah, me too,” John said. “It also looks like the thieves haven’t made it out of the Western U.S. They’ve helped us a lot on that score.”

  DeWitt said, “Yeah, that and Alan White River are our two big clues right now.”

  After a momentary pause, John said, “I just had a thought. Cullum Walker told me the train museum in Chicago is going to have a rail spur built right up to its door. You think our train-nappers might’ve constructed their own section of track? Leading to a place where they might hide the Super Chief?”

  DeWitt whistled. “If they’re that sharp, we might have a hard time catching them.”

  “Yeah, but we have some things to work with. I’m thinking there had to be an inside man on the train crew to grab the thing in the first place. You’ve thought about that, right?”

  “I have,” DeWitt said. “It’s the only way I can realistically see it happening.”

  “So you’re looking into the other crewmen’s family backgrounds and criminal histories, if any.”

  “We’re doing that, too.”

  “Well,” John said, “let’s take things a step farther. Can you peer into the database for FAFSA?”

  It took the deputy director a moment to grasp the acronym, and even then he wasn’t sure he had it right. “The free application for federal student aid? Is that what you’re talking about?”

  John said, “I am. If the thieves had themselves a train driver, maybe they have some other expert Native American help. Say someone who knows how to build railroad tracks. A guy who went to a tech school and has some kind of applicable engineering background. Say a graduate from the past ten years who needed a Pell Grant or some other federal aid to get his degree.”

  “Damn,” DeWitt said, “that’s good, John. If I didn’t know you were so happy working with Marlene, I’d ask you to come join our shop.”

  John laughed. “Yeah, Marlene and me, joined at the hip.”

  So where are you headed next?” DeWitt asked.

  “Back to L.A.,” John said, “I want to talk to that station master I missed the other day.”

  Chapter 32

  San Francisco

  Captain Makilah Walsh sat at a corner table in Emiliano’s, an Americanized version of a Mexican cantina, on Jones Street. A large tintype photograph of Emiliano Zapata hung behind the bar. Honoring the spirit of the leader of the Mexican peasants’ revolution, the prices of food and drink at the place were kept reasonable, for San Francisco anyway.

  The result was a patronage composed of the
remnants of longtime city dwellers doing their best not to be pushed out by new-money techies and the lower ranks of those same arrivistes just getting their toeholds in town. The tension between the two groups was palpable, but the peace was maintained by the bar staff and a doorman, all of whom were well muscled and had waxed mustaches Zapata himself would have admired.

  Besides that, popular lore had it that there was a pistola or two stashed behind the bar.

  There was no question that Makilah had her duty weapon on her hip under the cover of her T Tahari Connor blazer. Stylish but priced within reach of an honest cop. Sergeant Fab Gallo walked through the front doorway, and Makilah felt certain he was armed, too. Only his weapon was concealed by a leather jacket that looked like Hugo Boss to her. Had to crowd a thousand dollars for that bad boy.

  A gift from his rich wife would be the charitable guess, Makilah thought. Cops like her, though, being a suspicious lot, gravitated to other inferences. Like the sergeant had income beyond his police salary, possibly from disreputable sources for providing questionable services. Gallo spotted Makilah and came her way.

  He was no sooner seated than a waitress arrived with two bottles of Negra Modela and a pair of pilsner glasses. The waitress removed Makilah’s empty glass, already laced with drying foam. The captain hadn’t had an earlier drink; the glass was a prop, but if Gallo chose to misinterpret, fall for her act, so much the better.

  Gallo glanced at his bottle of beer and said, “I usually drink wine these days.”

  Makilah thought: Goddamn San Francisco. Wine-sipping cops. She repressed a laugh.

  All she said was, “You can order wine. I’ll drink your beer.”

  Wasn’t hard to read between those lines, what she was calling him: Pussy.

  Gallo said, “No, that’s all right. I can go with beer tonight.”

  He poured his beer into the glass. Even let it build a nice head. The way a man would.

  The guy was nervous and she was going to see if she couldn’t give him some angina. She hadn’t really expected to hear from John Tall Wolf again. After he’d gone his own way in Union Square, she had done her best to carefully check him out. She had a cousin who worked for Homeland Security. Not that he’d ever told her exactly what he did there.

  She didn’t really care. The fact that he’d come up with the goods on Tall Wolf told Makilah that her cousin had some juice. “Man was just promoted to co-director of the Office of Justice Services. They’re the cops for the BIA. In itself, that doesn’t say much. The whole Department of the Interior is kind of a backwater where cops and spooks are concerned.”

  Makilah felt her cousin was holding back on her and told him so.

  “Okay, what’s special about this Tall Wolf guy is he’s scored points with the White House, coming through on some big jobs that were important to a lot of people. Vice President Morrissey was at his swearing in. She’s supposed to be the juice behind this guy, and the way things are going now, with all the talk of the president about to be impeached, that means a lot. Tall Wolf’s also supposed to work hand-in-glove with a deputy director at the FBI, guy named Byron DeWitt. That says a lot, too. The feebs don’t like to share with anybody most times, barely talk to the CIA the way they’re supposed to. But here’s this guy from the BIA, and they’re all buddy-buddy.”

  Just hearing Tall Wolf’s story gave Makilah chills. A guy that high up the ladder and he’d come across to her all polite and full of professional courtesy. If she wasn’t sure someone like that must have a woman in his life, she would have made a move on him.

  Only he called her back, just like he said he would.

  He let her know that Edward Danner’s personal and corporate lawyer, Arthur Halston, had quit on him and called the FBI to let them know he was putting daylight between himself and the tech billionaire as fast as he could. Maybe, Tall Wolf suggested, she could use that fact with any of the cops who looked into Merritt Kinney’s death — if she thought someone was holding back something he shouldn’t.

  Gallo took a tiny sip of his beer and asked, “So what can I do for you, Captain?”

  “Listen real close,” Makilah said.

  She told him about Halston deserting Danner and how the FBI, the White House and God only knew who else was looking at the billionaire for something crooked on a scale that produced consecutive life sentences. That or maybe a rendition to a CIA dark site outside the country.

  The captain knew she was laying it on thick, but she was certain Gallo had something to hide when she saw fear darken his eyes. Maybe he wouldn’t be water-boarded but he could wind up behind bars. Never a pleasant prospect for anyone, especially a cop.

  “Now, Sergeant Gallo, I’m going to advise you of your Miranda rights.”

  She did so as the man tried to measure just how deep the shit in which he stood was.

  Whether he’d disappear into it or have more heaped upon him.

  “Do you understand your rights, Sergeant? In addition to your constitutional protection, you know, of course, that your union will provide you with a lawyer. Before you answer, let me tell you that you’re not even under arrest. You can walk out of here right now — or you can do what Arthur Halston did and try to position yourself to your best advantage.”

  Gallo suddenly found his beer to be more inviting. He took off the top half of his glass.

  “What do you want to know?” the sergeant asked.

  “Whatever you have, you can tell me,” Makilah replied.

  “Danner offered me fifty thousand dollars, splitting it with my team as I saw fit, if I found something in Merritt Kinney’s apartment, and returned it to Danner.”

  “What was it Mr. Danner wanted?”

  Tall Wolf hadn’t told her that. Must’ve wanted to see if she could find out for herself.

  “He said it was a leather-bound book.”

  “Containing what?”

  “He didn’t say. But he swore he’d know if I read it, and if I did, I’d never …” Gallo finished his beer and then his thought. “I’d never work for him again. Worse than that, he’d destroy my career and my wife’s, too. See to it that we’d both wind up homeless.”

  As a threat, Makilah thought, that wasn’t half-bad.

  Might be worse than just shooting somebody.

  “Did you find the book?”

  “No.” The mix of emotions in Gallo’s voice was easy to read. Disappointment that he hadn’t earned what he’d probably thought was an easy bundle of money. Relief that his involvement in Danner’s scheme hadn’t gone any farther than it had.

  “You told Mr. Danner of your failure to find what he wanted?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Did he ask you to keep trying?”

  “He did, but I told him I couldn’t do it. If I found stolen property in the course of the legitimate exercise of my duty and returned it to him without doing the usual paperwork … well, that could be smoothed over.”

  “Especially for someone with Mr. Danner’s money,” Makilah said.

  “Yeah, but I told him no way could I freelance a private investigation while I’m on the job.”

  “How’d he take that?”

  “He got mad for maybe ten seconds. Then he thought it through and said it’d be better if he used a private investigator.”

  “Did he say who that was?”

  Gallo gave her a name.

  “Anything else you feel it would be wise to share with me, Sergeant?”

  Gallo laughed. “Only that I liked that beer more than I thought I would. Can I go now?”

  “Leave your duty weapon and your star with me. You’ll be on desk duty until I speak with my superiors.”

  He handed them over, no fuss. Trying to show how cooperative he could be.

  “This is going to stay within the SFPD, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know, Sergeant, I honestly don’t.”

  Gallo left, looking like a man who needed another drink.

  Something stronger than a beer. />
  One thing Makilah was sure of: She owed John Tall Wolf a return call.

  Chapter 33

  Northern New Mexico

  The moon passed its zenith and the hour was late for an old man, but Alan White River was out walking through the forest land on the reservation. Enough light pierced the tree cover for him to find a clear path and not stumble. Wouldn’t do for him to trip and break his neck now. If he did sustain some mishap, it would be a sure sign that his ancestors and even greater spirits did not approve of the plan he’d conceived and dared to set in motion.

  So far, though, no supernatural forces extended a foot to trip him. He took satisfaction that his aged legs still carried him wherever he wished to go, uphill or down. His senses of smell and hearing still functioned well, too. He gathered all the scents about him, from the fertile odor of the earth to the ever changing redolence carried by the breeze.

  All this would be lost to him soon. He would be confined in a concrete and iron cage after being convicted of stealing the train the white men mockingly called the Super Chief. Honoring the engine of so much destruction and despair among native peoples. White River thought it would be better if such compliments remained forever silent.

  Just as he would remain quiet when the police and the courts asked who had helped him with his plan.

  He would not say a word. All punishment would be his. Well, his and anyone who visited the new train museum in Chicago. The people who visited the train there would also know pain and sorrow such as they had never imagined. But all that was in the future.

  Now, and for some time, White River had sensed the beast that was stalking him. Many a fearsome predator roamed the wilderness of New Mexico. Their number included bobcats, mountain lions, black bears and … coyotes. The creature following him might have been any of their kind.

  Not that his aged frame would provide much meat for anything more than a young fox.

  But he knew the animal watching him was interested in more than a meal.

  He stepped into a glade where the lunar glow shone like a spotlight and there she was, Marlene Flower Moon. For a moment, he thought she was nude. As stunningly beautiful as she was, he was long past the time when a woman might arouse him. He blinked, as if to confirm what he was seeing. Now, he saw she wore a dress of finely worked doeskin.