War Party (A John Tall Wolf Novel Book 2) Page 13
“No, ma’am.”
“Why not?”
“My mother told me so.”
The laughter in the room broke the tension for a minute.
John went on to explain Serafina’s facial modeling analysis.
Told the VP that the robbers were white, black, brown and yellow.
None of them was red.
“Then why the pretense?” the vice president asked.
“Goes back to the Boston Tea Party, doesn’t it?” John said. “You do something that’ll get you in big trouble, pretend to be an Indian.”
The vice president grunted but said, “Point taken.”
DeWitt jumped back in. “That particular deception, using Native Americans, might also score propaganda points. It allows our adversaries to say this country treats its original inhabitants so poorly they have to rebel against us. That argument might be used to deflect an accusation by our side against a foreign malefactor or it could be made proactively.”
“A fine mess indeed,” the vice president said. “Special Agent Tall Wolf, will your mother’s analysis that the robbers are not Native American hold up against contradictory opinions? I hope she won’t mind if we have her findings independently confirmed.”
“No, ma’am, she won’t mind at all. My mother’s a very self-confident woman.”
“Good.”
DeWitt said, “But we shouldn’t give away what we know until —”
The VP held up a hand and said, “Until you or Special Agent Tall Wolf catch these bastards. I trust you won’t keep everyone waiting long.”
She looked at both of them.
John felt a sense of pressure Marlene Flower Moon had never been able to produce.
When she turned her challenging look to DeWitt, though, John thought the vice president was asking for something more than professional results. Her challenge to him contained a personal element, too. John didn’t understand that but he thought he’d have to factor it into his own work. Be careful he didn’t step on anyone’s toes.
Both men told the vice president, “Yes, ma’am.”
— Chapter 21 —
EEOB, Washington, DC
Nelda Freeland, who hadn’t been present in the meeting with Vice President Morrissey, buttonholed John the moment he stepped out of the conference room. She had something to say, but couldn’t do so just then because Deputy Director DeWitt was right on John’s heels. He nodded to Nelda and said to John, “I’ll need just a moment after you’re done speaking with Acting Director Freeland.”
He then moved to the end of the corridor and looked out a window at the White House.
Nelda gestured John to the opposite end of the hallway and waited for incidental foot traffic to clear before she spoke.
In a heated whisper, she told John, “I should have been in that meeting.”
He said, “From what I could see, every seat was taken.”
“Then I should have been in the one you filled, damnit!”
“Can’t blame me, Nelda. I wasn’t the party planner.”
“You call me Director Freeland, Special Agent.”
“Acting director, remember? Deputy Director DeWitt got that right.”
Nelda tried to continue her snit, but John held up a hand.
A traffic cop ordering a car to halt.
“If you’d like, I’d be happy to go back inside. Ask if the vice president might spare me a moment. Express to her your displeasure at being excluded. Is that what you want?”
Nelda ground her teeth a minute. Then she said, “I want two things from you. I want respect and I want a summary of what was said in that meeting by the end of the day.”
John took a step toward Nelda and looked down at her to emphasize their difference in height. He spoke softly so as not to allow himself to be accused of bullying the woman who was his nominal superior.
“Firstly, Nelda, true respect is earned not demanded. Secondly, my agreement with your aunt is I work cases my own way. Check with her, if you don’t believe me. Thirdly, if I thought I had to work with you on a regular basis, I’d resign immediately. Only, in this case, I don’t think the vice president would allow me to quit or you to fire me.”
Nelda took a step back, possibly to relieve the strain on her neck.
John told her, “So we’re stuck with each other for a little while, but we’re stuck on my terms. Tell Marlene to give me a call, if she wants to know what’s happening.”
The acting director did an impressive about face and stalked off toward the elevator bank.
DeWitt passed her without a word as he walked over to John.
The deputy director’s manners were too good to comment on someone else’s private conversation. He handed John his business card, “If it’s not too much to ask, will you have your mother send me copies of all the images of the robbers she produces, including the ones with their natural skin tones when she has them. Also, if she could write up a summary of her analysis of who these guys really are, that would be great.”
“Speed is of the essence?” John asked.
“I think that’s what the vice president was hinting at.”
One of the things anyway, John thought.
He was tempted to ask DeWitt if there was anything else he should know about, e.g. was there something personal going on between high government officials? But he didn’t know the deputy director that well. He also wasn’t sure he really wanted to know.
“I’ll talk to my mother on the way to the airport,” John said.
“Good. Take my car. My plane, too. That’ll be the fastest way to Las Vegas.”
John nodded and shook DeWitt’s hand.
Enjoying the deputy director’s good manners.
And the perks of having a friend in a high place.
En route to Las Vegas
Serafina Wolf y Padilla talked to her son by phone. He’d just told her he was flying west in DeWitt’s Gulfstream. “I thought federal agencies jealously guarded their jurisdictions and prerogatives,”.
Every FBI agent John had met that day had been the soul of graciousness.
Didn’t treat the BIA guy like a poor relation.
Showed, at a minimum, they knew how to follow the boss’s orders.
“It can work that way,” John said. “Actually does happen like that far too often. But you can meet good people wherever you go.”
That nugget of wisdom was one his parents had taught him early.
He could almost see his mother’s smile.
John told Serafina that the deputy director had said the government would like to reward her for her assistance. “I told him you probably wouldn’t ask for money. More likely official consent to do research would be her recompense.”
“You think you know me that well, mijo?” Serafina asked.
“Only the secrets you and Dad have shared with me.”
“Your father talks to you about me?”
“Did I say that? Must have been a slip of the tongue.”
Serafina laughed. “We’ve taught you several things, but your charm is your own. I’ll be happy to share my humble gleanings with your friend. Will you be busy with your investigation for very long?”
Or: When is the next time you’ll be coming home?
She hadn’t gotten around to asking if she’d ever become a grandmother, yet.
“The powers that be are urging me to waste no time.”
“I won’t pester you with any other questions then. Be well, mijo.”
“Always, Mom.”
Five minutes after talking with his mother, he called DeWitt to tell him to check his email.
The deputy director was quiet for a moment, before he laughed.
“Something funny?” John asked.
“You mother sent me the requested material, copying me on what she just sent you. Says she’s still working on getting the robbers’ skin tones right. She should have that before too long.”
“None of that’s funny,” John said.
John groaned.
He’d told Mom about Rebecca, but not in detail.
Only that she lived and worked in Canada.
Maybe made things sound too casual.
“I think it’s cute,” DeWitt said with a chuckle.
John told him, “It’s my mother’s none-too-subtle way of telling me she wants to know about the woman who’s already a big part of my life.”
“Bravo, Mom.”
“You don’t mind, let’s get back to business for a minute.”
“Sure.”
“I forgot to mention it before, but take another look at Louis Mercer’s video of the New Orleans robbery. See if there’s something familiar to you about the hand gestures the robber near the door uses to direct the guys who went into the tellers’ cash drawers.”
“I saw that he was giving directions, but I didn’t connect it with anything else. I’ll take another look.”
John said thanks and goodbye.
He wanted to call Rebecca with a question, but she’d said she was going back to work today. Her job was more structured than his; you put on a uniform that was how it went. Her career also meant more to her than his did. Not that he didn’t love doing investigations; he just wasn’t at all interested in climbing the bureaucratic ladder.
Rebecca, on the other hand, was proud that she soon expected to be made a staff sergeant and would be earning over $100,000 per year. John had been surprised when he’d learned how well the RCMP paid. He could see how a strong woman doing an important job that paid a very good salary would become quite attached to it.
The RCMP saw things the same way. If you wanted to retire after twenty years, you could, but not at full benefits. For that, you had to put in twenty-five years. For a maximum pension, you had to do thirty-five years.
The thought of Rebecca sticking things out that long chilled John.
He was attached to the U.S. as deeply as Rebecca was to Canada.
That made it difficult to see how things could work out for the long term.
He decided to wait to call her until after working hours.
The thought had no sooner entered his mind than she called him.
“You didn’t go back to work?” John asked.
“I did. That’s why I’m calling. One of my constables just pulled me over to get a peek at a TV news story. A band of Indians just robbed a bank in Las Vegas. This happened after another bank robbery by Indians in New Orleans. I missed that one because I never pay attention to the news when I’m on holiday.”
John could attest to that.
“My constable,” Rebecca said, “asked me if I wasn’t seeing a handsome fellow from the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs.”
“Nice to know people think well of your looks,” John said.
“I didn’t have any trouble figuring out what you’re working on. Are you in Las Vegas?”
“On my way. Have you ever been there?”
“A couple of times.”
Rebecca’s tone was less than enthusiastic.
“So you don’t think much of the place?”
“I’d give it another try, if it was with you.”
“But you say you’d like to see New Orleans?” John asked.
She perked right up. “Yes.”
“We’ll have to do something about that.”
“Set a date when you catch your bad guys?”
“Find a time that works for both of us.”
“Good.” Her tone turned businesslike. “One more thing. You know I’m related to certain mildly influential muckety-mucks up here, right?”
“I believe you’ve mentioned that.”
Rebecca was far from the first member of her family to join the RCMP.
“Well, after I heard the news about the bank robberies, I sent word upstream that I know the investigator working the case.”
“Mighty sure of yourself.”
“Yes, I am. Word came back and that’s the official reason for this call.”
“And that word is?”
“If you should need us again, the Mounties stand ready.”
“Always a comforting thought,” John said.
Off the phone and alone with his thoughts, John reclined his seat. He asked himself what, if anything, New Orleans and Las Vegas had in common. Other than being tourist destinations.
They were both party towns.
Providing illicit fun, if that was what you wanted. He asked himself if organized crime might be involved in the bank jobs. He spent several minutes poking at that idea. He didn’t think the mob in any ethnic or regional permutation had a hand in the situation.
They’d be smart enough to foresee the kind of response that had been provoked.
They also liked the odds to be on their side.
In this case, the entire weight of the federal government would be landing on somebody.
He went back to his original question: What did the two towns have in common? He asked his smart phone’s “personal assistant.”
The reply in a synthesized female voice was: “Both are major American cities.”
Looking for a more specific answer, John decided he’d ask the FBI for help.
After he woke up from a nap.
Rebecca had gotten him into the habit, taking his rest when it was convenient.
— Chapter 22 —
McCarran International Airport, Las Vegas, Nevada
As John Tall Wolf’s flight from Washington, DC made its final approach to the airport, Corey Price, along with the other seven bank-robbing Indians and the other members of his traveling party, waited at a departure gate for the announcement that they could board their flight out of town.
Price got a two-word phone call, “Frank Thomas.”
He needed a moment to work out the code. Frank Thomas. The Big Hurt. Hall of Fame player with the Chicago White Sox. Number … thirty-five. Price smiled. He and his friends had each made thirty-five thousand dollars from the Las Vegas bank job.
Better than they’d done in New Orleans by nearly fifty percent.
Put the two robberies together, they were up almost sixty grand per man.
He passed the good news along to the guys. Each of them was happy, too.
That was when Price started to feel uneasy. Guys like them weren’t supposed to make out. Not big time. Certainly not tens of thousands of dollars in a matter of a few days. That kind of money was a solid year’s take-home pay. If they ever got ahead of themselves, started thinking they could play better than their scouting reports, reality was bound to smack them upside the head.
Price started to feel a throb in his right hamstring. That one damn muscle had kept him from fame and a legitimate fortune. Achilles had his heel; Price had his damn hammie. He hadn’t been expecting the guard at the Vegas bank to go for his gun. What kind of lunatic was he? Reaching for a handgun when eight guys with automatic weapons could have shredded him.
He didn’t have any choice but to rush the guy and clock him before the shooting started. Tweaking his leg in the process. That had been bad enough. Then, afterward, two of the guys told him they’d just about blown him to pieces, too. Had just managed to hold their fire as they saw Price clobber the guard. They’d almost killed him.
Wouldn’t that have been a grand fuckup?
If the cops had a chance to identify his tattered remains, catching the other guys wouldn’t be hard. Right now, they all looked happy. Getting a Frank Thomas for less than an hour of putting their asses on the line.
If banks started beefing up their security, though, things might not go so well. Price didn’t think it would look good for banks to have guards carrying their own machine guns at the ready. That might look like they were eager to have a firefight, collateral damage be damned. Holding on to the bank’s cash was all that mattered.
Might encourag
e a whole lot more online transactions.
So what else could the banks do to upgrade their security? A chill running down his spine, Price thought: snipers. The banks could put guys with rifles somewhere up high in concealed positions. Maybe place them so they could get a crossfire going. Take out Price and his guys before they knew what hit them.
That happened and they all might get a Don Baylor.
Number: 00.
They’d talked about using that code if they ever decided to call off a job.
Never occurred to them coming up empty might happen in a far worse way.
A hand fell on Price’s right leg, startling him. He looked over and saw the skipper had taken the seat next to him. All the other guys had already boarded the plane.
“How’s the leg?” the old man said.
“Good, Skip. Real good.”
“You did good, too, last night, Corey. Didn’t know you could still motor like that.”
“I got only one gear. That’s always been my problem.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve been setting the tone these past few days. All the other guys have been following your lead. It’ll be nice if we can go out with a bang.”
The skipper wasn’t talking about bank jobs.
But he’d done a good job of pushing Price’s concerns away.
Made him feel almost young again. “Thanks, Skip.”
“You are gonna get on the plane with us, right?”
“Sure thing.” Price stood up. Still felt his hammie, but it wasn’t too bad now.
He let the skipper board the flight ahead of him.
His mind returned to the Las Vegas bank job. Getting back to the motel afterward, he’d seen the TV news. How all the casino and fire alarms had been triggered to keep the forces of law and order busy while they were doing the robbery.
Lamar Dekker had told Price he’d gone back to college after starting his trucking company, and the guy always did have a kind of low cunning. But pulling shit like he said he’d done — like had happened — in New Orleans and Las Vegas, Price couldn’t help but wonder if there was someone a lot smarter than Dekker standing in the shadows.