Big Medicine (A John Tall Wolf Novel Book 5) Page 14

  “I might need you to do that,” Benard said, “run this big Indian into a tree.”

  Rosewell shook his head. “Unh-uh. I turn up anywhere near this guy again and he gets killed, there’d be no explaining that away. They’d execute me and not even bother about giving me a final meal.”

  “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do if I need help?” Benard asked.

  “You’re talking serious money for a job like this.”

  “I know. Hell, I can pay in gold, if that’d make a difference.”

  For just a second, Rosewell looked as if he might reconsider, but then he shook his head again. He got up and walked toward the door, upsetting Benard no end. Tycoons weren’t used to being abandoned in a moment of need.

  “That’s it?” Benard yelled. “You’re leaving me high and dry?”

  Rosewell stopped in the office’s doorway.

  He looked back and said, “Just make sure you pay your phone bill.”

  Benard would have to figure out for himself that he might be getting a call.

  While Rosewell wondered just how much gold Benard had.

  That and how to get his hands on it. Some of it, at a minimum.

  Los Angeles, California

  Rebecca Bramley called Arcelia Martin early, waking her.

  “Sorry for disturbing you,” Rebecca said.

  “Only an hour before I usually roll out. I’ll take a lunch-time nap. Your office sofa has a hide-a-bed.”

  “It does?”

  “I asked for that when I ordered it. Thought you might need it sometime. You won’t mind if I use it, will you?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Then we’re even on the lost sleep. What can I do for you?”

  “By any chance, do you have a handgun?”

  “I do.”

  “With a permit?”

  “You mean concealed carry? Yeah, I’ve got that, too.”

  “Don’t you have to—”

  “Have a ‘good cause for issuance?’ Because you or someone in your family is in immediate danger? That and have ‘a good moral character.’ Yeah, you need both those things, and there are also residency requirements.”

  Rebecca asked, “Are you in immediate danger? I don’t remember you mentioning that during your employment interview.”

  “Must’ve slipped my mind,” Arcelia said. “I actually was in danger up in Northern California. There was this street gang that decided an initiation requirement would be that the wannabe badass had to grab a woman off the street and rape her until he couldn’t get it up anymore. Then he could either let her go with a threat to kill her if she went to the cops or just kill her if he thought a threat wouldn’t work.”

  Rebecca said, “Jesus … Were you —”

  “No, the dumbass who tried to pull me off the sidewalk and into a car only grabbed one arm. I stuck my right thumb into his left eye, broke the nail right off. Didn’t do his eye any good either. Then I stamped a high heel into his foot and kneed him in the balls. He was bent over, bleeding and crying inside of five seconds. His pals in the car apparently thought he wasn’t made of the right stuff for their outfit and they took off.”

  “Did you run, too?” Rebecca asked.

  “Hell, no. I stayed right there and called the cops. They came, I told my story, and the creep confessed. Once the name of the gang came out, they had to run and change their name, public outrage was so great. I doubt if they’re even still in business. Even so, I thought I’d better get a gun, in case somebody had payback in mind, and my application sailed right through.”

  “I don’t have any horror story like that,” Rebecca said, “to justify carrying a weapon.”

  “You don’t? What about the shootout on Wisconsin Avenue back there in Washington, DC? The McGill PIs versus the forces of evil. I read you were a part of that.”

  “You did?” Rebecca asked.

  “Yeah. You don’t think I’d apply to work at a private investigations agency without checking it out first, do you? I read all the newspaper stories I could find online. Saw some photos of you and your colleagues at the scene.”

  Rebecca said, “I … I’d never done anything like that before. It was pretty damn scary, people firing automatic weapons in the middle of a big city.”

  Arcelia replied, “I bet. So you use that story in your application. If anyone tries to give you a hard time about getting a concealed carry permit, you say you work in a dangerous profession and you’ve got the media coverage to prove it.”

  “I guess so.”

  “So are you thinking things might be getting iffy again?”

  Rebecca said, “Very iffy, if a certain LAPD captain were to confront Emily again. I keep thinking he might try something when she first steps out her front door this morning. But if there were three of us there he might be more reluctant to do something stupid.”

  Arcelia laughed. “With some guys, stupidity is a way of life.”

  Rebecca nodded. “I know. That’s why I asked if you carry a gun.”

  Prometheus Laboratory — Washington, DC

  John had just pulled into the parking lot outside Dr. Lisle’s lab when his phone chimed. He’d left Alan White River at his apartment. Great-grandfather had asked John whether it would be all right if he introduced himself to their upstairs neighbor, Barbara Lipman. His motivation, he said, was strictly neighborly.

  He had told John, “I should let her know I’m staying with you now. Wouldn’t want her to think I was an intruder or something.”

  John repressed a laugh. He doubted if there was a burglar anywhere in the world within 20 years of Alan White River’s age.

  “Very considerate of you,” he said.

  “Do you doubt me, Grandson?”

  “I was just wondering what Awinita might think.”

  “Her only concern is my happiness.”

  “Very open-minded of her. If she feels that way, who am I to object? My only suggestion is to plan your visit for a time when you don’t hear Ms. Lipman practicing her instrument.”

  “Of course,” White River said. Indian warriors knew when to make their moves.

  John had estimated Ms. Lipman to be in her mid-70s, decades younger than Great-grandfather, but after gray hair prevailed he supposed there was no longer any such thing as cradle-robbing. He found it encouraging that elderly — and even ancient — people might take emotional interests in one another.

  Beyond that generalization, he chose not to ponder.

  He only hoped his ringing phone call wasn’t news of a family embarrassment.

  It wasn’t. Byron DeWitt was calling.

  “A little too soon to be asking for a progress report, isn’t it?” John asked.

  DeWitt chuckled. “You say that only because you’ve never worked in the White House or been married to someone who does. Immediately is already too late for getting the word on something important. Yesterday, last week or even a year ago would be much better.”

  “How do people survive conditions like that?” John asked.

  “Just barely while aging rapidly,” DeWitt said. “Take me for example, and I was only a deputy director at the FBI.”

  John winced and was glad they weren’t doing FaceTime.

  “Sorry about that, Byron.”

  “No worries. I’m mending and I will surf again.”

  Unable to restrain himself, John asked, “Are there such things as novices’ beaches?”

  DeWitt laughed. “Yes, in fact, there are, as you will learn when you ride those meek, little waves alongside me.”

  “Oh, no,” John said. “Not unless my hair turns blonde and my eyes go blue.”

  “If not you, then your dear bride. I’m sure she has the courage.”

  John had to admit, “I’m sure she does.”

  “All right then, moving along to substantive matters. A young fellow named Cale Tucker from the NSA called me. I admitted to knowing you and confirmed that the President has given you until Saturday at high noon to c
onclude your investigation before the FBI claws it away. Young Tucker patched me through to the NSA director and I gave him the word, too.”

  “Thank you, Byron.”

  “I’m not done delivering glad tidings yet.”

  “Great-grandfather?” John asked.

  “Yes. Jean says that pending a pro forma review of his life and times she will grant him clemency. Remove any and all legal shackles on him.”

  John was delighted to hear that and felt like an ingrate for the thought that occurred to him. Happily, DeWitt relieved him of the necessity of asking the question that had come to mind.

  He said, “If this awkward silence that’s preceding what should be a sincere ‘thank you’ means you have something to say that you’d rather not, let me add the following. Your great-grandfather’s clemency is not dependent on you accepting a certain Cabinet post. I made sure of that.”

  “Thanks again, Byron. Even if I don’t go out with you, I’ll wax your surfboard.”

  DeWitt laughed. “We better not let the media hear about that.”

  John’s face grew hot, but he laughed, too. “You know what I mean.”

  “I do. You just usually express yourself better.”

  “Okay, how’s this: I really don’t want to be Secretary of the Interior, but if it’s important to the President, I’ll do it. Only for one term, though.”

  “I’m sure that would be enough.”

  John added, “But hold off saying anything until Saturday, okay? I’ll tell her in person.”

  “That’s a deal. I’ll tell Abra to back off until Saturday. You have any leads on the case yet?”

  “Maybe one,” John said.

  John got buzzed into the laboratory. The young woman at the reception desk, identified by a nameplate as Kirsten, looked up from reading a volume so dense with pages and blocky paragraphs that it had to be a textbook. She assessed John’s appearance and said, “You’ve got to be the government guy.”

  “What gave me away?” John asked.

  “Dr. Lisle described you to the staff as ‘tall, dark glasses and handsome.’ Not many people in DC wear shades in January. You know, unless they’re visiting from Hollywood.”

  “My wife lives and works in L.A., but she’s from Canada.”

  “Does she wear sunglasses whenever she goes out?”

  John didn’t know, and that bothered him a little. Losing touch even on small matters.

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask.”

  The receptionist nodded as if that would be a good idea. “You’re here to see Dr. Lisle?”

  “If she’s not in the middle of something important, yes.”

  Kirsten, quaintly, looked at a wristwatch to find the time and then at her phone to consult what John assumed to be Dr. Lisle’s schedule. “She should be back in her office in about five minutes.”

  “Just wrapping up some work or a meeting?” he asked.

  Kirsten responded with a blush, as if he’d asked an embarrassing question. Rather than answer aloud, she jotted a response on a Post-It note: Potty break. As soon as she saw he’d read the message, she crumpled and tossed it into her wastebasket.

  John didn’t consider a need to answer nature’s call to be a reason for sheepishness, but he did find it interesting that Dr. Lisle’s visit to the ladies’ room was something a receptionist would know about. He asked, “Does Dr. Lisle keep a tightly organized schedule?”

  “Right down to the minute,” Kirsten said. “She says that’s how she gets the most from her day. It could be hard working for someone like that, but she cuts the rest of us a little slack. Maybe five to ten minutes before she starts getting antsy and snaps us back into line.”

  John thought about people who hewed to compulsive behavior for a moment.

  “Does she also like to organize her workspace just so? A place for everything and everything in its place?’

  Kirsten smiled and nodded. “Exactly. She says that way she never has to look for anything; she knows right where everything is.”

  The young woman looked at her watch again. “Two minutes to go.” She looked back at John and asked, “So what are you?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Sorry, should have been more specific. What nation, tribe or band do your ancestors hail from?”

  “Oh. Apache and Navajo.”

  “Full-blooded Native American?”

  “Yes, but raised mostly mainstream Anglo.”

  “Interesting. I’m Danish, Portuguese, Irish and Choctaw. Not necessarily in that order.”

  John momentarily lowered his glasses and took a closer look at Kirsten.

  “You’re one-quarter Native American?”

  She nodded. “Most people can’t guess my background.”

  “You are artfully blended. My compliments to all your forebears.”

  The young woman smiled. “Thanks.”

  A question occurred to John.

  “Are there other people working here who have Native blood?”

  He hadn’t noticed any obvious names on the printout of staff personnel he’d seen.

  But Kirsten nodded and said, “That would be all of us.”

  Los Angeles, California

  Emily Proctor lived in the Carthay neighborhood of the city between Olympic Boulevard and Pico Boulevard. She owned, outright, a Spanish Colonial home with four bedrooms and good sized, landscaped yards front and back. The house’s appraised value was $1.8 million. Her father had made home ownership possible, not that he’d simply bought the place for her.

  What Lee Proctor had done was match the payments Emily had made in her first year there 1:1. The agreement was that he’d make the contribution each month Emily wasn’t injured on the job due to criminal violence. In the second year, he’d make a 2:1 contribution. Each year of uninterrupted good health increased the level of the subsidy accordingly.

  Money couldn’t buy good fortune, of course, but it did serve as a regular reminder to Emily not to take any foolish chances with her well-being. Not that she’d ever conceded that point to anyone, especially another cop, but there were times when her father’s deal did give her pause, might well have kept her from stepping in front of a runaway truck.

  Metaphorically speaking.

  By the time she’d had 10 years on the job and made lieutenant, she owned the place free and clear. She’d wanted a nice, big place because she’d thought it likely she’d get married someday and have a kid or two, but her career path hadn’t allowed for such domesticity. She was still young enough to get married, of course, and even have a baby if she hurried.

  Only she doubted, starting out on a new job now, that she’d find time for much else besides her work.

  Especially now that she had to think of a way to get rid of Captain Terry Adair permanently. Short of killing him, she hoped. So she thought maybe it was time she sold her centrally located home and moved somewhere nice out in the boonies. Anyone who grew up in the sprawling expanse of Los Angeles knew that “geographic undesirability” had foiled many a would-be relationship.

  Men and women alike had been known to utter the words, “Baby, I love you, but there’s no way I can make this drive every day.”

  Emily was sure Terry would feel the same way and fixate on someone new.

  The only problem with that logic, though, was that she would have to make nightmare commutes to and from work every morning and night. Inside a year, she’d look so frazzled nobody would want her and any chance of motherhood would be long gone.

  While doing her morning, post-yoga meditation, the thought came to Emily that maybe her dad would go half with her on the cost of a hitman to get rid of Terry. She was still laughing at the facetious idea when the front doorbell rang and it occurred to her that it might be Terry calling on her right now.

  Obsession knew no regard for phoning before dropping in.

  Emily silently scurried to her bedroom and got her gun. She’d turned in her service weapon, but no cop had just one firearm.
She’d have to get a concealed carry permit for her new job, but she had the right to keep a weapon in her house. True, it was only a Ladysmith .38 holding five rounds, but it was better than yelling for help.

  The doorbell rang again as Emily reentered the living room. The curtains were still drawn so she couldn’t see who was outside and he — if it was Terry — couldn’t see her. But she was able to hear a woman’s voice and then a second woman respond. The second voice she recognized as belonging to Rebecca Bramley. That helped her place the first one, Arcelia Martin.

  Her new colleagues had stopped by.

  Emily called out, “Coming! Just a second!”

  She considered hiding her gun under a sofa cushion, usher the ladies into the kitchen. Only if she forgot leaving the gun there and somebody came along and sat down later … She didn’t know if someone might get shot in the ass, but a visitor would certainly feel the lump under her backside. Explaining what the weapon was doing there would be more embarrassing than …

  Emily opened the door with her gun in hand.

  Rebecca and Arcelia looked at Emily and then at each other.

  All three of them turned to look when they heard Terry Adair’s car pull up to the curb in front of Emily’s house.

  Downtown Santa Fe, New Mexico

  The temperature in Santa Fe, elevation 7,000 feet, that morning was 10º Fahrenheit. Nonetheless Marlene Flower Moon and Bodaway, aka Thomas Bilbray, were sitting at a table outside the Plaza Café. The predicted high temperature for the day was a relatively mild 45º, but the pale sun rising in the sky was going to have to put in some hard work before that level of warmth was reached.

  Bodaway felt almost as chilled as he’d been in Canada. He didn’t dare complain, though, because Coyote would only scorn him. She would take pleasure in his discomfort as she lounged comfortably with her silver fox coat open and her scarlet minidress revealing a daring slope of cleavage and a long stretch of toned thighs.