Smoke Signals (A John Tall Wolf Novel Book 4) Read online

  DC Murphy repressed a sigh. The matter was not going to get done the easy way.

  “Very well. I’ve read both parties’ official statements.” Her eyes said she was sure they were written by the lawyers. “Now, I’ll hear them describe the pertinent details aloud, in their own words.” Seeing which one looks like more of a liar, she thought. “You go first, Sergeant Marchand.”

  The sergeant leaned forward to say his piece but remained seated.

  Murphy said, “Please rise, Sergeant. Speak from your feet.”

  It was easier to observe body language that way, the DC knew.

  So did Marchand and he looked uneasy as he stood.

  Rebecca kept her eyes on the deputy commissioner. She would read her de facto judge’s face. That was more important than staring at Marchand. Nellie would watch him. They could compare notes after the hearing.

  Marchand began, “I stopped into Tommy’s Tip Top Tap, it was …” He paused. “Just under a month ago. Still can’t believe what happened to me since then.”

  Winton Royce let his client indulge in self-commiseration but only for a moment.

  He cleared his throat and Marchand continued. “I stopped in for a pop. A drink. My usual after a day on the job.”

  “Was that establishment the first place you stopped in for a pop, Sergeant?” the DC asked.

  Marchand clear his throat and said, “No, ma’am. I stopped at Fast Eddie’s before that.”

  “Just one drink at each place?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What kind of drinks?”

  “Dewars at Eddie’s; Labatt Blue at Tommy’s.”

  “So a shot and a beer.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Royce added, “Separated by twenty minutes driving time, Deputy Commissioner.”

  DC Murphy gave the lawyer a mirthless smile. “I noticed that in the written statement.”

  Telling him to keep quiet without saying so.

  “You’re at Tommy’s having a beer, Sergeant. Please continue.”

  “I was at the bar talking with a couple of friends and I saw …” Marchand lapsed into silence again. His face sagged in regret. Collecting himself, he continued, “I saw Constable Grace Dorland. I’d reprimanded her harshly earlier that week. I thought I should go over and apologize to her.”

  “The criticism concerned the performance of Constable Dorland’s official duties?” the DC asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. Constable Dorland pulled over a driver for speeding. Turned out he was a wanted criminal, had a record as an arsonist. He’s suspected of setting the —”

  “Fire at our favorite junior Western Hockey League team’s rink,” the DC said. “The suspicion was an unscrupulous rival had paid for the blaze. It’s something of a national scandal, isn’t it?”

  Marchand decided it was time to inspect the shine on his shoes. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What was the nature of your rebuke to Constable Dorland, Sergeant?”

  He looked up and said, “She approached the speeder’s car alone; she should have had her partner, the senior man in the car, Corporal McKee, with her. She might have been hurt handling things the way she did. I went off on her when I heard the details, harder than I should have. I went over to her at Tommy’s to say I was sorry, but also to tell her she had to be more careful in the future.”

  Marchand was about to continue his story, but DC Murphy held up a hand.

  “Please be seated, Sergeant. We’ll let Lieutenant Bramley pick up the narrative from here.”

  Rebecca got to her feet. “I was sitting with my back to the sergeant, but I saw him coming.”

  “How did you manage that, Lieutenant?”

  “I was watching him in a mirror, a Moosehead Beer mirror.”

  Winton Royce raised his hand, wanting to be heard.

  “Yes, Mr. Royce?”

  “Deputy Commissioner, I checked that mirror under the same lighting conditions that existed on the night in question. I could barely see my secretary, whom I positioned at the bar where Sergeant Marchand was standing.”

  DC Murphy turned to Rebecca. “Lieutenant?”

  “I have 20-10 vision, ma’am. Perhaps Mr. Royce doesn’t see quite so well. I saw Sergeant Marchand quite clearly. We could do a comparative test of visual acuity, Mr. Royce’s and mine, right now, if you like.”

  “Mr. Royce?” the deputy commissioner asked.

  The lawyer declined the opportunity, losing the point he’d tried to make.

  “Proceed with your account, Lieutenant,” the DC said.

  “Sergeant Marchand approached our table and stood approximately one foot behind me. Constable Dorland was on the far side of the table. Sergeant Marchand began to address Constable Dorland in a crude and provocative manner.”

  “In what way crude, Lieutenant?”

  “He said, ‘Puck bunny, you’re in more trouble than you know. You better change your story fast or you’ll be well and truly fucked.’”

  Puck bunny was a common variation on the slur puck slut.

  A hockey player groupie who put out for the guys.

  District Commissioner Murphy, from the grim expression on her face, was all too familiar with the term, but she asked Rebecca, “How did you know the comment wasn’t directed at you, Lieutenant?”

  “I had no story to change, ma’am, and the sergeant told me to get lost or I’d find out whose family was really wired into the powers that be on the force.”

  The DC directed a brief, evil look at Marchand before turning back to Rebecca.

  “You weren’t intimidated by this threat, Lieutenant?”

  Rebecca smiled. “In the best Monty Python fashion, ma’am, I farted in his general direction.”

  The deputy commissioner rocked with silent laughter, as if she’d staged the whole informal inquiry just to hear that comment. Nonetheless, she continued: “And how did Sergeant Marchand react to that?”

  “He took it in shocked silence for a moment, but when my niece, Constable Dorland, started to laugh at him, he clapped an open hand on my right shoulder. Hard enough to leave a bruise. That was when he told me, ‘Get out of here now, Bramley, or I’m going to bend you over that table and ram all my nine inches right up your ass.’”

  Royce thought about objecting, but the look on the deputy commissioner’s face told him he’d only be making a bad situation worse. He held his tongue. So did Marchand.

  “How did you respond, Lieutenant?”

  “I got out of my chair, shoved it aside and bent over the table … because that made it easier to execute a mule-kick into the sergeant’s crotch. Caught him a good one, too, from what I hear.”

  Royce and both of the captains had to get to their feet when Marchand popped out of his chair. It took the sergeant only a second to realize he’d made a mistake, but by then it was too late. He’d shown himself to be a hothead.

  Deputy Commissioner Murphy pointed him back to his seat and he took it.

  “Do you have anything else to say, Lieutenant Bramley?” she asked.

  “I know you’re trying to get to the truth here, ma’am, so I have a suggestion.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If the two captains providing security here today don’t object, why don’t you ask them to see if Sergeant Marchand really has nine inches to his name? If he’s lying about that, how can you take his word about anything else?”

  In a hallway after the hearing, with Marchand having been escorted outside and his altered manhood still officially unexamined, Nellie Patrick told her client, “You did very well in there today, Rebecca, kept your cool and got that big idiot to lose his, but he does have his family behind him. There are dozens of them on the force and more than a few are highly placed and have a lot of pull.”

  Rebecca said, “That’s what got all this started in the first place. That hoser Marchand is related to a lot of achievers while he’s been stuck in grade for years. He wanted to claim the credit for apprehending that firebug Grace
nabbed. When she wouldn’t fudge her report the way he wanted, he got nasty.”

  Nellie pointed out, “He did get McKee to back his version.”

  “McKee’s lying. The truth will come out soon enough. McKee’s not tough enough to keep up a false front. Meanwhile, I’ll enjoy my paid involuntary leave.”

  “Rebecca, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned how this might turn out.”

  “Okay, Nellie, you be concerned,” Rebecca said. “I’m not going to worry about it.”

  “Really? You’ve got something to fall back on if you lose your job?”

  “Yeah, if worse comes to worse, I’ll flee south, get married and become an American.”

  Chapter 4

  The Cascade Range — Washington State

  “We should shoot the poor cabrón and burn his body,” Basilio Nuñez said.

  He was the second in command and tended to be impulsive.

  Julián Fortuna, his more thoughtful cousin and the operation’s boss, said, “Really? Perhaps you haven’t noticed we are having a dry autumn, after several years of drought. If we didn’t have the water we divert from the few remaining streams, we would already be out of business, and you want to start a fire. Set the whole valley and the nearby mountains ablaze, perhaps.”

  Julián’s tone had been mild, but Basilio knew he’d been scolded nonetheless.

  “We cook every day,” he replied. “Sometimes with an open flame.” He wrinkled his nose. “As it is, I won’t be able to eat anything until we get rid of that stench.”

  Both men gazed in the direction of the miserable Ernesto Batista who sat on the ground, leaning against the trunk of a tree and pulling his knees up to his chest, as if he was trying to squeeze the vile odor out of himself. As yet, he had not succeeded. Unable to get away from his own stink, he looked as if he might succumb to it. Then he’d have to be buried. That would improve the air quality but it would be bad for camp morale.

  Julián and Basilio were responsible to their bosses in Mexico. For a second year, they’d had 10,000 cannabis plants under cultivation, planted in the spring, brought along from seedlings to flowering plants and harvested just when the THC was at its height. It was a painstaking process. That’s why all the illegal immigrants they used had been farmers back in Mexico.

  The peasants knew how to get the most out of the ground they tilled. If they performed well for a year, their coyote debts would be repaid and they would be free to go. Or, if they chose, they could stay and receive a salary in cash, far more than they ever could have made back home or working in El Norte as landscapers or manual laborers for the gringos. If they had ambition and showed the aptitude, they could become guards, as Batista had done.

  The armed men received twice the salary the farmers did. They kept intruders out and the work force onsite and orderly. What everyone who worked under the two jefes had in common was living under the threat of horrific vengeance against them and their families if they ever told the police — or anyone else — about the marijuana growing operation.

  The original site for the illegal cultivation that Julián and Emilio had run was in a national park in California, but local environmentalists had stumbled upon them, escaped and made it impossible for the state and federal governments to ignore what was going on there. Stinking tree-huggers. Julián, Basilio and their indentured workers had to flee. The cousins had to look for opportunities in other remote places.

  Julián, a thinker, was the one who’d had the notion of taking the operation onto a private land holding. Why not go where some fat, rich gringo had more land than he ever got around to looking at? Julián had fleetingly considered suggesting to the bosses that they buy the land and conceal the true ownership by using shell companies as fronts. But where was the fun in that?

  Yes, making money was the objective, but for any real criminal what made getting out of bed in the morning a pleasure was taking advantage of the fools who played by the rules. A genuine crook’s goals were twofold: have things your own way and laugh all the way to the bank. Using numbered accounts, of course.

  Julián had understood the implications of the new law in Washington state that had legalized marijuana. Profits back home were going to take a big hit. He was right about that. In the first year after the law went into effect, marijuana revenues were down 20%, and things would only get worse. The new market environment demanded new ways to compete.

  He came to three conclusions as to how best to do that: Use illegals to keep labor costs to a minimum; lower transportation expenses by growing locally; and eliminate the overhead of buying real estate by expropriating it from the true owner without him ever becoming aware. Enforce your claim at the point of a gun if the pendejo caught on. These would become the rules of the game.

  Rules were perfectly fine if you were the one making them up.

  There was one more strategy Julián recognized as a necessity. You had to build your brand. Having a colloquial command of American English, he named his product Holy Smokes, and designed a logo of Jesus toking up, the smoke from the joint in his hand forming a halo above his head. Believers and atheists alike seemed to like the joke. Sales were brisk.

  Perhaps Julián would be damned to hell for such sacrilege, if there really was a time of judgment upon leaving this life, but at the moment he was still young and unconcerned about such an outcome. He focused on returning to Mexico three years hence as a very rich man.

  Dreaming of success was the most addictive drug of all.

  Julián said, “Batista is the one with the wife: muy guapa, no?”

  Very pretty.

  Basilio nodded. “Sí. How one such as her could share herself with one such as him …”

  He had to shake his head at the injustice. Basilio would have loved to … but he couldn’t. His cousin would have set him on fire if he ever tried. Julián had explained things to him. The people who worked for them were indentured for their first year of labor. Thereafter, they were held in thrall by the threat that they would be killed horribly if they talked to the police.

  That burdensome necessity being the case, it was best for business to make the workers’ circumstances as agreeable as possible. See that they were adequately fed, that their medical needs were tended. Short of any betrayal on their part, never threaten their welfare or the sanctity of their marriages and families. Give them a better life than they’d ever known. Bind them to you with affection as well as fear. Two motivations always worked better than one.

  Julián had graduated from the best business school on the West Coast.

  Basilio was just smart enough to follow his cousin’s lead.

  Julián said, “Ask Señora Batista to fetch her husband, take him to a stream and bathe him. Make it one of the more distant rivulets. We don’t want our agricultural water to be polluted. Ask the señora to please help scrub her husband as best she can.”

  Julián saw the look in his cousin’s eyes. He was imagining the woman’s hands all over him.

  “Basilio, you will not say an improper word to Batista’s wife, not one. Nor will you ever come close to touching her.”

  Being caught out, Basilio could only feign indignation and say, “Of course, not, Julián. I know the rules.”

  “Never forget them, not for a moment. We are doing quite well. You will become rich along with me.”

  “Sí.” Basilio knew his cousin was right. He might not become as wealthy as Julián, but there was no question he would have more money than he could ever spend. There were other women even prettier than Batista’s wife. He would be able to afford any number of them.

  Even so, as he went to fetch Valeria, he had a depressing thought.

  None of those other women would be available tonight or anytime soon.

  Still, Basilio was also doubly motivated: affection and fear.

  He would be nothing but polite and hands-off to Señora Batista.

  For his part, Julián was thinking about the men he’d sent out to capture the intru
der.

  He’d have felt better if the prick had been carrying a gun instead of a camera.

  Chapter 5

  Department of the Interior — Washington, DC

  “What’s the job? John Tall Wolf asked.

  Marlene Flower Moon had her own question. “Have you ever heard of Frederic Strait?”

  John shook his head. “Never.”

  “He’s a brilliant young man, only twenty-five and already a multi-billionaire.”

  “You have a knack for making rich friends,” John said. “A useful talent for someone with political ambitions.”

  John encouraged Marlene’s presidential dreams. Toiling in the Oval Office would leave her little time to think about him. Even Coyote would be stressed hewing to a president’s work schedule. Still, she’d have fun matching her wiles against those of other world leaders.

  “I’m building a war chest,” Marlene admitted.

  “So Mr. Strait has a problem you want me to solve and he’ll be grateful to you if I do. How’s that supposed to fall under the scope of my duties with the Bureau of Indian Affairs?”

  “Mr. Strait has a few things in common with you.”

  Getting an uneasy feeling, John asked, “Such as?”

  “He and his mother are Cheyenne. She was adopted as a pregnant fourteen-year-old by a white couple. She’d been turned out by her parents for disgracing them.”

  John frowned. “Was the biological father white?”

  Marlene shook her head. “But he wasn’t Cheyenne either. The girl wouldn’t say who he was.”

  John had come to have some idea of who his own paternal family was, but that had happened only by the time he’d reached his mid-thirties. He asked, “This guy wants me to find out who his dad is or was?”

  “No, I’m going to do that,” Marlene said.

  John had no doubt Marlene would succeed. “So what is it you want me to do and, by the way, how’d this guy I’ve never heard of make all his money?”

  Marlene smiled, flashing her predatory dentition. “He changed his name to get more in touch with his true heritage. Now, he calls himself Freddie Strait Arrow.”