War Party (A John Tall Wolf Novel Book 2) Page 4

  When John presented himself at the front desk of the Renaissance Arts Hotel, he showed the smiling young woman his federal ID and asked, “Would you have a room for a weary public servant?”

  “Of course, sir. Welcome to New Orleans.” She took a second glance at his badge. “By any chance, are you the gentleman Buddy Brunelle referred to us?”

  “I am.”

  “In that case, we don’t have a room.”

  For a heartbeat, John thought he’d been set up.

  Suckered into going to a hotel where the Brunelle’s name was mud.

  Then the desk clerk gave him a wink and said, “Buddy said to have a little fun with you. What we’ve got for you, Special Agent Tall Wolf, is a suite at the cost of a room, with an appropriate discount for a government employee.” She leaned forward and whispered. “It’s one of our nicest suites, too. Buddy didn’t say why you’re visiting New Orleans, but with your being from the Bureau of Indian Affairs, it’s not hard to guess. We hope you get those sonsa — son of a guns soon.”

  “I’ll do my best,” John promised.

  The young woman beckoned and a bellman joined them.

  “I see you have only the one small bag,” she said, “but Antoine will show you around your suite and explain how the hotel might serve you.”

  “Thank you,” John said.

  The desk clerk handed him a message slip. “Captain Edmee LaBelle of the NOPD called. Her number is right there. She said you can call her at your convenience.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Before John called Captain LaBelle or anyone else, he decided to take Rebecca Bramley’s advice of a day earlier. He’d lie down and take a nap. Wake up refreshed and … just the thought of indulging in a bit of rest inspired an idea. If no one else had already thought of it, he’d ask the NOPD to send a sketch artist to the Thibodeaux State Bank. Not that he thought the employees there would be able to provide meaningful likenesses of the robbers’ faces.

  Eyewitnesses who found themselves in stressful situations were notoriously unreliable. Any number of psychological studies had shown that. If someone stuck a gun in your face, the gun was what you remembered, even if it was never fired. In this case, though, there were unusual elements. The report Nelda Freeland had given him said the robbers had worn war paint, had long hair and some of them wore eagle feathers.

  John thought about that. Would he know an eagle feather from that of a hawk? He doubted it. You might even sneak a turkey vulture feather past him. He’d just say a bird feather.

  Ask if anyone at the bank could describe the pattern of the paint worn by any of the robbers. Ask how the feathers were placed in the hair of those who wore them. Maybe, if the robbers were accurate in their presentations, the sketches could lead to a specific tribe.

  If that was the case, he’d turn the information over to a BIA agent who did work reservations. He made a note to himself to follow up on the idea. He set his smart phone to wake him up in an hour and lay down. Terrific bed and linens. He’d have to thank Buddy Brunelle.

  Drifting off to sleep, another idea presented itself.

  It’d be cool to hear Rebecca sing in a New Orleans club.

  Galatoire’s Restaurant

  John walked down Bourbon Street, taking in his surroundings, processing what he saw: the narrow blacktopped street, the sidewalk of red paving stones set in a herringbone pattern, the wrought iron balconies, not all that far above his head, that overhung the people passing below. The French Quarter, his second cab driver had told him, was also known as Vieux Carré and was the oldest part of the city. The conjoined architecture of the buildings and hodgepodge nature of the businesses in them predated any idea of zoning codes. The meager width of the thoroughfare never anticipated the arrival of Cadillac Escalades. In short, there was a real feeling of age to the place.

  After waking from his nap, John had called Captain LaBelle, introduced himself, gave her an encapsulated version of his visit to the Thibodeaux State Bank and ended with his suggestion that she send a sketch artist to the bank to work within the parameters he outlined.

  Edmee LaBelle responded with a smoky contralto laugh.

  “That’s pretty good, Special Agent Tall Wolf. Draw the bad guys’ make-up, hairstyles and the way they wear their feathers. Never heard that one in twenty-three years of being a cop.”

  “Always good to learn something new, Captain.”

  “Just what I tell my granddaughter. You like steak?”

  “I’ve been known to partake.”

  She laughed again. “You talk so pretty. I like your name, too. Tall Wolf. You live up to it?”

  “I’ll introduce myself, Captain, and let you decide.”

  She said she’d get them a table at Galatoire’s. They could arm-wrestle for who would pick up the check. John walked into the restaurant and was shown to the table where Captain LaBelle waited for him.

  She stood and tilted her head back to look up at him.

  “My, my. Truth in advertising.”

  John shook her hand and said, “I’ll concede the wrestling match and pick up the tab.”

  They’d no sooner taken their seats than a gray-haired waiter in a tuxedo came by and smiled at Captain LaBelle, “A pleasure to see you again, Captain.”

  “You, too, Ciro.”

  “Are you and the gentleman ready to order, Ma’am: drinks, dinner and your check?”

  Captain LaBelle told John, “Ciro knows sometimes cops have to skeedaddle. So I just tell him what I’d like and give him my credit card.”

  John did the honors, using a personal Visa account. He suspected dinner for two at Galatoires would exceed his per diem. Ciro took it with a warm smile.

  Then he turned to Captain LaBelle and asked, “The usual, ma’am?”

  She nodded and let John in on what he’d be buying her. “A grilled vegetable platter, a petite filet mignon and a glass of old vine red. We can share the vegetable platter, if you like.”

  John agreed and asked Ciro, “You have a New York strip steak?”

  “Yes, sir. How would like that cooked?”

  “Medium.”

  “And to drink?”

  “Mineral water, please. Sparkling, if you have it.”

  “We do. Dessert?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He told the captain. “Your drinks will be right out. Dinner will follow shortly.”

  After Ciro departed, John said, “They must think highly of the police here or you tip very well.”

  “They think highly of me, and I do tip well. So will you. You could quibble when you see the bill, but you’d lose the staff’s goodwill and I’d have to make up the difference.”

  “Won’t be a problem,” John said.

  Captain LaBelle smiled, as if he’d just passed a test.

  Ciro was back quickly with their drinks, and departed without comment.

  Captain LaBelle raised her glass. “Here’s to showing the bad guys not to mess with us.”

  “Now or ever,” John added. They touched glasses and drank.

  The captain said, “I talked to one of the guys I know at Simon Boulevard.”

  “That the local FBI office?”

  “Yeah. He said he thinks whoever the hacker was, the one working with the bank robbers, he isn’t real hot stuff. If he was, my friend said, he wouldn’t have needed anybody to actually go into the bank. He’d just have stolen credit card numbers, the way sophisticated hackers do. Then a bunch of working stiffs would hit ATMs around the world, like happened last spring.”

  By nature, John liked to work as closely as he could with local cops. They were more cooperative that way. It was also a way of building bridges for future assistance.

  With the vice president of the United States, the FBI and all the spook shops in Washington involved in this case, though, John felt he had to be a bit more reticent.

  He said, “Maybe money isn’t the sole objective.”

  He’d been thinking about that since the bri
efing in Washington. The people in government were worried most about cyberwarfare, and he could understand that. But why use Native Americans as front men? He didn’t have a handle on that yet.

  Captain LaBelle said, “You think there’s something, what, political going on? Like back in my daddy’s days as a cop when people robbed banks to pretend they were starting a revolution?”

  “Could be,” John said.

  Dinner arrived. Served with efficiency and a simple inquiry if anything else was desired.

  Nothing was. Each of them sampled their entree and pronounced it wonderful.

  Captain LaBelle understood that she wouldn’t be getting a lot of information from John. Not that he was holding out on her just because he was a fed. She didn’t get that feeling. She saw that he’d used a personal credit card. Dinner was on him not Washington. He hadn’t flinched at the idea of giving Ciro a big tip either. Just took it in stride. No fuss at all.

  That being the case, she’d give him all the help she could.

  Not asking for anything back right now.

  Maybe later when everything was all wrapped up she’d ask what was going on.

  “The witness interviews,” she said, “they all pretty much said the robbers were big dudes. Maybe not as tall as you, but fairly muscled up. Weight room guys. Maybe even a steroid muncher or two.”

  John said, “The way I heard it, they got in and out fast. So they moved pretty well, too.”

  “Must’ve known just where to go, too. Two of my officers have already stopped by Harold Murtree’s apartment. He wasn’t home. A guard, though, would surely know the bank’s security procedures.”

  “The days and times when the tellers are cash heavy, too,” John said. “Both of which would be helpful to robbers. I wonder if Murtree ever spoke of having Native American blood?”

  Captain LaBelle grinned.

  “What?” John asked. “You know something?”

  “Not about this Murtree character. You just got me thinking about blood. Used to be down here, one drop of African blood made you black. Not that we didn’t refine things with our quadroons, quintroons and octoroons. I never did the arithmetic to figure out who I am. But I remember reading about folks in Oklahoma who claim to be Cherokee because they have one sixty-fourth Indian blood.”

  John smiled. “It’s funny how political power or a claim on casino profits can motivate people. But blood’s just one measure to determine who might be a Native American. Some tribes require a level of fluency in native languages or time in residency on tribal lands. A few even require passing their own special civics test.”

  Captain LaBelle said, “My guess is we’ll catch up with Mr. Murtree soon. When we do, we’ll ask him who his grandma and grandpa were and where they lived.”

  John nodded. “Tomorrow, I’d like to speak with Marcellus Darcy, the postal inspector, and Louis Mercer, the young man who left the bank on the robbers’ heels.”

  “I’m sure the NOPD can help you with that, Special Agent.”

  The two of them finished their dinners.

  Captain LaBelle beckoned for the check. It came and John signed for the meal without a second glance. He held the captain’s chair for her as she rose.

  “What about you, Special Agent?” she asked. “How do you think of yourself?”

  John said, “My mother is brown, my father is white and I’m red. I consider myself all-American.”

  The captain laughed. “Yeah, me, too.”

  She drove him back to his hotel.

  Told him he could call her Edmee.

  — Chapter 7 —

  Rampart Street, New Orleans, Wednesday, August 21st

  Marcellus Darcy, John saw, was maybe a couple of inches shorter than he was and broader at the shoulders by an equal measure. He shook John’s hand with a smile and just enough strength to hint at how much more he had in reserve. Darcy’s manner was polite, but John could see the question in his eyes. He’d encountered it often enough.

  “You’ve never worked with someone from the BIA before, right?”

  “Never have.”

  “I’m pretty much like any other fed, but I’ve been told I play better with others than some.”

  Darcy laughed. “I like that, playing well with others. You ever have any trouble with someone stealing your mail?”

  “Never have.”

  “Ever beat up your mail carrier?”

  “She’s a sweet lady, a grandmother, I believe. I tip her at Christmas.”

  “So you’ve never had occasion to meet a postal inspector.”

  “No.”

  “So how come you’re working a bank robbery? That’s the FBI’s job.”

  “The vice president asked for me,” John said.

  Darcy’s eyebrows rose. “That pretty lady in Washington? Works with the president.”

  John nodded. “That’s her. So what’s your background?”

  “I served twenty years in the navy. Worked shore patrol for fifteen of them. Cooled out swabbies and jarheads who got too rambunctious on leave. Along the way, I picked up a degree in criminal justice. When I got discharged, I decided I was young enough to earn a second pension. Signed on with the postal service and here I am.”

  John nodded and asked, “So what was your first instinct when you saw those guys ride past on their motorcycles? You were standing right about here, weren’t you?”

  “Just out in the street a bit. Traffic wasn’t going anywhere and I’d just broken up a fight. Force of habit, I guess. Those guys on the bikes? What I’d have liked to do was give ‘em a taste of my old baton and clap ‘em in the brig.”

  John found that to be reasonable, if only because they’d ridden their bikes on the sidewalk.

  “You get an impression these guys were big, muscular even?”

  Darcy thought about that. “They rode past pretty damn fast … but, yeah, thinking about it, I guess they were. Sort of a mix between you and me.”

  “What I heard,” John said, “they were wearing helmets that covered their faces. So you couldn’t have gotten any kind of look at their features.”

  “No, but I did see they all rode the same kind of bikes.”

  That was interesting, John thought. “Harleys?”

  “Unh-uh. Was these black bikes. Looked expensive. Saddle bags and all, where they must’ve stuck the cash from the robbery.”

  “Did you see any kind of make or model insignia?” John asked.

  “There was this design on each of their gas tanks. Found it real interesting after I heard about them being Indians. What the design was, it was a profile of an Indian’s face. Wearing a full headdress of feathers. Like he was a chief, you know.”

  John had never owned a motorcycle, but growing up in Santa Fe, he’d known plenty of guys who had a bike. Harleys were the favorites, but a lot of guys liked the superfast Japanese models. Then there were the riders who wanted something different. They rode Triumphs from England or BMWs from Germany — and for those who wanted an American ride with a difference, there were Indian motorcycles.

  That would certainly be in keeping with the robbers’ motif at the bank.

  “You think you’d recognize the model of the bike if you saw a picture of it?” John asked.

  “Sure,” Darcy said.

  John handed him his business card. “Let’s stay in touch.”

  Darcy gave his card to John. “Glad to help. Tell the vice president I said hello.”

  John had just gotten in his rental car when his phone rang.

  Edmee LaBelle was calling. “Thought you’d like to know. Somebody just put photos of your bank robbing Indians up on the Internet. You know, while they were busy grabbing the cash.”

  Easy Money Motel, Las Vegas, Nevada

  Corey Price sat bolt upright in bed, still more asleep than awake, when someone began banging on his door. By reflex, his hand darted under his pillow for his gun, and his heart turned cold when it came out empty. Then he realized he wasn’t at home. Whoever the
hell it was at the door — and the bastard started banging again — it wasn’t his ex-wife or a bill collector.

  “What the fuck!” he yelled.

  Loud enough to stop the banging and draw a laugh.

  A raspy, old voice shouted back at him, “Skipper wants everyone at breakfast. Thirty minutes.”

  “Yeah, shit. You couldn’t have used the phone?”

  “My way’s more fun.” Another rusty-hinged laugh followed, and footsteps trailed off down the hallway.

  “Crazy old bastard,” Price muttered.

  He put his head back on the pillow, and as if to mock him his cell phone sounded.

  Not a call but a text. From his literary agent. The goddamn publisher in New York was offering only a five thousand dollar advance for his book. The agent said he was going to try for ten grand. Big damn whoop.

  Price got out of bed and headed for the shower. Cheap little fiberglass stall barely big enough to hold him. Water dribbled out of the shower head like the plumbing had an enlarged prostate choking off the flow. Like the sonofabitch who’d just woken him up.

  The water cut out entirely just when he had a headful of shampoo lather.

  Price stepped out of the shower, fearing he might have to use the toilet tank to rinse.

  But the water came back on, and full blast, too. He jumped back into the stall, and the water went ice cold and then scalding hot. He leaped out again. This time the bath mat shot across the room with him on it. He banged his right knee into the doorframe.

  Christ, an injury was the last thing he could afford now.

  Careful not to aggravate his back, he bent over and rubbed his knee.

  It didn’t seem too bad. Reassured on that point, his mind turned back to the parameters of his proposed book deal. Say his agent could get him ten grand up front. He’d take his fifteen percent off the top and the tax man would be right behind him. Price would be lucky if he saw six thousand dollars.