War Party (A John Tall Wolf Novel Book 2) Read online

  And wouldn’t that go far?

  He could maybe pay off the smallest of his credit card balances.

  For just a moment, after first hearing from his agent, he’d thought maybe he wouldn’t have to pull another job. Hell, he’d thought there’d be some real money involved. And enough public notice that he might land some kind of TV gig. Maybe back in his hometown. Make a couple hundred grand a year and live a decent life if not a flashy one.

  He should have known better.

  He had fifteen minutes to shave, get dressed and be on time for breakfast.

  Runny scrambled eggs and microwaved waffles.

  The prospect of which made him hope the next job would be a Carlton Fisk.

  When Fisk was with the White Sox. Number 72.

  J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington, DC

  Nelda Freeland walked into the conference room at FBI headquarters wondering how she might play Deputy Director Byron DeWitt. A blonde haired white guy, DeWitt should have been easy pickings. Ken and Barbie stereotypes aside, Nelda had found that the whiter the man, the ones who’d gone to college anyway, the more likely he was to be attracted to exotic women.

  His type might be African American, Asian, Polynesian or … Native American.

  Truth was, Nelda was just about any straight man’s type.

  The very image of what her aunt, Marlene Flower Moon, had looked like twenty years ago, she could have made her living posing for the covers of fashion magazines. Called herself Nelda Stone Fox. Which was a bit of a dated expression but had a nice Native American ring to it.

  The only man she’d met since reaching puberty who showed no interest in her was that damn John Tall Wolf. She supposed that was understandable, if he thought she was Coyote, just as he also suspected Aunt Marlene of being the Trickster. If a man thought a supernatural being who could assume any guise it wished was pursuing you, and had tried to eat you when you were a baby, you’d have to be careful.

  Still, a niggling doubt persisted in a corner of Nelda’s mind.

  Maybe Tall Wolf wouldn’t find her attractive in any case.

  That uncertainty put her off her game when it came to approaching Byron DeWitt. The file she’d read on the deputy director said he was more than just a handsome face. He was smart, subtle and behind his all-American façade, he might even be more than a little Chinese.

  He spoke Mandarin. He’d been tutored by a mentor who’d fled China after the Tiananmen Square Massacre and he had a Warhol serigraph of Chairman Mao hanging on a wall in his office. Maybe Aunt Marlene would know how to win over such a man but —

  Nelda needn’t have worried. DeWitt wasn’t in the room when she entered. Only one other person was present, a young man reading a file. He looked up when he heard her enter the room. He was considerably younger than the deputy director, pink cheeked and bright eyed. She could imagine him having received his Ivy League diploma only a few months earlier, and a commendation for finishing at the top of his training class at Quantico maybe last week. All of which would have made him eight or so years younger than her.

  Not that she felt the least bit old.

  Far from it. A woman in her prime, several jumps ahead of the young man in the bureaucratic hierarchy, she would manipulate him with ease.

  He came to his feet and said, “Special Agent Christopher Panopoulos. May I help you, ma’am?”

  “Acting Director Nelda Freeland, Office of Justice Services, Bureau of Indian Affairs.”

  She was sure that such a smart and attentive fellow had captured every word of her introduction, but it would be the first two that mattered most to him: acting director. The top of her particular pyramid. Not necessarily someone who could order him around but a woman whose position demanded respect.

  “A pleasure, ma’am,” He extended his hand.

  She took it and let him feel how warm and smooth her skin was.

  He was almost reluctant to let go, but he did so and told her, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t have any news this morning from Special Agent Tall Wolf.”

  Nelda hadn’t been expecting any from that maverick bastard.

  Her brief from Aunt Marlene was to keep an overview of this case.

  Forward anything to her that might prove useful in the future.

  She asked the young FBI man, “How are we doing with the other possibilities? Organized crime and domestic terrorism?”

  Panopoulos hesitated for just a second. Then he reseated himself and returned his gaze to the file he’d been reading. “We’re looking at several possibilities in both areas.”

  He started to elaborate as Nelda looked on over his shoulder.

  She read the file along with him and listened closely to his interpretation of the facts.

  Still, she had to smile to herself when she put a hand lightly on his shoulder and felt a shiver run through him. There was no question in her mind that she’d found her source for staying plugged into the whole domestic side of the investigation. And if the spook shops working abroad shared what they learned with the FBI, she’d have that, too.

  The only wild card might be that damn Tall Wolf.

  — Chapter 8 —

  715 S. Broad Street, New Orleans, LA

  The GPS map in John’s car showed him that police headquarters was not far from the New Orleans country club. He wondered if there was any significance to that. No honest cop could ever afford the initiation fee and the annual dues at such a place. Even the cost of a round of golf would strain a middle class family budget.

  Maybe the idea was simply to have the cops close by.

  In case someone started an Occupy Pontchartrain Boulevard movement.

  Or, more likely, to assist in cases of overly slow play.

  “Officers, those sonsabitches in the foursome ahead of us are taking a half-hour to complete a hole, and they won’t let us play through. Arrest their asses.”

  What with the country’s growing income inequality, maybe such discord would reach previously peaceful precincts. The super-rich would no longer tolerate being inconvenienced by mere millionaires. If somebody insisted on five-putting every green, have the cops haul him off and lock him away.

  His brief mental foray into social satire amused John.

  He’d never hit a golf ball in his life.

  He’d worry about the country club set when caddies started packing MP-5Ks.

  He presented his credentials to the female security officer at the entrance to police headquarters and said Captain LaBelle was expecting him. The officer studied the BIA identification, gave John a good long look and appeared intrigued by what she saw. She told him how to get to the captain’s office and added, “She doesn’t give you what you need, stop back here. I’ll see what I can do.”

  A gesture of southern hospitality, nothing more, John was sure.

  “Thank you.”

  He found his way to Captain LaBelle’s office. She was writing the old fashioned way, pen and paper. At a glance it seemed like more of personal task that a professional obligation. John didn’t look too closely. Respecting people’s privacy was another way to build a good relationship.

  Edmee LaBelle looked up and said, “Didn’t take you long to get here. You’ve been to New Orleans before?”

  “First time,” John said. “GPS.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. Never use it myself.”

  “May I see what you’ve found?” he asked.

  She hit the space bar on the keyboard of her computer and and swiveled the monitor so he’d be able to see it from the visitor’s chair alongside her desk. John took the seat. He looked at a man’s painted face. The shot was full color, well framed and had good resolution.

  “Your people find out who posted this online, Edmee?” John asked.

  “It’s a new domain name: WarParty.com. The owner is soliciting bids from media outlets. Claims the stills were taken from a video he shot of the robbery with his cell phone. So this war party thing, is that an Indian term?”
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br />   Edmee hadn’t answered his question but John kept things friendly.

  He said, “War parties were also known as raiding parties. The raiders might be the warriors of one Native American village or several working together toward a common goal. They’d scout an enemy settlement or military position at night and then attack just before dawn.”

  “Huh,” Edmee said. “I picture something like that, it comes out like a movie.”

  John had the same feeling the first time he’d heard of war parties. Working for the BIA, though, and trying to stay a step ahead of Marlene Flower Moon, he’d done his homework. Over the years, he’d completed an informal survey course in Native American studies.

  Edmee said, “So these people in the war parties, the old-time ones I mean, they were serious about their work?”

  “Entirely. Intertribal rifts were resolved, alliances were formed, pre-raid feasts were held, war songs and dances were performed. In short, the troops were rallied for war.”

  “So you think it’s possible these guys who hit the Thibodeaux State Bank might have cut loose with their automatic weapons?”

  John hadn’t thought of that before now, but he nodded.

  “Yes. If they felt threatened or trapped, I think they would.”

  “Good thing for all us cops to keep in mind,” Edmee said.

  More details from his reading came to John’s mind. “There were times when war parties went out to avenge slain members of a tribe. On other occasions, the purpose was to gain personal war honors.”

  “How about to make off with something the other guy has?” Edmee asked.

  “That, too,” John said, “including women and children who’d be adopted into the tribe.”

  “But not the menfolk?” Edmee asked.

  John shook his head. “The fortunate ones were killed in the fighting. Some tribes, like the Iroquois, took male captives but only so they could torture them.”

  “Damn,” Edmee said. “Let’s hope these new boys don’t get up to that.”

  “You mind telling me who posted the pictures of our bank robbers?” John asked.

  “Be happy to, but why don’t you look at the rest of the pictures first?”

  John nodded. The photographer, working covertly with only a cell phone, had done a great job. He’d gotten all six Indians who’d come into the bank, both head shots and full length images. He’d tried to shoot the two who remained outside guarding the motorcycles, too, but the sunlight on the bank door washed out their likenesses.

  Finishing the photo gallery, John said, “All this was done by the guy who ran out of the bank right after the robbers did, right?”

  Edmee said, “That’s our thought. He couldn’t wait to get home and see what he had. Now he’s trying to sell his pictures.”

  “License them, if he’s smart,” John said.

  “He just might be. We got his name from his Internet service provider. He’s a teaching assistant at Tulane.”

  “And his name is?”

  “Louis Mercer,” Edmee said.

  Bingo, John thought.

  Louis Mercer was the name Marguerite Timkins, the loan officer at the bank, had given to John. Maybe she was supposed to keep her head down and not see Louis run out the door. Most of the people in the bank had probably stayed turtled up. Not calling the least bit of attention to themselves.

  Even if the end had been near, they wouldn’t have wanted to see it coming.

  John felt talking with Louis would be a fine idea. The sooner the better.

  But Captain LaBelle labored under the misapprehension that John had backup he could call on. He shook his head and told her, “Sorry, there’s just me.”

  “Well hell,” Edmee said, “I knew all those damn federal cutbacks would come to no good. Can’t you call the FBI or somebody?”

  “I could but I’d rather not.”

  “I know how you feel. Problem is all my cops are tied up right now. We’ve got our own budget and manpower problems.”

  “Be a shame to let the bank robbers get away because we couldn’t muster enough troops,” John told her.

  Edmee sent the photos of the robbers to her printer and pulled up a duty roster on her computer. She read it top to bottom, shaking her head all the while. When she finished, she let out a sigh.

  “I just can’t pull anybody off what they’re doing for the rest of this shift. I’ll have to put in a request for overtime money, too, and, honey, that ain’t easy.”

  An idea occurred to John and he said, “You think it was just a happy accident this Mercer guy got all those good pictures?”

  “What else would it —” The light dawned for Edmee LaBelle.

  And John vocalized the notion. “Maybe Louis is one of the gang. He’s looking to make money off the robbery, isn’t he? Think how cool that would be for the bad guys. They steal money and make their video to show the world what slick bastards they are. Plus, they make more money from it. Next thing, they might start selling popcorn.”

  “Sonofabitch,” Edmee said. “The assholes ever get that smart, we’re all in for a world of trouble.” She took a moment to extend her thinking. “Or you’re the smart one. Coming up with that idea to get me to divert my people to working for you.”

  “Okay,” John said. “Let me ask you this, Edmee. Your patrol people have been talking to their counterparts on the state police, right? To check if any group of eight guys on black motorcycles went roaring down the interstate right after the bank got hit.”

  “Yeah, we did that.”

  “And?”

  “State police didn’t see anything like that.”

  “And your cops around town checked with their street snitches to see if they spotted those same motorcycles roaring through town?”

  “We covered that, too. Didn’t get anything there either.”

  “That suggests the bad guys might still be in town, doesn’t it?” John said.

  “Maybe,” Edmee allowed. “You think they could be hiding at Louis Mercer’s house?”

  “I think it would be worth checking.”

  “Let me see your eyes,” Edmee told John.

  He lowered his Ray-Bans to the tip of his nose.

  His pupils and irises were all but indistinguishable shades of dark brown.

  The sclera was an unblemished white.

  “I can’t tell, damnit. You could be lying to me and I’d never know.”

  John put his sunglasses back in place and said, “I’m not lying. I don’t know that I’m right. I’m just making a guess, but maybe it’s a good one.”

  He stood up and told Edmee, “I’m going over to Louis’ place.”

  “By yourself? It’s going to take me at least an hour before I can send some cops over there.”

  “I’ll put in a call to another federal officer.”

  “But not from the FBI?”

  “No. The United States Postal Service.”

  Toulouse Street, Midcity New Orleans

  John drove past the down-at-the-heels apartment building in the middle of the block. He didn’t stop to take a close look. Just cruised by doing the speed limit, taking in the structure as he approached and with his peripheral vision as he went past it. Three stories high in need of maintenance and yardwork. A sign proclaiming FOR RENT was attached to the front door. The windows of the first and second floors were unadorned by curtains and shades, giving an impression the flats were not only vacant but unfurnished.

  The third floor had the curtains drawn even though the morning was sunny with a breeze moderating the day’s heat. For most people, the conditions were right to embrace nature not shut it out. Unless, of course, you didn’t want people to see what was going on inside your walls.

  John turned right at the corner of the block, made a three-point turn and parked at the curb near the intersection with Toulouse Street. He had an oblique view of the apartment building. He called Edmee LaBelle to give her his position and a description of the building. She said he’d have four
plainclothes cops in two unmarked cars for company within thirty minutes.

  “If you spot the bad guys,” she added, “don’t try going all John Wayne on them. Wait for the cavalry.”

  John laughed. “I’m BIA, remember. Cowboys and cavalry fought my ancestors.”

  “As long as you understand what I’m saying, we’re good.”

  “Don’t be a hero?”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll try to restrain myself.”

  “You think the robbers might be in that building?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “I’ll get my people to step it up. Be there soon as they can.”

  John said goodbye. Then he put in a call to Marcellus Darcy.

  — Chapter 9 —

  White House — Washington, DC

  Vice President Jean Morrissey’s working office was in the West Wing, just down the hall from the Oval Office. As soon as the former governor of Minnesota had been chosen to replace Vice President Mather Wyman as the first person in the line of succession to President Patricia Darden Grant, the chattering classes began to talk of how Patti Grant, as part of her legacy, wanted to see another woman in the Oval Office.

  As a reply, the president said, “I chose the best person I could find to succeed Vice President Wyman. Likewise, I want to see the best person succeed me.”

  In private, she told her husband, James J. McGill, “Damn right I want to see another woman follow me, as long as she’s Jean Morrissey. The old boys network has run the country long enough.”

  “And not all that well of late,” McGill replied. “The question I wonder about is not whether the country would elect another woman, but will the voters elect a single woman?”

  “You’re right. I might have to do something about that.”

  McGill made a note to himself to steer clear of helping with that chore.