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

  “What?”

  “The face-paint designs I saw? Looked kind of Hollywood to me.”

  — Chapter 11 —

  French Quarter — New Orleans

  John Tall Wolf spent the afternoon checking the alleys of the four square block area surrounding the Thibodeaux State Bank. He’d thought he might take the easy way out and use Google Earth’s street view, but to his surprise the nearly omniscient behemoth had yet to get around to photographing the world’s alleys. Or at least those in New Orleans.

  That meant there was nothing else for him to do but walk. Well, he could have driven, but you missed half of what there was to see that way. If you had the windows up and the A/C on, you smelled almost nothing. Which in several instances that day would have been a blessing. Especially when he found a type of dead animal he’d never seen before.

  At first, he thought it was a baby kangaroo. An animal control officer named Aggie Bing, sent his way by Edmee LaBelle, corrected his misimpression. She said, “It’s a young wallaby. That’s a macropod, a pouched animal, like a kangaroo. Comes from Australia, too. I’m pretty sure the Aussies don’t allow their export, at least not to private owners. You may have stumbled on some illegal animal trading here, Special Agent.”

  “Glad I could help,” John told her.

  “So what’s a BIA man doing in a New Orleans alley?”

  “Looking for a garage where eight Indian motorcycles might be stashed.”

  “The bank robbery?”

  John nodded.

  “You find any possibilities?”

  John shook his head.

  “Tell you what,” the animal control officer said. “You helped me out — I hate illegal animal traders — so I’ll help you. I’ll round up some police cadets. We’ll check all the alleys for, say, a square mile around here. Look for any more exotic critters some asshole might have dumped. While we’re at it, we’ll check for places those motorcycles might be hid, too. How’s that?”

  “That’d be great,” John said.

  He handed over a business card and they shook hands.

  The animal control officer said, “Cool shades you’ve got there, Special Agent.”

  Renaissance Arts Hotel, New Orleans

  John was just about to enter the hotel when a Mercedes pulled up to the curb opposite him. The passenger side window slid down. John’s hand brushed back the hem of his suit coat and went to his duty weapon. He relaxed when he saw Deputy Director Byron DeWitt.

  “Buy you dinner?” he asked.

  That was a first, John thought. An FBI poobah offering him hospitality.

  “Sure. Can you give me thirty minutes? I need a shower and a change of clothes.”

  “Meet you in the lobby,” DeWitt said.

  John nodded and went up to his suite. He shed the suit he’d worn that day, put on a terrycloth robe and called a bellman to take his garments to be dry-cleaned. He even sent his shoes out to be polished. That poor wallaby had left an odor that lingered.

  The shower stall had a ceiling mounted immersion head. A comfort for a tall man. John turned the water on hot. He relaxed and let his mind roam. He had been less than completely honest with Nelda Freeland.

  He knew a few things about Native American war paint. The pigments used derived from colored clays, berries and flowers. Different colors had different meanings. Red stood for war, blood, strength and power. Black might mean a powerful warrior who had proven himself in battle. Yellow could indicate a warrior who was heroic and would fight to the death.

  Exactly the opposite of the way the newcomers regarded the color.

  There were also symbols. An open palm, fingers and thumb represented a warrior who was successful in hand-to-hand combat. A zig-zag line across the forehead symbolized lightning and implicitly a combatant who possessed the same power and speed. There were other icons peculiar to specific tribes, and there were lots of tribes.

  That was why John didn’t mind shifting the burden to Nelda and others who were far more in touch with Native American culture. Then again, he’d also wanted to see how far he could push the new boss. And let her know she couldn’t push him at all.

  He got out of the shower and, while drying off, another tidbit of Indian folkways came to mind. It was a small thing. Might be significant, though.

  He dressed casually and went downstairs to meet DeWitt.

  — Chapter 12 —

  Mr. B’s Bistro, New Orleans

  At DeWitt’s suggestion, they went to the place at the corner of Royal and Iberville. DeWitt had the barbecued shrimp; John went with the wood grilled fish. The deputy director had reserved a semi-circular booth that both afforded them privacy and let them cover the front and back doors should any villains make a surprise appearance.

  John asked DeWitt, “The vice president send you?”

  DeWitt laughed and shook his head. “Interesting question, but no. I just like to get out of DC and see things for myself.”

  “Not very managerial of you.”

  Unless you were Marlene Flower Moon, he thought.

  She snooped on him relentlessly.

  “I’m something of an outlier,” DeWitt said. “You can ask James J. McGill, if you’d like to confirm that.”

  Didn’t sound to John like the guy was just dropping a name. That made him uneasy. The vice president, the husband of the president and a deputy director of the FBI didn’t usually figure into any of his cases. Not even by casual mention. There had to be a lot more at stake here than a bank robbery. The spooks had to be finding some disturbing intel, and DeWitt had to know more of what was going on than he did.

  “I’ll take your word for it, Mr. DeWitt. What can I do for you?”

  “I thought I’d give you the early take on things. Get your opinion.”

  The deputy director repeated the opinion held by the local FBI office, according to what John had heard. The hackers working with the bank robbers weren’t top notch. Otherwise, they’d have stolen credit card numbers off the Internet and either use them to loot ATMs or sell them to third parties.

  “What do you think about that?” DeWitt asked.

  John told him, “I think you’ve got a different opinion and you’re wondering if I might feel the same way.”

  “I’m not looking for a yes man.”

  “No, just a kindred spirit, someone on the same wavelength.”

  “So?” DeWitt said.

  John replied, “I don’t think there’s any lack of technical proficiency.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “I think the robbers went into the bank because it made them feel good.”

  “My thought was they felt it was their last chance to do something big,” DeWitt said.

  That tweaked John’s thinking. “You see it as the end of something, not the beginning?”

  DeWitt nodded. “For the planners, if not the guys with the guns.”

  John said, “So you do think the robbers are going to hit again.”

  “I do. Using the same idea. Tie people up in knots. Divert the cops.”

  John moved the conversation in another direction.

  “If I get this thing worked out, will you have any problem with the BIA getting the credit?”

  “No, not at all. Though I don’t think you’re looking for personal glory.”

  John smiled. “Not hardly. I’m a maverick, too. So I don’t mind sharing a couple of other thoughts.”

  “For instance?”

  “Have you seen the video of the robbery yet?”

  “Yes,” DeWitt said.

  “Three of the robbers wore feathers in their hair, eagle feathers, I think.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “Okay, so I checked that out. Native American warriors got to wear them only after they’d proven themselves in battle. The feather was the equivalent of a modern military medal. Say a bronze or silver star.”

  DeWitt saw where John was heading. “If the feathers were legitimate, those guys in the ban
k would have had to do something on a par with the robbery. There’d be a record of such a crime, even if there wasn’t an arrest yet.”

  “Right,” John said. “The FBI should be able to check whether any Indians have been on the warpath anywhere in the country the past ten or twenty years. See if there’s anything that might connect the past to the present.”

  John concluded, “If there isn’t … well, you can figure out what I’m thinking.”

  “Some white boys with guns are playing dress up?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay, that’s one thing,” DeWitt said. “What’s your other thought.”

  “The war paint those guys wore, it looks to me like it’s more informed by Game Boy culture than Native American.”

  DeWitt nodded. “So you’re saying there are no Indians involved?”

  John said, “Only the eight motorcycles.”

  Renaissance Arts Hotel, New Orleans

  The man stepped in front of John a heartbeat after DeWitt dropped him off at the hotel. The deputy director must have caught the stranger’s approach in the passenger side mirror because he stopped the Mercedes and got out with his gun drawn and aimed. The man gaped at him. Turning to face John, he saw another gun pointed his way.

  He raised his hands and with a nervous grin said, “I come in peace. I’m an Anderson School MBA.”

  “UCLA?” DeWitt asked.

  “Yeah.” Then he said the magic words. “Marlene Flower Moon sent me.”

  Putting away his gun, John asked, “You have a card?”

  Aware that the other guy still had a bead on him, the man used only his thumb and index finger to withdraw a business card from a pocket in his suit coat. He handed it to John.

  “Nahotabi Ambrose,” John read.

  “I’m a Choctaw,” Ambrose said. “On my mom’s side.”

  John nodded to DeWitt and said he’d be in touch.

  The deputy director holstered his weapon, got back in his car and drove off.

  Ambrose asked John, “Is it all right if I buy you a drink?”

  Cochon, New Orleans

  The restaurant was just down the street from John’s hotel. The special agent and the L.A.-educated MBA had the far end of the bar to themselves. Ambrose had a glass of Piper Heidsick Brut to celebrate not being gunned down by federal agents. John went with a bottle of Perrier sparkling mineral water to keep his head clear.

  Ambrose made note of John’s choice of libation.

  “No alcohol for you?”

  “No.”

  “I watch it, too. Never more than one glass per day. Most days, I go without.”

  “What did Marlene have to say to you?” John asked.

  “She asked that our people check their sources to see if any Native Americans were involved in the bank robbery here in New Orleans. We were already on it, and I told her so. She said we should get in touch with you as soon as we found out anything.”

  “And the results of your investigation were?” John asked.

  “If there were any Native Americans involved in the robbery, it was purely coincidental. No way was the crime organized or carried out exclusively by Native Americans. There are bad guys in our communities just like any other. But organized crime or thugs carrying out thefts to finance radical agendas, that’s not happening. Not in Louisiana anyway.”

  “No? So how are the local Choctaw people occupying themselves these days?”

  “We just opened a new casino upstate this past spring. We observe all the gaming laws and run a clean operation. A friend of mine who graduated from the Northwestern University School of Law monitors compliance with all the rules and regs; I handle all our marketing efforts. We’re already ahead of revenue projections. The tribe is making money and our employees earn living wages. The last thing we’d want to do is mess up a good thing.”

  “What about any other bands or tribes in the Southeast?” John asked.

  Native Americans no longer made war on one another, but there was competition, and it was not always friendly. Just like any other ethnic group.

  But Ambrose shook his head.

  “Things are peaceful, Special Agent. Some people have their gripes, but nothing that rises above filing a lawsuit or two.”

  Nahotabi Ambrose was one slick Indian, John thought.

  He called to the bartender for his own bottle of Perrier, even though he’d taken only a sip off the top of his glass of champagne.

  John thought it was a good sign that Native American businesses were expanding the employment of homegrown professionals. Not that he’d ordinarily be inclined to take the word of either a lawyer or a marketing man regardless of their heritage. But what Ambrose had to say only reinforced John’s idea that the bank robbers had to be make-believe Indians.

  Carrying on a tradition of blame shifting that went back at least to the Boston Tea Party.

  Ambrose raised his bottle to John and said with a smile, “To honest Injuns.”

  John said, “And higher education.”

  They clinked their bottles.

  Both of them pleased to point the finger of blame elsewhere.

  Renaissance Arts Hotel, New Orleans

  John received a text message from Nelda Freeland just before he turned off the lights for the night. It read: No sign of robbers hiding out in any rez in Southern U.S.

  That still left a lot of country to cover, he thought.

  He tried to remain positive, though.

  Told Nelda: Thanks for info. Say hi to Auntie for me.

  Sometimes he couldn’t stop himself from taunting Coyote.

  Of course, Coyote paid him back immediately. He no longer felt like going straight to sleep. He thought there must be something else he could do to move the investigation forward. He plugged the flash drive Louis Mercer had given him into his laptop.

  He’d watched the video four times by now.

  Maybe the fifth time would be … the charm.

  John paused the video to look at the robber covering the customers lying on the bank floor. Like all his accomplices, he was wearing black latex gloves to avoid leaving any finger prints. He was also practicing good firearm discipline: off target, off trigger.

  That meant if you didn’t have a target lined up that you were going to shoot in the next breath you kept your finger off the trigger to prevent an accidental discharge.

  The robber John had spotted had his finger extended above the trigger guard, and he’d cut off the index finger of his black glove. John could only guess that was for a better trigger feel. In any event, it showed that the man’s finger was white. Not the copper color of his face in the areas that weren’t covered by war paint.

  Now, John had proof at least one of the robbers wasn’t Native American.

  He wished he could ask the other robbers for a show of hands.

  He’d have to share his discovery with Byron DeWitt in the morning. The FBI had the technology to determine whether what he was seeing was some sort of photographic glitch that distorted color values.

  But first he decided to call his mother and father.

  Email them a copy of the video.

  He’d thought of a way they might be able to help him, too.

  After speaking with his parents, John was able to get to sleep.

  — Chapter 13 —

  Renaissance Arts Hotel, New Orleans, Thursday, August 22nd

  John woke up at 6:30 a.m. and his first thought was he should have called Rebecca before he’d turned in last night. It wasn’t that they’d made any promises to stay in touch on a daily basis, and she hadn’t called him. Still, it would have been thoughtful.

  Good to hear her voice and maybe share a laugh.

  He could call now, but she was probably back in Calgary and the time there was … It took him a moment to remember the time zone. Five-thirty. Too early. She was still on vacation, unless she went back to work before her scheduled return.

  Thinking of Rebecca, he remembered how he’d gone for his gun t
wice yesterday. The first time when Byron DeWitt had pulled alongside him in his car; the second when Nahotabi Ambrose had approached him on foot. John was usually anything but tightly wound. Then again it had been quite a while since he’d had a special woman in his life. Now, there was one and … maybe he wanted to be just a bit more careful?

  He made a mental note to call Rebecca sometime that day.

  He got up, stepped into the shower and reviewed the conversation he’d had with his parents. They’d looked at the video file he’d sent them. Neither his father, a doctor, nor his mother, an anthropologist, thought the white finger was the result of vitiligo.

  They couldn’t come up with any reasonable explanation.

  Other than to say the color of the man’s face was a product of makeup.

  His mother told him she could compare the robbers’ facial structures to Native American archetypes. She said she’d get back to John once she had the results. Dad said he’d look on over Mom’s shoulder as she worked. Make sure she wasn’t comparing the bad guys to Polynesians.

  Mom rebuked him in a language that John didn’t recognize.

  But she made Dad laugh.

  John thought that was cool, his parents having their little joke, probably talking dirty, right in front of the kid, not worrying that he’d ever know what had been said. Maybe he and Rebecca would have to learn Aramaic or something.

  He’d said goodbye to his parents, pleased he’d also thought the robbers had used makeup on their faces.

  Only now, having allowed his subconscious several hours to consider the color discrepancy, he thought maybe the gang of robbers might be really clever. Could be only one of them was a white guy, and they deliberately had him expose that trigger finger.

  Then if some sharp-eyed investigator spotted the anomaly he might think all the robbers were white men. That would be a great diversion if the others were, in truth, Native American. If the bad guys were really diabolical they might have intentionally fudged their use of war paint and eagle feathers, too.