Big Medicine (A John Tall Wolf Novel Book 5) Read online

  The old Honda didn’t have internet connectivity, but when he found a Wi-Fi hotspot in town, he’d get directions to the town’s public library and do research there. Before that, though, he’d cruise downtown, see how much things might have changed in the two years since he’d last been there. After that, he’d make his first run past the Wolfs’ house. Or should he call it a lair?

  The city center was relatively quiet when Bodaway hit town. There were ski resorts nearby, and the snow on the mountains looked good. That would keep the daytime shopping crowds relatively thin and there would be plenty of open tables at the restaurants when he got hungry. After dark, that was when things in town would get busy, but that was a few hours off.

  Bodaway pulled his car into a Starbucks parking lot, bought a coffee to go and used the store’s Wi-Fi to look up Dr. Hayden Wolf’s address. The local directory returned the same address Coyote had given him and provided the directions to reach it, only a 10-minute drive, he was informed.

  The Honda, old as it was, still had a holder for his coffee cup. Bodaway took a right out of the lot, driving carefully not only to avoid a moving violation but also because he felt a growing sense of trepidation. He couldn’t fail to obey Coyote, not without suffering a ghastly end, but Tall Wolf’s parents … the thought recurred that they might be even more vindictive.

  He had no idea what kind of suffering they might visit upon him, but he continued to feel new horrors might await him on Wildflower Drive. The street name certainly made his sense of dread feel ridiculous. The target block’s widely spaced, high-end adobe style houses didn’t exactly convey a sense of dread either, certainly not on a sunny day.

  The homes all had adobe walls, as seen from outer space by Google, but the ground-level view made clear that they also had portals for vehicles and pedestrians. So Bodaway got a quick look at the grounds of each house, which seemed to be an acre or more at a glance.

  Even poking along at 15 mph, though, he could only take in general impressions. Fine detail observation would require strolling by, stopping to tie a shoelace even. Without staring like a burglar casing his next target. From his driver’s seat, Bodaway didn’t spot anything at the Wolfs’ house that stood out from its neighbors.

  Certainly not anything in the way of high-tech hardware that would interfere with Google’s peeking in from high above. Bodaway wondered if people, other than Dick Cheney, could actually opt out of unwanted photographic intrusions. The answer to that was, sure you could. Provided you could bring enough political pressure to bear on a multi-billion dollar corporation.

  Or simply scare the hell out of the right person.

  If the Wolfs could manage that, Coyote was smart to be careful.

  Then again, it would be to Bodaway’s advantage to have Coyote underestimate the Wolfs.

  If they did her in — if that was even possible — he’d be free.

  So the way to play things would be … honesty?

  Tell Coyote that the Wolfs would be way too much for anyone like him to handle, but her on the other hand, well, she was Coyote? Was there anyone or anything she couldn’t overcome? Play to her ego. Get her to be less careful than she should be. Hell, even if Coyote won a battle with the Wolfs, maybe they’d hurt her enough to forget about poor old Bodaway.

  Go off and lick her wounds for a century or so.

  If all that happened, he’d have to go out and buy a lotto ticket.

  Because that’d be the kind of odds he’d have beaten.

  Still, he liked the approach to his problem: truth shaded by guile.

  The Newseum —Washington, DC

  “Holography,” Calvin Morley told John, “that’d be one way to do it.”

  He spoke of how the larcenous “children” could have gotten into Dr. Lisle’s lab.

  John, White River and the special effects artist sat in a small private lounge at the Newseum. They’d arrived 30 minutes before Morley’s scheduled presentation was to begin.

  “Holography is 3-D photography?” John asked.

  “It’s more complicated than that. There’s a fair amount of physics involved, the superposition of waves, light fields and so forth. Anyway, a holograph is a visual record, not of an image, but a light field. Think of a really big, superfine mesh screen. Behind the screen is a light source. The light field is the amount of light flowing in every direction through each tiny opening in the screen. That’s not exactly accurate, but it gives you something you can, pardon the pun, picture.

  “Each ray of light has considerations of direction and radiance, but cutting to the chase, holography can produce fully three-dimensional images of a subject or subjects which can be seen without the use of intermediate optics like special glasses. What you do need, though, is a suitably lit space in which to display the hologram. In a diffuse, bright light a hologram would vanish.”

  John said, “The lighting in question was relatively dim and, now that I think about it, the images of the children, while fairly well defined, also had a ghostly aspect to them.”

  White River nodded in agreement.

  “Ghostly as in transparent?” Morley asked.

  John shook his head. “No, not like that. More like …”

  “They might blow away in a puff of wind,” White River suggested.

  “Exactly,” John said.

  Morley considered the description and then asked, “Did you notice if the figures’ feet were in solid contact with the ground? Did they seem to be subject to gravity like we are? Did they seem to have any weight at all when they moved?”

  John and White River looked at each other.

  “I never took notice of any of that,” John said.

  “Nor I,” White River added.

  Morley said, “Okay, how about this? You know how effortlessly really good dancers move? They glide as if neither gravity nor friction exists for them. Was that how these figures moved?”

  John shook his head. “No. I didn’t see either Michael Jackson or Fred Astaire.”

  “Just kids,” White River agreed. “Like they were walking to school.”

  The special effects artist took everything he’d heard into consideration.

  “You know,” he said, “this is all probably a lot simpler than holography. What I think happened here is someone got hold of the security video and added the kids in a post-production suite. Dropped in computer generated images and then put the edited video back in the original’s place.”

  “Who could do that kind of thing?” John asked.

  Morley laughed. “These days, any number of people. A little computer hacking to get into the security system and some film student to come up with the kids’ images and add them to the original video.”

  John said, “The lab is next door to a major university. You could probably find students with all the needed skills right there. But that seems too obvious a solution.”

  Morley grinned. “Right. It’d be better storytelling to go with something unexpected.”

  He looked at his watch and said he had to start his talk in a few minutes.

  “May I take you to dinner tonight, Mr. White River?” Morley asked. “You, too, Mr. Tall Wolf.”

  John got the feeling he’d been included as a matter of civility. He begged off.

  Alan White River accepted.

  “Where would you like to dine?” Morley asked the old man.

  “Anywhere is fine by me. Long as it’s the early bird special. I don’t want to fall asleep at the dinner table.” The merriment in his eyes said he was joking, somewhat.

  John knew that his great-grandfather would much prefer to fall asleep listening to Barbara Lipman’s cello practice. It warmed John’s heart to think that a man that old could still take an interest in both culture and romance.

  He hoped that he and Rebecca would have an abundance of such years.

  Century City — Los Angeles, California

  Leland Proctor’s law offices were located in Century City, a short drive from the Westwood s
ite of McGill Investigations International. Better yet, from Rebecca Bramley’s point of view, the trip didn’t involve getting on a freeway. She wasn’t frightened by high-density, fast-moving traffic. She’d driven equivalent highways in and around Toronto and Vancouver. The reputation Canadians had for being friendly, well-mannered people didn’t include the times they were commuting to work or home in a rush hour.

  They went after openings in traffic like opposing hockey players chasing a loose puck.

  Rebecca was hesitant, at least so far, about engaging in competitive driving in the U.S. She no longer had the decisive edge an RCMP badge had given her back home if a vehicular contest escalated to road rage. More than that, she was now aware of how many Americans carried guns in their cars; John had pointed out this cultural difference to her.

  Wouldn’t do at all to get shot or even shot at because some dude thought you’d cut him off. So she’d decided to acclimate herself to driving on the 10 and 405 freeways by practicing at times when the automotive flow was relatively benign. She’d work up to the point where she could challenge the traffic at any hour.

  The trip to Century City, and the Avenue of the Stars no less, went without incident, if you could overlook the parking fee in the office building where Leland Proctor’s firm was located: $39. Attempting a bit of humor, she asked the attendant, “Is that U.S. dollars or Canadian?”

  The Canadian loonie — a one-dollar coin — equaled only 79¢ U.S. at that moment.

  The attendant, a young Latino, shook his head. “No Canadian, no pesos either. Who you going to see?”

  “Proctor, Davidson, Wilcox, Attorneys at Law.”

  The attendant nodded. “They validate your parking. Charge a whole lot more up there than we do down here, too.”

  “The boss’s daughter sent me,” Rebecca told him.

  “Then you cool however long you stay. Bienvenido, señora.”

  “Gracias.”

  John also had told her it would be helpful to learn some Spanish.

  The receptionist on the 27th floor validated Rebecca’s parking ticket. A moment later, a conservatively dressed and coiffed woman in her 40s stepped into the reception area and introduced herself as Leland Proctor’s secretary, Nessa. She led Rebecca to the managing partner’s corner office.

  Proctor rose to greet Rebecca. A man in his mid-50s, she guessed, he was trim, neatly groomed and had a smile worthy of winning a screen test. His suit coat hung on a mahogany rack in a near corner. The knot in his crimson tie rested against his azure shirt an inch below an open collar. Reading the signs of relaxed formality, Rebecca carefully measured the handshake she shared with Proctor.

  Strong enough to earn his respect but not enough to challenge his masculinity.

  “Lee Proctor,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Bramley.”

  He gestured Rebecca to a guest chair and retook his seat.

  “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Emily told me she was going to see you today, and Nessa gave me a note that said you’ve hired her. So I assume she passed muster.”

  “Yes, she did. Even better, she brought a new client with her.”

  Leland Proctor understood the implication immediately. “Someone who has a problem that made her think I might be of help. There’s a legal angle involved here.”

  “There is such a consideration, but our immediate need is artistic in nature.”

  Proctor flashed his brilliant smile. “Well, that’s interesting. What kind of art?”

  Rebecca explained the problem and the proposed avenue of investigation.

  Lee Proctor listened closely and nodded. “Our calligraphy guy, Walt Wooten, does paintings. Watercolors, he told me. I’ve asked twice to see his work, but he’s gently put me off. Says he doesn’t have anything worth showing at the moment. When he gets better, he says he’ll give me the first look.”

  “Do you believe that?” Rebecca asked.

  “That he’ll give me the first look? Yeah, I do. That his work isn’t good enough to show? No, I don’t. Walt’s a very gentle guy, shy really. But he does the finest calligraphy I’ve ever seen. I imagine his watercolors are stunning, too. It’s my considered opinion that my best chance of seeing his work is to play things his way.”

  “Do you think he might be willing to talk to me? Tell me if he knows any other calligrapher who also paints and maybe has sold some work to Angelo Renzi. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that name to yourself.”

  “Give me a dollar,” Lee Proctor said.

  “Establishing a professional relationship between us? Confidentiality and all that?”

  Proctor nodded.

  Rebecca said, “The smallest American money I have is a twenty.”

  “Way too much for this transaction. A dollar is symbolic.”

  Rebecca thought for a moment and reluctantly dug a coin out of her pocket. Handing it over to the lawyer, she asked, “You know what that is?”

  Looking at the coin, he nodded. “It’s a loonie.”

  “My lucky loonie. My grandfather gave it to me. He said he carried it throughout his RCMP career, and it kept him safe. Of course, he said the same thing about the coin he gave to my dad, too.”

  “No reason why a man can’t have two lucky loonies,” Proctor said.

  “Yeah. Dad said the same thing. Anyway, I’ll drop off a U.S. single as soon as I can. Meanwhile, please don’t lose that coin.”

  “I won’t. Would you like me to call Walt for you now?”

  “Yes, please. If Mr. Wooten agrees to see me, will he want some money for his time, and will he keep our conversation private?”

  “I think Walt will see you. He won’t ask for money, and he’s the soul of discretion.”

  “How can you be sure of all that?” Rebecca asked.

  Lee Proctor smiled again, this time just a sly grin.

  “Walt is one of your people. He’s Canadian by birth and now American by choice. He was the first guy ever to show me a loonie. He asked if it would work in the office Coke machine.”

  Proctor shared a smile with Rebecca and then his expression became thoughtful.

  He asked, “Have you and Emily shared any war stories yet? All the hassles and hazards women cops have to endure?”

  Rebecca said, “No, sir, not yet. I’m sure that will come as we get better acquainted.”

  “Good, because I feel certain there are things she hasn’t wanted to share with her mother or me. It’ll be a help, I imagine, if both of you can talk with someone simpatico.”

  Rebecca had told John many of the highlights and low moments of her career in the RCMP, but there were a few things she’d held back, incidents that would be easier to share with another woman who’d worn a badge and carried a gun.

  “I think you’re right,” she told Proctor.

  “You’ve also made things somewhat easier for Karen and me. We hated to see Emily follow in her grandfather’s footsteps and join the LAPD.”

  “Something you avoided,” Rebecca said.

  “A career choice my dad insisted upon. His boy wasn’t going to be a cop. He was all for my going to law school. Of course, he thought I would become a prosecutor. My idea was if I went to school all that time, I should make a decent salary in private practice. But I mollified him somewhat by later winning a City Council seat.”

  “All’s well that ends well?” Rebecca asked.

  A look of pain shaded Proctor’s face. “Almost ended well. Years after my dad had retired from the force, and we all thought we could stop worrying about him, he intervened in an armed robbery at the diner where he liked to get breakfast. He always carried his retired officer’s badge and had a concealed carry permit. He shot and killed the two stick-up guys, but one of them got him.”

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” Rebecca said.

  He nodded, repressing tears from the still painful memory.

  “Emily was a high school sophomore when that happened. Cops from all around the country came to the funeral.
May even have been a Mountie there, for all I know. Pipers played and politicians called my dad a hero. That was when Emily decided she was going to join the LAPD. There was nothing Karen and I could do to talk her out of it.”

  Lee Proctor got up and took a handkerchief from his suit coat, dabbed his eyes.

  He told Rebecca, “Karen and I are overjoyed that Emily is leaving the LAPD. I called her as soon as I got word from Nessa. But it’s still a dangerous world out there. Both of you, please be careful.”

  “Yes, sir, we will.”

  He took his phone from a coat pocket and sat down. “I’ll call Walt for you now.”

  National Museum of the American Indian — Washington, DC

  Before John Tall Wolf had left the Newseum, Calvin Morley had invited both Alan White River and John to stay and observe his presentation of “More Real Than Reality” at the Newseum. He promised them front-row-center seats. White River said he’d like to see the show; John had other obligations.

  Morley told John, “I’ll personally make sure Mr. White River gets home after we have dinner.”

  “You’re good with that, Grandfather?” John asked.

  “I promise to make no trouble,” he said with a sly smile. “You are going to help Dr. Lisle?”

  “Yes, after I see if I can find Marlene Flower Moon.”

  “Ah, that one. If you are patient, I’m sure she will find you.”

  “You know who she really is, don’t you?”

  The old man nodded. “Of course, I do. I first met her under another name long before you were born.”

  John found that interesting. Something he’d have to pursue when he and White River were alone sometime. He shook Calvin Morley’s hand and thanked him again for his time. Then he went to the National Museum of the American Indian to talk with Nelda Freeland, the assistant director and Marlene Flower Moon’s niece.

  She kept him waiting outside her office for fifteen minutes.

  He parried the insult by not letting it bother him.

  Once Nelda’s secretary admitted him, though, Nelda kept up the assault. “What do you want, Tall Wolf? I have very little time for you.”