Big Medicine (A John Tall Wolf Novel Book 5)

by Joseph Flynn

  “No.”

  “Me neither. Anyway, after a heart-to-heart conversation, the good doctor told me the thieves not only stole her computer, they left her a substitute laptop that holds all the same data that was on the one that was taken.”

  Abra asked, “How did she know…” And then she answered her own question. “She had a file on her machine that the thieves didn’t know about. So they couldn’t duplicate it in advance. Damn, how long did she hold out before admitting the theft?”

  “Three weeks. Then she told Great-Grandfather. He brought me into the situation.”

  “What about these kids on the security video?”

  John said, “My best guess is that the little so-called rascals were holograms. You see what that leaves, don’t you?”

  Abra knew immediately. “It was an inside job. Someone on Dr. Lisle’s staff was suborned to aid in the plan, be the hands-on thief.” The deputy director made a further leap of logic. “That person might even have a knowledge of holograms.”

  “Just what I was thinking,” John said. “That person might also have roots in Omaha, if we want to think how our bow might be very neatly tied.”

  “You don’t have any evidence to indicate that, do you?”

  “No,” John said, “just a feeling. If it’s not a hometown thing, then I think there will be some other sort of intersection between the thief and Dr. Lisle.”

  Abra said, “I can buy that. Unless you’re talking about random violence at the hands of a sociopath, there’s usually some sort of incestuous angle to wounding people physically, emotionally or financially.”

  John sighed. “If only we could all evolve a bit faster.”

  “Yeah. So I take it you’ve shared this information with me so my people can find the inside man or woman here in Washington.”

  “If that person isn’t already on the run, yes.”

  “And you’re going to tell me what you’ll be doing in Omaha, right?”

  “All in good time,” John said.

  Abra told him, “I’ll want my plane back soon.”

  “Saturday,” John said, and they left things there.

  The pilot told his passengers to buckle up. They were coming in for a landing.

  John waved Dr. Lisle forward, indicating she should sit next to him.

  She told him, without being asked, what her secret file contained.

  Having had the time to stew about it while John talked to the FBI.

  Marriott Hotel — Omaha, Nebraska

  John booked a suite for himself and Alan White River, and a room for Dr. Lisle at the Omaha Marriott Downtown, the most expensive hotel in town that he could find on short notice. He thought maybe if he painted himself as a free-spending, high-maintenance character, that wouldn’t go over well at his Senate confirmation hearing, and he’d be voted down as the nominee for Secretary of the Interior.

  Besides all that, when you were six-foot-four-plus, as he and Alan White River were, your chances of finding a comfortable hotel bed were better at the top of the hospitality pyramid. That was certainly where NBA players stayed, and they were the experts at finding mattresses that best accommodated the long of leg.

  White River marveled at their lodgings. “I have never known such luxury, Grandson. Your apartment in Washington, the private airplane, this hotel. I fear I might become used to such extravagance and then it will be taken away from me.”

  “Grandfather, if you’d like, I can set you up with a speaker’s agency. You can give public talks and make more money in one night than most people make in a year.”

  The old man took a step back as if retreating from a precipice.

  “How can this be?”

  John said, “You don’t think Calvin Morley gave his talk on movie magic at the Newseum for free, do you?”

  White River nodded. “Yes, I did, until just now.”

  “Mr. Morley took you to an expensive restaurant, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but I thought the money for that came from his movie work.”

  John said, “I’m sure he makes quite a bit from doing that, but he also earns money from public speaking, too.”

  White River lowered himself into a plump armchair. John sat on a sofa opposite him.

  In a gentle tone, John told his great-grandfather, “If you can draw an audience on a consistent basis, you have a marketable skill or talent. The larger your audience, the greater the fee you can command. Alan White River would likely do quite well on both ends of that equation, I think.”

  The old man shook his head. “I do not need to be rich; I do not want to be.”

  John said, “Nothing says you’d have to keep all the money you’d receive. You could set up your own charitable organization. Help people you feel are worthy.”

  That idea brightened the old man’s eyes. “Will you help me, Grandson?”

  “Of course, and not only because I’d like to ask you for help.”

  “Anything you need, I will do. If I can, of course.”

  “The first thing I need is a promise you’ll keep what I tell you to yourself.”

  White River nodded, his expression solemn.

  “Okay, Dr. Lisle confided to me that she is engaged to be married … to another woman. In some segments of American society that would no longer cause anyone to bat an eye; in other parts, it still causes family rifts, to say the least. What I’m wondering is whether you know how it would be received by the Omaha tribe.”

  White River paused to reflect. Then he said, “Some of the Omaha were among the earliest of Native Americans to assimilate into white society. They were the first in this part of the country to forsake their tepees for wooden houses. You might think this was simply a matter of adopting a more comfortable dwelling, but the traditionalist members of the tribe called the grouping of new wooden houses ‘The Village of Make-Believe White Men.’”

  John laughed. “No pun intended, but that must have ruffled a few feathers.”

  White River smiled. “It did. Some of the hard-core nativists thought it was even a bad idea to learn to read and write the white man’s language … until they saw that literacy made it harder for the white men to swindle them out of their land. The value of being able to read a bill of sale before you put your mark on it soon became obvious. The benefit of a general education followed quickly, inspired among the Omaha by the likes of Susan La Flesche.”

  “Who was she?” John asked.

  “She was the first woman Indian doctor of Western medicine in this country. Some of the conservative members of the Omaha at first refused to be treated by what were then modern methods. That changed when people saw her medicine saved more lives than theirs did.”

  John said, “The name La Flesche sounds French to me. As does that of Dr. Yvette Lisle.”

  White River nodded. “French fur traders were the first whites to meet the Omaha, in the early nineteenth century, if I remember right.”

  “You weren’t around back then?” John asked with a straight face.

  The old man grinned. “No, but my father may have been.”

  John laughed, and then he had an idea. “With all the criticism and struggle of adapting to new ways, how did the Omaha feel about members of their tribe marrying white people? For all I know, Dr. Lisle’s fiancée might be white and that’s what concerns her.”

  White River gave the question some thought and after a moment he frowned.

  “You think that’s it?” John asked.

  “It may be, but what came to my mind was what if this other woman is a member of another Native American tribe, a former enemy of the Omaha?”

  That notion gave John pause. “You mean bygones still aren’t bygones for some people?”

  “Only when both sides face a common enemy.”

  “White people?” John asked.

  “To some extent the white people themselves. More often the government. But while the shedding of blood between tribes has stopped, for the most part, a sense of rivalry still liv
es. To some extent anyway. That is the case with all tribes everywhere, I think, not just ours.”

  John had no problem accepting that idea.

  He also couldn’t argue when Great-grandfather told him, “You have much to learn about us Indians, John Tall Wolf.”

  John only nodded.

  Even though Marlene Flower Moon hadn’t been present to hear that evaluation, John was sure she was laughing at him somewhere.

  After his great-grandfather had gone to his bedroom, John called Rebecca to let her know he’d taken his show on the road. They talked about their respective cases. Didn’t bother at all with phone sex. That stuff had paled quickly.

  Chapter 4

  Thursday, January 26, 2017

  L.A./Beverly Hills, California

  Meeting at the Westwood offices of McGill Investigations International that morning, Rebecca and Emily each received gifts from Arcelia: a can of police-grade pepper spray and a tactical palm-sized flashlight. The spray was clearly legal; the flashlight came with a caveat.

  Arcelia addressed the precaution specifically to Rebecca.

  She said, “Emily, with all her time on LAPD, has to know all about this, but you’re new to the country and this state, Rebecca, so here’s the drill. If your spray doesn’t stop an attacker, and we won’t mention any names here, you can temporarily blind him with your flashlight.” She turned to Emily, “There’s no law against that, right?”

  “You can’t use a laser light,” Emily said. “A strobing, high-lumen light is kind of a gray area, but if you use it on someone who has epilepsy and that person has a seizure, you’ll probably be looking at a civil suit at a minimum.”

  Arcelia said, “No laser, no strobe in these babies, and they’re way too small to be considered a billy club.”

  “That’s important because?” Rebecca asked.

  “Billy clubs and switch-blade knives are illegal to carry in California,” Emily said.

  “You want to give her the main talking point on flashlights, Emily, or should I?” Arcelia asked.

  Emily said, “I’ll do it.” She turned to Rebecca, “If you carry a tactical flashlight and a cop ever stops you and asks what you use it for, there’s only one response to give: ‘I use it to see in dark places, Officer.’ If you say you carry it for self-defense, you’ll be admitting that you’re carrying a weapon, and that could very easily work against you, if you go to court.”

  “You understand what Emily just said, right?” Arcelia asked.

  Rebecca nodded, suddenly thinking she’d come to a very strange country.

  “There’s no amendment in your Constitution, then, that provides a right to bear flashlights?” she asked.

  “Unh-uh,” Emily said. “The Founders didn’t anticipate electrically powered weapons, but you’d probably be good sticking a flaming torch in someone’s eye. You know, as long as you had been using the torch to see in the dark.”

  All three women laughed.

  Arcelia said she’d hold down the fort. Rebecca and Emily headed for the Beverly Hills office of Angelo Renzi’s publicist. They didn’t have an appointment, but that might not matter. Just getting in the front door might be good enough.

  The firm called itself AdvanTech and was located on a small tree-shaded north-south street between Wilshire Boulevard and Burton Way. There was metered parking in front of the modern low-rise office building, and Emily pulled over to the curb. Rebecca paid for an hour’s toll and the two women went inside.

  AdvanTech was on the top floor. An elevator took them up in the company of a young woman who looked dewy enough to be a recent college graduate. She smiled at them and asked, “You ladies have your own start-up?”

  Rebecca and Emily glanced at each other, understanding how to play this opportunity intuitively.

  Rebecca said, “Indeed, we do.”

  The young woman’s smile broadened. “My name’s Mira. I handle new accounts, if you’re looking for a public relations firm.”

  The elevator arrived at its destination and the door opened. The three women stepped out.

  “Which I assume you are,” Mira said, “since that’s what we do here.”

  Emily gestured to Rebecca to take the lead.

  She said, “Yes, we are, but even before that, we’re looking for some art to hang in our offices.”

  Emily added, “We heard from a discerning friend that you have some very exciting pieces from a fantastic new artist. What was his name again, Becky?”

  Thrown for just a second by the use of her name’s diminutive, Rebecca said, “I don’t recall, Em, but I know Angelo Renzi was the one who recommended both him and AdvanTech when we’re ready for PR help.”

  Hearing the name of a client who obviously carried some weight, Mira was happy to provide the artist’s name. “Jack Murtagh.”

  The same name Walt Wooten had given them. One box checked off.

  “That’s it,” Emily said, smiling.

  Rebecca asked, “Would you mind if we take a real quick look at any of the pieces you’ve chosen for your company?”

  Emily segued, “Then if you have some literature about your services, we’d be happy to take them with us, too.”

  “Well …” Mira had been hoping for instant gratification, landing a new client, but she didn’t want to blow an opportunity for future business. “I have to tell you that I didn’t pick out the art. Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s great but I can’t take you into our partner’s offices. Would it be okay if I just showed you what we have hanging in the common areas? And my office, too, of course.”

  “That would be great,” Rebecca said.

  Emily nodded.

  “Okay,” Mira said, “one nickel-tour coming up.”

  In the interior design fashion of the time, the company’s major offices and the conference rooms had glass walls and doors, giving the place something of a fishbowl effect. But AdvanTech had taken the next step in the theme. Each of the glassed-in spaces had at least one square or rectangular area that was opaquely black.

  Emily pointed at a darkened space and asked, “Is that polarizing glass?”

  Mira grinned. “I don’t know that it’s glass exactly, but you can do what we call ‘drawing the curtains’ when you need a little privacy. It’s sort of a way of saying, ‘I need a little space right now.’ When the glass is clear, the welcome mat is out.”

  Rebecca said, “But every office has at least one partially darkened area.” And then she made the leap. “That’s where you hang the art.”

  Mira nodded. “Cool, isn’t it? The paintings aren’t really hung. No nails and hooks or anything like that. They’re just sort of stuck to the wall, but not with an adhesive. I think it’s some kind of magnetism or an electrical charge or something. Your business doesn’t involve a lot of hard science, does it?”

  “More like social science,” Rebecca said.

  “Figuring out what makes people tick,” Emily added.

  Mira smiled. “Oh, good, that’s my specialty.”

  She showed them the Jack Murtagh paintings in her office and three common areas. The son-of-a-gun was a real draftsman, used a technique called photo-realism, only he made people and structures a bit more heroic in stature. Or a bit less, depending on who or what was being favored or disfavored. Which put a narrative slant on each picture. His color sense worked the same way. If he liked a figure, he or she was flawless and godlike. If he didn’t care for another figure, that character looked shrunken and sneaky at best. He’d actually painted a street scene in which a pickpocket had a hand in a woman’s purse as she was busy picking up a toddler from a stroller.

  One thing that was consistent in each painting was the artist’s signature. Each letter of both of his names was almost mechanically identical in size, spacing and color density. Both Rebecca and Emily found that interesting.

  They sat with Mira for a ten-minute pitch on what AdvanTech could do to help any modern business. They accepted a thumb-drive that went into even greater
detail. And, at their request, Mira produced an old-fashioned business card for Jack Murtagh to take with them.

  As soon as they were back in Emily’s car, Rebecca took out her iPad to see what the Internet had to say about Mr. Murtagh.

  Keeping her eyes on the road as Rebecca cyber-surfed, Emily said, “You know what? After seeing that guy’s paintings, I bet he’s got some kind of criminal record.”

  Marriott Hotel — Omaha, Nebraska

  Dr. Yvette Lisle joined John and White River for breakfast in their suite. Room service brought crepes, whole grain cereals, rye toast, fruit cups, coffee, tea, orange juice and skim milk. The hotel expressed its regret that their kitchen would be unable to provide White River with either baked turnips or rabbit of any sort.

  The old man had grinned at his younger companions after the order had been placed.

  “I do that as a joke mostly, ask for traditional tribal foods. I think I might die of shock if a white waiter ever told me, ‘Very good, sir. May I suggest a wine to pair with that?’”

  John told him, “Be careful if someone takes you to a trendy French restaurant. They can be pretty daring with their menus.”

  Dr. Lisle nodded. “New age places would probably try to obtain any plant food you might suggest. Animal protein would be another matter.”

  White River smiled. “My horizons widen even as my light dims.”

  Dr. Lisle responded with professional concern. “You’re not feeling well?”

  The old man patted her hand. “I can’t have more than 10 to 20 years left.”

  John chuckled. Dr. Lisle frowned at the old man, until she gave in and smiled.

  Taking advantage of the good humor around the table, John asked, “Should I wait until we finish eating or would it be all right to discuss some business now?”

  “Can we avoid it until we’ve had lunch and possibly dinner?” Dr. Lisle asked.

  “I don’t think so,” John said. “I’m working under tight time constraints already.”

  The doctor chewed and swallowed a bite of crepe and said, “Okay, go ahead.”