War Party (A John Tall Wolf Novel Book 2)

by Joseph Flynn

  Someone pulling all the strings.

  Meaning he and the boys were nothing more than somebody’s puppets.

  That made him more uneasy than the idea of banks using snipers.

  McCarran Airport had a VIP lounge for people who came and went in private planes. It was used by the big-time gamblers who were known as whales. Them and the entertainers whose names appeared on the marquees outside The Strip hotels. John Tall Wolf joined that gilded number, though he didn’t recognize anyone else in the lounge.

  It was, however, the first time he could remember sharing a room in which everyone else was also wearing sunglasses. He found a quiet corner and called Deputy Director DeWitt. While the call was going through, it struck him as funny that these days he was talking to the FBI far more regularly than he ever did with Marlene Flower Moon.

  “Special Agent Tall Wolf,” DeWitt said. “How may I be of assistance?”

  The greeting was a good example of why John maintained a dialogue with DeWitt.

  He believed the man was sincere, not playing some devious game.

  They both put closing the case first, not caring who got the credit.

  John said, “I forgot to mention something back in Washington.”

  He asked if the FBI might look into whether anyone at the University of Pennsylvania was known to be a fan of the prolific bank robber and Penn alumnus, Carl Gugasian. Someone there might have studied Carl’s methods as part of a scholarly pursuit, gotten intrigued, thought of how the robber’s methods might have been technologically upgraded and then decided to give them a try.

  “You are a free thinker,” DeWitt told John. “I’ll have someone make inquiries. But it wouldn’t necessarily have to be limited to Penn. True scholarship knows no boundaries. Might be any U.S. college or even somewhere abroad.”

  “You’re right,” John told him. “I should have thought of that. But I’d still start at Penn.”

  “Me, too,” DeWitt said.

  The West Wing, The White House

  Vice President Jean Morrissey, being a relatively recent addition to the Patricia Darden Grant Administration, decided early on to show the president’s chief of staff, Galia Mindel, due deference. Unless the vice president was directly summoned to the Oval Office, she always went through the chief of staff if she wanted to speak with the president.

  Galia had recognized immediately that Jean Morrissey was as much of a hard charger as she herself was. She appreciated that it took a conscious effort for the vice president to be so courteous to her. At first, she thought Morrissey might want her to stay on as chief of staff, should she move up the ladder to the presidency.

  Then Galia came to understand that whoever nominally filled that post, the vice president’s brother and longtime advisor, Frank, would be running the day-to-day workings of the executive branch in a Morrissey presidency. Galia approved. Every president should have his or her most trusted confidante.

  At the moment, though, the two women, meeting in Galia’s office, were working on more immediate plans, making sure the vice president faced no significant or distracting primary challengers. It was always better to let the other side’s people throw mud at each other while your candidate remained above the fray.

  The vice president asked Galia, “Have you heard how well Marlene Flower Moon’s new career in Hollywood is coming along?”

  “She’s charming people or scaring the hell out of them, as appropriate.”

  Jean Morrissey laughed. “The two necessary attributes of being a movie mogul.”

  “Apparently. Word is, she’s also the main reason Clay Steadman still has the ability to focus on directing his film. She won’t let anyone distract him with any crap. She’s also making sure he eats right and gets enough rest.”

  “I won’t ask what other comforts she might be providing,” the vice president said.

  “Best left unspoken,” Galia agreed.

  “I was wondering, though, if Marlene’s absence from her government job might not be a disservice to the Office of Justice Services at the BIA. Her niece, Ms. Freeland, doesn’t strike me as anything more than a snoop and a conduit to Marlene.”

  “What about the BIA special agent working the bank robberies? This Tall Wolf fellow.”

  “Funny you should mention him,” the vice president said. “I was thinking he might take Ms. Flower Moon’s place.”

  “Assuming she prefers to stay on in the movie business?” Galia asked.

  “The president might give Marlene a choice, but I’d suggest not giving her an undue amount of time to make it.”

  The chief of staff said, “That sounds reasonable. I’ll discuss it with the president. It would look better, of course, if Tall Wolf could help end these particular bank robberies.”

  “Yes, it would,” Jean Morrissey said.

  VIP Lounge, McCarran Airport

  After speaking with DeWitt, John was about to leave the airport when he saw Marlene Flower Moon’s face on television. The device featured a huge high definition screen. He’d read that many of the people who appeared on camera hated the advance in broadcast technology because the stunning resolution showed every flaw and blemish on their faces.

  He couldn’t find any imperfections on Marlene. She’d gone Hollywood with her hair, makeup and wardrobe. No more buttoned-down DC striver. She was casually, exotically gorgeous. The Great Spirit hadn’t stinted at all when making her.

  Then again, if she was Coyote, as John suspected, she was a supernatural being, too.

  No reason for her ever to age, wrinkle or sag.

  The only public figure John could think of who compared to her was the president, Patti Grant. Remembering that Marlene’s ambition, other than making a meal of him, was to also sit in the Oval Office, a shiver passed through John.

  Coyote as president. Marlene at the summit of power.

  The thought was truly frightening.

  As if she knew just what John was thinking, he heard her mention his name.

  “Special Agent John Tall Wolf of the Bureau of Indian Affairs is assisting other federal agencies in the pursuit of the bank robbers who are portraying themselves as Native Americans.”

  A lean woman with an intense face was interviewing Marlene. A superimposition on the screen gave her name as Ellie Booker, doing a special report for WorldWide News.

  Booker asked Marlene, “So you think the robbers are not Native Americans?”

  “I don’t know,” Marlene said. “What’s important is the idea that they might be is in any way credible. That speaks volumes about the amount of help indigenous peoples still need from Washington.”

  John thought Marlene was about to launch into a political speech and he started to move on. He stopped when Ellie Booker steered the conversation in another direction.

  “If you’re on leave from your duties at the BIA, Ms. Flower Moon, how is it you know about Special Agent Tall Wolf’s involvement in this case?”

  Marlene smiled. John saw Coyote in her eyes much more clearly now.

  “I may be on leave,” she said, “but I’m never out of touch.”

  Confirming to John that Nelda Freeland was ratting out his every move.

  And that he’d never truly escape Coyote.

  — Chapter 23 —

  I-15 Northbound, Las Vegas, Nevada

  John took a taxi from the airport to the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department on South Martin Luther King Boulevard. On the way his phone beeped. He’d received a text message from his mother.

  She said she’d finished the first color correction of the bank robbery crew.

  The only African-American, she said. John clicked on the link. The face he saw looked to be late 20s to early 30s in age. Still young and vital but with … what in his eyes? Not exactly fear, despite the fact he was in the act of committing a crime that might end in a lengthy prison sentence or death. What John thought he saw was disappointment.

  As if the guy thought his life never should have come to th
at point.

  Interesting. A bank robber who thought he deserved better.

  John texted his mother, asking her to send DeWitt a copy of the face.

  A moment later, he received his reply: Done.

  Then Mom added: Fee for my services from you?

  John wrote: Dinner for you and Dad with, and courtesy of, your devoted son?

  On impulse, he added: With someone special I’d like you to meet.

  Mom said: Wonderful.

  John took it one step farther: In New Orleans?

  Mom replied: Magnifico!

  Now, he’d have to see how Rebecca would feel about meeting his parents.

  Ellie Booker got to John before he could get to the front door of LVMPD headquarters.

  “Special Agent Tall Wolf?”

  John recognized her and said, “What gave me away?”

  Ellie smiled. “Just a lucky guess. I’m Ellie Booker, working a special —”

  “I know. I saw you on TV.”

  John saw her recalculating her estimation of him.

  “Let me ask you then,” she said, “is it true you just came from a meeting with Vice President Morrissey?”

  Wasn’t hard to connect the dots between Nelda Freeland and Ellie Booker, John thought. Marlene had dropped tidbits off-camera and pointed Ms. Booker at him. Coyote wanted to see if he could do his job while she put hurdles in his way.

  “I can’t comment on any details of an active case. I’m sure you know that, Ms. Booker.”

  She turned to the guy trailing her with the videocam and drew a line across her throat. He killed his camera and stepped back a few paces. John decided not to be misled.

  “You happen to have an audio recorder running, Ms. Booker?”

  She took one out of a pocket and turned it off. Dropped it back into the pocket.

  “If you’re trying to establish trust with me …” John let it hang there.

  She gave him a look for a count of three. Exhibited, deactivated and replaced another recorder. Gave the video guy a thumb. He went back to their car, reclined his seat and appeared to start a snooze.

  Ellie said, “I can be helpful. I’m looking into these robberies myself. I might spot something before the local cops do or I might tell you something they hold back.”

  “The assistance of concerned citizens is always welcome,” John told her.

  She gave him a cynical smile. “Yeah, I bet it is. We concerned citizens don’t mind getting a little help ourselves.”

  “Such as?”

  “The jump on a good story.”

  “Professional advantage.”

  “You bet, but only in fair trade.”

  “An example being?”

  “Don’t know if the cops will tell you this, but one difference in the robbery here? The robbers took everyone’s cell phone. These guys learn as they go. Do we have a deal?”

  John thought about it and asked, “Do you know if anyone covering this story has a last name that begins with the letter A?”

  Ellie was puzzled, but considered the question. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “In that case, any talking I do with the press might well be in alphabetical order.”

  Ellie Booker laughed. “Yeah, okay. I can live with that. If I learn anything else, how can I get in touch with you?”

  With some reluctance, wondering if this woman was really working for Marlene, John gave her his business card.

  Ellie returned the favor, handing him her card.

  LVMPD Headquarters

  Once inside the building, John was directed to the office of Captain Eric Grunwald of the Robbery/Homicide Bureau and the department’s liaison with federal law enforcement agencies. He got to his feet to shake hands with John and stood tall enough to look John in the eye. Had John not been wearing his Ray-Ban sunglasses, as usual.

  Unlike many people, Grunwald didn’t assume John was just trying to be cool.

  “Your eyes sensitive to light?” the Metro cop asked, gesturing John to a chair and taking his own.

  “They are, even high lumen bulbs or fluorescents bother me.”

  “My wife’s the same way. Lucky for me, I think she looks great in shades, and we enjoy a lot of candlelit dinners at home.

  “Make the best of any situation,” John said, “that’s the way to go.”

  Grunwald sighed. “Yeah, well, that’s exactly what those asshole bank robbers did. They had just about every first responder in town running around in circles when they hit.”

  “Distraction seems to be their thing,” John said.

  “They’re pretty good at pissing people off, too. Every cop in town would love to plug those bastards. The firefighters, I hear, would prefer to use their axes.” Grunwald took a breath. “Is the BIA here because the bad guys are Indians?”

  “They’re not, actually,” John said. He took out his phone and brought up the image his mother had sent him. Showed it to Grunwald. “That’s one of them without his makeup.”

  “He’s black. Well, sort of. He’s not really too dark. Where’d you get this?”

  John offered a concise explanation.

  Grunwald smiled. “Your mother? That’s great. She does fine work. Please tell her I said so.”

  John nodded and sent a copy of the robber’s image to Grunwald’s computer.

  He said, “You can distribute that to your patrol people. I doubt this crew is still in town but, who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  Grunwald checked to make sure his computer got a clear rendering of pixels.

  “Doesn’t look like my machine lost any definition. I’ll get this out right away.” He looked at John. “You’ve run this through NCIC, right?”

  The National Crime Information Center. The database held records of tens of thousands of criminal histories, including mug shots. There were also files on fugitives, stolen property and missing persons. The NCIC was operated by the FBI, and was available to federal, state and local law enforcement agencies. The database was accessible around the clock and every day of the year … barring computer failure.

  Even with his sunglasses on, Grunwald could see that John had just thought of something disturbing. He asked, “What is it?”

  John said, “I sent a copy of that image to a deputy director of the FBI. I assumed he’d run it through the NCIC.”

  “Sure he would. So what’s the problem?”

  “Somebody connected to these robbers is screwing with bedrock infrastructure. Here in Las Vegas and in New Orleans. What’s to say these hackers couldn’t crash the NCIC, too?”

  “Holy shit. Would that be possible? Aren’t there people guarding against that?”

  John said, “I have to think so, but are they as good as the bad guys?”

  “Let’s see.” Grunwald logged on to the NCIC. “The system’s up and responding.”

  The Metro police captain attached the image John had sent to his computer to his request for a match in the system. There didn’t appear to be any problems as the software did its search, but the result was negative. Nobody in the database matched the image of the robber.

  Both John and Grunwald thought about that and came to the same conclusion.

  The captain said, “You bring the whole system down, everyone’s gonna notice.”

  “But if you delete a handful of files and cover your tracks,” John said, “who’d ever know the difference?”

  “Damn. This is getting scary.”

  “All the more reason to catch these guys fast. Did your people collect the names and addresses of people in the bank that was robbed for me to interview?”

  “Yes, we called the FBI first, of course, but they told us you’d be flying in from Washington. Thought it was because of the Indian angle. You still going to be kept on?”

  John thought about that. “Yeah … I’m pretty sure.”

  Grunwald read between the lines. “In case somebody needs to catch the heat.”

  “Maybe. But there are people who know I do good
work, too.”

  “Glad to hear it. Anything you need besides the witness information?”

  “Have you read any of their statements?”

  The captain shook his head. “I’ve been swamped by meetings with casino security chiefs and people from the fire department regarding their false alarms.”

  “So you haven’t heard the bank robbers stole everyone’s cell phones?”

  Grunwald frowned. “No.”

  “Well, they did.”

  That led John to think there might be value in having Ellie Booker help him.

  Grunwald said, “But taking the phones is smart, after that dude in New Orleans got those shots of them.”

  John told Grunwald about the idea of a truck carting off the motorcycles.

  “That’d be slick, too,” the captain said.

  A new idea occurred to John. “If the robbers were camera shy in the bank, maybe the guy with the truck was, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Does Las Vegas have a lot of security cameras looking at your streets, the way a lot of big cities do these days?”

  “We’ve got ‘em everywhere you can imagine. Probably some places you can’t.”

  “Okay,” John said. “So let’s suppose the guy driving the truck doesn’t want to be seen picking up the motorcycles. He knows his accomplices have already had their pictures taken at the bank in New Orleans. How does he avoid the cameras?”

  Grunwald told John, “Only one way, shut down the electricity. Hell, with everything else going on today, are you saying there was a power failure, too?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” John said. “Why don’t you check with your power company? Look for something localized within a mile or so of the bank. You wouldn’t need to black out the whole town. Wouldn’t need to keep the lights off a long time either. You’d want something that started just before the general frenzy began and ended maybe a half-hour after the robbers left the bank.”

  Grunwald bobbed his head. “Say that you’re right. What we’d have to do then is go to the affected area and search for witnesses who saw a truck that was just sitting around for a while.”