by Joseph Flynn
Of course, if Tall Wolf didn’t come through with sensational tidbits, she wasn’t above indulging in a little creative journalism. It wouldn’t be the first time WorldWide News had run with something like that. As long as no media watchdog prig caught her, she’d be okay.
But she thought she could negotiate a legit quid pro quo with Tall Wolf. She’d found the three biggest Chinese gambling losers to hit Las Vegas in the past year. One, by far, had burned through more cash than the other two. Could be a real big story behind a Chinese national blowing ten million bucks in Sin City. Ellie would bet the guy had been pissed off all the way back to Beijing. Might even have had some explaining to do once he got home.
Getting the dirt had cost her a quarter of her bonus money.
The cost of doing business.
Just as going to Seattle would be part of the job.
She fished her AmEx Centurion Card out of her wallet. She wasn’t about to wait for a seat on a commercial flight. She was going to charter her own wings. Only there was no concierge on duty at the moment. He or she might only have stepped away for a whiz, but Ellie was not prepared to wait.
She turned back to Persephone at the registration desk and put her black card down.
“I need to charter a jet to Seattle as soon as possible. I’ll also need a good room in whatever Marriott up there is the equivalent to this one. Can you do that for me?”
“Of course, Ms. Booker. Won’t take long at all.”
There was still a hint of envy in the younger woman’s eyes, but she handled herself professionally. Acted like she’d seen a black card before. Didn’t plead for help landing a media job because she really wasn’t meant for the hospitality industry.
Ellie liked all that, and was impressed by how efficiently Persephone accomplished her tasks. She said, “Do you have a business card?”
Envy was replaced by suspicion, but it lasted no more than a heartbeat before a completely professional demeanor took over. For someone that young, she was really pretty good, Ellie thought. Still, there was room for one last test.
“Is there a car that might take me to the airport?” Ellie asked.
“I took the liberty of arranging a limo for you, Ms. Booker. It’s waiting with the motor running.”
Ellie smiled. “The next time you’re in Washington, DC, give me a call if you’re interested in a career change, and don’t worry. There won’t be any funny stuff involved.”
She left at a jog.
Thinking she couldn’t remember the last time she’d made such an offer.
Probably wasn’t one.
She wondered if Tall Wolf’s sly cordiality was rubbing off on her.
Henry M. Jackson Federal Building, Seattle Washington
The local FBI special agent in charge set Deputy Director DeWitt up in the largest conference room in the three floors the Bureau occupied. Sandwiches, pastries, herbal tea, orange juice and bottled water were provided for sustenance. Coffee, which had made Seattle famous, along with alt rock, had been declined by both DeWitt and Special Agent Tall Wolf.
John had spent the morning walking through the city’s downtown area from Union Street to James Street, from Western Avenue to Sixth Avenue, looking for a bank he thought might be a likely target. Problem was, he found too many possibilities. Choosing one over another would be nothing more than guesswork. No tingle of intuition made him think this was the one.
Forsaking banks as his objects of scrutiny, John turned to looking for trucks. He knew what Lamar Dekker’s semi-trailer looked like and had the plate numbers. Maybe the guy was parked nearby, waiting to pick up a bundle of stolen money and eight motorcycles. But he couldn’t find the truck either.
Shortly before he would have chucked both efforts as pointless, DeWitt called.
“You hungry?”
“Now that you mention it, yeah.”
“I’ve had some food sent in, and I’ve heard from Washington. Come on in.”
“Right.”
Now, the two feds sat across a conference table from one another.
John faced the near door to the room. A stack of federal arrest warrants rested on the table between them. John looked at the notes he’d made on his laptop about the two previous bank robberies. He had the feeling he was overlooking something important.
DeWitt glanced at his watch and said, “Ten minutes, then we grab these guys.”
FBI Director Jeremiah Haskins had suggested it would be a good idea to take custody of the bank robbers while they were still breathing. Haskins didn’t say so, and DeWitt didn’t ask, but the undercurrent suggested that the idea of bringing the bad guys in alive was also shared by the vice president. Hearing the news, John had asked what the attorney general thought. Would one of his prosecutors be able to make the case?
DeWitt said, “I think that question is best left to those far above our pay grades.”
What the deputy director did say was he’d been able to find the Tacoma motel where the San Bernadino Serranos were staying.
Hearing that was what had made John feel he was missing something.
He also told DeWitt another interested party would be heard from soon.
“Who?”
“Marlene Flower Moon.”
“How would she even know about any of this?”
“She’s Coyote,” John explained
DeWitt knew of the myth, and John connected it to the circumstances of his birth.
“Interesting,” the deputy director said. He was a firm believer that not everything in the world could not be explained empirically. “We’ve got people watching the Serranos so another half-hour shouldn’t hurt, if you want to wait for Ms. Flower Moon.”
John used the time to review his notes.
DeWitt felt the need to ask again, “You’re certain she’s going to come?”
“I am.”
“How can you be sure?”
“You keep tabs on the people who work for you?”
“Generally, but you’ve been very open and sharing.”
“Not me. Your FBI minions.”
“I allow more flexibility than most managers, but I stay on top of things.”
“Who’s your contact person with Nelda Freeland,” John asked.
“Special Agent Christopher Panopoulos.”
“Young or old? Well, that doesn’t matter. Gay or straight?”
DeWitt said, “Young and straight, as far as I know.”
John told him, “My money says Nelda has him eating out of her hand. Not that she’d be obvious about it. But what’s the big deal? The two of them are both federal officers. And Nelda’s higher up the ladder. And beautiful. And at least feigning an interest. You see where I’m heading?”
“I do. I should have seen it sooner,” DeWitt said.
“Not a big deal. Neither of us has done anything wrong. But every word Nelda has heard from your man has been passed along to Marlene.”
“I haven’t told Chris about the vice president’s interest in you.”
“That’s good.”
DeWitt laughed. “You don’t think you’re feeling maybe just a bit paranoid?”
“It’s not about me, not primarily. Marlene has grand ambitions and she wants to make sure some of the credit for cracking this case will go to her.”
“How can that be? What has she contributed?”
“It’s what she will contribute.”
“You’ll have to explain that one to me.”
“If we go out and arrest the robbers in the next few minutes, we’ll have them, but they won’t be able to confirm that they’re working for the Chinese. At the very least, we’ll have to catch Lamar Dekker for that. Maybe even that wouldn’t be enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe there’s another cutout between Dekker and the big bad guys.”
DeWitt saw it now. “Maybe someone Dekker met during his time in Taiwan.”
“Yeah, like that.” John smiled. A light just went on in his hea
d.
“You just thought of something,” DeWitt said. “What is it?”
John held up a hand and went back to check his notes. He nodded to himself.
“The robberies in New Orleans and Las Vegas? They happened the afternoon before the Serranos played a night game … the night before the team left town.”
DeWitt said, “That’s some nerve, robbing a bank and then going out to play baseball in front of thousands of people.”
“Smart, too. Who would expose themselves like that other than innocent men? The next morning they get up early and catch their flight to the next town on their schedule, just like any good businessmen would do.”
“I think I see where you’re going here,” the deputy director said. “The Serranos play a game tonight and another tomorrow. So tomorrow is when they’ll hit the bank.”
John said, “That gives us a day to work with. If we grab the robbers now, and Dekker expects to hear from them but doesn’t, we might have a hard time finding him.”
“That could be a problem. But a bigger one is we don’t know who the killers are, the people hired to kill the Serranos.”
John lapsed into silent thought. It looked to DeWitt like he might be closing in on something good. The deputy director stayed quiet, not wanting to cause a distraction. After a long moment, John raised his right hand as if reaching for a tangible object.
He twisted his wrist and formed a fist. He had what he wanted.
“Maybe we do know who the would-be killers are,” John said. “The Serrano baseball players aren’t true Native Americans, but who was it that claimed credit for the bank robbery in New Orleans?”
DeWitt knew whom John meant. It took him just a second to come up with the name.
“Red Nation Rising.”
John nodded and said, “What could be smarter than to hire hit men who are real Indians?”
The door to the conference room opened and Marlene Flower Moon entered.
As if she’d been listening to every word that had been said, she asked John, “How many times do I have to tell you, Tall Wolf, that the politically correct expression is Native Americans?”
With a smile both beguiling and chilling, she turned to look at DeWitt and say, “My movie just wrapped.”
Displaying an aplomb that made John want to applaud, the deputy director replied, “Hooray for Hollywood.”
Rain Shadow Meats, Pioneer Square
The place was a butcher shop that featured locally sourced meats. It had high ceilings and brick walls. Then taking things one step farther, it had an open kitchen and dining tables up front. Craft beers, wine and soft drinks were available. The three feds went out to eat and talk because Marlene was hungry.
She had the Zuni sandwich, thin slices of roasted pork shoulder and arugula on toasted sourdough, and a glass of red wine. John and DeWitt had fed themselves earlier on far less artisanal fare. The deputy director allowed himself a Northcoast Scrimshaw Pilsner; John made do with a bottle of San Pellegrino mineral water.
Marlene told DeWitt, “Tall Wolf doesn’t drink alcohol.”
“I watch my consumption,” he said. “Usually look at beer as one more course in a meal.”
“He won’t open any email I send him.”
“Have to be careful about spyware,” DeWitt said with a nod.
John told the deputy director, “I’d recommend you do the same, if she sends something your way.”
He didn’t let himself be bothered by the glare Marlene directed at him.
“Noted,” DeWitt said.
“If I’m not wanted here,” Marlene said, looking at both men, “I’ll go. I thought I might be of help.”
John looked at her. “You go, you won’t get any credit. I’ll find out what I want to know. Might take me a little longer, but I’ll get it.”
Marlene amped up her glower, but took a folder out of her large handbag and tossed it on the table in front of John. He lifted the cover and glanced at the contents.
“This list is arranged in most likely to least likely order?” he asked.
She nodded. John passed the folder to DeWitt and said, “If I’m right about the Chinese hiring Native American killers to do their dirty work, these are the people we want to watch for.”
Marlene, sly as the Trickster that John thought she was, had figured things out, too.
DeWitt studied the names and photos in the file and then looked at both of his companions.
“These people are white and two of the top three are female.”
“Makes sense,” John said. “Women can get closer to athletes more easily than men, and my guess is that all of the people on the list are either 1/32 or 1/64 Native American. They get away with the hit, they’re Red Nation Rising; they get caught, they’re white people.”
“White racist people,” Marlene elaborated.
“Huh,” DeWitt said.
Marlene told him, “Do you know Tall Wolf refuses to work on reservations?”
The deputy director shrugged and said, “I try to stay out of New Jersey.”
— Chapter 31 —
Marriott Waterfront Hotel, Seattle, Washington
John had made his reservation at the hotel on his flight north; law enforcement personnel comprised one of two classes of passengers allowed to use a cell phone in flight. The other was flight crews. The Seattle hotel didn’t have a casino as a profit center and the room rates were higher than his BIA per diem, even with the discount given to federal employees.
In such cases, John made up the difference out of pocket. At his height, he’d lose a night’s sleep if he went for lodgings with a bed that left his feet hanging over the edge. He didn’t mind the expense. For the most part, he lived modestly and had recently saved enough money to buy a third share of Berkshire Hathaway, BRK.A, $173,389 per share that day, up $904 from the last time he checked. Warren Buffett appeared to be in good health and continued to work hard to increase John’s minor wealth.
When he checked in that evening — the arrests of the Serranos having been postponed as discussions between the FBI and the vice president regarding the best way to bring matters to a conclusion went on — the desk clerk gave him a verbal message.
“You’ve been invited to dinner at The Hook and Plow.”
Taking a guess, John said, “The hotel restaurant?
“Yes.”
“By whom?” John wondered if Marlene had some trick in mind.
Washington might change its plans, but Marlene, DeWitt and John had left things with the idea that FBI personnel would watch the ballplayers until tomorrow morning. Make sure they didn’t attempt any thievery that night, and protect them from Chinese and/or Indian assassins. Move in fast if skulduggery or mortality looked imminent.
The desk clerk told John, “Ms. Ellie Booker extended the invitation. She’s currently a guest of the hotel.”
John met Ellie in the restaurant. The hostess led them to a quiet table with room to carry on a confidential conversation. John had no doubt Ellie had selected the table personally. Probably tipped the hostess to keep other diners away for as long as possible. Well, John thought, she undoubtedly had a bigger expense account than he did.
She handed him a sheaf of stapled papers from what looked like a courier’s bag.
“The information you wanted about Chinese visitors to Vegas incurring big gambling losses.”
John smiled at her and said, “Thanks.”
He read every word she provided, but he might have stopped after reading the first profile in bad judgment. The name Cheng Zou flew right off the page at him. The Chinese doctoral candidate at Penn. The scholar whose research included a study of Carl Gugasian’s bank robbing techniques.
The amount of money Cheng had dropped was impressive.
“Ten million dollars,” John said, “that had to sting.”
“Maybe not too much. What I was told, he dropped another quarter-mill in tips on his way out the hotel door.”
“Saving face?” John
asked.
“Maybe. That or it’s small change to the guy. I spent a bit of money myself before I left Vegas and heard from one person who might have it right that Mr. Cheng is a billionaire.”
John said, “He still had to look like a putz losing that much. His ego got egged.”
Ellie laughed. “Putz, huh? Didn’t know that was an old Indian word.”
“Native American,” John said.
“Yeah. As long as I was looking into people, I took a quick run past your public reputation. You’re not the politically correct type.”
“That’s true. So did you make out monetarily for the scoop I promised you? Get a nice bonus?”
Ellie was usually reticent about things like that.
A typical newsie, she loved to snoop but was fiercely protective about her privacy.
But she told John, “Yes, I did.”
“Might have something more for you, if you’d care to do some more digging.”
Ellie nodded. She was interested.
“Lamar Dekker,” John said, and explained Dekker almost certainly was the robbers’ outside man, driving the truck that made off with the stolen cash and the gang’s motorcycles. “Dekker also played professional baseball in Taiwan, made business connections there.”
“You want to know if I can find any connection between Dekker and Mr. Cheng,” Ellie said.
“You’re a smart lady. The connection might be that Dekker and Cheng had occasion to gamble in the same casinos in Las Vegas or, say, Macau. Maybe Cheng covered some of Dekker’s losses. Could be one way to start a beautiful relationship.”
Ellie sensed a great story in the offing, but it was her nature to be suspicious.
“How come you’re not doing this legwork yourself?”
John said, “Hey, if the Pentagon can use private contractors, why can’t the BIA?”
Ellie didn’t buy that, but she didn’t object.