The Echo of the Whip

by Joseph Flynn

  “Busby?” she said to be sure. “¿Dónde está?” Where is he?

  “Tyler Busby. He lives with his wife and their baby in the big house on the right hand corner of the next block. You see it?”

  Silvina looked and nodded.

  “Do you know any police officers?” Mallory asked.

  “Oh, yes. The husband of my sister.”

  “Is he is up to handling something like this?”

  Silvina made a show of thinking before shaking her head. “I do not think so, but his brother is. He is …” She searched for the word. Then she smiled, “The detective, yes?”

  She wanted to see how Mallory reacted to that and was pleased by the result.

  Apprehension flashed in his eyes. The involvement of an investigator was more than he’d counted on. Still, he tried to cover his discomfort with a smile.

  “That’s great. So he’ll do it?”

  “Oh, yes, I am sure.”

  “Great. Well, don’t waste any time, and please don’t mention me to anyone.”

  Silvina smiled innocently. “As you prefer, Señor.”

  Los Angeles, California

  Upon returning to his hotel the prior evening, John Tall Wolf had been presented with a message from Jim McGill. The note was prompted by events on the far coast. It made Tall Wolf wonder what was going on. He was almost tempted to call Marlene Flower Moon to see what she might know. Almost.

  McGill said: Had to hurry back to Washington. Client has located missing property. Sorry to leave you behind. Fly to destination of your choice first class; McGill Investigations will reimburse. If you want to remain in L.A. a day or two, please use my suite on my tab. JMcG.

  Tall Wolf had to admire the man’s style. He’d accepted McGill’s invitation and moved into his suite, intending to stay just the one night. He didn’t want to spoil himself. Not that he was so worried about debasing his character that he declined to have room service send up a hearty breakfast.

  Despite the plush surroundings and creature comforts, though, he felt less than satisfied with the outcome of the case. Having the bad guy tell you where he’d stashed the stolen goods preempted the satisfaction of finding them yourself. Also, you couldn’t count on that happening more than once in a lifetime. So it was best to work things out on your own.

  He decided to go see Mira Kersten and get her take on things.

  After all, the bad guy was still out there awaiting capture. You didn’t get to commit a crime and then say, “Oops, sorry. All better now.” Far preferable, the thief should reflect on his moral shortcomings while doing a substantial stretch of prison time.

  Tall Wolf hoped he wouldn’t have to explain his reasoning to Mira.

  Some people, after an unpleasant experience, just didn’t want to be bothered any further.

  Mira Kersten, it turned out, wasn’t one of them. She opened the door to her home with anger burning brightly in her eyes. She asked Tall Wolf immediately, “You know what that sonofabitch did?”

  “You have any particular SOB in mind?” Tall Wolf inquired.

  The response brought Mira up short. Made her stop and think. She walked away from Tall Wolf but left the door open. He took that as an invitation to come on in. He followed her into the living room. She plopped down on the sofa, still lost in thought.

  When she looked up and realized Tall Wolf was still with her, she said, “It could be either of them, I suppose, that freaking thief or my bastard ex, Ed Whelan.”

  “If you’re speaking of your embryos,” Tall Wolf said, “I thought they were returned. Or at least you know where they are.”

  “I know where they are, all right, except for the one I want the most.”

  “The embryos are still on ice and you already have a favorite future child?” Tall Wolf asked.

  Mira looked at him as if she were about to snap out a rebuke, but she took a moment to consider the question and had the honesty to bob her head. “Sounds harsh, doesn’t it?”

  “Leaves room for criticism,” Tall Wolf said. “Might even be the topic of some future nursery rhyme. Something dark and full of snark.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, well, unless Shel Silverstein comes back from the dead, I won’t worry about that.”

  Tall Wolf grinned and took a seat without asking first.

  “How’d you find out an embryo was missing?” he asked.

  “The new place where I’m keeping them is meticulous. I told them how many I thought I was entrusting to them. They did a count, called me and said I was off by one.”

  Tall Wolf only nodded.

  “You’re not going to ask me who the father is?” she said.

  “My guess: the same fellow whose seed you’re bearing right now.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s pretty logical.”

  Tall Wolf let a second moment of silence go by.

  Mira read between the unspoken lines; she was no dumb bunny.

  She told Tall Wolf, “You not only know who the father of my preferred child is, you know the hunt is still on. I want you to find that particular embryo. You and Mr. McGill. His friend, Ms. Sweeney, too. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, if that’s what it takes. Well, damnit, now you’ve got me talking in nursery rhymes.”

  “They’re infectious,” Tall Wolf said, “but Mr. McGill is likely to be busy in the coming days. I can’t speak for Ms. Sweeney but —”

  “But we didn’t part on the best of terms whether she has the time or not. She wanted me to call the cops while she had a gun on the thief. I said no.”

  The grimace on Mira’s face told Tall Wolf there was no need for her guest to criticize the decision. “What about you?” she asked. “Will you find the embryo for me?”

  “I’m an employee of the federal government. Somewhat highly placed, too. My presence is an unofficial favor to Mr. McGill.”

  “Well, hell.”

  Never much of a weeper, Mira nonetheless looked as if she might cry.

  “Lucky for you,” Tall Wolf added, “I don’t like to leave jobs unfinished.”

  “You’ll keep going?”

  “I want to find the original thief. If your ex-husband has a hand in the matter, too, he should be easier to locate. Can you describe the thief for me?”

  “I can do better than that.” Mira took out her phone and pulled up a photo. “That’s a picture of a composite Ms. Sweeney made with her iPad. It’s a very good likeness.”

  Tall Wolf gave her the number of his phone and she emailed the photo to him.

  “Now, I want to ask you a question,” Tall Wolf said.

  “What?”

  “Do you know if your ex-husband is writing a book?”

  “Ed? He’s all about secrecy, not …” A newly arrived thought silenced her.

  “But?” Tall Wolf asked.

  “He’s shaved his head, and I saw him drive off in some fancy new sports car.”

  Tall Wolf raised an eyebrow. “Your ex came to see you?”

  She nodded. “He still thought I had his masterpiece. He gave me the name of the same clinic the thief did. The place where I found my embryos. Ed was pleading that he’d only wanted a swap all along. I told him I really didn’t take the damn thing.”

  Tall Wolf sat back, crossed his left ankle over his right knee and smiled.

  “What?” Mira asked. “You’ve got something?”

  Tall Wolf nodded. “Maybe you’ve just been away from Washington too long or you’d probably see it, too.”

  Given that hint, Mira made the leap. “Ed’s going to publish his thesis commercially? That’s crazy. He’s been wrong as often as he’s been right. His schemes have backfired as many times as they’ve succeeded. He’d look foolish.”

  Tall Wolf said, “Publishing houses still employ editors, don’t they?”

  Mira nodded and then smiled. “Some of them do, I think, but knowing Ed and assuming you’re right, editing wouldn’t even be necessary. He’d cut out all the embarrassing miscalculations and failed scheme
s before he ever submitted the manuscript.”

  “There you go,” Tall Wolf said. “He’s packaging himself for success.”

  She thought about that and nodded. “I can see it. The audience for his book, movement conservatives, will lap it up like free booze. It would sell like sheet music to a church choir. He’d make a bundle. On top of that, it’d be a gigantic ego stroke for Ed. He’d probably be able to get the funding to set up his own think tank and have a solid-gold sinecure for the rest of his life.”

  “Explaining why he had to come at you so hard when he thought you stole his original manuscript. It would reveal all his warts,” Tall Wolf said.

  Mira nodded. “I told him who I think really took the damn thing.”

  “Who’s that?”

  She told him. “That’s another guy who’d be really embarrassed if the first edition of Ed Whelan’s big book of political bullshit ever gained wide attention.” She told Tall Wolf why it would ruin that SOB’s reputation.

  He agreed with Mira’s thinking.

  “There’s one more thing you should know,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I told Ed that the thief was looking for him, and he was so scared he almost wet himself. I thought Ed might have stiffed the guy on his fee for grabbing the embryos. He was always a cheap bastard. But thinking about it a bit more, it could be something other than an overdue bill that has him in a sweat.”

  “You have any idea what that might be?”

  Mira shook her head. “Not specifically, but it has to be one of three things, doesn’t it? Ed is in fear he might lose his job, his reputation or his precious pink heinie.”

  “Mortal jeopardy?” Tall Wolf asked.

  “Ed was pretty damn scared. I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  Tall Wolf got to his feet. “Okay, thanks.

  Mira said, “So, if you catch the thief …”

  “If he has the embryo and it’s viable, I’ll see that it’s safely returned.”

  “Thank you.” She took a beat before asking, “You think in my own way I’m just as terrible as Ed, don’t you?”

  He shrugged. “I try not to judge. When I can help it.”

  “What would you do? You know, if you had, say, two embryos available to you that came from different women. Wouldn’t there be something that would make you choose one over the other?”

  Tall Wolf said, “I’m all for advances in medical science, but I’d try to use it only to simplify my life not complicate it.”

  John Tall Wolf went back to his hotel, got his bag and checked out. He was about to leave for LAX and catch a commercial flight to Washington when he had another idea. He called Jeremy Macklin on the Northern Apache reservation in New Mexico. Before he could do more than say hello Macklin jumped all over him.

  “You know what your cousin wants me to do?” the online scandal sheet reporter asked.

  “Become the dean of the school of communications at his new university?”

  A long pause ensued before Macklin said, “Is this some kind of conspiracy the two of you have cooked up?”

  “It is,” Tall Wolf admitted. “We’re plotting to make life better for as many underserved kids as we can. Sometimes innocent people like you just get roped in by circumstance.”

  “Is this for real? Arnoldo Black Knife is going to pour a ton of energy-income money into starting a big-time university on an Indian reservation in New Mexico?”

  “I mentioned to him that was what John D. Rockefeller did with the University of Chicago. Things are only at the discussion stage right now, but the fact that he’s mentioned it to you and apparently asked if you’d like to play a role —”

  “Exactly the one you mentioned.”

  “Sounds appropriate to me,” Tall Wolf said. “Arnoldo must be moving forward.”

  “We didn’t get around to talking about his schedule, but would the school be just for Native American kids?”

  “Maybe at first, but it will probably evolve into something like Berea College in Kentucky. You know, a diverse student body with no tuition for anyone who’s admitted. Given that family income falls beneath a certain ceiling.”

  After a shorter pause, Macklin said, “You know, that sounds pretty damn cool.”

  “Yeah, I think so, too, and if you worked on a school-year schedule, that’d leave you a fair amount of free time every summer to get back to the beach in Santa Monica.”

  “Ha! That sounds great.”

  They left plans for a brighter future right there. Tall Wolf asked if Macklin knew of any show biz moguls who might be heading back east that day in a company plane and wouldn’t mind a humble public servant bumming a ride. Macklin took a moment to check his sources, make some calls and then offered Tall Wolf a choice of three flights.

  He took the one heading directly to DC. First class commercial air travel was all well and good, but for endless leg-room you couldn’t beat an executive jet. All Tall Wolf had to do to earn his cushy ride was tell the producer who owned the aircraft a little bit about the investigations he did for the BIA, and listen to the guy suggest that maybe he could develop a pay-cable TV series based on Tall Wolf’s exploits.

  By the time they landed in Washington, Tall Wolf had to be honest with himself.

  Maybe he was getting a little spoiled.

  Great Falls, Virginia

  Everyone was spoiled at Bright Wing Country Club where House Speaker Peter Profitt and House Whip Carter Coleman met with T.W. Rangel. As a place where three wealthy old white guys could blend in with the early-bird dinner crowd, though, it couldn’t be beat. Still, just about all the members recognized Profitt and Coleman. They were on the golf course there more often than they were on the floor of the House. They were well known as being among the players most likely to take a mulligan.

  Far fewer knew Rangel. He didn’t play golf and consciously avoided media exposure. But in demeanor and dress he might have been the chairman of the membership committee. The three men convened in a private dining room. They all had the filet mignon, well done. At Rangel’s insistence, they abstained from alcohol until their business was concluded.

  Rangel had also been the one to suggest using the country club. “What with the upcoming trial of the president in the Senate, certain media outlets might have assigned stringers to follow your movements,” he told the congressmen, “and report on anything curious you do.”

  The two politicians said they were outraged by the very thought that they might be tailed like members of organized crime.

  “Remember what Mark Twain had to say about that,” Rangel told them. “‘There is no distinctly native American criminal class except Congress.’” He added, “Also recall with whom we are dealing.”

  “Galia Mindel,” they said in unison.

  “Exactly. If you don’t think she has minions among the media, you should retire now.”

  Profitt said, “She’s exactly why we’re here, T.W. Someone got to Joan Renshaw at Walter Reed.”

  “What do you mean?” Rangel asked.

  Coleman told him about the flowers and card delivered to Renshaw’s room.

  Rangel understood that the speaker or his whip must have come by their information from a paid insider on staff at the hospital. He didn’t ask for confirmation on that point. It would have been both rude and a rookie mistake. He wouldn’t want to admit to — or lie to — a federal prosecutor that he knew Profitt and Coleman had suborned someone at Walter Reed.

  Still, he was curious about one thing: “What did the card say?”

  Coleman told him verbatim. “The truth may or may not set you free, but a lie will guarantee you a very bad time.”

  Rangel took a moment to think. “Plainly but artfully said. No beneficial promise is made, and if punishment should occur it would be the result of Ms. Renshaw’s own moral failure, not the work of some outside party. I’m not a lawyer, but I can imagine that’s how one might defend the author of that note. I don’t suppose the floral delive
ry person was caught.”

  “No,” Profitt said.

  “And now you gentlemen are worried that Ms. Renshaw might withdraw her statement implicating the president as being responsible for Erna Godfrey’s death.”

  The speaker nodded. “That’s not all.” He turned to the whip. “Why don’t you deliver this bit of bad news, Carter, in case Mr. Rangel didn’t have his TV on this morning.”

  Rangel summoned a small, dusty laugh. Watch television on a Saturday morning? Him? That was the funniest thing he’d heard in years.

  Coleman told him about Chief Justice MacLaren’s announcement that he would comment on the way the trial of the president by the Senate would compare to the norms of a typical federal courtroom.

  The whip added, “If we do one little thing that looks partisan, that California bleeding heart is going to come down on us like a high plains hailstorm. Majority Leader Worth and the speaker and I have been trying to think how we can stop MacLaren from criticizing us but the best we can come up with is to accuse him of playing favorites, if he speaks up.”

  Rangel shook his head. “That will only reinforce the partisan divide between the right and the left. The muddled middle will go with whomever they respect more, the chief justice of the United States or Congress.”

  Profitt said, “Yeah, well, we can guess what the betting line on that one would be. Voters in the middle of the political spectrum hate the high court maybe half the time, but they hate us all the time. So what do we do, T.W.?”

  “You call Ms. Renshaw to testify. If she repeats her statement that the president used her to kill Erna Godfrey, that’s your best case. You vote to convict. If Ms. Renshaw comes before the Senate and denies that she ever made such a statement, you bring in your investigator to testify, the woman who took Ms. Renshaw’s statement affirming that the president is guilty as charged. Please tell me your agent recorded Ms. Renshaw’s accusation.”

  The two congressmen nodded.

  “She did,” Profitt said.

  “Thank God for small favors. Try not to lose the recording before it might need to be used. Even with it in hand, though, the other side will say it merely documents a lie.”