by Joseph Flynn
The first was: How would it play among the District’s increasingly gentrifying, and white, voters to have two strong black women occupying the top positions in city government? The second question was: Could Arlene and Rockelle co-exist in a way that would be productive and make both of them look good?
Neither question had been answered so far.
The thought that the mayor might just wait Rockelle out until she lost patience and said, “Screw this,” had occurred to the captain. But she hadn’t reached that point yet. She’d have liked to hash out her situation with Detectives Meeker and Beemer, but they were both out of the office, using up the last of their accrued vacation time before moving on to open their own detective agency.
If things turned out the wrong way for Rockelle with the Metro PD, she thought she’d ask if she could buy a one-third interest in Meeker and Beemer’s new company.
In the meantime, she answered her office phone.
Good news or bad, the sooner she knew what her future held, the better.
It wasn’t Arlene, though. It was John Tall Wolf, the fed from the BIA.
She’d met him at James J. McGill’s new company headquarters last year.
Trying to be polite, but still sounding terse, she asked, “Something I can do for you, Mr. Director?”
“I just made an arrest, Captain, but if this is a bad time, I can call the FBI.”
Damn, Rockelle thought, had she been that obvious?
“The time isn’t great, to be honest,” she said, “but I haven’t gone home yet. So how can I help with your arrest?”
“Well, at first glance it was a street crime and…”
Rockelle heard a shout of protest in the background, followed by a noise that sounded like someone getting slapped good and hard.
“What was that?” she asked.
John said, “My great-grandfather quieting the attacker.”
“Your great-grandfather?”
“Yeah, he might be a hundred for all I know. He says he lost count a long time ago.”
Rockelle laughed. The unexpected moment of levity felt good.
“You know, I just might like to see someone like that. Still, an attack on a federal officer is a federal crime. The FBI would be the ones to handle that.”
“We’re not sure if it was me or my great-grandfather the guy was after.”
Rockelle said, “All right then, I’ll be right over. Where are you?”
John gave her the address.
“Tell grandpa not to get too rough with the perp,” Rockelle said.
“Right. He just got out of prison himself.”
Rockelle laughed again. “Damn, I’ll use my lights and siren.”
Florida Avenue — Washington, DC
Barbara Lipman, displeased that her practice had been interrupted, opened a window and looked out at the sidewalk below. In a peevish tone, she said, “What is going on down there? If this uproar doesn’t stop immediately —”
John said, “It’s alright, Ms. Lipman. It’s me, John, your downstairs neighbor. I had to make an arrest. I’ve called the police. They should be here shortly.”
“Who is that with you, Mr. Tall Wolf?”
“My great-grandfather and the man we arrested.”
Alan White River waved to her and smiled.
Barbara Lipman said, “Well … good work, gentlemen, but please proceed quietly, if possible. I need to get back to my cello.”
“Yes, ma’am,” John said.
She withdrew her head and lowered the window.
White River addressed the bruised, sullen and handcuffed man he and John held between them. “You heard what the lady said.”
To John, he added, “A vision of loveliness, your upstairs neighbor.”
John didn’t comment on that.
He called Captain Bullard back, asked her to cancel the lights and siren.
Omaha, Nebraska
Brice Benard sat behind his desk, alone in the four stories of offices his real estate development company occupied in the commercial high-rise building on Farnam Street in downtown Omaha. Warren Buffett’s Berkshire Hathaway headquarters was a ten-minute drive up the street, but to Benard it was more important that the best Chicago-style deep-dish pizza place in town was only a five-minute walk away.
Benard’s most recent personal balance sheet showed he’d become a billionaire in the past quarter, not just in terms of his aggregated real estate holdings, but in cold cash, negotiable instruments, precious metals and jewels. Sure, the buildings he either owned outright, in which he held a partnership position or held an option to buy added more billions to his asset ledger, but you couldn’t spend real estate.
You could sell it, of course, but the whims of the market or nature, say tornadoes or floods, could decide what you’d pocket for the property. You also had to work things out with buyers, lawyers, bankers and accountants. It was normally a lengthy production, to say the least. The net value of each transaction was basically an educated guess.
To Benard, money meant cash or some other form of exchange that you could spend at will in a moment of your choosing. All right, the market value of gold and gems fluctuated but you could say the same thing about one nation’s currency relative to that of another country. In any case, there were always people who would take money, gold and jewels in return for something you wanted to buy.
That was the important thing.
What was equally significant to Benard was how much fun you had earning your loot.
He knew he’d never come anywhere near matching the fortunes of Warren Buffett or Bill Gates, but he felt certain he’d had more fun getting rich, at least from his point of view, than they’d had making their billions. Picking the right stocks or writing software that ran on half of the computers in the world, where was the joy in that?
Sure, both of those things must have been a blast at first. Making the breakthroughs, kicking ass, establishing dominant positions. After that, though, it was just adding to the tally sheet. You might as well be someone in a counting house wearing a green eyeshade.
The joy in making big money, Benard felt, lay in out-thinking, out-hustling and when necessary out-fighting the other guy. Then you got victory money, and there was no sweeter kind. You grabbed pleasure with both hands, while all the other guy got was a swift kick in the ass.
Benard had read not too long ago that Michael Jordan had become a billionaire. The man had done that on the strength of a pro basketball career in which he’d broken other teams’ will and hearts on his way to six championships. Jordan had leveraged those victories to gain endorsement deals like nobody else had ever done before him.
Then Jordan had gotten too old to win any more rings. Benard didn’t know the man, but he’d bet that still stung Jordan. In Benard’s line of work, he could be at the top of his game for another 20-30 years, at least. When the time came that he finally slowed down, maybe he’d be so old he wouldn’t give a shit any more.
If he did still care, maybe he’d build himself a pyramid right in the middle of town. Seal himself inside with all his treasure, after telling the world a curse would befall anyone who tried to break in. Some dumbasses would make attempts, of course. That always happened. So he’d have to set up some really sneaky booby-traps.
Have a good laugh at someone else’s expense even after he was dead.
He looked at the Apple MacBook resting on his desk.
It didn’t make him laugh, but it gave him a lot of satisfaction.
The information on the machine might make him far richer than he already was. Let Buffett and Gates know he was at least heading in their direction. Even better than that, it might let him know the satisfaction of participating in a fine old American tradition.
Stealing something valuable from Indians.
Florida Avenue — Washington, DC
The guy who had tried to attack John, or possibly his great-grandfather, wasn’t talking. That made it impossible, for the moment, to determine whethe
r his charge of attempted battery should be handled by federal or local authorities. He was now confined in the back of Rockelle’s police car.
John got FBI Deputy Director Abra Benjamin on the phone, explained the situation and let Captain Rockelle Bullard take the conversation from there.
Benjamin told Rockelle, “I’ll take him if you want or you can have him. Your call.”
The captain knew that Benjamin’s deference wasn’t due to respect for the MPD.
It was Tall Wolf or someone close to him who had the clout here.
“You wouldn’t mind taking him?” Rockelle asked.
“I can do that, but I’ll kick the guy back to you if he was after the old man.”
“Of course, but if he was targeting Director Tall Wolf —”
“Then I’ll keep him.”
“Sure, that might turn out to be a big case.”
The deputy director came clean. “President Morrissey has her eye on Tall Wolf. So, yeah, it wouldn’t hurt my career one bit to find out what’s happening here and bring the hammer down, if that’s what’s needed.”
Rockelle wondered if Abra Benjamin’s ambition would stop at becoming the first female director of the FBI or the third female president. In either case, she couldn’t blame a woman for being ambitious.
She said, “Okay, I’ve got the guy in the back of my car. Your people can come get him.” She gave Benjamin her location.
“Thank you, Captain. I’ll be sure to mention your assistance in my report.”
“Appreciate it.” It never hurt to get a pat on the back from the FBI.
The mope Tall Wolf had busted was cuffed to a restraining beam. Rockelle went over to take a look, make sure he hadn’t tried to chew through his shackles or kick out a window. The guy’s face was gashed and bruised from kissing the concrete but he wasn’t bleeding on her car’s upholstery or trying to make an escape.
Rockelle pivoted and saw John was alone now. She returned his phone.
“The old guy make his getaway?” she asked.
“Said he was getting tired. He went upstairs.”
John could only hope White River hadn’t bothered Ms. Lipman.
Asked her for an autograph or even a date.
Rockelle said, “So what was great-grandpa doing in prison? Please don’t tell me, though, that he killed somebody.”
John shook his head and explained.
Rockelle smiled. “That was him, the master train thief? I am impressed. But you’re sure the two of you are related?”
John nodded. “We did the DNA test. So how are things with you, Captain?”
Rockelle clamped her jaw for a moment and then she told him her whole story. Either she became the town’s top cop, and soon, or she was going to pull the pin and see if she could work in the private sector with a couple of her detectives.
John thought for a moment and said, “How’d you like to help me with a case before you move on in either direction? It’s another of those hybrid situations with both local and federal dimensions.”
“We don’t have to tell the FBI about my participation?”
“No, I’m covering the federal side.”
He told her about the robbery at Dr. Lisle’s lab.
Rockelle immediately saw a possible connection.
She looked at the chump in the back of her car and then back at John.
“That guy has to be involved somehow. Even armed robbers don’t pick on a guy your size as their first choice, and that dummy didn’t even have a gun.”
“Yeah, that’s my thought, too. But once he refused to talk to me, I thought the Metro Police or the FBI would do a better job of getting him to open up than I would.”
“Possibly,” Rockelle said. “You know what, I will help you. Go out on a high note, if that’s how things turn out.”
A car with two FBI special agents pulled up behind Rockelle’s ride.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” John said.
“Yeah, do that.”
She turned and went to help make the prisoner transfer.
John went inside, hoping again that Great-grandfather had gone straight to his apartment. He’d also be pleased if White River had taken the guest bedroom as John had instructed, and hadn’t seized John’s room for himself.
He was pleased that both his wishes had been granted. Ms. Lipman was still playing, Beethoven’s Cello Sonata #3, if he had that right, giving the impression she hadn’t been intruded upon, and White River was sleeping peacefully on the carpeted floor of the guest bedroom. He had a blanket wrapped tightly around him and a pillow beneath his head.
John glanced at the double bed the old man had eschewed. He saw it was more than wide enough for the old Indian but not nearly long enough. So White River had accepted the cards he’d been dealt and had played his hand as best he could. Now, he was sleeping like a baby.
Looking at him, an interesting thought occurred to John.
The President wanted another Native American as Secretary of the Interior?
How about Alan White River?
Chapter 2
Tuesday, January 24, 2017
Cree Indian Reserve — Alberta, Canada
Bodaway’s most terrifying and frequently recurring nightmare visited him yet again in the depths of the Canadian winter’s night. The images in his mind were so bone-chilling that he often woke up screaming. Other times his vocal cords were paralyzed by panic. The cabin he’d been given was a good half-mile from his nearest neighbor. Except for a narrow footpath, a dense forest of spruce and lodgepole pines also separated him from the other inhabitants of the reserve.
The distance and the profusion of trees shielded the others from the sounds of Bodaway’s night terrors. That calculation must have occurred to Coyote when she chose his place of confinement. Had the Cree been able to hear his shrieks of panic, they might have fled their land. That or, more likely, killed him and disposed of his body on an enemy’s property.
On that late January night his nightmare was so realistic Bodaway could hear his heart thunder as if it were seeking to burst free of his chest. Worse still, Bodaway felt Coyote’s dagger- teeth seize his throat. The pain was as real as when it had first happened.
The stink of the beast’s rank breath filled his nose. He would have coughed explosively, but his windpipe was being crushed. He had room for neither inhalation nor exhalation. In a moment, he would begin to suffocate. That was how the nightmare always played out.
Only this time a new element intruded.
A slimy bead of blistering hot saliva seared his skin.
The only time that had happened before was the first time … the actual time.
Fighting an involuntary response, Bodaway tried to keep his eyes shut, but he failed.
Coyote was there once more, fangs clamping his throat again, no longer a bad dream but an eyes-blazing, fur-standing-on-end reality, a living, breathing monster who made the worst of his nightmares pale into trifles.
As Coyote had done the first time, she growled, and beneath the deadly rumble, Bodaway clearly heard a voice speaking to him.
“I have need of you. Your time to serve me has come.”
Bodaway would have nodded immediately, if he’d had the freedom of movement.
Coyote didn’t require that gesture; she saw submission in Bodaway’s eyes.
If he’d had a tail, it would have been between his legs.
“I have enemies who must be dealt with,” Coyote said. “I need to know their strengths and weaknesses before I attack them.”
Despite the desperation of his circumstance, Bodaway struggled to understand what he’d just heard. Who or what could stand up to a demon like this? Why would it need any advantage other than its simple presence in the same spot as its prey?
Before his conjecture could go further, Bodaway felt the monster’s teeth pierce the skin of his throat and a first trickle of blood exit his body. Coyote wasn’t about to permit any distractions. Total attention and unquestioning ob
edience was the price of survival.
This time, Bodaway managed the tiniest of nods and closed his eyes.
He waited without a struggle for his throat to be torn from his body.
Capitulation couldn’t be any more pathetic.
Coyote was appeased for the moment.
“There are two people I want you to watch, a man and a woman. You will not speak to them, but you will watch them, observe their habits. You will learn everything you can about them short of making contact. You will come to have an understanding of them. And you will do so as quickly as possible, knowing that your miserable life and how you will spend your remaining time depends on it.”
Bodaway opened his eyes. Obedience looked back at Coyote.
Within that desire to please sat a simple question.
Who were these people?
Coyote gave Bodaway the names. He recognized neither of them.
Where would he find them?
Santa Fe, New Mexico.
For just a moment, despite the agonizing grasp holding his neck, Bodaway felt a glimmer of pleasure, if not hope. New Mexico could be cold in the winter, but compared to Alberta it would be mild, possibly even warm. That alone raised his spirits.
Without daring to touch Coyote, Bodaway raised his hands and gestured to his mouth.
He needed to ask a question. Coyote let go of his throat with seeming reluctance.
After gathering himself and clearing his throat, Bodaway croaked, “How do I get there, to Santa Fe?”
Coyote told him, “Steal a car from the Cree.”
“Will I be coming back here?”
The bark from Coyote might have been heard as a laugh. “Your next stop will be someplace a bit better or someplace far worse.”
The consequence of failure, Bodaway understood.
Coyote added, “If you simply try to run and hide …”
The beast pulled its lips back from its fearsome teeth and snapped them once.
Bodaway had no doubt of what that meant. He would be eaten alive. His flesh rent, his bones crushed, his blood slurped.
