Big Medicine (A John Tall Wolf Novel Book 5)

by Joseph Flynn

  “You think it’s just powered off?” John asked.

  After a moment’s silence, Cale said, “You didn’t hear it from me, but we can work around that one.”

  “What?” John said. “How can you do that?”

  “I wouldn’t have even mentioned it if I didn’t know how close you are to our new president.”

  “I am?” John asked.

  “Yeah, she wants you bad.”

  John was sorry to hear that. He said, “It must be my winning personality.”

  “Okay. I’ll use the same excuse if anyone tells me I blabbed when I shouldn’t have. You remember a while back some computer companies used to provide remote controls when you bought a desktop computer. So you could turn it on without having to push a button on the machine itself. Pretty much saving steps the way a TV remote control works.”

  “Must’ve missed that,” John said.

  “It didn’t catch on real fast, and then a lot of people realized they didn’t want someone else turning on their computers. It’s a lot harder to hack a machine that’s shut down.”

  “Wait,” John said, “how could someone else turn on your computer without the remote control?”

  “You know there are universal remote controls for TVs, right?”

  “Never gave it a moment’s thought. I don’t watch much television.”

  “Well, take it from me, there are. Same principle applies to computers, as far as turning them on. For a specific machine, you need to know its Wi-Fi code, but that’s not a problem for us. You send the right signal, turn on the computer and … well, I really shouldn’t get too specific with our proprietary techniques. Not until you officially become a Cabinet member, and we get a go-ahead from the Oval Office.”

  John mentally pushed back at the idea of being pulled in an unwelcome direction.

  “That’s okay, I don’t need to know trade secrets. So the takeaway here is: Sorry, you can’t help me.”

  “For the moment. We think the laptop you’re looking for must be stored in some kind of secure container, maybe something that’s copper sheathed. Of course, even a thick wrapping of aluminum foil can reflect radio waves.”

  John said, “I’ll try to remember that the next time I have to thwart eavesdroppers.”

  “Keep a good thought, Mr. Director. I haven’t said we’re going to quit trying. My guess is whoever took the doctor’s laptop didn’t grab it just to stash it. They want to use it. So, they’ll turn it on, if only to download its data to another machine. Then we’ll have our chance.”

  “Maybe,” John said.

  “Yeah, maybe. I feel real bad about not being able to find this computer for you, quick and easy. Show you what geniuses we are over here in Fort Meade. So I did a little extra research on who Dr. Lisle’s biggest competitors in her field are, thinking maybe one of them might have been tempted to do something naughty. You know, if their research is lagging hers. If you want, I can give you a list of their names, locations and published materials.”

  John appreciated Cale’s initiative.

  “That might help,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “Sure. I can send the data file to your laptop right now. You want to give me your machine’s password?”

  “You mean you don’t already have it?” John asked.

  “Of course, I do,” Cale said. “I was just being polite.”

  McGill Investigations International — Los Angeles, California

  Rebecca Bramley spoke across her office desk to Emily Proctor, shortly after talking with John that morning and doing a bit of research. She told Emily of John’s experience in his college painting class. Emily was skeptical at first.

  “That sounds neat,” Emily said, “cinematic even. Having some guy who’s great with a paint brush knock off a copy of Keith Perry’s signature.”

  Keith Perry being their first client.

  Emily had called Keith from her new office, getting a highly enjoyable feeling from her new workspace and planning how she’d personalize it. Keith had not only said he’d accept the condition that he put 100 shares of his new company into the pot, he’d make it 1,000 shares.

  “But is a hand-painted signature really practical?” Emily asked Rebecca. “Wouldn’t it be easier just to scan Keith’s own signature into a computer and print it out on the company’s draft of the contract?”

  “It’d be a lot easier,” Rebecca agreed, “but would that stand up to expert analysis? I’ve never had a case involving the question, but under a microscope, so to speak, wouldn’t an ink-jet rendered signature look different than one penned by hand?”

  Emily said, “I don’t know, maybe.”

  “I’m still considering a forger,” Rebecca said, “but how would a businessman know somebody like that? He’d kept in touch with a childhood friend who had good penmanship but took a wrong turn in life?”

  Both women laughed at the notion, but then the idea made them think.

  In the same moment, they said, “A calligrapher.”

  They laughed again, and then Emily deferred to her new boss.

  Rebecca said, “Calligraphers are artists. They can use brushes in their work, just like fine artists. So maybe John was on to something. You know, a person who does practical work like rendering high-end invitations or civic proclamations to pay the rent and then does his own work for artistic fulfillment.”

  “My dad’s law office has used calligraphers for invitations,” Emily said.

  “Give him a call. See who his firm uses. It’ll be a starting point.”

  Emily said, “If I give you his number, would you mind calling? Just tell his secretary you’ve given his little girl a new job, he’ll take the call right away. He’ll be so happy I’m leaving LAPD.”

  “Yeah, I can do that, but what will you be doing?”

  “There’s another angle I want to take. I want to find someone who knows Angelo Renzi’s publicist.”

  Renzi was the owner of LifeShare and Keith Perry’s former employer. LifeShare had taken the idea of personal compatibility way beyond dating and marriage. LifeShare also offered to match people to their new best platonic friends, dance partners and workout buddies. Word was, they were even developing software to put together the most successful recreational athletic teams for every sport from archery to zip-lining.

  LifeShare’s ad slogan was: Why waste time meeting the wrong people?

  That rationale was taking off like a wind-driven wildfire.

  Natural disasters being another thing Californians could relate to.

  “How will that help us?” Rebecca asked.

  “Well, just talking to you now, got me thinking about two things. You asked how would a business guy, someone like Angelo Renzi, know a forger? From what I’ve already found out in a quick check on him and his family, they aren’t crooked in any way that shows up in police records. So a forger is probably out, but maybe a calligrapher is in.”

  “A good enough friend who will do something just a bit crooked,” Rebecca said.

  “Right. For a price. Could be money, but here’s where my other idea might come in.”

  Rebecca held up a hand, trying to tune into Emily’s wavelength.

  After a moment’s thought, she said, “Money transfers can be traced, even if you try to launder them, but a bundle of good will would be much harder to pin down. Let’s say Angelo Renzi buys a number of his artist friend’s paintings. Then Angelo hangs those paintings in his house. Anytime he entertains people with a lot of disposable income, they see those paintings.”

  Emily grinned, thinking it was great to work with someone who could think like her.

  “Maybe they even want to curry favor with Angelo,” Emily said, “They ask where they might see this brilliant new talent’s other work.”

  Rebecca tried to play the skeptic. “Is that really how things work around here?”

  “Sure is. Among a lot of other things, L.A. is Hollywood. People suck up and pony up big money all the time. If I can fin
d out who Angelo Renzi’s publicist is — and he’s gotta have one — I can find someone else in the same business who hates him. That person will help me find photos of Angelo’s doings. If we can find a picture of a calligrapher/painter in his entourage —”

  “No, no,” Rebecca said. “In any publicity release, the accomplice would be noted strictly as a fine artist. We’d have to dig up the calligraphy background. So, I’ll introduce myself to your father to get a start on that.”

  “Great. I’ve got one more thing I have to do today. No, two.”

  “What?” Rebecca asked.

  “I’ve got to sign my employment contract with McGill Investigations International. There’s no non-compete clause in it, is there?”

  Rebecca said, “If there is, I’ll cross it out and initial the deletion. You can video me doing so with your phone.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So what’s the other thing you have to do?” Rebecca asked.

  “Hand in my resignation at LAPD headquarters.”

  Washington, DC

  John had his sunglasses on as he and Alan White River got into his car. He looked over at his great-grandfather and said, “You know, for the time being, I’ll just stick with my eyes the way they are.”

  White River nodded. “You seem to do all right.”

  John felt the presence of an unspoken note of reserve. “But?”

  “But you are unhappy. You miss your wife. I saw your wedding photo. I would feel the same way. I do feel the same way.”

  John asked, “How long has it been since you lost your wife?”

  “Awinita? I see her every night in my dreams.” The old man smiled. “She talks to me, scolds me and soothes me. Moves me in whatever direction I need to go. Her spirit is very strong; it won’t let even death separate us. But how long has it been since I held her in my arms? Seems like forever. For years now, I’ve considered my longevity a curse that keeps us apart. My greatest fear is I might never die.”

  John smiled and told White River, “I don’t think I can take care of you that long.”

  The old man chuckled. “The condition of my parole says you need to keep an eye on me for only two years. If you’re willing, that is, and your wife doesn’t object.”

  “She doesn’t,” John told him. “We’ve already talked about it. Rebecca says if you’re too much for me, I can ship you out to Los Angeles to live with her, though she might move back to Canada if things work out that way.”

  “I’ve always wanted to see Canada.”

  “Well, we can set a date to do that without too much trouble.”

  “Perhaps sooner rather than later? In case I’m wrong about how much time I have left.”

  John laughed. “Sure, and if you’re still feeling vigorous after we get back, we’ll have to find you a job.”

  “I’d like that. Something with a good retirement plan.”

  Laughing again, John started the car and moved into the flow of traffic.

  “Let’s see if you have any aptitude as an investigator,” he said.

  “I have endless curiosity.”

  “That’s always helpful.”

  “For example,” White River said, “I wonder where we are going now.”

  “We’re going to try to solve a part of a mystery, how Dr. Lisle’s computer was taken.”

  “Is that how you caught me,” White River asked, “one step at a time?”

  John nodded.

  “So what do we do first?”

  “We go to a place called the Newseum. Do you know it?”

  “I do. It is a museum dedicated to the five freedoms of the First Amendment.”

  John would have said it was a place focused on the history of mass media, starting with pamphleteering, moving on to newspapers, magazines, radio, television and social media, in that approximate order.

  White River continued, “The freedoms of religion, speech, press, assembly and petition.”

  John stopped at a red light and looked at his great-grandfather.

  “I’m sorry for underestimating you.”

  The old man nodded. “I have been around for a long time, and my father insisted I learn how to read at an early age — so I could tell him what the white people were up to.”

  “A wise man,” John said. “I’d like to hear about him sometime, if you’d care to tell me.”

  “Of course, but now we have work to do.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “There is something or someone at the Newseum that will be helpful to you?”

  The light turned green and John turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue, the street on which the museum was located. “Yes. Have you ever heard of a man named Calvin Morley?”

  “No.”

  “He’s what’s known as a digital artist. He’s worked on a lot of big movies and video games that feature computer-generated images. He’s giving a speech at the Newseum with the title ‘More Real than Reality.’ It focuses on how videos purporting to be records of actual news stories can be faked from start to finish or, more subversively, be blends of real and contrived images slanted to produce a desired outcome: rage, ridicule, revenge.”

  White River said, “This could be a great evil.”

  “Yes, that’s the whole point.”

  “But why are we going to listen to this speech?”

  “To watch the examples of the fake news Morley is going to show,” John said. “We’re going because there’s no way three young children could have gotten past the security at Dr. Lisle’s laboratory, and a friend at the police department told me no children were anywhere near the lab when the computer was taken. So, the only conclusion I can reach is the children aren’t real.”

  White River understood. “They were meant to lead us down a false path to a box canyon.”

  “Yes, a dead end. But if we can find out who did the computer-generated images —”

  White River grew animated. “That will lead us … perhaps not directly to the thief, if he is clever, but perhaps to another step on the true trail. How did you hear of this speaker, Morley?”

  “I read about him in the Post last week. After I concluded the kids couldn’t be real, that was when the newspaper story about Morley popped up in my memory.”

  “Do you hope to talk to this man when he is done speaking?”

  “I called him this morning. He said he’s happy to meet with us.”

  “Because you are an important person in the government.”

  John grinned as he pulled into a parking lot near the Newseum.

  “No, because he wants to meet the man who stole the Super Chief.”

  Santa Fe, New Mexico

  The old Honda was as good as advertised, clean with a smooth running engine and at least 10,000 miles of tread left on the tires. The owner, a Latina woman in her mid-30s, told Bodaway, “The only reason I’m selling my car is I got fired out of the blue. Well, not really. I should have seen it coming. You turn down the boss’s son three times when he asks you out on a date, I guess bad stuff is bound to happen. But I’ve got great office skills. I’ll have a new job inside of a month. Still, I’ve got rent and other bills to pay in the meantime.”

  Bodaway kept a dispassionate look on his face but gave her $2,500 in cash for the car, $500 above the asking price. For a moment, the woman thought the bonus was meant to purchase personal favors of the sort the boss’s son had wanted. Bodaway dispelled that notion with a small shake of his head.

  He said, “Hang on to the extra five hundred and maybe I’ll sell the car back to you for two thousand in a month.”

  The woman smiled at the prospect. She neither hugged nor kissed Bodaway, but she shook his hand and said, “Thank you. That would make me very happy.”

  She had removed her license plates from the car, so Bodaway’s first stop was the state’s Motor Vehicle Division. Using valid IDs in his given name, Thomas Bilbray, he applied for and received temporary plates to put on his newly purchased vehicle.

  He was told a m
inimum liability auto insurance policy was required in the state and he should get one right away.

  “Right away,” Bodaway agreed with a nod.

  He even accepted a business card the clerk said was from his cousin who sold insurance policies at the best prices in town.

  Bodaway stuck the card and the registration paper in the car’s glove box and started up I-25 northeast to Santa Fe. Traffic was light and a news-radio station told him the outside temperature was a brisk 41 degrees. Bodaway smiled. To him, the air felt balmy, and it was good to hear someone use the Fahrenheit scale again.

  Those small pleasures were almost enough to make him feel optimistic. He considered approaching John Tall Wolf’s parents and portraying himself as a victim of Coyote, someone forced to pursue an evil course of action or suffer a gruesome death. All of that was true, but …

  What if Tall Wolf had told his parents that a bad dude named Bodaway had tried to kill him a couple of years ago? What if Tall Wolf had even learned of his Anglo name, Thomas Bilbray, and shared that with Mom and Dad, too? Hell, it wasn’t hard to imagine but Tall Wolf’s parents might be able to bring him to a more horrifying end than Coyote could.

  No, a direct approach to Mr. and Mrs. Wolf would be too risky to chance.

  What he had to do first off was get a look at where they lived. See if the engineer in him could figure out how they managed to keep satellites from photographing their house. It’d be too obvious to just park an unfamiliar car near their home and set up an observation post. He figured two drive-bys a day, separated by a minimum interval of four hours, would be the most he could do to scout the house.

  Beyond that, he’d have to check the local newspapers and community websites to find stories about Hayden Wolf and Serafina Wolf y Padilla. He was a medical doctor, and she was a tenured professor. He’d found out that much already just by doing a cursory internet search.

  People like that, they’d attract more attention locally, in a town of 70,000, than nationally. Depending on their personalities and outreach to the community, they might even be celebrities on a small scale. If that were the case, there would be a relative wealth of material on them.