by Joseph Flynn
He just wished Nora was still with him so he could spend every penny on her.
What he decided, he’d just see if life had any other pleasant surprises for him, let him make the acquaintance of a woman who saw something good in him no one else did. If that didn’t happen, the old pussy hound in his pants would go back to sleep eventually.
In the meantime, the retired old copper had the rare privilege of strolling through a town where his son was in charge of keeping the public order. That job was made a lot easier by the fact that more people in Goldstrike owned banks than robbed them. More people bought shares of Merck than dime bags. More folks were people without color than people of color.
Some attitudes died hard, if at all.
The best Walt could do about that was keep his mouth shut. More than he used to. Except with Clay Steadman, of course. The movie icon was mining Walt’s every thought on the subject.
Even given all the advantages of keeping the public safe that Ron had going for him, Walt thought his son was doing a good job. His coppers were smart, alert and professional. Didn’t take any guff but didn’t give any either. Their even-tempered demeanor was helped by receiving the best pay Walt had ever heard of for someone who pinned on a badge.
Despite the small fortune Clay Steadman had laid on Walt, when Ron told him what a starting patrol officer made in Goldstrike, he felt the urge to come out of retirement. But that dog was not just sleeping, it had been put down. His son had seen the ambition in Walt’s eyes and told him, “Forget it.”
When Ron learned Walt was now taking an occasional drink in public, he also said, “Don’t get into any bar fights.”
So that morning when Walt joined Clay Steadman in his living room, where a discreet video system recorded their conversations, and Clay saw the bruise on Walt’s forehead, the mayor asked, “What happened?”
Walt told him, “Got into a bar fight.”
Before Clay could respond, the two men heard a voice outside using a loudspeaker to advise them, “This is the Goldstrike Police Department. We need to have everyone go indoors immediately. Remain inside until further notice.”
Clay and Walt looked at each other.
Then the mayor’s phone rang.
Ron hadn’t made landfall before Sergeant Stanley called him again. The chief was on the lake patrol boat that had been sent to fetch him. The boat he’d taken out had gone on ahead under the command of the officer that usually helmed it. The small craft that had held the bomb was in tow behind the patrol boat on which Ron sat.
The bomb’s radioactive payload had been transferred to the police vessel. Ron hadn’t wanted to take the chance that a rogue wave might wash it off the smaller boat and send it plunging into the lake. The idea that Lake Adeline might be irretrievably polluted was unacceptable to him.
The two officers who’d been sent to fetch the chief might have argued that point. But they didn’t. They just kept looking over their shoulders. The container with the radioactive symbol on it had been covered with a thermal blanket normally used to warm people who had been fished out of the lake. Nobody thought the blanket would do much to block any radiation that might be leaking out of the stainless steel box.
It didn’t even provide much psychological comfort.
Out of sight definitely didn’t mean out of mind.
Ron alone maintained the discipline not to look back. All three men on the boat would need to have examinations for radiation exposure. If they had been exposed, all they could hope was it hadn’t been at a fatal level. If that hope were forlorn, they’d have to get their affairs in order and say their goodbyes fast. From what Ron could remember hearing about catastrophes at nuclear power plants, workers who caught a bad dose of gamma rays, or whatever the hell kind of poisons got loose, didn’t last long.
Right now, though, Sergeant Stanley was telling him he had other worries.
“Looks like we’ve had a homicide in town, Chief.”
Over Ron’s six-plus years in town, there had been three homicides. An atypical domestic, a road rage and Reverend Isaac Cardwell being nailed to a tree. The first two had been resolved at the scenes. The Cardwell killing had been a tragedy that involved everyone in town to some degree and had reopened the rawest wound in the American psyche, hostile race relations.
Given Ron’s current burden of dealing with an ecoterrorist, he hoped the new killing would be an open-and-shut case.
“Who died,” he asked, “and do we have the killer in custody?”
Stanley told him, “The deceased is Hale Tibbot and we have no idea who did it.”
Ron squeezed his eyes shut. “How did Mr. Tibbot die?”
There was no need for Ron to ask for the victim’s background information. Any good cop quickly learned who the big wheels in his jurisdiction were. A mega-millionaire real estate developer, Tibbot had come to town with a high profile. Then he’d raised it when he said it was time someone gave Clay Steadman serious competition to be Goldstrike’s next mayor.
At first, most people thought Tibbot was kidding. When they learned his intent was real, there was speculation Clay Steadman might hurl a bolt of lightning at Tibbot and reduce him to vapor. That Olympian feat never happened, and when Tibbot campaigned on a platform of increased commercial development in Goldstrike balanced by significantly reduced property taxes for residents what had once been unthinkable became possible.
Clay Steadman’s tenure as mayor for life might have neared the end of its life expectancy. A poll commissioned by the town newspaper, the Goldstrike Prospector, said the two candidates were running neck and neck. A bookmaker in Reno made Tibbot the 5-4 favorite.
The race had been expected, over the course of that summer and into the fall, to draw national attention, given the incumbent’s celebrity and decades in office. Now, all of Tibbot’s grand ambitions were over.
Sergeant Stanley answered the chief’s question on the cause of death, “Mr. Tibbot got stuck in his carotid artery while he was in his home office.”
“Stuck not slashed?” Ron asked.
“Stuck,” Sergeant Stanley repeated. “I sent Benny and George over there. Benny emailed me the preliminary photographs of the scene. You want me to send them to you?”
Officer Benny Marx was the department’s crime scene specialist. Dr. George Ryman was Goldstrike’s volunteer medical examiner. Ron didn’t want to see the photos, not now.
“So the killer got the victim bang in the artery?” the chief asked.
“Like he knew just what he was doing. The really strange thing, Chief?”
“What?” As if the manner of death wasn’t strange enough.
“There was no blood on the body, the floor or anywhere else.”
“Come on,” Ron said. “How could that happen?”
“Doctor Ryman had an idea, one I’ve never heard before.”
“What was it?” Ron asked.
“The doctor said if the killer’s weapon had a collar of a permeable fabric filled with a desiccant like powdered gypsum, it could have been pressed tight against the victim’s neck. Any blood that came out would have been absorbed, held and dried up without spattering the surrounding area.”
“Jesus,” Ron said.
The neater the crime scene, he knew, the fewer the clues.
If the bad guys were getting smarter —
“I know,” Sergeant Stanley said, understanding just what the chief was thinking. “We’ll check for traces of gypsum or other absorbent substances. Are you going to head over to the scene, Chief?”
Ron saw the patrol boat was approaching its dock. They’d be tied up and ready to go ashore in a minute or two. But he couldn’t rush right off to view the remains of Hale Tibbot and start his investigation. If he and the officers with him had suffered radiation exposure, they couldn’t risk contaminating anyone else.
Then there was the damn steel box. That had to be dealt with.
“Sarge,” Ron said, “do we or anyone else in town have a Geiger counter?
”
Ron heard Sergeant Stanley sigh and then he said, “It’s waiting for you where the boat ties up, Chief. Everyone’s keeping a good thought for you, Dennehy and Cardozo.”
“Thanks,” Ron said.
“We have a medevac flight on standby in case … well, you know, in case.”
“Thanks again. I’ll call back as soon as —”
“Chief, sorry to say I have more news.”
“Christ. Now what?”
“A fed showed up here a little while ago, asked for you.”
“FBI?” That’d be all he needed, Ron thought.
Sergeant Stanley told him, “Bureau of Indian Affairs by way of the Environmental Protection Agency.”
“What?”
The sergeant said, “Big guy. Looks the part for the BIA. His name is John Tall Wolf.
Chapter 3
By the grace of God, the luck of the Irish, on Ron’s mother’s side, and maybe the just deserts of living a marginally righteous life, Ron Ketchum showed no sign of exposure to radiation. Dennehy and Cardozo came up clean, too. If the Geiger counter had come from anyone other than Sergeant Stanley, Ron might have insisted on another reading from a second instrument before allowing himself a sigh of relief. As far as he knew, though, Caz Stanley had never had to say oops in his life.
Ron left his two coppers to stand guard over the hideous cargo that remained on the boat. They kept watch from a distance of a hundred feet, not wanting to push their luck. Dennehy and Cardozo had been authorized by Ron to fire warning shots over the head of anyone who drew near to the patrol boat — and to shoot to kill anyone trying to board the boat.
The sonofabitch who put the bomb on the lake wasn’t going to get it back.
The chief walked up the path from the dock to his office in the Municipal Complex wrestling with the question of whether he should summon Deputy Chief Gosden to return to town immediately. It shouldn’t take Oliver long. He had been on the road only a couple of hours … but how would it look to Oliver? Like Ron was trying to rope him back in?
Well, yeah.
But not without good reason. Reasons plural. A terrorist attack that had misfired and the peculiar murder of a rich candidate for mayor. He wouldn’t be talking about an outbreak of littering and jaywalking.
The two of them would have their hands full. By himself, he was worried things were not going to work out for the best. He needed an assist from another smart cop with big-time experience. His people were smart and well-trained, but the level of bad guys they routinely faced was hardly major league. He needed —
A name popped into his head but it wasn’t Oliver Gosden.
It was Keely Powell, Ron’s old detective squad partner from L.A. When he had left town to take charge of the Goldstrike PD, he and Keely had parted on good terms. Three years later, Keely had put in her twenty years on the job and said that was enough. She’d invited him to her retirement party, but he hadn’t gone.
He’d sent her a bottle of Dom Perignon.
Two business-class tickets to Paris.
A prepaid week at a really nice hotel.
She’d told him she always wanted to see Paris, and he’d come through like a … TV game-show host. “Keely Powell, take a look at the fabulous parting gifts we have for you. Thanks for playing LAPD Sweepstakes.”
Ron thought he should have popped for first class tickets. Paid for the best hotel in town.
Said he’d go with her if she wanted someone to mangle French with.
He didn’t know if she ever took the trip. He hadn’t received a postcard. Or a thank you note. But that didn’t keep him from calling her now. Hoping she hadn’t moved or gotten a new job that would keep her too busy to —
“Ron Ketchum,” she said, her voice still sounding like Kathleen Turner did when she was young. Sort of looked like the actress did back then, too. Only Keely had a glint in her eye that said she’d whack you with her metal baton if you got out of line. “You call to ask for a date or do you want a favor?”
She’d read the Goldstrike PD name on her phone’s caller ID. Figured it was him calling. But he’d bet she’d worked out that question a long time ago.
Ron was smart enough to know the right answer.
“Both,” he said.
Clay Steadman listened to the morning news, as called in by his chief of police.
Ron Ketchum had the privilege of calling any time he needed.
The mayor asked, “How do we know what’s really in that box?”
Ron told him, “It’s under guard, cops on the dock and now on a boat to keep people away. But if you want to put on a hazmat suit and take a peek, be my guest.”
Clay said, “Does a hazmat suit protect against radiation?”
“You’re right. We better check on that first.”
Ron Ketchum was cracking wise, Clay knew, but after the risks he’d taken, he was entitled. The mayor looked over at Walt Ketchum who didn’t even pretend he wasn’t listening in on the conversation. They were quite the pair, Clay thought, the old man and his son.
Ron confirmed that point when he said, “With Oliver out of town, I’d like permission to bring in someone to help me out on a temporary basis. I already talked to my old partner from L.A., Detective Keely Powell. She’s willing. I know I have final say for ordinary personnel decisions, but I wanted to get your okay for this.”
Having heard from Ron not only about the bomb but also the news of Hale Tibbot’s murder, Clay understood exactly what his chief of police was getting at. But neither man gave voice to that reason at the moment.
“Go right ahead,” Clay said.
“We also have a visiting fed on hand, and I’m sure more will be arriving soon.”
Ron gave Clay the few details he’d learned about John Tall Wolf.
The mayor said, “Sounds a little strange at first, but with what you found on the lake we might get all sorts of unusual types flocking in. Maybe Department of Energy. Nuclear Regulatory Commission. Who knows what else?”
“The FBI?” Ron asked.
“They do handle counterterrorism.”
“Terrific.”
“Have there been any other signs of threats to the community?” Clay asked.
“If you mean dirty bombs or crap like that, no. But this one was found by accident, didn’t go off by pure good luck, and some of these asshole bombers like to do a series of bangs. One to cause the initial damage, follow-ups to get the first responders and the lookey-loos.”
“Right. Keep all boaters off the lake until you can make sure there are no other bombs out there. “
“In progress,” Ron said. “We’re also scouring the town. We want to keep people indoors until we can do a thorough look-see.”
“All right,” Clay said, “but if you don’t come up with anything, let me know.”
“You’ll go on TV to give the all clear and tell people what happened?”
“Yes.”
“So my cops better be watching for people looking to leave town in a hurry?”
“I’d recommend it,” Clay said.
“We’re going to be stretched thin.”
“Should I ask for help from the state?”
After a long pause, Ron said, “I’ll let you know if it comes to that. Right now I’ve got a homicide to investigate.”
The mayor put the phone down. Walt wanted to know what he’d missed.
Clay told him about the bomb and the murder.
“What your son didn’t say, at least for now, is he has to consider me a suspect in the death of the man who dared to think he could take my day job from me,” the mayor told Walt.
“Sure, he does,” Walt said. “Any good cop would.”
Clay’s smile was even thinner than usual.
“So who’d you get into your bar fight with?” he asked.
The elder Ketchum laughed.
“Same guy you might’ve killed, Hale Tibbot. Looks like I’m a suspect, too.”
Ron stood six-foot-two. He
hadn’t had his height measured since his last physical exam two years ago, but at fifty-one years old he didn’t like to think he’d lost so much as a quarter-inch in stature. Even so, the fed calling himself John Tall Wolf had a couple of inches on him, and the guy didn’t slouch at all.
Didn’t act like he had a stick up his ass either.
Which, for a fed, was a mark in his favor.
But he was wearing sunglasses indoors.
“My eyes are light sensitive,” Tall Wolf said, anticipating the question.
He presented his credentials to Ron. Sure enough, Bureau of Indian Affairs. He’d never seen anyone from that agency before. Wondered if the man might fit into either of the cases he had on the front burners right now. Of course, he could have his own agenda.
Ron minded his manners, offered Tall Wolf a seat and took his place behind his desk.
Tall Wolf told him, “Sorry if I caught you at a bad time, Chief.”
An Indian calling him chief? Ron wondered if the guy was cracking wise. But he didn’t see any sign of a smirk to go with the comment. Maybe his visitor was just being polite.
The fed went on to say, “What I’ve got to talk about with you may or may not be important. If you’ve got something going on that won’t wait, I will.”
Ron grinned and asked, “You sure you’re from the federal government?”
“My paycheck’s drawn on the U.S. Treasury. I took my law enforcement training at Glynco, Georgia. But people, including my boss, say I tend to go my own way.”
“That’s allowed?” Ron asked.
“I also tend to get results. A lot of that stems from giving colleagues as much respect as they earn.”
“Including local law enforcement?”
Tall Wolf said, “Wasn’t that long ago, I worked a case with Detective Darton Blake of the Austin, Texas PD. Homicide unit. He’ll let you know what he thinks of me.” The BIA agent provided a phone number.
Ron had Tall Wolf repeat it and made the call.
The conversation was brief and Ron thanked Blake.
He looked back at Tall Wolf and said, “Detective Blake said he’d apply for a job with the BIA if he could work with you all the time. Only he thinks he has the wrong ethnicity.”
