by Joseph Flynn
“You always have my welfare at heart, don’t you, Tall Wolf?”
The special agent thought Marlene was Coyote. The trickster. The shape-shifter. She may even have tried to devour him as an infant, before his adoptive parents drove her off.
He said, “The feebs will want in. You and Mayor Steadman might hold them off for a while, but they’ve got friends with pull on their side, too. The dispute gets as far as the attorney general, who knows what might happen? It’d be better to find a feeb who will be content to sit back and let Chief Ketchum and me do the work, give the FBI some credit at the end.”
Tall Wolf heard a note of approval in Marlene’s voice as she said, “That’s admirably devious. Politically shrewd. If the chief agrees.”
“He’s a working cop like me.”
Unlike her was the unspoken barb. Marlene ignored it.
“I know Clay Steadman,” she said.
“It never surprises me, the people you know.”
Marlene, in her usual guise, was a tall, striking woman with a gift for seduction.
It irritated her no end that her gift didn’t work on John Tall Wolf.
“I know someone at the FBI who might play the role you’ve described.”
Tall Wolf would have been surprised if she didn’t have a dozen candidates.
“So I can stay, and you’ll help?” he asked.
“Yes, I might even visit Goldstrike, say hello to Clay. Tell him what we have in mind.”
Tall Wolf let out a sigh, not even trying to keep it inaudible.
“Can’t wait to see you,” he said.
More often than not, Mayor Clay Steadman made his Monday through Friday evening State of the Town announcements from home. These bulletins were normally mundane in nature, reminding the citizenry of a public hearing at which their attendance was welcome, making note of road work which might cause travelers inconvenience, recognizing the achievements of local high school scholars and athletic teams.
Generally reassuring people that God was in His heavens and Clay Steadman was a good deal closer, at the helm in City Hall.
When happenings of greater consequence occurred, the crucifixion of Isaac Cardwell for example, the mayor would speak from the stage of the civic auditorium. As ever, the populace was invited to see its government at work. And when Clay Steadman spoke in public, even on short notice, he filled every seat in the house.
Today, the staging was simplicity itself.
A microphone on a stand.
The mayor held a sheet of paper in his left hand.
Not a speech. Simply notes of things not to be forgotten. He cut to the chase, as always.
“An unknown person tried to set off a bomb in a motor boat this morning. The explosion, had it occurred, might have dispersed radioactive material in the air. If that had happened, it would have polluted Lake Adeline to an extent that has yet to be determined. There was also the possibility, I’ve been told, that the wind might have carried some of the radioactive contamination over our town, the exact effects on public health are also currently uncertain.”
The audience in the theater sat in stunned silence, but the mayor felt their fear.
“That was why the police department cleared the streets this morning and insisted everyone stay inside. During that time, officers searched every block in town and every public trash receptacle, looking for the presence of a second bomb. They didn’t find any sign of one.”
Sonny Sideris watched Clay from the bar at the Renaissance Hotel. He was one of several people there who thought noon was a fine time to down their first drink of the day. But he was the only one who pushed his glass away when he’d heard the mayor’s news.
Most of the others called for another round.
At the auditorium, Clay continued, “We were all very fortunate that the bomb on Lake Adeline was discovered by two town residents who were out early to go fishing. They did exactly the right thing when they called 911 and got away from the bomb as fast as they could. The police, in the person of Chief Ron Ketchum, responded immediately. At the risk of his own life, Chief Ketchum found the boat carrying the bomb and disarmed the damn thing.”
The audience in the theater came to its feet spontaneously.
Cheered and applauded.
Clay let it go on for a minute, then gestured everyone back to their seats.
“The next time you see a cop, tell him or her thank you for what they do.”
Coming from Clay Steadman, that sounded as much like an order as a suggestion.
“But do me a favor,” he said, “and don’t leave any plates of cookies or letters proposing marriage on Chief Ketchum’s doorstep.”
Not the funniest of lines, but it still got a laugh.
The mayor continued, “I feel I can indulge in a little humor at the moment because as far as the police can tell the immediate threat has passed. The bomb that was out on the lake has been taken away by the United States Nuclear Regulatory Commission with an escort from the California Highway Patrol.”
That earned another round of applause, seated this time.
Ron had the television on in his office, his lunch comfortably interred and awaiting digestion. It warmed his heart to hear fellow Goldstrikers cheer his act of courage. It also scared the hell out of him to flash back to that moment, the timer blinking on three.
The words what if were going to be uppermost in his thoughts for a long time.
Then a more practical notion kept him from obsessing on his mortality. As long as the mayor was addressing the townsfolk, he might as well make good use of the moment. He got up and headed to the civic auditorium.
Clay went on, “What the police haven’t done, what we can’t do in our country, is barge into everyone’s homes and make sure we’ve eliminated the threat of terrorism, and find out who was responsible for what happened this morning. So we have to ask all of you to keep your eyes open and let the police know of any situation you find genuinely suspicious.”
Clay then directed a predatory glare at every corner of the audience.
“We need everyone to be responsible. If you bear a grudge against a neighbor, a business competitor or a schoolmate, you will not call in a false report against that person. If you do, you will be weakening our civil defenses. You’ll be helping the bad guys. And I will personally kick your ass.”
No one took the mayor’s threat as anything but gospel truth.
Which would have made it a great exit line except …
Ron Ketchum stepped onto the stage. Undoubtedly the only man in town who would do so without explicit permission. He brought the audience to its feet again. Knowing how to roll with such a situation, the mayor intoned the obvious, “Chief of Police Ron Ketchum.”
Stepping back from the mike, he asked Ron, “Something new happen?”
Knowing Ron hadn’t stepped forward just to bask in the limelight.
“I want to ask people not to go boating after dark. We’ve had a warning from someone claiming to be the bomber. He says we got lucky and he’s going to try again. Could be he’ll try the same way as before.”
Clay nodded. “That’s all?”
“You’re not going to mention Hale Tibbot?”
“I don’t do double features,” Clay said.
The chief was a bit surprised but said, “Good.”
The applause had gone on for ninety seconds by now.
“Say goodbye,” the mayor told him.
Ron waved farewell. That earned him another fifteen seconds or so.
The mayor informed the town of what the chief of police had requested.
Made sure in every way but a vote of the town council that it had the force of law.
Clay returned to his office in the Muni Complex, sat down on the sofa in the room and indulged in a rare moment of self-doubt. Had he made a mistake by not letting the town know about Hale Tibbot’s murder? He hated it when government kept secrets from people.
It was bad enough when Washington had to keep thin
gs under wraps so soldiers and spies could go about their business without getting killed. At the state and municipal level, though, he thought government should be as transparent as alpine air. So why the hell had he held back?
Because people would think he’d killed Tibbot?
He wouldn’t blame them if they did because —
The phone in Clay’s office rang. There was a receiver on the end table next to him. The caller ID showed: Bureau of Indian Affairs, Washington, DC. He knew who had to be calling.
“Hello, Marlene. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Marlene Flower Moon had been introduced to Clay when he was in pre-production for a film. He was looking for someone who knew the folkways of the Mescalero Apaches. The movie’s leading man recommended Clay talk to Marlene. He did and Marlene found an ancient little man with a giant trove of knowledge for Clay. Gave his movie a degree of authenticity that would have been impossible otherwise.
In gratitude, Clay had invited Marlene to the final day of principal photography. She’d accepted and charmed everyone. The two of them had been the last ones sitting at the campfire that night. Neither of them drank anything alcoholic or did any illegal drugs, but Clay remembered feeling intoxicated nonetheless.
When Marlene left him sitting there alone, leaving him with only a kiss on his cheek, he wondered if he’d just missed the opportunity of a lifetime.
He felt sure, though, that Marlene would call him soon and ask a favor in return.
She never did … until now.
“You mean other than my pleasure of talking with you, Mr. Mayor?”
“Yeah, other than that. I’ve held out hope you might someday offer me an opportunity to repay your kindness.”
“I’m sure there will be time for that.”
Marlene was, in fact, counting on it.
Clay, on the other hand, was not so sure there would be time.
Marlene said, “I just wanted to do you the courtesy of informing you that I sent a special agent to your town. His name is John Tall Wolf. Have you met him yet?”
The mayor frowned. “No, I haven’t.”
“Well, he did tell me he’s been busy. He arranged to have that bomb taken away.”
“Your man did that?”
“He did.”
“I’ll have to thank him, but how did either of you know about it?”
“A colleague in the federal government received a threat and forwarded it to me. I sent Tall Wolf. He’s a good man, but …”
“Don’t leave me hanging, Marlene.”
“As he’ll be the first to tell you, he tends to go his own way.”
Clay found that surprising, almost laughed. The idea that someone working for Marlene wouldn’t be kept on a short leash. The mayor wrote down the special agent’s name: John Tall Wolf. He’d have to make the special agent’s acquaintance soon.
Marlene said, “Tall Wolf and I are of the same mind that there will be no keeping the FBI out of the investigation. Domestic terrorism is their responsibility.”
“Yeah, it is, but something tells me you’ve got other ideas.”
“My idea is to have Tall Wolf do the work and let the FBI have the credit. I know people at the bureau who will go along with that arrangement. I wanted to know how you’d feel about it.”
“Your man is better than their people?”
“He can be insubordinate but he is effective.”
Clay offered a brief laugh. “Sounds like my chief of police.”
“So you won’t object if I put my plan in motion?”
Life was getting complicated for Clay right when he needed it simplified.
But he said, “Not at all. If Chief Ketchum agrees.”
“Tall Wolf works well with the local police.” Marlene said. “I’ll keep an eye on him all the same. I might pay your little town a visit myself.”
The warmth of the smile that lit Clay’s face would have ruined his public image.
Made him glad he was alone.
He told Marlene, “I’ll be happy to buy you dinner if you do.”
She replied, “Or we could have a cookout by a campfire.”
Chapter 7
Ron Ketchum sat behind his desk and informed Sergeant Stanley that there would be a new face at the Goldstrike PD in the morning.
“Another one?” the sergeant asked.
It took Ron a moment to realize the reference was to John Tall Wolf.
“Yeah,” the chief said. “In Deputy Chief Gosden’s absence, I’m bringing in my old partner from L.A., Keely Powell, to lend a hand. She worked homicide with me. She’s smart and tough. Good people, too.”
Sergeant Stanley nodded, keeping a straight face.
“You’ll like her, Sarge.”
“I’m sure I will. How will she fit into the chain of command?”
“She’ll take direction from me.”
Ron sincerely hoped.
He added, “If she has any requests, she’ll let either you or me know.”
“But Ms. Powell will have no authority of her own to exert?”
“No. If she makes a suggestion, though, we’d all do well to value her judgment and experience.”
“Duly noted. What about Special Agent Tall Wolf?”
“What about him?”
“He accompanied you to the scene of the Tibbot murder. Where does he fit into the scheme of things?”
Ron wasn’t surprised that the sergeant knew about Tall Wolf’s presence at the Tibbot house. It was his job to know everything about the Goldstrike PD. That was how he kept things running smoothly. He wasn’t criticizing the presence of outsiders; he was thinking about how to integrate them into his organizational flow.
The first step would be to let the troops — the patrol officers — know how the new faces should be treated.
Ron said, “The special agent and I will be acting as buffers to the FBI. We think there’ll be no avoiding the feebs on this one. The hope is to keep them on the margins. Tall Wolf got high marks from a homicide detective he worked with in Austin, Texas.”
Sergeant Stanley began to feel more at ease.
“Anything else I can do for you, Chief?”
There was something else, but before he could bring it up he finally realized what had bothered him when he’d seen Hale Tibbot’s body at the crime scene. The man’s hair had been too damn neat. Not a lock was out of place.
It was one thing for a killer to figure out a way to stick a guy and avoid spilling blood on himself and everything else. But could even a criminal genius do that without so much as mussing his victim’s hair? The chief didn’t think so.
He sat up straighter as it came to him neatness wasn’t the only thing wrong with Tibbot’s hair. If he remembered right, having seen the man at a number of campaign speeches, it was parted on the wrong side.
Had the killer combed his victim’s hair, getting the part wrong?
What kind of freak was he dealing with?
“You okay, Chief?” Sergeant Stanley asked.
Ron looked up at Sergeant Stanley and said, “I’m okay, Sarge, and there is something you can do for me. Search the public records. Find me a dozen or so head-shots of Hale Tibbot. Before and after he came to town.”
“Photographs?”
“Yeah. Hero shots, glamour shots. The more definition the better.”
Sergeant Stanley felt he’d inspired the chief somehow, but he had no idea what the boss was thinking. The sergeant’s talent lay in administration not solving mysteries. But if the chief wanted pictures of the victim, he’d find them. In whatever number was required.
“I’m on it, Chief,” he said.
Ron smiled to himself. He wasn’t sure what he’d learn, but he felt he’d seized on something important. Instincts he’d taken for granted in L.A. hadn’t deserted him.
In fact, he had an insight how to impress Keely when she got to town.
He could have had the sarge reserve a hotel room for Keely’s arrival tomorrow.
Instead, he called Marjorie Fitzroy at the Renaissance.
Didn’t ask for the biggest suite in the hotel.
Told her he wanted the special one the public didn’t know about.
John Tall Wolf was pleased when Ron Ketchum called him and asked if he wanted to be in on the interview of the man and boy who discovered the bomb that morning.
“Very much,” Tall Wolf said. “You won’t mind if I do a little more talking this time?”
Ron gave it a beat before saying, “Sure. But let’s see if we can get our timing right.”
Meaning don’t interrupt, talk over each other.
“No problem,” Tall Wolf said.
“Meet you in front of your hotel in ten minutes.”
Tall Wolf hadn’t told the chief where he was staying, but wasn’t surprised he’d taken the time to find out.
“Sure, be right down.”
The special agent felt the chief was playing things straight with him, so far. He also knew that the man was under pressure. Had to deal with things he’d rather not discuss. Wasn’t hard to figure out what.
Tall Wolf wouldn’t have been human if he hadn’t googled Hale Tibbot’s name after he got back to his room. The local paper, the Prospector, had dozens of stories on the guy. How he’d had the nerve to run for mayor just a year after moving to town.
The way Tall Wolf saw it, Tibbot must’ve made his plans before he moved to Goldstrike. The developer saw the town as a plum ripe for picking, but only if he could displace Clay Steadman. The mayor had run for reelection unopposed more often than not. Tibbot also had a long record of getting his own way. You put the two on a collision course and …
Tibbot wound up not defeated but dead.
Might make a cop wonder, that sort of thing.
If the cop, in this case Chief Ron Ketchum, had been given a second chance in his professional life by the man he might otherwise consider a prime suspect in the commission of Tibbot’s murder, why, that particular cop might feel a conflict of interest.
Tall Wolf, not beholden to the mayor, certainly considered him a suspect.
The fact that Marlene Flower Moon knew Clay Steadman only added a reason to be suspicious. With Coyote working her wiles, there was no telling who might be to blame. Or who would wind up taking it.
