Defiled: The Sequel to Nailed Featuring John Tall Wolf (A Ron Ketchum Mystery Book 2)

by Joseph Flynn

  Benjamin shook her head. “It doesn’t work like that.”

  Ron agreed. “As Hale Tibbot soon found out. What Clay also thinks is there are lots of legitimate companies with gaming interests in Nevada who wouldn’t appreciate having wholesale competition from the people next door in California.”

  Benjamin sat back against the bench and stared out at Lake Adeline.

  “Whew. It might be the mob who killed Tibbot or it might be corporate America.”

  “There’s more,” Ron said. “Something I thought of.”

  The special agent gave him a sidelong look. “Yeah?”

  “What if killing Tibbot hadn’t been enough? What if hostile competitors thought they had to take out Goldstrike, too? Show any location in California that was considering gaming as a new path to prosperity that there would be serious risks involved. Say having a dirty bomb go off in the middle of town.”

  Benjamin bobbed her head. She could see the possibilities, horrifying as they were.

  Gangsters and CEOs waging war inside the country.

  She told Ron, “I’m glad you shared. This investigation has grown way beyond the scope of a small police department.”

  “Yeah,” Ron said.

  “Are you going to tell John Tall Wolf about this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks for being honest. So is Clay Steadman going to stay in office until he can’t manage any more?”

  “No. He says he wants to make two more movies while he’s still able, one of them based on my father’s life.”

  Benjamin nodded. “He should go for it then. So who’s going to replace him?”

  “He wants me to do it,” Ron said.

  The chief saw the special agent give him a look that said all sorts of new calculations were taking place in her mind. But all she said was, “Big shoes to fill.”

  “Yeah, you think?”

  Abra Benjamin changed the subject, taking stapled sheets of paper from her briefcase. “Here’s my list of the people who live within a fifty-mile radius of Goldstrike and own GMC Terrains or Chevy Tahoes, blue or green, within the last two model years.”

  The vehicle Brant Sutherland thought he saw the morning he and his dad found the bomb.

  Ron said, “Sorry, but I forgot to compile my list. Must have had something else on my mind.”

  “No worries. I think I covered all the databases.”

  Benjamin got to her feet, saw the chief had more thinking to do right where he was.

  She offered an unsolicited opinion. “I’ve always thought a cop should think twice before going into politics.”

  Ron offered a joyless smile and told her, “I’m way past twice.”

  John Tall Wolf and Keely Powell had just finished their interview with Glynnis Crowther and returned to Keely’s car when Tall Wolf received a text message. He read it, thought about it and handed his BlackBerry to his unofficial new partner.

  She smiled at him and said, “I was starting to wonder if there were limits to what you’ll share.”

  “Of course, there are,” Tall Wolf said. “But I define them, not some rule book.”

  “You’re independently wealthy?”

  “Rich in spirit. Plus I own my house, and I save more than I spend.”

  “You’re also modest.”

  “That, too.”

  Keely looked at the message on the BlackBerry. Read it a second time and handed the device back to its owner.

  “Now, that’s interesting. I’m sure Ron will want to know.”

  “Yeah.”

  The Nuclear Regulatory Commission had just let its federal colleague know that the container holding the dirty bomb that Ron Ketchum found was so well made and secure that had it fallen into Lake Adeline, absent the explosion of the C-4 attached to it, it might have sat on the bottom of the lake indefinitely — far longer than the Cobalt-60 payload’s half-life of five point two seven years — without leaking. Past that point, the Cobalt-60 would have represented no ecological danger.

  The NRC said it wanted to examine the bomb’s detonator. It was investigating the best way to retrieve it from the lake, and would make a special request for funds to expedite whatever process was deemed the most likely to succeed. English translation: Don’t hold your breath.

  “You think the bomb was a hoax?” Keely asked.

  Tall Wolf said, “Maybe it did just what it was intended to do.”

  “And that would be?”

  “To get everyone in town to think of what might have happened.”

  Ron Ketchum had more thinking to do, but he’d returned to his office to do it. School was out for the summer, but people still had to go to work. So they put their kids in day-camps, among other things, and campers in Goldstrike took frequent trips to the lakefront. He’d spent ten minutes shaking the hands of a group of kids who looked like they couldn’t be more than …

  Eight years old. Right there in the middle of them was Brant Sutherland, who must have told all his friends about his adventures. And the part the chief of police had played in saving the town. All the boys in the group and several girls told him they wanted to become police officers. Ron said that would be a good thing to do, but there were several other careers to consider, too.

  The three camp counselors, college kids watching the younger ones, also shook his hand.

  All the while Ron had been mentally kicking himself, because he was thinking he probably could get a lot of votes if he decided to run for mayor. With Clay’s support —

  He’d decided it was time to go inside, before any more well-wishers happened by and brought out political instincts he never knew he had and now wished to suppress. No sooner had he stepped inside than Sergeant Stanley handed him a sheet of paper and said, “Nikos Sideris, courtesy of LAPD.”

  Ron looked at the mugshots he’d requested. Both police departments had used electronic transmission equipment of sufficient quality to render sharp images. Further reproduction would result in very little loss of definition.

  “Please express my gratitude to LAPD,” Ron said.

  “Already done, sir.”

  “Please send a copy to my father, at the mayor’s house, for his review.”

  “I took the liberty,” Sergeant Stanley said. “Mr. Ketchum told me the mug shots are just how he remembers Nikos Sideris, and the man he saw here in town bears a striking resemblance to Sideris.”

  Ron knew his job would be much harder without Caz Stanley, but there were times when the sergeant’s efficiency was almost annoying.

  “Do you know what the mayor had to say to me, Sarge?”

  “No, sir.”

  That was good, Ron thought.

  “I do have one other item for your attention, Chief. Dr. Dahlgren put a rush on the blood tests.”

  Ron accepted the second sheet of paper Sergeant Stanley extended to him.

  The blood on the red arrow he’d found, and two others found by patrol officers, had all been rendered with Hale Tibbot’s blood and a commercially available fixative. But Dr. Dahlgren estimated the “artwork” had required less than the six pints of blood missing from the victim. The medical examiner’s opinion was the killer must have either disposed of the remainder or still possessed it.

  That would seem to cover the possibilities, Ron thought.

  Maybe, though, he ought to check the art galleries in town.

  See if an unknown artist was working in a new medium: Type O-negative.

  “Sarge,” the chief said, “let’s get copies of Nikos Sideris’ mugshots out to the troops and all the relevant people in the hospitality industry. If we can find the guy my father saw, I want him brought in for questioning.”

  Sergeant Stanley started to say something. Probably, “Already done,” Ron thought.

  But he stopped his first impulse and said, “Yes, sir.”

  Knowing it wouldn’t be a good idea to remind the chief too frequently that most things could get done without his input. Still, there was a measure of comfort
for Ron to take in his subordinate’s extraordinary efficiency. Should he decide to leave his job, run for mayor and win, Caz Stanley would see to it that the new man, or woman, taking his place would get off to a good start, and wouldn’t ever have to sweat the small stuff.

  But would Ron want to be mayor?

  The short answer was no.

  The longer answer was, it depended on who else might fill the job. Hale Tibbot had said he would have fired Ron. Someone else might feel the same. Another person might want him to stay but could be too meddlesome to tolerate. On the other hand, if he were the mayor, he could make sure the new chief would be someone who was up to the job.

  Of course, there was one very big drawback to succeeding Clay Steadman, especially with Clay’s backing. If the mayor did have anything to do with Hale Tibbot’s death and Ron was seen as benefitting from his relationship with the mayor — by filling his old job — there would be no way any good cop investigating Tibbot’s death wouldn’t believe Ron wasn’t in on it, too.

  The best thing for Ron to do might be to resign his job right now and put as much distance as he could between himself and Clay Steadman and Goldstrike. Then, again, that could look like he was running from his involvement in a murder. He could be damned either way.

  Abra Benjamin had seen the jeopardy he was in already.

  Maybe he should consult her — or John Tall Wolf or even Keely — about what he should do. Or he could just go out and catch the sonofabitch who killed Tibbot.

  Sometimes the simplest choice was the best.

  John Tall Wolf stood in front of the sign for Locks & Bangs and asked Keely, “Hairstyling for the bondage and discipline set?”

  Keely grinned at him. “Feds aren’t supposed to be funny. Don’t you know that?”

  “Serious as death and taxes?” he asked.

  “At least. You’re supposed to scare people not crack them up.”

  “You’ve heard of the Iroquois, right?”

  “Is that your people?” Keely asked.

  “No, Northern Apache and probably Navajo.”

  “Probably?”

  “Never met my biological father.”

  “Oh, sorry. Back to the Iroquois. Yeah, I’ve heard of them.”

  Tall Wolf sighed. “Timing’s gone.”

  “What, for the joke you had planned? To show me feds are funny?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s gonna kill me now,” Keely said, “wondering what it is.”

  Tall Wolf smiled. “Well, that’s kind of funny.”

  The honk of a car horn across the street let John have the last word on the subject. A cop in a Goldstrike PD patrol unit wanted some attention. He called out, “Special Agent Tall Wolf?”

  John nodded.

  “I have a Mr. Herbert Wilkins with me, sir.” Wilkins leaned forward in his seat. “Sergeant Stanley asked me to help him find you.”

  Tall Wolf said, “Thank you, officer. Mr. Wilkins, why don’t we find somewhere quiet where we can talk?”

  Wilkins nodded and got out of the patrol unit.

  While he was waiting for traffic to clear so he could cross the street, Keely said to Tall Wolf, “Come on, tell me. What about the Iroquois?”

  Tall Wolf told her, “They were the first people to play the Catskills.”

  “That’s not so funny.”

  “Sure. Not now,” he agreed.

  Tall Wolf shook hands with Wilkins and they walked off down the street.

  The special agent saw a sign for the Head in the Clouds Diner.

  Keely went into the hair salon for a shampoo, a cut and maybe an arrest.

  Roger Sutherland saw Jacob Burkett sitting on the bench facing Lake Adeline and sat next to him, extending a hand to Burkett. The environmental engineer shook the director’s hand. The residents of Goldstrike who spent more than summer and winter holidays in town got to be nodding acquaintances at a minimum. Sutherland and Burkett knew each other well from a documentary film the director had shot, “California Wild and Free.” Burkett had appeared in the film and recounted his experiences working in some of the state’s most stunning natural settings.

  “Good morning, Jake.”

  “Roger.”

  The two men watched sunlight sparkle on the water. A rainbow trout swimming in the shallows offered a splash of color. It darted for cover as the shadow of a hawk flying overhead triggered piscine survival instincts. Roger Sutherland smiled and Jake Burkett nodded.

  Some things were still the way they were meant to be. If you could overlook the fact that most fish communities in the lake, like the rainbow trout, had been introduced by man. So, okay, sometimes the tinkerers got things right.

  And sometimes they didn’t.

  Without exchanging a word, the two men surveyed as much of the shoreline as they could see. There were virgin spaces, public spaces and developed spaces. The parcels where hotels sat close to the water constituted no more than a quarter of what they could see. But new among that commercial allotment was the Jade Emperor’s construction site.

  The two men fixed their eyes on it, shook their heads in unison.

  “I was damn mad when the town council approved that place,” Jake said.

  Roger sighed.

  “Me, too,” he said, “but it has been a long time since any new lakefront development was allowed.”

  “Fifteen years,” Jake said.

  Roger shrugged. “Most resort towns build a lot faster than that.”

  Jake asked, “Would you want to live in most resort towns?”

  “No.”

  “Me either.”

  “What would you suggest, Mr. Environmental Engineer?”

  “A hard cap on commercial development. A building permit for, say, a new hotel would get issued only after the demolition of an equivalent property.”

  The director nodded and smiled. “Yeah, I can see that. It has a nice symmetry.”

  “Do the same thing with residential construction.”

  Now Roger gave Jake a look.

  “If you aren’t here already, you can’t come?”

  “No, more like if you own a home here and want to leave, you have to sell it to the town at a fairly appraised market price. In turn, the town sells the home to a lottery winner chosen from people on a waiting list.”

  Roger slapped his knee and laughed.

  “That’s damn clever.”

  “That’s not all. If you buy a home off the list, you can knock it down and rebuild if you want, but the new structure can’t be any bigger than the one it replaces and it has to be more efficient in its use of natural resources.”

  Roger applauded. “You’ve really thought this through. Makes me almost ashamed to tell you the idea I had.”

  “What’s that?” Jake asked.

  “Well, when I go to bed at night lately, I can’t help but wonder if maybe someone’s skulking out onto the lake to try some more bad shit. That’s a big lake out there for two cops in one boat to cover all by themselves. I was thinking some of the more responsible boat owners in town could go talk to Chief Ketchum or the mayor, if necessary, and volunteer to help the police with night patrols. Just keep an eye out, you know. Radio for help if we see anything. Would you be up for something like that, Jake?”

  “I would. I’d be happy to do it.”

  “Beats sitting around, praying nothing goes wrong,” Roger said.

  “Yes, it does. But do you think either the chief or mayor would let us bring weapons with us. I’m all for calling the cops, but if things were to go to hell fast, I wouldn’t want to be praying for help out on the lake.”

  Roger said, “I think we could work something out, don’t you?”

  Keely entered Locks & Bangs and asked if Veronika had an opening that day. Turned out she’d just had a cancellation. The stylist looked every bit as good her picture in the window, except the corners of her mouth turned down just a little. Losing a rich boyfriend could do that to a girl, Keely supposed.

  Veron
ika asked who referred Keely to her. You didn’t get to be a veteran cop, let alone a homicide detective, without being able to lie glibly. Keely said, “I’m staying at the Renaissance. You were at the top of the list I was given.”

  The stylist turned her frown upside down, ever so slightly. Learning that her new client was staying at a high-end hotel and that she’d been recommended by the Renaissance implied both a nice tip now and more referrals in the future. Good things both.

  Retired Detective Powell had braved going out into the world that morning with only her ankle gun and she wore the slacks that had an extra inch of inseam. She didn’t worry about any oops moment of discovery. She sat back and enjoyed the shampoo. When asked what she’d like to have done with her shoulder-length hair, she said, “I think I’d like it to go up three, maybe four inches.” Ron Ketchum had never seen her with hair that short. “I’ll trust you to do something chic with it.”

  Flatter the stylist that her professional sense of esthetics would produce a winning result. You couldn’t pay a higher compliment to an artist than that. Veronika smiled at Keely and said, “Thank you. I’m sure you’ll like what I can do for you.”

  The stylist studied the planes of her client’s face and set to work.

  Keely displayed further trust by closing her eyes as Veronika was busy snipping here and there. She peeked when the stylist brought out her hair dryer and brush. Watched closely the great care the stylist took with getting her hair just so. Loved the way the new hairdo called attention to her cheekbones.

  When she finished, Veronika solicited Keely’s opinion with a raised eyebrow.

  “Damn,” Keely said sincerely, “I didn’t know I could look that good anymore.”

  “You’re very pretty, and quite youthful.”

  Keely could buy the first compliment; the second was pushing things a little. But, hell, when tips made up a good chunk of a woman’s income you could forgive her a little harmless bullshit. Keely said, “Thank you.”

  She nodded to a framed picture on a shelf opposite the chair in which she sat.

  Veronika in costume. Marie Antoinette. Same outfit she wore in the photo with Hale Tibbot, but she was alone this time. She’d been discreet enough or sensitive to the man’s passing not to bring a picture of her late sweetie in to work.