Defiled: The Sequel to Nailed Featuring John Tall Wolf (A Ron Ketchum Mystery Book 2) (6 page)

John Tall Wolf sat in his lake view room at the Goldstrike Marriott and thought about Chief of Police Ronald Ketchum. The special agent had done his homework on the man before arriving in town. Learned about his career with the LAPD. How he’d shot two African-American suspects in the line of duty, had killed one of them, a kid named Qadry Carter, and had been the respondent in a civil suit for wrongful death brought by the Carter family.

The jury had returned a verdict in favor of Ron Ketchum, but only after his lawyer had described Ketchum as a recovering bigot, a label he’d lived with ever since. From what Tall Wolf had seen of the man, his recovery seemed to be holding. Seemed to be a fairly good cop, too.

The chief was certainly courageous going out on the lake to disarm a bomb when it was clear he had no experience doing the job. He’d gotten lucky, the timer malfunctioning the way he described. That was okay, Tall Wolf thought. Better to work with someone who caught the breaks than a guy whose luck was all bad.

Shame, though, the chief hadn’t been able to hold on to the bomb’s detonator.

The techs from the NRC had said they’d like to have it.

The special agent made a note to himself to see if it might be retrieved.

Then Tall Wolf reluctantly called his boss, Marlene Flower Moon, the head of the BIA’s Office of Justice Services.

“Was the threat real?” she asked.

The two of them didn’t have a relationship built on either professional or personal courtesy. But Tall Wolf saw Marlene’s lack of phone manners as an opportunity to twit her.

“I’m fine,” he said. “How are you?”

“The bomb, Tall Wolf,” she said.

He stopped kidding and said, “It was real. The local chief of police found it in an empty boat on Lake Adeline. He defused it. Brought it back to shore. I had the NRC pick it up.”

“So the EPA will be happy. Your work is done.”

“Unless the bad guys have more radioactive medical waste, C4 and a detonating device that isn’t defective.”

“That’s what prevented the bomb from going off, a defective detonator?”

“So says Chief Ketchum. Timer got down to three seconds on the clock when the electronics malfunctioned and couldn’t complete the countdown.”

“Damn,” Marlene said. “That’s one lucky cop.”

Tall Wolf’s exact opinion, but he didn’t like to agree with Marlene.

“Up to a point maybe. Chief Ketchum caught a murder this morning, a local bigshot.”

“Not our business.”

“Not even if there’s connection to the terrorists? A joint federal-local effort might be the best way to foil any manner of nefarious plots.”

Marlene laughed. “So you don’t want me to hand this off to the FBI?”

“Wouldn’t be much credit for you doing that,” Tall Wolf said.

Marlene had big plans for herself: first Native American president.

“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 things 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.