Defiled: The Sequel to Nailed Featuring John Tall Wolf (A Ron Ketchum Mystery Book 2) (9 page)

“I need an Indian,” Sonny Sideris said.

Marjorie Fitzroy added a dollop of mischief to her customary smile.

“Asian, Native American or wooden?”

Not a bad line, she thought, for right off the top of her head.

The hotel guest liked it, too. His blue-green eyes sparkled like a sunlit sea.

The concierge at the Renaissance Hotel wasn’t sure if the guest was in show business, even if he had the looks for it, but she knew for a fact he was the guy who’d asked her for bank references yesterday. Pretty as he was, he wasn’t her type. But he was memorable.

“What I’m looking for,” he said, “is someone from a local tribe. A grandpa, probably. Someone who’s been around forever. Knows every nook and cranny for miles around.”

Marjorie was about to ask if the guest wanted a trail guide, but she caught herself.

“I assume the person you’re looking for also needs to be
discreet.
”

The guest smiled again and pointed a finger at her. “There you go.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

Sonny watched Marjorie take to the keyboard of her computer the way he’d seen colored guys play jazz piano in New Orleans. Sure, smooth and feeling it deep inside. She knew there was joy in doing anything, if you made it your art.

He liked that.

It was the same way he went about things.

She finished with a flourish and looked up at him.

“The local tribe of Native Americans is the Washoe … The local tribal council has a phone number and a P.O. box number for postal mail … The council president is Herbert Wilkins and he lives in Truckee.”

Marjorie transcribed the information she’d found in Palmer Method cursive on a crisp sheet of hotel stationery. She presented the information to Sonny, along with a map showing how to get to Truckee. Town wasn’t far at all.

Sonny did have a question, though.

“Does Herbert Wilkins sound like an Indian name to you?”

He was surprised when Marjorie’s smile vanished.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“We don’t have a very happy history with Native Americans in this part of California,” she told him. “I had a history teacher who liked to lecture on things you didn’t find in our textbooks. He said that massacres of the local peoples and holding them in slavery were illegal, but both those things happened and the authorities never punished anybody. At least back in the gold rush days. Native Americans were also forced to speak English and take English names. Maybe that was where Herbert Wilkins got his.”

Sonny nodded. Knowing there might still be hard feelings could make his idea more difficult to pull off, but better he should know what was what than walk into a buzz-saw.

“Thanks, I appreciate the help. I’m going to make a point of telling the hotel manager what a great job you do.”

Marjorie’s smile returned. “Thank you, sir.”

Sonny gave her a wave and left, looking at the information Marjorie had provided.

“What do you want that I can give you, Herbie boy,” he asked himself.

Had to be something, didn’t there?

After all, he was going to ask the Indian for the keys to the local gold mine.

The one nobody had been able to find for more than a hundred and fifty years.

Lots of people thought the idea there was still gold to be found in the area was a myth. Something they read about in the hotel magazine’s list of local attractions. Nothing more than colorful Wild West bullshit. He likely would have felt the same way.

Only he had a twenty-ounce gold nugget in his new safe deposit box that said otherwise.

So if old Timothy Johnson had learned from his squaw where the gold was, why couldn’t he do the same? These Washoe characters
had
to know. Wasn’t just that one woman back in the old days who knew the secret.

He’d bet on that.

Maybe, though, he should have asked Marjorie for an Indian
grandma.

Too late now. If he went back and changed his request, she might get suspicious.

Smart as she was, she could figure things out. He wouldn’t want that.

He’d stick with old Herbie. But if that guy did know where all the gold was, could put his hands on it, what more could Sonny offer him?

The chance to keep breathing seemed like a good place to start.

Ron Ketchum stepped up to Marjorie Fitzroy’s desk at the Renaissance not five minutes after Sonny Sideris had left it.

“Good morning, Marjorie. How are you?”

“In love with life and cashing a paycheck to boot,” she said.

“You’ll own this place before you’re through,” the chief told her.

“I already have several shares of common stock and roll over the dividends.”

Ron smiled. “You have something for me?”

“Yes, I do.”

She handed the chief a sealed envelope. The exchange produced a small metallic clink.

Ron said thanks and stepped over to where Keely Powell stood waiting for him with her suitcase. He led her to an elevator door that stood isolated from a bank of others and was screened from common view by a partition of vibrant plantings.

“Ooh, I like this already,” Keely said. “You’re taking me someplace the common folk don’t get to go.”

Ron told her, “I am, and you’ll need an old-fashioned key to call the elevator.”

He opened the envelope and took out a metal key with a silver fob.

“That says VIP,” Keely said, pointing a finger at the fob.

“A sign of personal respect and thanks. From me to you.”

He keyed the elevator. The doors opened and they stepped inside. There were only two destination buttons to push, lobby and suite. Ron pushed suite. He handed Keely her key.

Keely said, “I couldn’t help but notice, having police training and all, that there’s a second key in that envelope.”

“Glad to see you’re still alert,” Ron said.

“And a relentless interrogator, too. I have to ask the purpose of the second key.”

“You never know when I might need to confer with you.”

“Is that what people call it these days, conferring?”

“If they’re all business like me.”

That earned Ron an elbow to the ribs, but not a hard one.

The doors opened. Keely stepped into the suite, taking in the floor-to-ceiling panoramic view of Lake Adeline and the mountains. She was so mesmerized she left her suitcase behind. Ron rolled the bag into the suite. The elevator doors slid shut behind him.

“You want me to point out all the amenities?” he asked.

Keely turned to him with a smile. “No, the detective in me wants to discover them for myself.” She took a beat and asked, “You don’t have anything going with the attractive older woman downstairs, do you?”

Ron shook his head. “I introduced Sergeant Stanley to Marjorie. They have a very happy relationship. Organized to a T.”

“There’s no one else in your life?”

“No.”

“So we can go on a date?”

“Yes.”

“Or stay right here and have our fun.”

“That’s another possibility.”

Keely stepped up to Ron, pushing her suitcase out of the way.

“I’ll bet you didn’t come to my retirement party because you were with someone then. You didn’t try to get back with your ex now that she’s a big TV star, did you?”

“There was someone but not Leilani.”

“Another cop?”

“A game warden.”

Keely smiled. “Close enough. What happened?”

“We both liked basketball and doing our jobs, but that wasn’t enough.” It was Ron’s turn to ask a question. “Did you ever go to Paris?”

Keely shook her head. “I got credit from both the airline and the hotel. It’s just sitting there waiting to be used. I did drink the champagne with friends.”

Ron thought she might kiss him just then, but she turned away. Inspected the suite’s living room. Opened the door to the bedroom and flicked on the lights. Turned back to Ron and waggled her eyebrows.

He followed her, entered the bedroom just as Keely opened the door to the bathroom.

“Wow,” she said quietly.

Then she turned to Ron and began to undress. “This gilded little hideaway has to be Clay Steadman’s doing. What’d he do, hold up the building permit until the hotel agreed to put it in?”

Ron watched as Keely unbuttoned her blouse.

“It was the other way ‘round. The hotel asked Clay if he had any suggestions. He said he had show biz friends and other business partners who visited town and appreciated both comfort and privacy. The suite comes with its own butler.”

Keely was down to her lingerie by now.

“Is his name Jeeves, the butler?”

“Last I heard, Alejandro was his name.”

“That’s cool, too. But he’s not here now. So who’s going to draw my bath?”

Ron attended to that and other duties.

Doctor Perri Dahlgren’s idea of culture was bacteria growing in a petri dish. The medical examiner of Alta County, called in to do the autopsy of Hale Tibbot, considered herself to be a scientist. Unlike so many boobs in the general population, especially faith-based politicians, she didn’t believe in magical thinking. She lived in the real world.

If a hypothesis couldn’t be proved by the scientific method, it was hogwash.

So she wasn’t amused when Sergeant Casimir Stanley of the Goldstrike PD had told her the chief of police didn’t want to hear that a vampire had been responsible for Tibbot’s death. As if she’d ever say that even in jest. The sergeant had said it was the chief who had been joking.

Dr. Dahlgren wanted to say some people’s work — hers — should be taken seriously. But then she supposed a cop could say the same thing. She’d heard about Ron Ketchum defusing that dirty bomb. An avid downhill skier, Perri Dahlgren would have been heartbroken if her favorite slopes had been despoiled by radioactive fallout.

Also wouldn’t have been good if people had been killed, she supposed.

So, yes, cops had their serious moments. That being the case, they should have recognized when other people did work you shouldn’t joke about. She never understood the concept of black humor. Or pretty much any humor.

Her colleagues said she had just the right bedside manner for her job.

She ignored their barbs.

What she couldn’t deny was that some misbegotten mass of protoplasm, one she couldn’t believe was fully human, had drained Hale Tibbot of enough of his blood to do a barroom full of vampires credit. A normal adult male had roughly six quarts of blood on board. Any blood loss of forty percent or more could cause circulatory failure and death.

Hale Tibbot had been tapped for three quarts, half his blood supply.

Seated in his erect posture, the remainder had pooled in his lower extremities.

Given the volume of blood loss the victim had suffered, the walls of the room where he’d been found should have been painted red. The crime scene photos showed just the opposite. Not a drop of blood was to be found anywhere. Doctor George Ryman had speculated, fancifully, that perhaps a desiccant-filled collar had been affixed to the murder weapon. Queen Elizabeth the First hadn’t worn collars big enough to do the job.

No, the means of this spotless killing had a much simpler explanation. Dr. Dahlgren knew from the size of the wound what the murder weapon had to be, a large bore needle. Maybe sixteen gauge or even fourteen. At any rate, it was a size similar to that used to do transfusions and donations. Just like a donation, Tibbot’s blood must have wound up in a plastic bag.

To be used for what purpose, Dr. Dahlgren wondered.

She stopped herself from even speculating.

She didn’t want to know.

There weren’t any vampires out there but there certainly was a ghoul.

Walt Ketchum, owing to the almost two months he’d spent at Clay Steadman’s place, had become a known quantity on the streets of Goldstrike. Not wanting to get behind the wheel of a car for fear his brain might go haywire again and he’d run over a pack of Cub Scouts, Walt walked everywhere he went. After the first week, his legs and feet hurt so bad he thought he might have to be put into a wheelchair. The prospect hadn’t pleased him. Whenever it might be that he breathed his last, he wanted to be operating under his own steam.

He’d confided that to Clay, who said he shared the sentiment.

The mayor also brought in a bright-eyed little Chinese woman who stuck so many needles into Walt he thought he’d have to join the pincushion union. She also massaged his feet and calves until he felt so good he decided he wanted to die with her hands on him. If he ever felt he was slipping away, he intended to put in an emergency call to Jia Li.

The acupuncturist and massage therapist said she charged extra to usher someone into heaven. Walt said he didn’t expect to make it that far, but he paid her fee twice over in advance to make sure she’d show up.

Just as Walt had become familiar to the owners and customers of the shops he passed — and of course the cops who patrolled the town — so too had he come to know them. He’d spent most of his police career in a radio car, but driving or walking, any smart copper knew enough to keep his eyes open whenever he stepped out his front door.

You saw the kind of violence people visited upon each other every damn day, you wanted to spot the predators before they drew a bead on you. Even in Goldstrike, where the median income would incline people to hire out their thuggery, you had to be watchful.

So after seeing and waving to a growing number of people he’d come to think of as acquaintances if not friends, and feeling more like Officer Friendly than he ever had during his working days, Walt spotted an honest-to-God bad guy drive by.

Shit, what was his name again?

He was that pretty boy they’d collared in Hollywood, him and …

Christ. Now, he couldn’t even remember his old partner’s name.

A guy he’d worked with for … he couldn’t remember how many years.

Had the shot he’d taken from Hale Tibbot been that hard?

Must’ve been. He couldn’t remember what errand had brought him into town.

John Tall Wolf, sitting at a café table outside
Patisserie Leroux,
a glass of orange juice and a
pain au chocolat
in front of him, saw an elderly man who resembled Ron Ketchum shuffle past. The man’s eyes were unfocused and his gait was unsteady. John’s impulse was to lend a hand, but he saw a patrol officer on a bike and pointed the man out to him.

The cop took a glance at the man, seemed to recognize him, and gave a wave of thanks to John as he pedaled over to the old-timer. Having the cop talk to him, snapped the guy out of his reverie. The cop spoke into the radio clipped to his shirt and a moment later a patrol unit picked up the old man, let him sit up front, a guest not an arrest.

The courteous treatment reinforced John’s impression that the old man was related to the chief, his father maybe. The man who’d gone into court and testified that if his son had any uncharitable thoughts about people of color, he’d gotten them from him. Just a moment ago, though, the old man hadn’t had any problem accepting help from a Latino bike cop.

Of course, the old guy, if he was Ron Ketchum’s father, had worn a badge himself.

Maybe sharing membership in a smaller tribe, cops, had momentarily trumped the difference in their complexions. Usually, when a person had a problem getting along with someone else, it took more than one point of disparity. It was when people had
no
tribes in common that things could get ugly.

John consumed his juice and pastry and called Marlene Flower Moon.

“I need some help,” he said.

“I’m your boss, Tall Wolf. You do remember that occasionally?”

“Every time I make you look good.”

“I meant …”

Marlene’s voice trailed off. John knew what she meant. He was supposed to do support work for her, not the other way ‘round. But Marlene hated to let Tall Wolf know he’d gotten under her skin, and he did make her look good. Never caring about claiming credit for himself when he cracked a case.

“What do you need?” she asked.

“Information. What’s the name of the local Native American tribe in or near Goldstrike, California.”

“Near,” Marlene said. She paused to check her memory. “There may be one or two Washoe people in town, I’m not sure.”

“Washoe then. Who’s the local head man?”

“Herbert Wilkins.”

“You know him?”

Marlene, master politician that she was, made it a point of meeting everyone who might help with her future ambitions. No one was too humble for her to overlook, and do a favor for if she could. But Marlene was a loan shark when it came to collecting on favors. The interest on repaying her kindness multiplied daily.

“We’ve met a time or two.”

That was all it took; the guy owed her.

“I need an introduction.”

“Why? What does this have to do with domestic terrorism?”

“That’s what I want to find out.”

“So you’re just fishing.”

He was, but he was good at it. He waited Marlene out in silence. She’d hired Tall Wolf, but he’d tendered a signed resignation on his first day of work. It wasn’t dated. He’d left that for her to fill in. Didn’t matter. It was still his declaration of independence.

She hated it that she held no claim on him.

Right now, Marlene had to calculate whether accepting even a token repayment from Herbert Wilkins, something she was loath to do, would be worth the return of whatever Tall Wolf might produce for her.

“All right,” she snapped. “I’ll call and ask Herbert to see you.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“Don’t patronize me, and Tall Wolf?”

“Yes?”

“When you meet the man, try to remember who you are.”

“A special agent of the BIA on loan to the EPA?”

“A Native American.”

“Oh, yeah, that.”

“I’ll be coming to Goldstrike sooner rather than later. To see if the fish are biting.”

“Can’t wait.” John clicked off.

That was always Marlene’s hole card. Crowding him.

Letting him know Coyote was watching his every move.

His phone rang before he could put it back in his pocket.

Ron Ketchum. He asked, “Did you just ask a cop to help an old guy?”

“Yeah.”

“That was my father. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I got a call from the county medical examiner. Detec … Retired Detective Powell and I are going over to Community Hospital to get Dr. Dahlgren’s report. You want to join us?”

“Sure,” Tall Wolf.

After a chat with Marlene, visiting a morgue would be a real pick-me-up.

Ron and Keely had been sleeping in each other’s arms when Sergeant Stanley tracked them down at the Renaissance. He’d learned from his lady friend, Marjorie Fitzroy, that the chief had picked up the key to the VIP suite and, yes, he had an attractive woman with him. Marjorie hadn’t seen either of them leave the hotel.

She forwarded Sergeant Stanley’s call to the suite.

For her part, Keely made sure to clear her throat and sound at least mostly awake before taking the call. She put her hand over the mouthpiece and told Ron, “Sergeant Stanley.”

Ron gave his head a shake and took a sip of flat ginger ale from a glass on the nightstand. He watched a nude Keely make her way to the bathroom. For all the years they’d worked together, it had been their first time. Neither of them had been disappointed.

They were both of an age where falling asleep afterward was a perfectly acceptable alternative to a second go-round and —

“You there, Chief?” the sergeant asked.

“Yeah, Sarge. What’s going on?”

“Dr. Dahlgren has a preliminary report on Hale Tibbot, if you want to talk with her.”

“I do. She’s at Community Hospital?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ask her to give me thirty minutes.”

“Will do.”

Ron ended the call and went into the bathroom. The shower stall was more than big enough for two people, but he asked if he might share the space. Keely rinsed the shampoo suds from her eyes so she might see what his intentions were.

“Just a scrub?” she asked.

“For now. The county ME is waiting to see … well, you and John Tall Wolf. But I want to hear what she has to say.”

Keely gestured him into the stall.

“You’re going to let us run our own investigation, right?”

He nodded.

“Good. I won’t meddle in your eco-terrorist case. Tall Wolf said he has to keep a hand in, but I don’t think he’s the usual pain in the ass you get with a fed.”

“Yeah, not your usual hard charger out of D.C.”

“On the other hand, it’s the sneaky ones you’ve got to watch for.”

To prove her point, she goosed Ron and slipped out of the stall before he could retaliate.