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

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