Blue Wolf In Green Fire

by Joseph Heywood

  Heading west, he got as far as Seney and felt himself nodding off. He pulled into the wildlife refuge driveway again for a nap and fell into deep sleep.

  He awoke with gray light creeping through his passenger window and drizzle tapping a tattoo on the roof and running down the hood.

  He grabbed his cell phone and checked his voice mail.

  Carmody’s voice roared, “We need ta meet, ya daft shite, but I can’t reach ya. I’ll try again tonight at half-nine. Be by your phone.”

  “Goddammit,” Service said out loud. He had slept through a page. That had never happened before and it bothered him.

  24

  After a breakfast pasty and coffee at the Golden Ladle in Seney, Service called ahead to Captain Grant at his Marquette office.

  “I’m very pleased to know you’re still on the planet, Detective. How’s Ms. Nantz and where are you?” This was about as close to sentimental as the captain got.

  “She’s on the mend,” Service said. “I’m just leaving Seney and I need to see you, Cap’n. I’ll be there in ninety minutes.”

  An hour later the captain called him back.

  “I’m feeling a tad punk today,” Grant said. “I was just about to head for home. Why don’t you meet me there? You know how to find it?”

  “Yessir.”

  The captain lived in a geodesic dome house built on the banks of the Dead River. Service had never been inside, but he had driven past it.

  Captain Ware Grant greeted him at the front door, wearing a gray cardigan sweater with leather elbow patches and pale moleskin pants. Service followed the captain through a living room packed with antiques to a glassed-in sunporch. There were strung bamboo fly rods standing in a rack on the floor and a fly-tying bench in the corner. Unlike some benches Service had seen—say, Shark Wetelainen’s—materials were not strewn around. The captain was a meticulous man in all things. The Dead River sparkled as it tumbled over a hundred-yard-long riffle below the house.

  To the Ojibwa the mists spawned by the many cascades and small falls on the river were spirits departing for the unknown. They had called the river djibis-manitou-sibi, River of the Spirits of the Dead. Europeans shortened this to Dead River because iron, gold, and silver mines leeched pollution from their upstream locations, but the river was far from dead and there were stretches with great trout fishing. The captain’s house overlooked one of the most productive areas.

  “You could use a shave,” the captain said. “What would you drink?”

  “I’m on duty, sir.”

  The captain smirked. “Technically we both are. We’ll let it be our secret. I like a glass with my lunch.”

  Lunch? It was barely 10 a.m.

  Grant left the porch and came back with two glasses of amber liquid. “Single-malt Scotch,” he said, offering a glass to his detective.

  The Scotch burned smoothly and it struck Service that for a man feeling a “tad punk” his captain seemed just fine—and that his departure from the office might be more playing hooky than being under the weather. This possibility made him look at his superior through new eyes.

  “This is your meeting,” the captain said.

  Service wasn’t sure where to begin.

  “How’s Ms. Nantz?”

  “She’ll recover,” Service said.

  “The advantages of youth,” Grant said wistfully. “I understand she gave a fine account of herself in abhorrent circumstances.”

  “Yessir.”

  “And your comrade, Lieutenant Treebone. I don’t agree with what he did, but neither can I condemn him.” How did the captain know about Tree? He decided to let it drop, but the captain had more to say. “What the lieutenant did was unprofessional,” Grant said. “And thoroughly human. When friends are involved, it’s sometimes difficult to maintain professional objectivity.”

  “Yessir.”

  “You’re uneasy about the Vermillion situation.”

  “Yes,” Service said, wondering if the old man was a mind reader and whose meeting this really was.

  “Like most Americans, you harbor an innate distrust of the federal government.”

  “I’d prefer to think of it as healthy skepticism.”

  “Are you experiencing continuing obstruction by the federals?”

  “Yes, but we’re beginning to make inroads. The FBI seems set on pinning the two killings on Genova, but I’m not buying it. Captain, I’m fairly certain that Larola Brule was the primary target of the killing. She was shot first, and it looked to me to be an efficient, professional hit.”

  “I see,” Grant said. “You have experience with professional hits?”

  “No sir, but the shooting is on one of the Vermillion security video tapes.”

  The captain leaned against the back of his chair. “What does the team think?”

  “They haven’t seen the tape. I found it.”

  The captain nodded ponderously. “You found a tape? Dare I ask the circumstances?”

  He knew it sounded ludicrous, but the find couldn’t be disproven. “It was in a paper bag on a road.”

  “I see,” the captain said, taking a sip of Scotch.

  “I haven’t turned the tape over to the team. I don’t trust them.”

  The captain sat back. “What’s your objective in this case, Detective?”

  “To find who exploded the bomb at the lab and released the animals.”

  “And the homicides?”

  “They’re part of the solution.”

  “Are the bomb and shootings separate events?”

  “I don’t know that yet.”

  “Are you playing at homicide detective?” the captain asked.

  “Sheriff Lee and I are working together, and the homicides are his business.”

  The captain nodded approvingly. “Sheriff Lee is a professional and an exception. Elected law enforcement officials are often less than efficient or professional. You both realize that not sharing the tape puts you on questionable legal footing.”

  “We both think this is the right thing to do for the moment. The tape shows the shooter, Captain. The lab was still intact when the killings took place. The bomb went off three and a half minutes after the shootings. The tape shows the shooter, but the image is poor. Still, from what I can see, the body type doesn’t look like Genova. Sheriff Lee is trying to get the tape enhanced. The hooker in this is that Genova was arrested leading an antihunting demonstration in Trout Lake and the FBI has recovered a .380 Walther PPK from her compound. Ballistics show that it is the murder weapon.”

  The captain studied him. “Her weapon, but not necessarily her using it.”

  Service nodded. He was tired of going over the same ground and getting nowhere.

  Grant said, “The fact that the two victims were shot prior to the explosion does not automatically eliminate the bombing as intended to release the animals. It is possible that the bomb was intended to obscure the shootings, but it is also possible that the bomb was intended to release the animals and that shooting was more a matter of opportunity.

  Still,” he added contemplatively, “knowing the timing aids the investigation. Why do you think the FBI is so focused on Genova? The focus on her came before the discovery of the weapon, correct?”

  “Yes, and that’s the puzzler. All I know is that the Feebs tell one story about her activities in the U.K. and allege she was part of the Animal Freedom League, and she tells a diametrically opposed story. I have reason to believe her version.”

  “Evidence?”

  “The British do not concur with the FBI.”

  “You’ve talked to them?”

  “Through an intermediary.”

  “I see,” the captain said. “Hearsay.”

  “Sir, my contact is a former FBI ag
ent who served in England and maintains her contacts with British intelligence.”

  “Former?”

  “She sued the Bureau for discrimination and won. She’s now a lawyer in Detroit.”

  “A lawyer with her own ax to grind against her former employer?”

  “There’s no love lost, that’s for sure, but I don’t think she has an ax to grind. She won big in her case and I trust her. My point is that if the British are correct, then the feds are lying to us, or holding something back. At this point it’s impossible to tell.”

  “And therefore you are not showing them all your cards—so to speak.”

  “Yessir.”

  The captain gazed out the window for a while. “There are just as many dedicated men and women in federal service as in the DNR,” he said. “Are you familiar with my background?”

  “Military intelligence?” He had never heard the captain talk about his life before joining the DNR. Nobody had.

  “Not military,” the captain said without further clarification.

  Service wondered if it was CIA or one of the many shadowy agencies that comprised the country’s intelligence network.

  He went on, “Despite dedicated people, organizations sometimes go astray and lose perspective. The engine of intelligence is politics. It was not designed this way, but it has evolved to this. Interagency and interjurisdictional cases can be very frustrating. Do you know why you were selected for your position?”

  “So you could keep an eye on me?”

  The captain flashed a rare smile. “Our Lieutenant McKower has a sense of humor. I picked you because you have a complex mind and a facility for complex cases. Despite rubbing against conflicts with jurisdictions, you have always seemed to find a way to the right solution, for the case and for continuing relations. This is a rare quality in an officer.”

  “I haven’t always handled things smoothly.”

  “Only cretins seek smoothness, Detective. Professionals seek answers and will go to any length to get them. Sometimes this entails ­unreasonable risks and the stretching of established protocol. Are you feeling uneasy right now?”

  Service admitted that he was.

  “You sense that the feds are masking something.”

  “At the very least they are not telling us the whole truth.”

  “Are they claiming national security interests?”

  “Yes.”

  The captain’s beard danced a couple of times. “That’s often a sign of obfuscation.”

  “Sir, they’ve essentially razed the Vermillion facility. The lab’s director is not reachable and they are pushing hard on Genova, whom they claim to have had under continuous surveillance for eight years. If so, why didn’t their surveillance people apprehend her at the crime scene or stop her in the act?”

  “Do you have a theory to offer? Much of the science of investigation is art, and sometimes we have to create a less-than-compelling theory to provide a starting point in the search for truth.”

  He hadn’t really thought of it in those terms. “They act like they’ve been caught with their hand in a cookie jar and somehow Genova represents a threat to them. But I can’t figure out what the cookie jar is. It’s possible that Vermillion was designed more for animal training and conditioning than for temporary housing of transplants, which Yogi Zambonet says the state would have blocked. And he said he had informed Brule that the animals could not be released. If Brule knew this, what were they really doing at Vermillion? If we assume their stated mission isn’t the real one, I still don’t understand why the feds are so intent on Genova.”

  “Perhaps Ms. Genova’s involvement is tangential to something else.”

  This comment caught Service short.

  “Is it possible that you have misjudged the motives of our federal colleagues? September eleventh has created a lot of choppy water in the law enforcement and intelligence communities. Nobody wants to be saddled with another failure, and no doubt some individuals will seek to use the wake of this disaster to pursue personal agendas and advancement. It has always been so.”

  Was this an allusion to something in Grant’s past? “Captain, I don’t know what their motives are. All I can see are their actions, and these aren’t sitting well with me.”

  “What do you propose to do next?”

  Grady Service shook his head. “Wait for Sheriff Lee to have the tape enhanced. We have the original, but we made a copy.”

  “There are far better federal resources for such technical matters.”

  “I don’t feel I can trust them.”

  “A terrible conundrum,” the captain agreed.

  “The sheriff and I finally managed to get a list of Vermillion employees. We know now that Doctor Singleton was involved with several women at the facility, including Doctor Brule’s wife.”

  “This raises the specter of jealousy as a motive.”

  “We certainly can’t rule it out yet. But why would Brule destroy his own laboratory and project?”

  “Jealousy is never a rational emotion.”

  “Still, in the brief conversation I had with the doctor the night of the explosion he seemed genuinely devastated by his wife’s death.”

  “Why do you think the doctor is unavailable?”

  “The feds say he’s convalescing and will be reassigned, and that the lab was razed as a prudent fiscal decision; rebuilding would cost too much. These seem like reasonable explanations, but I just can’t buy into their convenience in the wake of what happened.”

  There was a moment of silence. “What progress on the poaching case?” the captain asked in a sudden shift of topic.

  “I think we’re getting close, but there’s a catch.”

  The captain looked at him attentively.

  “Barry Davey’s threatening to pull our undercover.”

  “Did Special Agent Davey offer a rationale?”

  “Changing priorities, which sounds to me like different words for national security. Davey is part of the Soo team and I have a suspicion he’s trying to punish me by pulling his man out.”

  “Would you like for me to talk to Davey or his superiors?”

  “No sir, not at this point. I think Carmody is close to bringing the case to a conclusion and I want to keep him engaged. Davey has instructed me to have Carmody call him, but I have a meeting with the man and I want to see where we are. If he’s not close, I’ll have no choice but to tell him to call Davey.” Actually what Davey said was that Carmody should get back to him. He didn’t specify that the contact be by phone, or ask for precise timing, all of which gave him room to maneuver, Service tried to assure himself.

  “And if the man is close to resolving the case?”

  “I’ll deliver Davey’s message when it suits us.”

  The captain grasped his knees and leaned toward Service. “Has it occurred to you that you may be making the same sort of decision that the federals are faced with?”

  Service didn’t understand. “We need the undercover, sir.”

  “Perhaps the FBI and Fish and Wildlife have needs they must satisfy as well.”

  “Are you suggesting that I tell the undercover to contact Davey?”

  “I am suggesting only that another man’s motives can sometimes appear dubious. Think about what’s gone on from their perspective, Detective. Whatever you decide, I will support, but think it through, and whatever you decide, bear in mind what it is that we are all trying to accomplish.”

  The captain made sandwiches of Finnish bread slathered with butter and stacked with sweet onions and cheese. “I have elevated cholesterol,” he said as he set a crock of pickles beside the sandwiches. “My doctors would object if they saw this repast, but they aren’t here, are they?”

  Service nodded, wondering if this was some sort
of veiled message to him.

  Later in the afternoon he stopped at the house in Gladstone to check on the animals and rest before heading west to be nearer to Carmody when the call came through tonight. Newf was all over him, while Cat gave herself a bath, but she did so sitting on the end of the couch where she could see him. “You don’t fool me, you misanthrope,” he said to the cat. “You missed me.” Cat ignored him.

  25

  Nantz telephoned at 4 p.m. with deep concern in her voice.

  “Honey. What did you do for Thanksgiving?”

  Service said, “Thanksgiving?”

  “Today? You know . . . the holiday?”

  He had completely forgotten. “I had lunch with the captain,” he said.

  “Did you have turkey?”

  “We had onion and cheese sandwiches.”

  “Good God,” she said.

  “And Scotch,” he added. Thinking back on it, the sandwiches did seem like a pretty poor Thanksgiving dinner, but they were what the captain wanted. What kind of life did Ware Grant lead away from work?

  “I’ve got great news. The doctors say my bone density is normal,” she said.

  “You were able to talk to a doctor on Thanksgiving?” he said.

  “Fae invited Robbie to dinner and he brought me the test results.”

  “Robbie?”

  “Doctor Caple.”

  “Oh.” The chief’s wife invited another man to Thanksgiving dinner with his girlfriend? He felt a surge of jealousy, which he immediately tried to ignore. “How do you feel?”

  “Achy and sore, but it’s getting better. I have even better news! I’ve been relieved of duty with Task Force 2001 and returned to the DNR for training. I can start back at the academy as soon as I get medical release. Robbie is going to send my records to Vince so he can monitor me. This means I can come home, honey!”

  Vince Vilardo was an internist and the appointed part-time medical examiner for Delta County. Vince and his wife, Rose, had been Grady’s friends for years and since summer had taken to Nantz almost like adoptive parents.