Service could only stare. “Are you trying to fuck with my head?”
“Don’t use that language around me,” she said. “I’m a righteous Christian woman, born again. Honeypat says to tell you that you two aren’t over.”
“We never started.”
“That’s not how she tells it, but then we all know how the woman exaggerates everything.”
“Like hell.”
“I’m not going to tell you again about foul language. She’ll talk to you soon.”
“Her or you?”
“Hard to say.”
“I doubt it.”
“Count on it, Service. Hectorio gets what he wants, my sister needs something too. Fair is fair.”
“Are you like her psychic pimp?”
The woman spat at him as he escaped through the door. He found his hand shaking as he got behind the steering wheel. Jesus! Honeypat’s twin sister? He punched in the speed-dial number for Sedge.
“I’m out on foot,” she answered in a whisper.
“Anything?”
“Talk later. You coming north?”
“Should I?”
“My place, soon as. I know I’m close to something, but I can’t quite find it.”
“Be safe,” he said, closing the cell phone.
21
Bomb Shelter, M-123, Luce County
TUESDAY, MAY 29, 2007
It was the faintest stage of early-morning twilight, and Service found Sedge sitting in her truck, her face glowing with green light from her computer.
“You just get here?” he asked.
“No, I’m just clearing e-mail.”
She looked sleepy.
“You doze off?”
“Maybe for a little while.”
“You can’t work twenty-four seven,” Service said.
“Everyone says you do.”
“Everyone’s full of shit. I’m telling you I don’t.”
He lit a cigarette and let her finish on the computer.
“I was gonna call the handyman, but I decided showing up unannounced at the property might be better.”
Same choice I would have made. “And?”
“Bait piles all over the place, some of them lighted, but the lights weren’t connected. I also found a blood trail and followed it to an outbuilding, which is padlocked.”
“What next?”
“I called Shields. He said he knew nothing about the property, that in fact it is for sale, and that I should call his watchman.”
“Whom you already know.”
“This time he gave me a different name—John Root. My guy is Kindal VanFen.”
“How does Shields explain that?”
“Claims he fired VanFen because he was hearing some, quote, ‘unsavory and disturbing rumors,’ end quote. Naturally he refused to elucidate. I called VanFen. The firing was news to him. Said he got a check last Friday. I asked him if he knows John Root, but he’s never heard the name before, and he’s lived up here all his life.”
“Did you talk to Root?”
“I wanted to, but Shields didn’t have the man’s phone number, because, he said, ‘It’s in my flat in Ottawa.’ He’ll call me when he gets home. I called Information. No John Root listed in the Eastern Upper Peninsula or the Upper Lower. I called Shields back and he said Root has a cell phone, that he just moved here from Indiana.”
“Let me guess: Shields is headed into Canada today.”
She nodded. “The asshole called me from Sudbury.”
“Want to bet on getting a phone call from Ottawa?” he asked.
“I think not.”
“Are there ‘For Sale’ signs out on the property?”
“Not that I saw, and if there are, they’re not prominently displayed. I already checked online listings. Nothing there. I sent a note to the county board of realtors, but I doubt I’ll hear back from them for a few days.”
Service tried to weigh options, but he was groggy from driving. “Sure you can trust VanFen?”
“As much as anyone.”
“Did you get a blood sample from the property?”
“And some hair.”
“Deer?”
“Not sure. Think I should send it to the lab?”
The DNR’s state forensics lab was located at Michigan State University, in East Lansing. “No, hold the sample. The lab’s too jammed up for such a small thing.”
“What happened in Lansing?”
“I met Hectorio, offered him incentives to provide us a name.”
“Think he’ll come through?”
Service sighed. “No clue.”
“Good news. I talked to a Luce County dep. She said she knows a Bolf with a camp on Teaspoon Creek, south of Newberry.”
“Our guy?”
“Could be. She said there’s lots of dogs there, and the guy’s a mega-boozer.”
Before Service could speak, Sedge added, “I called Cugnet. He confirms that Bolf has had some bottle problems—beer, not hard stuff. You want to head over to the Teaspoon to take a look?”
He tried to hide a yawn, but failed. “I need a nap.”
She led him inside and pointed to an oversized, understuffed couch. He looked at the bare walls around him. “Lacks cachet,” he said.
“You want them back on the walls?”
He held up his hands. “I love it just the way it is.”
He had a thought he wanted to share with her, but the next thing he knew she was shaking him. “Sarge, it’s noon and we’re burning daylight.”
He groaned as he sat up and put his feet on the floor. “You hurt yourself?” she asked.
“When you get to my age you’ll understand. Why’d you call me Sarge?”
“An e-mail came through today. DNR’s first chief master sergeant. Congratulations. Does that mean you’re moving on?”
“This case comes first,” he said, adding, “your case.”
“Just how old are you?” she asked.
“Too old to joust with you. Point me at a head.”
“You want lunch?” she asked.
“Shiny shoes food, or real stuff?”
She laughed. “Shiny shoes?”
“Suits, people with expense accounts that do lunch instead of eat it.”
“It’s real, dude.”
“We’ll see,” he said, limping slowly toward the bathroom.
22
Houghton, Houghton County
WEDNESDAY, MAY 30, 2007
Sedge volunteered to creep the potential Bolf camp on Teaspoon Creek and check in with him afterwards. Grady Service had driven to Houghton to spend the night with his granddaughter, who kept poking his ear with her forefinger and chanting. “My Bampy, my Bampy, my Bampy.”
“She likes the rhythm,” her mother explained. “Don’t worry, she’ll have a new mantra tomorrow.”
“I won’t be here,” he said.
“Your loss,” Karylanne said. “You going back to Marquette?”
“That’s the plan.”
But Chas Marschke had called to let him know that the billboards were all set to go. “Do you want to review final wording?”
“Too tied up,” Service said, and gave his financial advisor-manager a thumbnail of the case.
“Taxes,” Marschke said.
“What about them?”
“Rich people give artwork to museums and take substantial tax deductions. It’s often a dodge. What they claim for certain pieces isn’t even close to actual market value, and a lot of times the stuff is either fake or stolen with virtually no provenance.”
“Stolen?”
“Yes, and usually the collector-donor and recipient—and sometimes even the IRS—knows, or suspects the truth.”
“Case of the rich getting richer?”
“That, and museums living off the ill-gotten gains of certain collectors. By the way, you now more than qualify as rich,” Marschke added.
“I don’t feel rich.”
“Some people never do,” Mars
chke said. “If you want, we can pull the trigger on your project earlier.”
“How much earlier?”
“June first.”
“Do it,” Service said. “The sooner people start talking and bitching to their politicians, the better I’ll like it.”
• • •
Service had known the peculiar Zhenya Leukonovich since late 2004 and had worked a couple of cases with her. She was a star investigator for the IRS, and well connected in the miasma of the federal alphabet soup bowl. As she often did, she answered on the first ring when he called.
“Special Agent Leukonovich is most pleased to hear from the mysterious woods cop in Michigan’s wilds.”
He had come very close to a less-than-professional involvement with her, but had somehow steered clear. “This is strictly a business call, Zhenya.”
“Zhenya is of course unsurprised. The wilderness peace officer invariably leaves her disarticulated.”
She loved to wade endlessly in verbal sludge.
“Artifacts,” he said.
Silence on her end. Then, “Artifacts or relics?”
“Either, both—what’s the difference?”
“Humans make artifacts. Human remains over time become relics.”
“People give such stuff to museums and get tax breaks,” he said.
“Deductions, not tax breaks. Technically there is no such thing as a tax break. That is the inexact language of the ignorati mass media.”
“Whatever. Some of the stuff is stolen.”
Leukonovich said nothing. Then, “Why are you making this inquiry?”
“I need a name, someone to guide and advise us in a potential case.”
“Where?”
“Here,” he said. “Close.”
“Artifacts or relics?”
“Either and both,” he said. “We’re not sure yet.”
She paused. “Professor Ozzien Shotwiff, University of Chicago, emeritus, an archaeologist of great repute, the authority on Native American cultures east of the Mississippi River. Be warned: This is not an individual to be trifled with, and he can be most difficult in his relationships.”
“The fat part of the Mississippi, or the headwaters?” Service countered.
“If that is an attempt at humor, be advised it is wide of the mark.”
“Duly noted. How do I reach Professor Shotwiff?”
“I believe he lives from May through October at his Lake Superior cabin near a reputedly quaint village called Silver City. Do you know such a place?”
Ontonagon County. He knew it. “Yes, I know. Thanks, Zhenya.”
“Zhenya clings to the hope the detective might wish to thank her in a more intimate way at some juncture.”
“I’d probably like that in a different life, but I don’t think that’s going to happen in this one.”
“Zhenya never says never,” she said, and hung up.
Service called Sergeant Joe Delucca, newly promoted and covering four western U.P. counties. “Joe, Grady. Professor Ozzien Shotwiff of Silver City—you know him?”
“We call him Ding Dong Disney. The dumb bastard thinks he’s St. Francis of Assisi incarnate, feeds goddamn bears, wolves, you name it, right out on the beach in front of his bloody cabin. His wife of forty years got slightly clawed by a bear last fall and she immediately divorced his clueless ass. There’s no law against the lack of common sense—or feeding bears. We’ve tried to convince him to stop, but he insists he has a higher duty to care for God’s lesser creations.”
“Your guys ever talk blunt to him?”
“Tried, but he’s one of those glass-half-full assholes who never sees the downside of anything—for people or animals.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“Yeah, good luck with that, man. His other nickname with the folks in Silver City is Ozone. You want me along?”
“We can do bad cop, terrible cop,” Service said.
Delucca laughed. “I’m all over that shit. Everyone knows about the coot. Some local businesses have started feeding bears to attract tourists. This is a potentially dangerous situation, but our hands are tied.”
Service guessed he’d need a hook to get the professor interested and feeling helpful. He sat at a table on the front porch of Karylanne’s house with Maridly in his lap. “Doing, Bampy?”
“Rewriting history, honey. You know what history is?”
“Un-unh, but I do it too, okay, Bampy?”
She was already a pill and not yet three.
The Jesuit Relations talked about another battle south on Lake Michigan, toward Green Bay, he thought, but he wasn’t sure. What if Iroquois Point involved the same group heading home after the battle farther south, looking to redeem egos and bent reputations? His eyes locked on the map where the Whitefish River emptied into Little Bay de Noc in Delta County. He ran his finger north along the river; the more he thought about it, the more possible it seemed. Probability, he knew, remained a major issue, but Katsu was insisting the Coast of Death was the actual battle site, and while the Ojibwa had no written history, their oral tradition was strong, and sometimes accurate.
“Bampy needs a smooch-smooch,” he announced to his granddaughter.
She rubbed her little hand on his chin and shook her head. “Whiskers too scratchy. Smooth first!”
God.
23
Gull Point, Ontonagon County
WEDNESDAY, MAY 30, 2007
The ancient-looking cabin had been built of hand-hewn square logs creosoted black to prevent rot. Thick moss covered the roof and plants grew out of the moss. It sat less than fifty feet from the water’s edge, and about six feet higher. There was no garage, no carport, and only a small lichen-covered toolshed. How the hell does this place escape obliteration during November storms? Bird feeders were all over the grounds. The cabin faced north at Lake Superior. The ground around the buildings was matted with thick brown pine duff.
Service knocked on the door several times. “Around back,” a muffled voice called out.
“Here goes nothin’, ” Joe Delucca muttered.
Service paused at the corner of the cabin and looked west. A sow bear and four cubs were moving up and down the beach. A male voice was calling softly, “Your babies are okay with me, Mama.”
The voice came from a tall man with a shock of wavy black hair and dark, leathery skin.
“Professor Shotwiff? I’m Grady Service.” He motioned for Delucca to keep watch for other bears. Where food was being handed out, crowds could be anticipated.
“You come to dissuade me from feeding my animals, or to take me to jail?”
Service walked over to him, careful to keep the sow in sight. “You like to play with hand grenades with the pins pulled, Professor?”
The man glanced over and shook his head. “That would be pretty damn foolish.”
“The pins are out of these bears, Professor.”
“Nonsense, young man. I’ve known this sow since she was a cub coming in with her mama. I’ve been doing this over multiple bear generations now. They all know me and trust me.”
“I’m not a young man, and don’t you patronize me. You may think you’re doing a good thing, but you’re setting up these animals for premature deaths. You’re killing them.”
“Poppycock. Are you going to arrest me?”
“Nossir, but I wouldn’t mind beating some sense into you.”
The old man grinned, stood up, and turned to face the conservation officer. “Bring it.”
Service saw Joe Delucca’s eyes popping and focused to the east, and just as quickly the other officer was pointing. Service looked and saw a rangy young male emerge from the woods, and just as fast the female lunged at the professor and Service ran toward her, waving his arms and screaming. She stopped and clacked her teeth in warning, saliva cascading out of her mouth, a signal for everyone to back off.
“You brought that on,” Service told the professor.
“Patent nonsense. You enticed it,
sir.”
“She came after you,” Service pointed out.
“It’s just a false charge. I’ve seen this before.”
The professor’s hands were shaking so badly that Service guessed he was about to keel over. He took the man’s elbow, steadied him, and helped him sit on the edge of the deck.
“Easy,” Service told the man.
“I don’t understand.”
“Joe,” Service said.
Delucca chased the bears west down the beach until they fled into the trees. The boar loped in pursuit of the other animals from the east, following at an unbelievable speed.
“I think you need a drink for your nerves,” Service said. “That boar is looking to kill one or all of those cubs.”
“There’s a bottle of Calvados on the kitchen table.”
Delucca brought brandy in water glasses.
Service could faintly smell apples in the drink, didn’t like the burnt aroma or the harsh flavor. Too much like antiseptic mouthwash.
The man’s hand was still shaking as he tried to sniff the drink.
“You familiar with the boar?”
The old man shook his head.
“Tell him, Joe.”
“The male wants to rub out all potential competition.”
“What’s the story here, Professor? You’re a smart man. You have to know this is how it is.”
“But they’re my animals.”
“They’re not yours, but you could end up as their meal.”
“I will not accept that.”
“It doesn’t matter what you reject or accept. Because of you, others in town are now feeding bears, which means the bears you think you know will have to compete against animals they don’t know. We’ve seen this scenario play out before. Right, Sergeant Delucca?”
“There it is,” Delucca said. “These deals always end up the same way.”
“Why’re you two here?” the retired academic asked.
“Iroquois Point,” Service said.
“What about it?”
“You’re familiar with how it was named?”
“Of course; what’s this got to do with bears?”
“Absolutely nothing to do with bears, but what if it’s misnamed?”
The man pursed his lips. “I’m listening.”
Force of Blood Page 13
