Bad Optics

by Joseph Heywood

  “How do you guys know the shit you guys know?” the boy asked.

  “It’s our job to see and not be seen until we choose to be seen.”

  “It’s like, jiggy, you know? No offense.”

  “None taken. Not creepy to us. What about the Drazel Sisters?”

  “You already know everything, why ask me?”

  “To confirm facts, bonehead,” Treebone said. “We use multiple sources and standard evidentiary practice.”

  “What?”

  “It’s normal to check data,” Service said. “Drazels?”

  “They’ve got ORVs, but you already know that.”

  “We do, silver with the same logos as on their trucks. You’ve been following them on foot.”

  “First time was a nightmare, but now that I know they head for the same area, I can relax and take my own route to it.”

  “Where have they been going?”

  “It’s a damn wilderness, man. Nothing’s labeled, right? Even the map app shows it blank.”

  “Use English.”

  “There’s some higher ground down on the edge of some swamp country. Lots of melt-off in pools, but they have a route they follow to the same place every time they go in. Must have it on their GPS units, and they’re getting through without any trouble. Spring’s sort of coming.”

  “What are they doing on the high ground?”

  “Surveying, taking photos.”

  “Can you see them all the time?”

  Dotz nodded. “Even when they take leaks.”

  “That’s sick, you watch those ladies,” Treebone said. “Got laws against that stuff.”

  “You asked,” Dotz said defensively.

  Service pushed his friend to tell him to stay out of it. “Same place every time?”

  Dotz said, “The piss or the work?”

  Treebone coughed.

  Dotz said, “They’ve been working their way all around the high ground.”

  “And never out of your sight?” Service asked.

  “Nope, like I said.”

  “Will they be out there today?” Service asked.

  “No, I’m thinking maybe tomorrow, but I don’t know. Last time they came out really, really late and I had a hard hike out in the dark. They aren’t staying as long each time, so maybe they’re finishing whatever it is they’re doing. Do you guys know how far it is from where we park to the high ground?” Dotz asked.

  “Five-point-six miles,” Service said, “give or take. Forecast says snow tomorrow.”

  “Snow doesn’t seem to bother them. They went in that ten-inch dump we got. Got to give it to them, they get out there and get to work.”

  “They haul gear each time?”

  “No, they have a cache.”

  “You know where it is?”

  Dotz said, “Yes.”

  “We want you to show us.”

  “Now?” Dotz asked.

  “No, tomorrow. What time do the women go in?”

  “Usually it’s seven a.m.”

  “We’ll meet at eight, at the place where you hide your truck,” Service said. “Give them time to get on their way.”

  “You know where I hide my truck?”

  “He knows the all, kid,” Treebone said. “A game warden’s definition of a hide is not in any dictionary.”

  The three men made their way back down the steep stairs outside.This time Allerdyce stayed with them and asked, “Youse keep ask kid if womens ever outten sight, like mebbe dey found Woof Cave?”

  “That was part of my thinking,” Service said.

  “Cave safe,” Allerdyce replied. “Got know is dere to find and den got have some of da good lucks to get down in ’er.”

  Service didn’t want to hear any more details. They would emerge soon enough. The good news seemed to be that they weren’t surveying along the river, which is where the diamond-bearing kimberlite pipe was located. So maybe this isn’t about diamonds? And if not, what? What the hell are the Drazels up to?

  He called Friday at her office in Negaunee. She answered, “Huck Finn, I presume. How’s Jim and what role is Allerdyce playing, the evil Pap?”

  “I miss you too,” he said.

  “Prove it,” she came back.

  “How’s our kid?”

  “Don’t change subjects. When are you coming home?”

  “Soon.”

  He heard her sigh. ”I feel like the wife of Columbus, always alone.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Which is what one is forced to do when one is left alone all the damn time. Or fantasize, but that can lead to trouble. Seriously, where have you guys been?”

  “Downstate.”

  “I find no reassurance in either the itinerary, or the statement.”

  “I had an unscheduled visit with Clearcut.”

  “Where?”

  “Troop post in Iggy. Haven’t you heard?’

  “I heard, just wanted to back-check your truthfulness.”

  “You think I lie?”

  “No, but this time the rumor is true. The Troop drums were going wild.”

  “Dumb,” Service said.

  “One tends to hear about every step the legend takes,” Friday said.

  “I hate that word.”

  “Face it. The label is permanent, at least while you live, which I hope is a very long time.”

  “We have to roll,” he said.

  She came back, “Trying rolling through our bedroom sometime.”

  Grady said, “Wilco.”

  “I thought you Marines say aye aye, sir.”

  “You’re not a sir.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Are we arguing?”

  “No, dummy, I’m whining and you’re giving me no satisfaction whatsoever.”

  “Got to get,” he said. “Conversations are, for the record, usually two-sided.”

  “Not in our relationship,” she said.

  “This is okay by you?”

  “Not by a long shot, Bucko, and goodbye. I have mayhem to investigate, murderers to collar. You boys try to stay clear of trouble.”

  “We always do.”

  She laughed and hung up. It was not a happy laugh.

  Chapter 22

  Skandia

  Marquette County

  It became Treebone’s mantra, call your partner, call your partner, call your partner.

  And instead, out of the blue, she called Service, catching him entirely off guard.

  “Service, Wildingfelz. What the hell do you think you’re doing mucking around in my territory?”

  “Wildingfelz?”

  “What, you have to be told things twice to get them into that thick brain of yours, or is it just age? Read your phone, asshat. Hello! I’m your partner, you know, partner: one who shares when and if the coequal partner may assist the other partner to untangle his goddamn legal bonds and get him off the damn suspension list where said partner was consigned for making dumb-ass decisions, back into the woods, where said partner belongs. Taking a lifelong poacher for a partner? During deer season? Totally dumbass and lame.”

  “I was just about to call you,” he said.

  “I had an asshat boyfriend used to say that. He is long gone and unmissed. I was just about to call you,” she said in a whiny voice. “You are so lame!”

  “But it’s the truth,” he argued.

  “Bullshit, don’t be sliming me. Mr. Bigshot’s got aholt of his precious gonads and he’s squirming like a run-over snake on a hot-tar road. You’re off fucking around on my turf, and not a damn word to me? No head’s up, no nothing? You don’t even have the common courtesy to give me a bump or, god forbid, ask for my help.”

  Her voice was high-pitched and nearing scr
eam level, and he held the phone away from his ear and listened as Tree and Allerdyce leaned closer.

  “Whoa,” he ventured.

  “Whoa? What am I, one of your fillies. Don’t you dare whoa me, you oversexed, sexist misanthrope, or should I say, more to the point, museum piece?”

  Treebone mouthed, “Start—with—I—am—sorry.”

  “Sorry,” Grady Service said, and the word was out before he could run it through any of his filters.

  “No, you’re not,” Wildingfelz threw back sharply. “Once a prima donna asshole loner, always one.”

  Temper tipping, he could feel it squirming in the search for air and light. Keep it back, stay cool. “You want to talk or rant like you’ve got the mother of all PMS cases?”

  She shrieked, “As advertised, bigshot sexist asshole. No wonder women refuse to partner with you.”

  “What the hell are you jawing about. I’ve had lots of female partners. Ask around.”

  “Define had,” she said.

  Another piece of straw was added to the camel’s back. She kept digging into him. “I didn’t have to ask around. They came to me at the academy and told me to stand clear of you and your Neanderthal games.”

  “My games?”

  “Order everyone around, poach cases from others, cheat across territory lines, play every thing for yourself, always for yourself.”

  “What lines? Listen Wilkinghell, look at your goddamn patch. It says Michigan conservation officer, not county, not area, not district, but Michigan, state of. We need to meet and I need to square away your thinking. If you represent the shit being dumped out of the academy, those assholes need to take another look at what it is they’re supposed to be doing.”

  She paused and said, “Good, that’s why I called.”

  Where the hell did all the venom and aggression go?

  She said, “I live just off US 41 in Skandia. Got a moose roast in my slow cooker. You and your homeys eat yet?”

  My homeys? “No.” How does she know it’s not just me?

  “Good, bring your appetites and straighten out your attitude for mixed company. You remember mixed company, right, boys and girls talking as equals? How soon can I expect you to grace me with your exalted presence?”

  “By the way,” she concluded. “The bit with the old poacher in deer season was brilliant.”

  After she hung up, Service looked to Tree and Limpy. “Weird, huh?”

  “What part wired?” Allerdye asked.

  “Weird, not wired. She asked if we had eaten yet. How could she know I wasn’t alone? I never told her.”

  “Phone got picture-taker gizzy?” Allerdyce asked.

  “Shut up, Mr. High Tech.” Service turned toward Treebone, who was looking off in the distance. He knew his old friend, all his little tells. “Want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “Got me,” Tree said. “I’m not part of your sorry outfit.”

  “You called her, didn’t you?”

  “No sir, I did not talk to that woman.”

  “Define talk.”

  “Don’t make me no Bubba-Bill Clinton, man. I never had me no kind of intercourse with that woman whatsoever.”

  “Your words say no-no, but your tone says otherwise.”

  “Tone is not evidence admissible in a court of law. You’ve got nothing, man.”

  “Tone counts with juries,” Service said. “The truth will come out.”

  “Take your case to the prosecutor, see if he’ll go for warrants . . . oh wait, you can’t. You’re suspended and you can’t do diddly squat. But your partner can, so you talk sweet and make nice with the girl.”

  “Asshole,” Service said.

  “BOYS,” Allerdyce said, raising his hands. “We got fight bad guys, not each udders.”

  Tree said, “Are we going to sit here and jaw or go eat the lady’s moose? I’m starved.”

  “You could afford to miss some meals,” Service chided, then asked, “What’s your weight at?”

  “Classified, need to know only.”

  Service plugged Wildingfelz’s address into his map app, and a syrupy female voice navigated them to a small hilled driveway. The house sat under the trees to the left of a garage. A black CO truck was parked with its nose pointed down the hill, a small detail, but one that suggested Wildingfelz was always ready to roll.

  His new partner was on the porch of the house, a walk-out ranch. “Thank god for modern electronics,” she said. “Half hour, on the button. There’s wine and beer inside, boys.” To Service she said, “You stay right here with me. We need to talk.”

  Treebone and Allerdyce went inside and his partner said, “First item, it’s Wildingfelz, not Wilkinghell. You did that on purpose,” she said.

  “Might have.”

  “Second point, my friends, family, and my partners call me Harmony.”

  “You’re new. You don’t have partners.”

  “There you go,” she said calmly. “Ready, fire, aim. What is your deal, man? Listen up. I was a Troop out of the Jackson post for five years, so stick your superiority complex where the sun doesn’t shine. FYI, I never listen to gossip. I start all relationships at a zero sum, blank pages, copy that?”

  “Copy that,” he said sheepishly.

  “I know the whole story of you and Allerdyce, verse and chapter. I asked for a transfer from Van Buren County, where I had my first partner. Chief Waco visited me the day I got my assignment and told me he’d hand-picked me for this area because you and I are one of a kind. I wanted Grand Traverse County.”

  “He never told me.”

  “He’s chief. He doesn’t have to.”

  She went on. “I understand the politics of your suspension. It sucks, but we have to deal with it. I also know you’ve been fucking around the Mosquito, and I know on your present course you are headed for serious trouble. How about we shake, start as a team. I do the legwork. You can’t until you’re reinstated . . . if you’re reinstated.”

  “Why’re you in my face like this?”

  “Because you’d do the same for me?”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Wildingfelz grinned. “Everybody knows you, Service. You never leave anyone behind. You don’t know how.”

  “There’s always a first time,” he told her, the only comeback he could manage. She had him on his heels and he did not like the feeling.

  The young CO dished chunks of moose, carrots, and potatoes out of the slow cooker and they all sat at her dining room table. “I shot this animal in Newfoundland,” she said with a mouthful. “Saved this roast for a special occasion.”

  “Moose is moose,” Allerdyce pointed out.

  “Wrong, sir. This is a special cut for my new partner . . . moose-ass roast.”

  Grady Service could only laugh and as the meal continued, Wildingfelz looked over at Treebone and said, “Your wife says you should call home.”

  Service sat back in his chair to listen.

  Treebone turned to him. “Get that damn notary public. I did not talk to this officer.”

  “No, but somebody near and dear to you seems to have.”

  Harmony Wildingfelz said, “Actually I talked to Kalina and to Tuesday. They had a whole ration of suggestions for ways to get your attention.”

  Treebone said, “This is conspiracy.”

  The CO said, “Call it what you want.”

  “What suggestions?” Service asked.

  “You’ll be the first to know when the winds and time are right.”

  “I t’ink I like dis girlie,” Allerdyce said.

  “And I like you too, Mr. Allerdyce, and I’ll always treat you with the utmost respect, but if you ever again call me girlie, I will break off your thumb and make you eat it, and if I catch you breaking the law I will respectfully bust your ass
and take you to jail.”

  The old poacher let out a cackle. “I don’t do dat stuffs no more. I’m wit’ youse guys.”

  Wildingfelz said, “Words are cheap, Mr. A. We shall see.” She looked at her partner. “Right?”

  “Uh, yeah, right,” he said, and nervously scratched his chin.

  Chapter 23

  Hancock

  Houghton County

  Service learned early in his career that all plans were written on tissue paper. Intent meant nothing. This was to be the day that the motley team would hump the Mosquito, but late last night former governor Lorelei Timms telephoned.

  “Big trouble, Grady. The lawyer of Bozian’s friend Kalleskevich is claiming in certain circles that they have proof that one of Kalleskevich’s companies owns the mineral rights beneath certain portions of the Mosquito.”

  “Real evidence?” An old cop reaction: “proof” is a mere word. Evidence was something you could hold in your hand, and until you could do so, it wasn’t real. She was a lawyer and knew this. Must be something to it or she would not have called.

  “That’s not clear, is it?” she said. “The lawyers can claim what they want, but until the court sanctifies said claim on paper, it’s just a claim. I’ve managed to have my source transfer the details of said proof up to Frosty in Houghton.”

  “Frosty who or what?” She spoke so fast sometimes he couldn’t understand her, and she threw names around like everyone on earth knew them, not because she was playing the big shot, but because she knew so damn many people and assumed others did too.

  “Attorney Fallon ‘Frosty’ O’Halloran. You need to get up there and talk to her. More importantly, listen to her,” Timms said.

  Why does the former governor keep nosing into my business? We need to be in the woods trying to figure out what the Drazels are up to, not sitting in an office listening to some lawyerly blather. “I don’t have time,” he argued.

  She chuckled mirthlessly. “Make time, Grady. Besides, it’ll give you an excuse to see little Maridly. You do remember she’s in the same town, yes?”

  “You don’t do sarcasm worth a damn,” he told her, but her snark changed the equation. Little Maridly was the daughter of his late son, who had been murdered along with his girlfriend Maridly Nantz, who was the child’s namesake. He had no legal link to the little girl, but considered her his granddaughter, as if his son were still alive. The girl’s mother, Karrylanne Pengally, had been a student at Michigan Tech, as had his son, and she was now in a post-doctoral program. The couple had never married, but he considered Karrylanne to be a daughter, if not almost-daughter-in-law, neither of which was the reality.