“I said I’d ask you.”
She laughed again. “Liar.”
“Right,” he said.
“She wanted to jump your bones.”
“Said she’d give it up.”
Nantz said, “Shuttt uppp. I would too.”
“She’s on the run from Limpy.”
“Is she safe?”
“Day to day, probably. Long term, who knows? Allerdyce usually finds a way to get what he wants.”
“Would he hurt her?”
“First, then drag her back.”
“She’s playing a dangerous game,” Nantz said. “Can you help her?”
“There’s not much I can do.”
“I’ll be home late Friday night,” she said. “I have to drop Lori in TC, and pop up to Esky.”
“That will be a good thing,” he said.
“No, baby,” she said with a laugh. “It will be a great thing.”
Service lay awake for a long time. Dealing with Allerdyce was like a chess game that sometimes resembled short-bus checkers and other times Kasparov against Big Blue. The key to dealing with Allerdyce was to understand that he orchestrated everything and to believe nothing. Limpy had only one motivation: himself. Aldo wants in the DNR so Limpy tells the DNR his grandson is gay. Then Honeypat shows up and says Limpy is lying and trying to undercut the kid. Was it this simple? Somehow, he doubted it. Maybe Honeypat was on the level, maybe not. One night soon, he’d do a little recon, see for himself.
22
The phone rang at 4 a.m. and Service fumbled to find the receiver.
“Service, Ficorelli. How’s it goin’?”
“I’m in bed.”
“Not alone, I hope. I’ve been up all night. Your boy Charley Fahrenheit has never been busted by Fish and Game, but he hangs with a crowd my guys know well. Les Reynolds is the warden up that way. Bituva Boy Scout–tightass for me, but he gets the job done, and he’s gotta hot old lady. How come the hot ones always hook up with the duds? I’ll never figure that out.”
“Fahrenheit,” Service said, sitting up in bed and trying to get Wayno to refocus.
“A guy named Colliver’s the leader of the crowd old Charley-boy hangs with. Colliver’s been busted more than I’ve been laid. Les hasn’t been able to get Fahrenheit, but he says Charley is part of the show.”
“What kind of busts on Colliver?”
“Deer out of season, several trapping violations, felony theft of public timber, failure to register vehicles, trafficking bear parts.”
“Did you say bear parts?”
“Les got him last fall on a deer case, three does out of season. He got a warrant and found bear parts at Colliver’s camp—in a freezer. Les believes Colliver brings a bunch of Croatians from Chicago up to Iron County in the U.P. every year. They come up for three days each time and head home as soon as they have thirty carcasses in their freezer truck. They sell the meat around Chicago. The Illinois people are looking at it from their end. Colliver calls these weekends 3–30s and the Croats pay him big for putting them on animals. The Croatians always bring some hookers along for entertainment.”
“Bear parts,” Service said again.
“I’m gettin’ there. Just trying to paint you a picture. Colliver’s bear was tagged. He had a skin on the wall, minus paws. And there were paws in the freezer. Les wanted a DNA comparison done on the rug versus the paws, but our management didn’t want to spend the money. He had the three deer and that was enough. I talked to Les last night and he wants Colliver bad for his 3–30s. Said if you come over, the three of us can shake the trees.”
“I’m not necessarily interested in Colliver. Just Fahrenheit.” Although the information about bear parts might alter that.
“Les don’t give shit-one about Charley-boy. You want, you and I can pay Fahrenheit a visit.”
“When?”
“If not now, when? Am I right?”
Service thought for a moment.
Ficorelli said, “I can head up there this afternoon, poke around, check shit out. We can meet at the Hoar House in Marinette tomorrow—7 a.m. okay?”
“You want to meet at a whore house?”
“Chill, man. This is H-O-A-R: Hamburger, Oprah, Asshole, Rambo. It’s a bar and restaurant owned by Frosty Gimble, one of our retired wardens. He’s not a tightass like Les and he keeps his ear tuned.”
“Seven at the Hoar House.”
“Way cool. It’s on Hosmer Street in the Menekaumee bar area. When you cross the river from Michigan, turn left. You can’t miss it.”
Newf jumped on the bed to let him know she wanted out, but he pushed her away and told her to lay down. “I’m not ready to get up,” he said. He was awakened an hour later by Cat and Newf fussing with each other, and swung his feet down to the floor. “Goddamned animals. Knock it off!”
While the animals did their morning constitutional he went into the garage to work the free weights and found himself struggling to do his normal number of reps. All the damn office and phone time were killing him.
He called the office at eight. Fern LeBlanc answered.
“Cap’n in?”
“He’s going to get out of the hospital at noon and be resting at home for the next two days. The doctor says it’s a mild concussion. I’m going to pick him up. He would like for you to cover his calls in his absence. Are you coming in?”
“No, just relay his calls to me—either cell or the eight hundred. I’ll monitor Channel Twenty.” Lansing liked to brag about its technology. Let it prove its value.
“Please let me know where you are,” LeBlanc said.
Service telephoned Vince Vilardo and asked to meet him at St. Francis Hospital in Escanaba. He wanted to visit Nordquist and get his stitches yanked.
He filled Newf’s food and water dishes in the dog run built off the garage and told her and Cat they were on their own for the day.
On the way to Escanaba he drove past Outi Ranta’s house. Her red Jeep was parked in the driveway beside an older gray Honda. Probably Honeypat’s, he told himself. He called Station 20 and ran the plate on the Honda. It belonged to Outi.
Kate Nordquist looked sad and pale, but perked up when she saw him.
“I’m honored,” she said. “Where’s Mar?”
“Wild blue yondering. She’ll be home Friday night.”
“You smiled when you said that.”
“Did I?”
“What’s with your leg?” he asked.
“I’ll keep it, but if the plastic surgeon doesn’t work magic my miniskirt days are over. The doctors say I have to go on medical leave—up to six months. I’ll miss deer season.”
“There will be others,” he said to reassure her. He understood how she felt. Deer season was the most intense and rewarding time of the year for officers. And often the most frustrating.
“Still a tough pill to swallow,” she said. “This was to be the first on my own.”
“You’ll handle it.”
“That’s what Moody says too.”
“You should listen to him.”
“Did you stop by just to see me?”
“I did, and I asked Vince to come in and pull some of these stitches.” He peeled the bandages back.
Nordquist appraised his face. “Looks like we both need time with the plastic surgeon.”
“This face stays the way it is,” he said.
“If Nantz agrees.”
He nodded. “That too.”
“How’s your son?”
“Fine.” How long had it been since they talked?
“Grady,” the young officer said in a hushed tone. “I was sitting in the truck waiting for Eddie. A truck pulled up. The driver got out and went over to a trash can and knocked it over. Then he fell. I got out to see what was wrong and he came at me with a pip
e or something. I never reacted. I went down and my head was swimming and then I saw the truck coming at me and I don’t remember anything else. I think I fucked up.”
“When you get hurt self-doubt is natural. Good officers always second-guess themselves. The dumb ones don’t.”
“Not you. They shoot you, break your bones, cut up your face, and you keep going like the Energizer Bunny.”
“Appearances aren’t the whole story,” he said. “The feelings will pass, Kate. Your job now is to heal, rehab, and get your butt back in the woods with the rest of us. You can’t leave Gutpile out there alone.”
She smiled and reached out her arms. He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.
“Mar and I will be over this weekend,” he said on his way out.
Dr. Vince Vilardo stared at his face. “We should leave them in.”
“The damn things itch like hell.”
“That means you’re healing.”
“Get them out, Vince.”
Vilardo smiled and set his jaw. “Not this time, pal. How’s the finger?”
Service held up his hand, waved the taped-together fingers. “Good as new.”
Vilardo shook his head. “You’re a caveman.”
“I thought the customer was always right.”
“Patients are customers only to their insurance carriers. Where’s Nantz?”
“Campaign trail.”
“Timms is going to win,” Vince said.
“We’ll see.”
“You’re not voting for her?”
“Last I knew it was still a secret ballot.”
“You want to come over for lunch?”
“I’m working a case.”
“More like the case is working you,” his friend said.
On his way back to Marquette he got a call from Lorne O’Driscoll.
“Chief,” Service said.
“I left a callback for you.”
“Sorry, I got busy.”
“How’s Ware?”
“Fine. He fell out of his chair.”
“LeBlanc says it was a mini-stroke.”
“His doctor says it’s a mild concussion.”
“You wouldn’t cover for him, would you?” the chief asked.
“Just handle his phone calls.”
“Did Ware talk to you about the senator?”
“We talked.” Was the chief going to thump on him now?
“If Timms wins, Tenni is out when his contract expires. In order to do this she’ll probably have to replace some members of the Natural Resources Commission.”
Eino Tenni was the director of the DNR and appointed by the Natural Resources Commission, not the governor. But the governor did appoint the members of the NRC, and Tenni had proven to be a rubber stamp for Bozian. A new governor would replace commission members with people more attuned to another way of thinking. They would not renew his contract, and would replace him.
“Politics,” Service said.
“You understand that what Ware talked to you about is for the good of the force.”
“Understood, Chief,” Service said, grinning to himself. “I’ve got the job I want.”
“Really?”
“Some days, more this year than last.” Today wasn’t one of them.
“Anything I need to know?”
Service toyed with telling the chief about Siquin Soong and decided against it. “No sir.”
“Keep an eye on Ware, Grady.”
“Yessir.”
“How’s Nantz? She ready for the academy?”
“She’s ready.”
“All right then. The other thing I want you to think about is this: Bozian’s early-out program stripped us of a lot of good people. With all the retirements, and the lag in our replacement pipeline, we’re short in most counties, especially up your way. I’m going to ask that all detectives and sergeants take on other areas in addition to their regular duties. This might last close to a year, but we have to do something. You’ll probably be working the Lake Michigan fish runs this spring.” The weather always sucked during fish runs, but it didn’t stop poachers, and officers were out in the cold soup with them.
If the department’s lawyers hadn’t tanked the state’s voluntary conservation officer program, COs would have VCOs in the vehicles with them, but the VCO program had been eliminated. Many COs could point to endless times where VCOs had kept them from serious injury, or helped make a case they couldn’t have made alone. Management had ignored the pleas. “What about bringing retirees in to cover the holes? They already know the jobs and they’re licensed to carry.”
“Too many legal and civil service barriers.”
“Be good to find a work-around,” Service said. “The people of the state are going to end up paying one way or the other.”
“Point taken,” Lorne O’Driscoll said. “Talk to Ware about it.”
“Yessir.”
He was not five minutes off the phone with the chief, when Lisette McKower called. “This is frightening,” she said. “Me reporting to you.”
“You’re not reporting to me. I’m answering phones—a receptionist.”
She laughed. “How does it feel to have command responsibility?”
“Stop it, Lis.”
“How is he, really?”
“Okay. His doctor says—”
“To hell with what the damn doctor says. You were there. What do you say?”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“Jesus, you’re talking just like a captain.”
“Will my paycheck reflect it?” he asked.
“Not a chance.”
Enough phone calls, he told himself. He called the office, got LeBlanc’s answering machine, and left a message that he would be out of the vehicle. He needed time to think, time alone without interruptions. He pulled the truck into the trailhead of the Claw Lake Snowmobile Trail and parked next to some Japanese red pines.
He sat on a log and lit a cigarette and was two puffs in when two pickups came racing into the small parking lot and skidded to a stop. One man got out of each. They ran toward each other and went down in the gravel, swinging punches and cursing. He ran over to them and grabbed the first arm that came up. Which was when he saw a knife. Then another. Jesus!
He held up his badge, pulled his SIG-Sauer, and fired a round into the ground. The two men immediately stopped struggling.
“Conservation Officer! Put the knives on the ground, get down on your knees, and put your hands behind your heads. Now!”
“Dog,” one of the men said.
“Fucker of dogs,” the other one hissed back.
Service kicked both knives away. “Shut your mouths.”
The men went silent. “What the hell is going on?”
“It’s not serious,” one of the men said.
“You almost wreck your trucks, jump out with knives, and start hacking at each other.”
“Just his hair,” one of them said.
They both had long hair tied into pigtails.
“We’re pigtailing,” the smaller of the two men said. It was hard to judge age.
“What the hell is pigtailing?”
“He’s Sioux,” the taller man said. “We drove them out of here a long time ago.”
“He’s Ojibwa,” the shorter one said. “And some of us are back.” He glared at the other young man.
“Let’s see some ID,” Service said. “One hand on your head, fish in your pocket with the other.”
“We’d never hurt another person,” the tall one said. “We’re just trying to take each other’s hair. You can’t be a warrior without hair.”
“What if you miss, hit his neck?”
“We know what we’re doing. Our tribal elders approve of this as a way of settling
disputes.”
“What dispute?”
“It goes back?”
“How far?”
“Three, four hundred years.”
“You want to scalp each other over something that took place centuries ago?”
“It’s a matter of honor—like the Civil War.”
“Sounds like a matter of stupidity,” Service said.
He was reaching for the first wallet when he heard a thud and breaking glass down the snowmobile trail behind them.
“What the hell?” The two men joined him in staring down the trail.
A man appeared and stumbled forward, caught his foot, and went down on his face.
“That dude’s fucked up,” the Sioux said.
The man lay on the trail, did not move.
“You two stay here,” he said, adding, “Give me your wallets.” He took them, checked to be sure they contained licenses, and stuffed them inside his shirt. You bolt and I will track your asses down and personally shave you as bald as Telly Savalas.”
“Is that some kind of animal?” Sioux asked.
“You people are too stupid to be on Mother Earth,” Ojibwa shot back.
All Service had wanted was some peace and quiet so that he could think.
“Stay,” he ordered the two men.
They both nodded. “We’re cool, officer.”
When he got to the man on the trail he was on his knees and staring, his brow furled.
“You tough?” the man on his knees asked. His face was scraped.
Blood was dribbling down his chin.
“Calm down, sir.”
The man got to his feet, spread out his arms. “Let’s see what you’ve got, big man.”
“Sir!”
The man charged and was quicker than Service anticipated, crashed into his chest and wrapped him with his arms. Service tried to pry the grip loose, but his broken finger shot a pain up his wrist. The man lifted him in the air and Service looked down into eyes that were boiling blue fury. He pulled his head back and snapped it down hard, head-butting the man in the face. They both went sideways and hands were grabbing at him and pushing him away, and when he rolled over, Sioux and Ojibwa were pinning the struggling man to the ground. Service crawled in with them, felt something cut into his knee, and took a hold by the man’s neck until his eyes rolled in their sockets and he stopped struggling. “Roll him over,” he told his helpers. “Get his arms behind him.” He took his cuffs off his belt and did the man’s wrists.
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