Service stopped to see Pyykkonen. She glanced up from her cluttered desk. “I thought you died, and by the looks of you, maybe you did.”
“I know.”
“You’re gonna like this,” she said. “I talked to a detective in Charlottesville who says they busted fifty-two people for bear poaching. They recovered three hundred gallbladders. One of the couples they got said they’ve been in the business more than ten years and have been selling three hundred galls a year.”
“When?”
“The busts were made in 2001 after more than three years of digging. Virginia Inland Game and Fisheries worked with U.S. Fish and Wildlife and the Park Service. The ring was operating in the Blue Ridge Mountains, including Shenandoah National Park. The only regret here is that they never got the main money man.”
“They ID him?”
“No, all they know is that he’s Asian and fled the area before the grand jury came down with indictments.”
“The timing coincides with Harry Pung’s move to Tech.”
“You must be a detective,” Pyykkonen said.
He told her about Colliver and Fahrenheit and how Ficorelli had helped—but only his official role. “Wayno asked about you,” he added.
She shook her head. “He’ll get over it.” Service wanted to ask her about Shark Wetelainen, but restrained himself. He didn’t want his friend hurt, but it was none of his business.
“Did you run Harry Pung’s name past the Virginia people?”
“They said all they know is that the money man is Asian. I don’t think they were ducking.”
“Be nice to know if Pung’s son was with him in Blacksburg.”
“He wasn’t. I called the university and they said his records show no son. She handed him a folder. “From Virginia Tech, and the Michigan Tech papers are in there too. They don’t square with each other. This whole thing is about bears,” Pyykkonen said.
“I know,” Service said. There were a lot of things he might have shared, but didn’t.
He called Fern LeBlanc on his way past the Marquette office. “The Captain’s calls are piling up,” she said in a disapproving tone of voice.
“Tell the Cap’n I’m just not management material.”
“Are you coming in?”
“No. Pass the most important messages to McKower.”
“I already have,” LeBlanc said.
Nantz’s plane flared a little before 9 p.m. and settled for a firm landing, the tires squirting tiny jets of smoke as rubber struck concrete.
He watched her walk around the plane, making her post-flight inspection and talking calmly to a mechanic while glancing over at him, a smile dominating her face.
She came to him on the run and her clipboard clattered on the ground as she leaped and threw her arms and legs around him. He almost fell while they were kissing.
“Man, oh man,” she whispered as she hugged him. “Man, oh man. There’s a case of Bell’s in the bird, and a case of wine.”
They went out to get them. He carried them both and his arm and broken finger throbbed.
“You look like you got flogged with a frozen pork chop,” she said. “I can’t wait to get naked,” she added.
He pulled into Outi Ranta’s driveway and Nantz gave him a look.
“What’s this?”
The red Jeep was there, but no gray Honda. “I have to talk to Outi.”
“Outi or Honeypat?” Nantz asked, raising an eye.
“You’d better stay here,” he said.
He knocked several times on the door but got no answer.
He tried the door. It was open. “Outi Ranta?” he called into the hallway.
Only silence.
He took one step inside and looked to the right into the kitchen and saw her, sitting at the table, her head on her hands. There was a large, empty glass in front of her.
“Outi?”
She looked up, her eyes glazed and distant.
“Outi?”
“Yeah, Grady.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“What if I have?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Go away,” she said, putting her head down.
“I want to talk to you about the casino in Watersmeet. And Charley Fahrenheit.”
Ranta looked over at him. “What about it?”
“You want to tell me about it?”
“Get a warrant,” she said.
“Outi, I’m just asking questions.”
“Some things are none of your business.”
“They are when they involve breaking the law.”
“I didn’t break no laws,” she said, perking up.
“Outi, you were working with Fahrenheit. They were poaching bears. There’s a whole chain of things and it all starts with a homicide.”
“You mean a murder?”
“A murder.”
She became animated. “I had nothing to do with a murder. I had a little fun is all.”
“You got Fahrenheit to steal cable.”
“He never said he stole it. Said he could lay his hands on some.”
“For what?”
“Not my idea,” she said, getting up and walking to an island in the kitchen where a bottle of vodka stood.
“It was like a big game, ya know?” she said. “Just some fun.”
Service took the bottle and put it on a counter, out of her reach.
“Outi, listen to me! You got comped into a room as part of the Gold Feather Club.”
“I’m a good customer,” she said defiantly.
“My understanding is that Gold Feathers do more selling than spending.”
Outi Ranta went back to her chair and sat down. “I knew when Honeypat showed up this would go in the tank. She was a big help when Onte died. I owed her for that, hey.”
No tears, no breaking voice. Outi Ranta seemed to be a very tough woman. “Honeypat and I go way back—to high school. We dropped out, went with men. We didn’t like school.”
“High school where?”
“Detour.” This was on the far eastern tip of the peninsula, across from Drummond Island.
“You’re Tribal?”
“Same as Honeypat.”
He didn’t ask if she had been a prostitute.
“I left the life when I met Onte,” she said. “Met him in Windsor. He didn’t care about my past.”
“Why Fahrenheit?”
She rubbed her fingers together. “Onte left the business in bad shape. I needed cash to pull it out.”
Did this qualify as greed? Service wondered.
“You did this for Honeypat?”
“Her idea. She said I could make some money and have some fun, like the old days. And I was ready.”
“She asked you to get cable?”
“Everything was her idea.”
“Was Limpy involved?”
Outi Ranta made a sour face. “That animal? No way.”
Service was not so sure. “Where’s Honeypat now?”
“Gone.”
“Where?”
“Don’t have a clue,” she said. “How’d you get to me?”
“Cameras at the casino,” he said. “They tape almost everything.”
“I told Honeypat that, and she said there was no way anyone would ever know it was me. Am I goin’ to jail?” She looked directly at him, her eyes challenging and pleading.
“Not if you help me. If Honeypat makes contact, you call me first thing and you don’t tell her we’ve talked. Can you do that?” He put one of his business cards on the table.
“I don’t want to go to jail.”
“Then help me,” he said. She had received stolen goods and there was probably more, but if Honeypat had set up the whole thing, O
uti was just a minor player. With his intercession, the prosecutor might agree to go easy on her.
“You really have to help me to help yourself, Outi.”
“Yeah, like I’m supposed to trust a cop?”
“You don’t have much choice.”
“Honeypat,” she said angrily. “I knew better than to let her into my life again.”
He left her in the kitchen and went out to the truck. Nantz looked at him. “Are we going inside for a ménage à trois?” She was grinning.
They went straight up to bed, took off their clothes, and fell on the bed.
He woke up in the middle of the night. Nantz was sitting up next to him, light from the hallway illuminating her breasts in a pale yellow glow.
“Did we?” he asked.
“You fell asleep,” she said.
“I’m awake now.”
Her hand touched him. “That is a distinctly provable fact. I will try to be gentle.”
“How am I doing?” she whispered after several minutes. “Wonderful,” he said, wincing. Maridly’s idea of gentle was somewhat different from that of other women he had known.
26
Service awoke to find Newf where Nantz should have been. When he looked at the clock and saw that it was noon, he kicked off the covers and limped downstairs. He had more aches this morning than when he went to bed. He smelled something cooking, and Newf smelled it too as she bulled past him, nearly knocking him down the stairs.
He went into the kitchen, looked at the pot on a front burner, sniffed.
“White wine onion soup,” Nantz said. “Twelve minutes to touchdown.”
She put on a lavender oven mitt decorated with pale blue and yellow forget-me-nots, turned, hugged him, patted his butt, and gently hipped him out of the way. He stood with her, watching her stir in julienned carrots and remove a cookie sheet from the oven. She cooked as efficiently and confidently as she flew a plane. There were thick pieces of toast on the sheet and the scent of garlic engulfed the room. She took off the oven mitt.
“What can I do?” he asked.
“Pants would be a move toward civilized,” she said with a smirk and a downward glance. She began to rub each piece of toast with the cut side of a garlic clove, drizzle on some olive oil, and add a small slice of Gruyère cheese.
She pointed the oven mitt at him once again. “Trou.”
The meal was on the table when he came back downstairs. Bloody Marys in tall glasses were in place, with feathers of celery sticking out like flags.
They ate slowly, relishing flavors.
“Politicians eat miserably,” Nantz said. “Always on the run, odd times. I’m surprised they don’t all weigh three hundred pounds.”
“Like Clearcut?” he said. Sam Bozian waddled with splayed feet.
“Sam’s always had a metabolic problem,” she said. She had known the governor since she was a child.
“He could jack up his rate by moving his ass once in a while.”
She rolled her eyes and said, “Meow.”
At the hospital Nantz and Kate Nordquist talked on about Lorelei Timms and her wardrobe and the practical concerns of campaigning day after day. Service went downstairs to have a cigarette.
Gutpile Moody rolled up in his truck, got out and yawned.
“All-nighter?”
“We had a plane over the Garden last night, bagged six shiners.” Officers sometimes employed group patrols and sent a light plane overhead to look for jack-lighting activity at night. When lights were seen, the plane’s pilot directed officers on the ground to the site. The method had become so effective that in some areas poachers had taken to working in broad daylight. But not in the Garden Peninsula, where poaching and violating were taken by many as inalienable rights.
“That time of year,” Service said.
“It’s that time year-round in the Garden,” Moody said. “Rumor is that Lansing’s gonna put you to work on the fish runs with the hired help this spring.”
Service said, “Such decisions are above my pay grade.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” Moody said with a sly grin. “You’re Cap’n Grant’s boy. How is he?”
“Bonked his head, slight concussion.”
“If you say so. Way I hear it, Fern LeBlanc is telling everybody he’s had another stroke.”
“Is she now?” Service said. When Moody went inside he dialed Fern’s home number and she answered on the first ring.
“You,” he said. “You have to exercise some judgment in what you tell people.”
“Ah,” she said. “The prodigal detective trying to talk management. You will not tell me what to think or say,” she said.
“Your thoughts are yours, but your words affect others. When you speculate, others take it for gospel.”
“I am not speculating,” she said, “and as you said, you are not management material. I intend to protect the captain.”
“The captain can take care of himself.”
“Like you would know,” she said angrily. “You’re never around! He wants to see you tomorrow night—at his home.” She hung up on him, his point having found a fat vein, as his old man used to say after he had purposely antagonized someone.
Moody had joined Nantz and Nordquist and was regaling them with the tale of a shiner he had grappled with last night. Service and Nantz made their goodbyes and left the hospital.
Nantz called Walter on the cell phone as they drove toward Gladstone.
“Hey, you,” she said.
She listened and said, “Flying is flying.”
Then, “He’s driving.”
More silence. “Really! No, I won’t say a word.”
“What was that about?” he asked as she snapped the cell phone closed.
“He’s just checking up on us.”
For dinner he grilled skirt steaks marinated in lime juice and zest, red wine, soy, ginger, garlic, sugar, and hot sauce. He cooked the meat rare and served it with a small tossed salad of Italian greens and grilled Spanish onion slices.
Nantz had opened a bottle of the new Italian wine, a 1996 Avignonesi Grifi, and poured each of them a glass.
“Mmm,” she said, taking a bite of steak.
“Mmm,” he said, tasting the wine.
After dinner, they loaded the dishwasher and Nantz camped at the dining room table with books from the academy while he put on the Norah Jones CD and poured another glass of wine.
Nantz snapped a book closed at 10 p.m. and said, “Hon, get me a two-gallon jar from the basement, okay?” For reasons he never understood, she collected jars and bottles and vases of all sizes and descriptions. The basement shelves were filled with bags and boxes of glassware.
He brought a jar to the the kitchen counter and watched as she put a strip of masking tape around it and wrote with a large marker, “4F.”
“Okay,” she said, pouring more wine for herself. “Give me five bucks.”
He dug into his wallet and handed it to her. She took his five and another from her wallet, stuffed them ceremoniously in the jar, which she tucked under an arm, and picked up her wine. “Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to bed we go.”
She made love with unusual tenderness and gentleness, lingering throughout, and when they had finished, he rolled to his own pillow and said, “I’m gonna let the mutt out.”
She was breathing deeply when he returned. Newf flopped on a throw rug by the bed. Cat had gotten between the pillows while he was gone and opened her mouth with a silent hiss when he got into bed. He put his hand on Nantz’s hip to feel her warmth.
“Go ahead and ask,” she whispered.
“Four-F?” he said.
“Every time we fool around we’ll each put five bucks in the jar. When it’s full, it will pay for our honeymoon.”
“Four-F,” he said again.
They both began to giggle.
She patted his shoulder with a warm hand. “Sleep.”
He fell asleep wondering if he had five dollars for the morning deposit to the jar.
27
They made love at sunrise, put their money in the jar, went down to do their workout routines, and showered.
Nantz had arrived Friday night with only a small duffel bag, but packed a huge suitcase and garment bag after they got out of the shower. When she was done she ceremoniously opened her purse, took out a ten-dollar bill, and put it in the jar. She lay back on the bed and held out her arms. “This one’s on me. Literally,” she added lasciviously.
By noon they were at the airport. He loaded her baggage and followed her through her walk-around and preflight routine. There was nothing about flying and airplanes that he cared for, but she had it in her blood and treated an aircraft like an extension of her body.
“Meet you in Jackson Friday,” he said.
“Plan on 2 p.m. We women will need time for construction before a big party.”
“I’ll bring a wad of fives,” he said.
She smiled and kissed him. “Sorry I can’t pick you up,” she said.
“Lori’s schedule is awful again this week.”
“I don’t mind driving,” which was true. “We’ll need wheels down there. I’ll call Tree about meeting him and Kalina for dinner on Saturday. You’re sure your boss won’t mind?”
“I suspect she and Whit are gonna be doin’ just what we’re gonna be doin’.”
Whit was the senator’s stay-at-home husband. “Ooh,” he said. “Our aspiring governor likes nookie?”
She poked him. “All women like sex—with the right man.” She paused and added, “And sometimes with the wrong man.”
Before he could say anything she added, “You fit into both categories, big boy. You’ll need a tux next weekend. I’ll take care of it. Bring your good black shoes.”
“The pumps or the sling-backs?” he said.
She laughed and rolled her eyes. He said, “The only black shoes I have are boots.”
“You want to polish them up, that’s okay by me.”
He said, “I’ll get some new ones. You sure a suit won’t do?”
Chasing a Blond Moon Page 31
