Chasing a Blond Moon

by Joseph Heywood

  Undersheriff James Cambridge was at his desk.

  “Don’t think I like the look on your puss,” the undersheriff said.

  “I’ve been thinking about Outi Ranta.”

  “That case is all but closed.”

  “Do we know if Outi Ranta knew Mary Ellen Fahrenheit?”

  Cambridge said, “There was no sign of a struggle.”

  “What if Outi didn’t know she was there? We don’t know that Outi even knew the woman, so why would she let her in?”

  “What the hell are you getting at now?”

  “I don’t know,” Service said. “I’m just thinking out loud.”

  The undersheriff followed him outside and grabbed his arm. “Fahrenheit was positive for nitrates, her blood full of alcohol, too much to drive without killing herself.”

  “What if somebody gave her to us?” Service asked. He had just connected some dots that left him feeling very uneasy. “James, have you requested Outi’s home phone records?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Find out who she called, who called her.”

  “Seems like a waste of time and energy—and budget,” he added.

  “Counties don’t have the budgets, thanks to Clearcut.”

  “What if Fahrenheit was set up?”

  “That’s a reach at best.”

  “So is a woman driving this far to shoot another woman in cold blood.”

  “It happens,” Cambridge said. “We don’t need you to go complicating this on me.”

  “I’m not trying to complicate it. It just seems a bit strange. I’m thinking maybe there’s something in the phone records to put our minds at ease.”

  “Like a call from Fahrenheit?”

  “That would suggest they had at least talked.”

  Cambridge considered what he had heard. “I guess that’s reasonable. I’ll talk to the prosecutor today. It’ll take a couple of days to get phone records.”

  “Just as long as you see them,” Service said.

  Service sat in his truck, thinking. Outi insisted Honeypat had engineered everything. Charley Fahrenheit had dealt only with Outi. Colliver had dealt with an old man Fahrenheit never saw or met. What was Honeypat trying to accomplish?

  Follow the greed, Cal Shall had told them long ago: wanting something you didn’t have, or more of what you did. Kitella, Colliver, and Fahrenheit were all linked by bear hunting. Kitella had attacked the Wisconsin men to drive them off turf he considered to be his own. Trapper Jet believed Kitella burned his cabin. Was Trapper Jet the old man?

  He called Les Reynolds as he departed Escanaba heading south, and told him that he wanted to talk to Charley Fahrenheit and Colliver in the Marinette County Jail in Wisconsin.

  Fahrenheit was morose.

  “I’m sorry about your wife,” Service said.

  Charley shook his head, a response Service couldn’t read.

  “Hard to believe she’d drive all the way up to Michigan to shoot Outi Ranta. She have that kind of temper?”

  “Flash and done,” Charley said. “I told youse she hated guns. Tried for years to teach her so she could protect herself, but she wouldn’t have none of it.”

  “Sometimes a wife’s temper goes into overdrive when another woman is involved.”

  “This wasn’t the first time,” the prisoner said.

  “Not the first time her temper flared?”

  “Not the first time there was another woman.”

  “She’d caught you before?”

  “A few times.”

  “And she didn’t get mad?”

  “Mad enough to go right out and find a man to take to bed. Said fair was fair.”

  “You were okay with this?”

  “Hell no! It’s just how she was. She’d go off with some guy, come home and tell me all about it. Said getting even was better than getting mad.”

  “Did she ever threaten any of your girlfriends?”

  “Said it was all my fault, not theirs.”

  “How was Mary Ellen’s mental health?”

  “You mean, like, was she off her rocker? No way.”

  “Do you know the names of the men she went with?”

  “She always told me. She wanted me to know.”

  “Friends or strangers?” Service asked.

  “Both.”

  “What friends?”

  “Colliver for one.”

  “She did Colliver and you two remained friends?”

  “It wasn’t his fault. I forgave him. Him and me go way back.” So too had Outi Ranta and Honeypat Allerdyce, Service thought.

  Sandy Tavolacci was not happy about being dragged down to Wisconsin again.

  “Hey, Sandy,” Service said. “You’re looking spiffy.”

  “Up your ass,” the attorney said.

  Colliver was seated behind a table, looking sullen.

  Service stood over him and pointed a finger like a sword. “Why’d you and Charley go after Kitella?”

  Tavolacci said, “My client is charged with an illegal deer. This is a buncha bullshit and you have no jurisdiction here.”

  Warden Les Reynolds said, “The deer put him inside, counselor, but it’s the bears and other stuff keeping him here.”

  “We’re just trying to have a friendly chat with your client,” Service said.

  Colliver had crossed his arms, his hands clenched into fists under his arms.

  Uptight, pissed, defensive, Service thought. “I asked you a question, Mr. Colliver.”

  “I don’t know no Kitella.”

  Service said, “He beat the shit out of you and Charley.”

  “Don’t usually get no name from some asshole when you’re in a fight.”

  Service sat down to bring himself to Colliver’s level, a calculated move to even the ground and go eye to eye. “Your payback sort of backfired.”

  “What payback?” Colliver asked, looking over Service’s shoulder.

  “There’s all kinds of payback,” Service said. “Charley’s told us a lot, said he’s had too much on his chest, like how you balled his old lady.”

  Colliver couldn’t hide his surprise. “She threw it on me.”

  “And then she told Charley.”

  “Why’d she do that?” Colliver asked.

  “This interview is concluded,” Tavolacci shouted. “This is over—finito!”

  “She wanted to hurt him. Payback, right?”

  Colliver looked sullen.

  “How do you think we got to you? Mary Ellen gave up her old man and Charley gave us you, how you set him up with Hannah and the old man to get Kitella.”

  Colliver sneered. “Charley never met the man,” he said.

  “I’m telling youse to remain silent,” Tavolacci said, grabbing Colliver’s arm.

  Colliver jerked free and flashed a nasty look at his attorney.

  “Charley can’t testify to what he don’t know,” Colliver said.

  “Are you saying he lied?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Okay,” Service said, leaning back to break tension. He looked up at Reynolds. “Let’s scratch that off. Charley never met an old man.” Service bent forward suddenly. “Who is he?”

  “Fuck off,” Colliver said, looking away.

  “This just gets deeper,” Service said. “Poaching, assault against Kitella, theft, homicide.”

  “Nobody got killed,” Tavolacci said, his voice turning shrill.

  “Mary Ellen Fahrenheit,” Service said. “And Outi Ranta.”

  “Car wreck. Mary Ellen was a lush, eh?” Colliver said. “Been busted for it. I don’t know no Ranta.”

  “A car wreck after she shot Outi Ranta,” Les Reynolds said, looking down on Colliver and sounding like the voice of God.

&
nbsp; Colliver looked confused.

  Service said, “She drove up to Michigan and shot Ranta. Outi Ranta was Hannah, the woman who worked with the old man, and you worked with the old man. We’re looking at conspiracy here at the least.”

  Colliver smirked. “Who’s she gonna tell now?” His voice was icy.

  “The old man’s free,” Service said. “You and Charley are in lockup and it looks to me like it’s all gonna land on the two of you. And I can tell you right now, Charley wants company.”

  Tavolacci sprang to his feet. “Shut up!”

  Service asked, “Did the old man have one leg?”

  He saw in Colliver’s eyes that he had no idea what Service meant, so he pressed on. “The theory is that the old man set up Mary Ellen. Ranta’s dead, Mary Ellen’s dead, you two are inside, and the old man’s out there laughing at you both. What’s his name, Mr. Colliver?”

  “Wasn’t no old man,” Colliver said. “I just told Charley that shit. Man was my age and he never give no name. He had a streak of white hair right here.” He reached to show them. “Like a skunk or something.”

  “You gave the cable to him?”

  “Said Kitella was cutting in on his territory and needed to be taught a lesson. Charley got the cable and I give it to the man and I swear that’s all we done, man.”

  Outside the jail Les Reynolds asked, “Do you know who he’s talking about?”

  “Possibly,” Service said. Skunk Kelo was a sometime enforcer in the Allerdyce clan, and he had a prominent patch of white in his hair.

  “You’re not talking,” Reynolds said.

  “Can you pull Mary Ellen’s driving record? Let’s see if she had priors.”

  “What will you be doing?”

  “Trying to connect some dots and fill up a canvas,” Service said.

  “Is that standard procedure over there in Michigan?” Les Reynolds asked.

  33

  Colliver was right about Mary Ellen Fahrenheit. Wisconsin records showed she had been stopped twice, the first time in 1992 when she blew .095, and in 1994 when it was .08. She had been clean since.

  “I’d say she got her act together,” Les Reynolds said.

  Some people managed to do just that, Service knew, but stress sometimes made them to do stupid things, including fall off wagons. Had this been stress or pure bad luck?

  He was back in Escanaba by mid-afternoon, and stopped to see the undersheriff. “You see the prosecutor?”

  Cambridge nodded. “Phone records in forty-eight hours and then we can put this thing to bed.”

  Service stopped to give Newf water and let her run, put her in the house and headed north, trying to sort out what he knew about Skunk Kelo. The man had done a stretch downstate for aggravated assault and had returned to the Allerdyce clan a month or so after Limpy was released from Jackson Prison two years ago.

  Retired CO Steve “Ironhead” Southard had once patrolled southwest Marquette County, where the clan’s compound was located. Southard had busted Kelo several times on snagging cases and had sent Kelo to prison after he had beaten Southard senseless with a three-pound priest made of ironwood. Southard had gotten his nickname as a result of the attack, but had retired a year later. He lived in Palmer, south of Negaunee, and was self-conscious about his nickname.

  Ironhead had a dense, curly black beard that was beginning to salt and smiled when he opened the door and saw Service. “Must be business,” the retired officer said. “Neither you nor your old man were much on social calls.”

  “Skunk Kelo,” Service said.

  “What’s that cretin done now?” Southard asked.

  “I’m just looking for information. Have you seen him since he got out?”

  “No, and I don’t want to,” Southard said. “I did hear he went after She-Guy Zuiderveen over to Champion. Talk about your basic lapse in judgment. Zuiderveen gave him a helluva going-over.”

  “When was this?”

  “Sometime last winter. Kelo was in the bar yappin’ about bear guides and She-Guy took offense.”

  “You busted Kelo several times.”

  “One time too many,” Southard said. “That last time, he was the one doing the busting. The bastard tried to kill me, but the prosecutor went for a plea bargain because he didn’t like the looks of the jury. One of us gets killed they’ll plead it down to verbal abuse or something.”

  The man’s bitterness was palpable and justified. Over the years a lot of officers had been injured making arrests, but few perps ever got the full fist of the law.

  “What’s Kelo like?”

  “Limpy’s muscle, cold as a lamprey on ice. Limpy gives an order, it gets done, no questions asked.”

  “Blood kin?”

  “Good as. He took up with one of the clan’s women and made his bones with the old man.”

  “Took up with which woman?”

  Southard grinned. “Hell, all of ’em is my guess. You know how that bunch is down there in the Sinai. That’s what I used to call it. Fuckin’ desert with trees.”

  This stop had been a waste of time. “I did hear one thing,” Southard said, “but I’m not sure if it’s important. Kelo and Limpy had some sort of falling out.”

  “Over what?”

  Southard held up his hands. “You just heard all I know. I heard this late last winter.”

  “Before or after She-Guy and Kelo had their scrap?”

  “’Bout the same time, now that I think on it,” Southard said.

  “This from a source or bar talk?”

  “I gotta be retired a lot longer before I can go into bars around here,” Southard said. “I heard it from a source—a reliable one. When I retired, he retired. I promised he’d never get bugged by the department.”

  “Your word’s your word,” Service said. “Any chance you could talk to him, find out what the beef was about?”

  “Sorry, Grady. I’m outta that shit now and happy to be out. Not fair to ask me that. Cecilia’s happy I’m out and she wouldn’t like me crawling back in.”

  Cecilia was his wife, a beautiful redhead who was a fine singer. She had never been a big supporter of his CO work.

  “You into something heavy?” Southard asked.

  “Just trying to help a Wisconsin warden close a case.” Heavy was a relative concept with too many interpretations.

  “Huh,” Ironhead said. “Most of the cheesies were a good lot in my day. I guess I could maybe have a chat with my man. What’s the harm, eh? It’s all in the past now.”

  “Thanks, Steve.”

  “Hey, it true you’ve got a son?”

  “Looks that way.” He gave Southard one of his cards.

  Southard studied it and shook his head. “Cell phones, e-mail—you got more bloody numbers than a banker. Technology,” he added with obvious distaste. “I’ll call you soon.”

  “Give my best to Cecilia,” Service said.

  “She’s at the church tonight—choir practice.”

  He called Pyykkonen from Palmer and got an immediate pick-up.

  “Uncanny timing,” she said. “I think we’ve got the blue boat.”

  “No shit?”

  “A couple of wading salmon guys found it hung up off Laughing Fish Point,” she said. “Looks like she was scuttled further out, but broke loose, drifted in, got hung on a boulder fifty feet off the beach in six feet of water. Ten feet north and it would have drifted east into the big lake. Fate, I guess, hitting that rock. I guess the guys who found it didn’t think much about it, you know, with Superior spitting stuff up every now and then. Locals take what they can use, leave the rest to rot. Turns out one of the men has a son who’s coast guard in the Soo. He came home for a day of fishing with his dad, saw the boat out on the point, and remembered the bulletin. I got the call yesterday, asked the Alger County marine safety
officer to pull it out and put it in the vehicle impoundment in town, but Alger kicked the job over to Marquette. I got a call an hour ago. It’s in Marquette now. No registration number. Maybe somebody obliterated it to make sure it couldn’t be identified.”

  “I’m near Negaunee. I can get over there and take a look.”

  “I was gonna drive over in the morning,” she said.

  “Let me take a look and give you a shout.”

  “I’ll be at Shark’s tonight,” she said. “He’s a hoot, you know.”

  Hoot wasn’t the word he’d select to describe his friend.

  The Marquette County marine safety officer was Guy Bartoletti. He had been a longtime road patrol officer and a sergeant who retained his stripes when he was shifted into the current job in preparation for his retirement. Service had known him a long time, as had his father before him.

  The vehicle impoundment was nearly in the middle of downtown Marquette, inside a double chain-link fence topped with razor wire.

  Bartoletti said, “This should be Alger’s, but their sheriff called in a favor from my boss, so here we are.”

  The wooden craft had a blue hull and a gaping hole in the bottom.

  “Looks like it hit something,” Service said.

  “More likely an insurance job,” Bartoletti said with a smile. He started to reach for the hull, but Service blocked his arm, gave him rubber gloves.

  “You’re a hotshot detective now, eh?” He put on the gloves and grabbed the broken edge. “See, when you hit something, most of the damage goes inward. Not all of it, ’cause the boat rocks and so forth, but mostly, see? This one’s all outward. I’m guessing a sledge. Somebody wanted this thing on the bottom.”

  Service looked at the damage, saw the marks, agreed with the assessment.

  “Twenty-six-foot Miltey Commander,” Bartoletti said. “Built in 1995. Not many of them around.”

  “Miltey Boat Company,” Service said. “Chassell.”

  “That’s it.”

  “There’s no registration.”

  “Don’t matter,” Bartoletti said. “You need a sign on a whitetail’s ass says it’s a deer?”

  Bartoletti stepped into the hole in the hull and flicked on his flashlight. “See there? Joe Miltey burns the serial number into the hull in six or eight places so nobody can mistake his work. New, this rig went for nearly twentyfive thou. Twin Chrysler inboards, wide beam, high gunwales—she’d plane good on the lake and go like a scalded dog in a pretty good sea.”