They were in an interrogation room in the Iron County Jail. Service’s lab contacts in Marquette had called as he headed for Crystal Falls to let him know the package from Noli’s place was made from the same plastic that they got from the woods, and that the contents were also white phosphorus, though the tests had not yet been done to reveal if they were chemically identical and from the same batch of chemicals. Service wasn’t sure how they would go about doing such tests, but it sounded dangerous.
“Had a white phosphorus fire in the woods not that far from your place, Tikka. Plastic from your package is the same as those in the woods. What else can I conclude?”
“Man, you have got to believe me,” Noli said. “That shit is my old lady’s. She’s crazy as a shithouse rat.”
Service glanced at Tavolacci, who was looking nervous, probably needing to puff one of his stinky little cigars. “Is ‘shithouse rat’ an official mental health classification?”
“Seriously,” Noli said. “If I could I’d put her in a nice facility where they can give her her meds and watch after her, but my old man’s will sets it up so that if she’s incapacitated, a lawyer becomes her executor and controls the power of attorney, and she inherits everything.”
“So she stays out in the free world, even if she’s sick,” Service said.
“My old man died and I’ve been taking care of her ever since. She’s fucking insane—and mean. Yeah, she’s out, I sell the property, then we put her inside and everybody’s happy.”
“Even her?”
“Nutcases are incapable of happiness.”
Grady Service’s mother had died in childbirth. He wondered if he’d be thinking of her the same way if she had lived. “Still not buying, Tikka.”
“I hate to do this, but that shit belongs to my mother. I was just leaving the place one day when two broads showed up to deliver it.”
“Two women?”
“Yeah, spikey-dykey types.”
“I don’t think I know that term. Do these women have names?”
Noli rolled his eyes. “Thelma and Louise. How the fuck am I supposed to know? My old lady didn’t formally introduce us; I saw the packages in the back of their truck.”
“Right, someone’s carrying exposed white phosphorus in a truck bed. That’s certainly believeable.”
“No man, not naked in the bed. There was a metal box in back, stenciled with ‘Danger: Explosives!’ in red paint. You know, the kind of box you usta see around the old mines.”
Service didn’t know.
“You get a mine name?”
“No.”
“Thelma and Louise?”
Noli shrugged. “You’ll have to ask my old lady for their names.”
“Write down a license plate?”
“I’m not crazy. One of the bitches looked like the kind who’d cut my throat, she caught me doing something like that.”
“Okay, let’s assume this is the truth, and these women brought these packages. How many did you see?”
“Just the one, sitting on top the box.”
“So it was exposed, not inside the box?”
“Dude.”
“None in the house afterwards?”
“No. I don’t like snooping, the old lady packing and all.”
“So why would she want explosives?”
“To fuck up my plans, of course. She runs with a bunch of nutcases, old women who think they’re environmental activists because they want all the world’s cats and dogs spayed.”
“How could she fuck up your plans?”
“Hey, the Taide Jarvi people are hinky about attention. The old lady starts a fire, Taide Jarvi will back off.”
“Have they?”
“Not yet, because I called them up soon as I heard about that shit and told them I’d take their offer.”
“Which was?”
“Half-million for twenty acres.”
“At the river?”
“No, up the hill.”
“The hill with the eagle’s nest?”
“No, further east—the one with the quartz outcrops.”
Service stepped out to the desk and got a plat book, brought it back inside. “Show me what we’re talking about, Tikka,” Service said.
The man used a pencil to draw in the property line and put an X on the outcrop. It was the ridge with the outcrop he’d found.
“You own a four-wheeler, Mr. Noli?”
“Don’t everyone?”
“Do you keep it at your mother’s place?”
“It’s at my place in Gaastra.”
“I’m going to want to get some tire casts.”
Noli shrugged.
Tavolacci suddenly looked interested. “Are we . . . like, getting somewhere here?”
“Maybe, Sandy.”
“You gonna charge my client?”
“Still waiting for forensics,” Service said.
“Can he go tonight? You already held him as long as you can without charges.”
“Sure, he can go.”
Meeting done, Grady Service drove to the South Branch of the Paint and made his way up into Noli’s property, where he used a hammer to knock off some samples. He put them in an evidence bag, marked them, and headed back to the office to fetch Friday, whose vehicle was still in the shop. He’d told her he’d take her to Marquette for the weekend but the weekend had evaporated because of work. He intended to now drop her off on the way to his place.
35
Big Bay, Marquette County
MONDAY, JUNE 5, 2006
Friday’s vehicle would not be ready until June 9. Before leaving Iron River, Grady Service called Marquette County Sheriff Department Sergeant Weasel Linsenman. The two had known each other for years, and Service had dragged him into some unsavory situations, which had left the deputy more than a little leery of him. Then, a year ago, Linsenman had saved his life after he’d been attacked by a tweaking crank addict in Gwinn.
Service had stopped at the house in a snowstorm to do what seemed a routine favor for Simon del Olmo and he’d been ambushed. He would have died had Linsenman not happened along, seen his predicament, and intervened decisively and quickly. The deputy had been promoted to sergeant a month ago. It had taken years to learn that the new sergeant’s mother had inexplicably named him Weasel, and, because of this, virtually everyone who knew him referred to him in first and third person by his family name.
“Linsenman,” the man answered his phone.
“Not sergeant, just Linsenman?”
“I was sitting here thinking about a cloudless warm day, flying silk kites, nubile young women cavorting buck naked on the beach, letting my mutts run, chase Frisbees—you know, paradise kind of shit—and then I hear your voice and my blood turns cold, and all I can smell is trouble.”
“That hurts my feelings.”
“One cannot injure what one does not possess,” Linsenman said.
“I need help.”
“That’s been obvious to most of us for many years.”
“I’m looking for a meth dealer-cook who goes by the name of Jericho, which may not be his name at all.”
“Last time you had contact with a cranker he just about took off your head with a baseball bat. I never heard of a Jericho, and I hate dealing with the druggies. Even our UPSET people give me hives.”
“Word is he might be on Northern’s faculty.”
“I doubt that, but I know the campus chief. Let me give him a bump and see what I can find out. I think campus cops spend more time with druggies than deps. I’ll get back at you.”
• • •
Friday lived in a small ranch house in Harvey, on Cherry Creek Road, southeast of Marquette. Service took her bags in, met her sist
er Angie Lee, and found himself holding a baby.
“Meet Shigun,” Friday said.
The bobble-headed infant looked like his head would come off, and Service supported him with his arm and hand to keep the head from moving, the way Karylanne had taught him to handle his granddaughter. He liked how babies smelled—when their diapers were clean. Shigun Wellington Friday had alert, serious eyes. “Eyes of a cop,” he said.
“Don’t even,” Friday said, taking her son back.
• • •
Friday delivered, Service next stopped at the Roof, which is what DNR employees called the regional office just outside Marquette. and found Captain Ware Grant in his office.“Two pigeons back to the roost,” he told the captain, who turned and smiled.
“Have a seat and bring me up to speed on your case.” The captain reached into his desk drawer and brought out a bottle of Coleraine’s single malt Irish whiskey, filled two jiggers, and set one in front of his detective.
They picked up their glasses and Service said, “May a virulent plague rot the testicles of all violets.” This was Grady Service’s personal word for violators.
“I visited Officer Denninger today,” Grant said.
“She’s worried about being laid off.”
“I tried to allay her fears, but we each have our own demons.”
What the hell does that mean? “How’s her ankle?”
“Pins in it, but she’s young and she’ll heal.”
Unspoken message: You and I are not young, and this is a business for youth, not men our age.
The captain said, “McCants interviewed for a sergeant’s position in Clinton County.”
“She’d abandon the Mosquito?” It had been his old territory, before McCants, and his father’s before him.
“Promotion, not abandonment. We’ll make sure a good person gets it,” Captain Grant said.
Jesus, she’s going to be promoted! My fault she’s leaving? Not going to think about it. Too much going on to juggle emotions now. “You here for a while, Cap’n?”
“Heading back to Lansing today.”
“Things going all right down there?”
“Ample challenges,” the captain said, leaving it at that. “I saw the governor last week, and she asked after you.”
Jesus, Service thought.
“She’s a fine lady,” Grant said. “You should give her a call.”
“I’m not comfortable with that, Cap’n. Politics isn’t my suit.”
“She’s your friend, Detective.”
Change the subject. “Great whiskey.”
Service left the Roof to go to the hospital near Northern’s campus.
All things considered, Denninger looked pretty good, and had the sparkle back in her eyes.
“You been ignoring me?” she greeted him.
“You’re a little tough to ignore.”
“You damn betcha. What’s happening in the case?”
“None of your business. Your job is to heal, not worry.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“Nothing’s easy,” he said, rubbing her shoulder.
• • •
He fetched Newf and Cat without having to talk to his one-time girlfriend, Kira Lehto, and took them to Slippery Creek.
• • •
Linsenman called late Monday night. “There’s no Jericho on Northern’s faculty, but there’s a student with that handle. The campus cops have had some contact with him. Actual name is Necho Wagenschultz.”
“Chemistry student?”
“Career-student type. Been around campus seven or eight years. In school for a semester, out for a year, like that.”
“How do the cops know him?”
“Student activist, very outspoken on the Kennecott boondoggle, shows up at public meetings, makes a lot of noise, veiled threats against the company and such, and disappears. Campus snitches claim he’s not an actual member of any campus or off-campus group.”
“Got an address?”
“Big Bay right on the county road, heading into town. He tends bar weeknights at the TBI.” Linsenman gave him the man’s address.
TBI—Thunder Bay Inn. “Thanks, Stripes.”
“Funny. You’re next.”
Service laughed and hung up. Me a sergeant? No way—but if McCants is transferring south, that means the Mosquito will be open again. Something to seriously think about. The old turf. My old turf.
• • •
He did not sleep well, and got up early Tuesday morning and stared at his free weights. That’s not going to happen. But he did get in a halfhearted five-mile run, and in the afternoon went down to the creek and caught a sixteen-inch brown with a muddler fly. When this case is over, it’s back to pushing iron and a regular running schedule, he admonished himself.
He called Friday after his run. “I’ve got to make a run up to Big Bay tonight.”
“Good. Pick me up and we’ll head to IR from there.”
Something in her voice. Smug? Something. “Five?”
“Works for me.”
“What about Shigun?”
“Angie Lee has my six.”
• • •
He called Friday on the cell phone as he drove north, explaining what had happened in Ironwood, and with Noli, and how he and Millitor had gotten Jericho’s name from Anyboner, and how Linsenman’s contacts had converted Jericho to one Necho Wagenschultz. He had no idea what to expect from Wagenschultz, but based on what Linsenman had said, he was the sort to shake the trees and split. Confronted by the law, he might do the same.
Big Bay was one of those places that irritated him. It had been made famous by Judge John Voelker’s best-selling novel, Anatomy of a Murder, and the movie made from the book in 1959, the story a fictional account of an actual murder in Big Bay. Old-timer locals still rambled on about the days when the Hollywood crew and actors had come to town. Since then the village had been steadily yuppifying, locals being bought out by younger people with trust funds, mountain bikes, kayaks, cross-country skis, driving Japanese hatchbacks and fuel-efficient miniature SUVs. Even the business names creeped him out: Ski-Touring Wilderness Outfitters; Green Guides Lake Superior Kayak Tours; the Eternal Organic Emporium. Hippy-dippy hell made in the faux-earth style of Yippy-Yuppie-Yumyum. He hated the feel and look of the whole place.
The latest uproar and cause célèbre was Kennecott Mining’s application to the state to blast a tunnel beneath Eagle Rock on the Salmon Trout River, and for over a decade after that, to extract copper and nickel from sulfide rock. Opponents feared the mine would create sulfuric acid and heavy metals, which would leech into groundwater and streams. The Salmon Trout itself was home to the only known spawning population of coaster brook trout on the shore of Southern Lake Superior; sulfide contamination would end that. Opponents of the mine had brought together a wide range of allies: Native Americans who insisted Eagle Rock was a sacred site, Audubon, the Sierra Club, Trout Unlimited, and several land conservancies.
Governor Timms was a member of the exclusive Huron Mountain Club, which owned a major portion of land north of Big Bay and was opposed to the mine, but so far she had not publicly expressed personal concerns or objections.
When he pulled up to Friday’s in Harvey, she was waiting with her bags, which she threw in back, slid in, and fastened her seatbelt.
• • •
The Thunder Bay Inn sat in the village center. He’d never stayed in the B&B, but had heard it was nice—with prices to match. The TBI had a dining room that had been built to accommodate the filming of Anatomy of a Murder; Henry Ford had once owned the place and had maintained a personal suite that overlooked the company’s long-gone sawmill across the road.
He parked in a lot behind the dining room, took out hi
s false teeth, and dropped them in a plastic bag in the truck’s console. Friday’s mouth hung open. He said, “What—you’re hearing dueling banjos?”
They got out of the Tahoe and went inside. Low ceiling, low lights, the usual clutter of beer company memorabilia, dartboards, pool table, large-screen TVs, all on, nobody looking at them. A banner across one wall read say nah to da sulfide mining, eh?
The place was fairly busy for a week night. They took a seat at the bar and a waitperson (hi, my name is rose) gave them a menu entitled, “Anatomy of Our Sandwiches.” It featured the Lee Remick (charbroiled chicken breast), the Jimmy Stewart (shaved sirloin), and the John Voelker (breaded cod filet). He grimaced when he read the Voelker entry. The former Michigan Supreme Court judge-turned-author exclusively ate brook trout. Breaded cod? Jesus H.!
They sat at the bar and ordered beer. Only one bartender: male, six-two, ax-handle shoulders, bulging biceps under a T-shirt emblazoned with sulfidiniacs not served here. Weight-pusher. Gold wire-rimmed glasses, longish hair, an earring, small hands for his bulk.
The bartender smiled at them, but kept his eyes moving, scanning the room. Service watched the man shift his feet constantly, either nervous leg or prone to running.
“Showtime,” he whispered to Friday, who nodded. He hoped she’d get into the moment. There were times when he’d wished the Academy had included some acting classes.
“That’s so much liberal bullshit!” he said forcefully, and loud enough to be heard by people sitting at all the tables. He slapped the bar for emphasis. “The damn state’s dying! You want that?”
“Less than half the jobs are for locals,” Friday countered. “What about the coasters and the rivers and the acid? If we lose a river, we can’t get it back. I refuse to sell the U.P. one place at a time for a few bucks. We don’t need this, and we will not accept it!”
Her staged instantaneous ferocity and passion were impressive.
“We’re talking about a mining company. With real engineers, not a bunch of limp-dick motherfuckers trying to exhume the sixties and all that shit!”
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