Shadow of the Wolf Tree

by Joseph Heywood

  “You’d better stick to simple tasks this morning.”

  “Like pouring coffee?”

  “Point made. Just sit in your chair and look intelligent.”

  “I can do that . . . but I’d rather look sexy.”

  “Knock yourself out.” Had to open the door, didn’t you? Could’ve turned right, but you had to go left. . . . I like her!

  Grady Service groped in the center console.

  “What’re you looking for?”

  “Motrin.”

  “Got a bottle in my purse.”

  “What else—salt, maybe?”

  “Hurts my feelings, but point well taken,” she said. “Boy oh boy oh boy oh boy, last night sure was nice.”

  “Is the next day always like this?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “This is normal?” Service asked.

  “For me,” she said happily.

  A small black bear was sitting splay-legged in the parking lot when he maneuvered the Tahoe into a parking spot. “Is that for real?” Friday asked.

  “Sure is.”

  She said, “That’s one big honking dog!”

  “Probably because it’s a bear,” he said.

  “Whoops,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  38

  Iron River, Iron County

  THURSDAY, JUNE 8, 2006

  The Iron County medical examiner called almost as Service sat down. “Vick one, confirm amputation of left arm, below the elbow joint. Scoring on the surviving bone suggests crude surgical technique, hurriedly done. Vick two is estimated at six-eight, but it’s a pretty good estimate.”

  The ME’s tone was entirely different now, like he had been reborn. Service shared the ME’s information with Friday and Millitor, and leafed through his case notes, looking for loose ends. He found the note he had made to himself: “Pinky Barbeaux to send Art Lake plate nos.” He looked at Friday, but spoke to Millitor. “Have we gotten a fax or call from Sheriff Barbeaux of Baraga County?”

  “Were we expecting one?” Millitor said.

  “I was.”

  “Don’t remember it, eh.” Millitor had pretty much assumed responsibility for all the case’s paperwork and filing.

  Service wrote License plate numbers? on a piece of paper and signed his name. He started to hand it to Friday, but Millitor picked it off.

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Friday sighed. “Guess what I’m thinking about.”

  “French toast.”

  She grimaced. “Not even warm.”

  Service grabbed his notebook, went out to the parking lot, and lit a cigarette. The bear had curled up on the grass near a Dumpster, watching US 2 traffic. He walked toward it, trying to get direct eye contact and shaking his hands. “Hey bear, hey bear, hey bear!”

  The yearling’s ears twitched and it got up, scampered across a side street, up a small hill, and into some oak trees. Service leaned against the building to make sure the young bear didn’t come back and dialed the number for Evers Gorsline. The phone rang several times before dumping to voice mail. Service said, “So much for twenty-four/seven. My name’s Service. Words for the day: Last Carde. Call me,” and hung up. He found Millitor standing nearby, chewing his cigar.

  “You didn’t leave no number.”

  Service said. “Everybody in Chicago’s got caller ID, right?”

  “You’d think,” Millitor said with a grin.

  Service called up his own voice mail. Only one message: “This is Gabby, MSP Regional Forensics Laboratory. Got some results for you. Give me a shout.” The message was followed by her number. The message was dated two days ago.

  He called the number.

  “Forensics, Gabby speaking.”

  “Service, Iron River. Our assay results in?”

  “You didn’t provide geographic coordinates for the samples,” she said.

  “Not required. Case security.”

  “Excuse me, but we’re on the same team, Detective.”

  “The things you learn,” he mumbled. “Sorry. What about the results?”

  “Six samples. Numbers one through five are vein quartz, but no prezzies and nothing of interest in them. “Where’d you find number six?”

  “Case security.”

  “Yeah, I think you already said that. I’m just wondering, ’cause if it’s close to the other sample sites, I’d isolate number six and slap some tight-ass security on that sucker.”

  What the hell is she going on about? “Why’s that?”

  “The assay indicates Au 2,300 grams per ton.”

  He had never been much good with numbers and calculations. “Got a translation?”

  “We’re talking in the range of five pounds of gold per ton.”

  “That’s good?”

  “Rich enough to start wars in some parts of the world.”

  “But nothing at sites one through five?”

  “Nothing significant.”

  “What about the reference sample?”

  “A little better than number six: 2,575 grams per ton. Difference is that the gold in the REFSAMP is visible to the eye. So is number six, but the veins aren’t as thick.”

  “They’re from the same source?” he asked.

  “No way I can tell that, but I’m guessing they’re physically proximate.”

  “Can you draw any conclusions about a relationship between the reference and sample six?”

  She was quiet for a few seconds. “Just guessing, but I think a purity test would show they are from the same source, but perhaps not quite in the same location.”

  “Like they’re related underground?”

  “Yeah, sure; that’s not technical, but that’s the general idea, eh.”

  “Thanks, Gabby.”

  “Seriously,” she said. “If word gets out on what the samples show, you could have a bloody stampede on your hands.”

  So where did Thigpen’s daddy’s gold sample come from? Number six had come from an exposed quartz outcrop a mile or so east-northeast of where the remains were discovered, and the remains had been sprinkled with gold dust. Where did the dust come from?

  He called the Marquette number again. “Did you get some gold dust with the other samples?” he asked.

  “Nope. Were we supposed to?”

  “If you had dust, could you do the same assay as for the other samples?”

  “Yeah. You sending something up the line?”

  “Soon as I can.”

  “I’ll expedite,” Gabby said.

  He went into the office and grabbed a box with USGS topographical maps. Friday joined him. “Need help? I think I’m back.”

  “We’ve got assay results. The reference sample from Thigpen is rich, and my sixth sample is close to it. In the range of five pounds in a ton.”

  “Is that good?”

  He laughed. “We’re too much alike. Apparently, it’s real good.”

  He spread a map on his desk and weighted the corners with ashtrays and coffee cups.

  “What’re you looking for?”

  “Not sure.”

  “You say that a lot.”

  “Because it’s true a lot of the time. The professor said her father wouldn’t say where he got Lincoln’s gold sample.”

  “The source of all evil,” Friday said, nodding.

  “Call her—see if she remembers anything else, something he might have said that would give us a clue.”

  “Something he said eighty years ago? We’re that desperate?”

  “Think of it as that clueless, not desperate.”

  “That doesn’t help,” she said, reaching for her phone.

  He left Friday and went outside a
gain, this time to call Zhenya Leukonovich, who answered on the second ring. “I met Funke. Did he tell you?”

  “The captain has a frenetic schedule.”

  “He says you’re looking at Van Dalen Foundation.”

  “Captain Funke made this statement?”

  “Not in so many words. He’s not much for direct answers, but he said you’re onto a scent.”

  “Zhenya thinks the captain somewhat prone to hyperbole and overstatement.”

  Ducking and weaving—why? “Do you have a copy of the Van Dalen organizational chart?”

  “Zhenya chooses not to respond.”

  “Well, if you happen to come into possession of one, you just might look at page twenty-four, at an entry called Art Lake.”

  “There is no such entry,” she said immediately.

  “If you don’t have a chart, how do you know?”

  “Such data resides in Zhenya’s mind, but she assures the detective there is no such entry.”

  “Bring up the screen in your brain and give it another look. Call me if you figure it out.”

  “There is no such entry,” Leukonovich insisted.

  “There is if that chart in your head is dated this year, and you know how to break the code.”

  “Zhenya thinks it impossible for the detective to possess such a document.”

  “Improbable, but not impossible. I have it. The entry you’re looking for is ‘Last Carde.’ ” He spelled it phonetically for her. “It’s an anagram. ‘Last Carde’ transposes to the French, Lac d’Art, which translates to Art Lake.”

  “Zhenya thinks this is execrable French. You deciphered this yourself?”

  “Not me—my partner.”

  “Remarkable,” Leuknovich said.

  “Why would Van Dalen be hiding the identity of its organizations?”

  “This answer is, of course, obvious.”

  Not to me. “When Funke checks in, you might want to share this information with him.”

  “Zhenya will take the detective’s suggestion under advisement.”

  Service terminated the call and stared at the hill across the road where the bear had disappeared. Why no sexual tension with Zhenya this time? Always there before . . . not now. I just want to be a game warden, he thought, the latter the larger insight of the two.

  Friday came outside and drew in a deep breath. “I talked to the professor.”

  “That was quick.”

  “I need to get into the Tahoe,” she said.

  He gave her the key and watched as she rooted around in the storage area. When she came back, holding out the key, she had a book tucked under her arm.

  “What’s that?”

  “A hunch. I pressed the professor and she resisted, but she also said something that didn’t register until the call was finished.”

  “Which would be?”

  “When I asked where the stone came from, she said she could only imagine.”

  “Okay.” I don’t see the point.

  “You don’t hear it?”

  Hear what? “Afraid not.”

  “She didn’t say she couldn’t imagine.”

  “Tuesday, is this more Jell-O mode?”

  “Don’t overrate yourself,” she said. “And incidentally, I like it when you call me Tuesday.” These things said, she left him standing in the parking lot, staring at the door to the Troop post.

  He expected a callback from Evers Gorsline, but the day ended without one. Using Last Carde should have stimulated a response—something. Shit, maybe we aren’t so smart. Maybe Last Carde is wrong.

  Millitor left for home and Service drove Friday down the hill to the AmericInn and parked.

  “Why are you parking?”

  “I thought you’d invite me in.”

  “It’s a weeknight,” she said. “We have work to do.”

  “Want dinner?”

  “I’m too busy for food. You’re on your own.”

  Don’t think, don’t talk, just go. Tomorrow is another day.

  39

  Crystal Falls, Iron County

  THURSDAY, JUNE 8, 2006

  He was vegging on Grinda’s deck when his cell phone sounded. The number window said only private.

  “Grady Service.”

  “This is Evers Gorsline. You left a succinct message for me, Detective, tinged with irritation, so let me take care of your question directly. I’m sure you are a fine conversationalist—most detectives are—but as you might imagine, I’m a very busy man. If this Last Carde thing is intended to mean something, I’m afraid it eludes me.”

  “Last Carde—aka Art Lake.”

  “You’re talking nonsense, Detective.”

  “You’re the attorney for Art Lake.”

  “I fail to see your point.”

  “I’m interested in Art Lake.”

  “You are not alone.”

  “What exactly is the place?”

  “It is a retreat for artists, for exceptionally creative people, a place for them to work without interruptions from the outside world.”

  “What kind of creative people?”

  Pause. “Detective, I have neither the time nor the patience for insipid patter. If you have something to say, please do so now.”

  “I want to visit the retreat.”

  “Many share your desire, but residency is by invitation only. People are selected; they do not apply.”

  “I don’t want to be a resident. I just want to see it.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Police business.”

  Another pause. “Please don’t be offended, Detective, but if you have official police business, and a valid reason, you can obtain a warrant, and we will of course comply.”

  “I meant this as a friendly call.”

  “Received as such, Detective, but we each have our own portfolios of responsibility. This conversation is terminated. Please don’t call again unless you have a reason.”

  A polite fuck-you-very-much. The man was smooth, his tone amiable, yet businesslike. Gorsline had clearly laid out the rules of engagement: Find a legal reason to enter, probable cause to support it, a warrant to flow out of that. What probable cause?

  Art Lake owns the property where the remains were found. A judge will shove this up your ass. The wolf tree is not on Art Lake property. Taide Jarvi, Art Lake—is there a legal business connection?

  Elza Grinda came out to the porch and sat beside him, her long curly hair freshly washed. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.

  “More like saving me from myself.”

  “You look troubled.”

  “Call it stumped.”

  “You hear about Candi?”

  “That she interviewed for stripes in Clinton County?”

  “She got the job,” Grinda said.

  “She’ll be a great sarge,” he said, his stomach flipping a little.

  “Everyone thought—”

  “She’s my friend and colleague, that’s it.”

  “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “Yeah, I did! Sorry. By the way, Friday’s nice. Simon and I both have really good vibes. She good at her job?”

  “Seems to be.”

  “Well, I just wanted to tell you that Simon and I like her.”

  “I was really concerned about that.”

  “You can be a real SOB,” she said.

  “Get anything from your girlfriend on the drug team?”

  “No suspects. UPSET thinks it’s not an actual drug operation. They’re setting up outside too early for a dope crew, and most of the crews up here have gone hydroponic. Hydro THC levels are in the twenty to thirty per
cent range, and in some places hydro farmers can trade their dope ounce for ounce for coke. Why go outside at all? But some growers up here realize the drug teams have limited manpower, so they’re setting up decoys, hoping to draw law enforcement resources to surveillance on dummy operations.”

  TCH was short for delta-9-tetrahydrocannabinol, the ingredient in marijuana that produced psychotropic effects. “The team’s encountered decoys before?”

  “Increasingly.”

  “Some crews set up a decoy and you happened to stumble onto it? And then they beat the shit out of you to add to the authenticity? Bullshit.”

  “Too many other things to think about to worry about it,” she said.

  “Have you talked to the partner of the dead guy recently?”

  “I told him to stop calling me all the time and to talk to Friday because it’s her case.”

  “He was insistent with you, then nothing? We haven’t heard from him.”

  “Normal mourning progression?” she offered.

  “The deceased . . . how much do you know about him?”

  “Squat. I interviewed the partner at the bridge and gave the tape to Mike Millitor. Not my case, right?”

  “I’ll talk to Mike.”

  “Did I screw up?”

  Typical of the most competent officers to continually question their own performance, he thought. “No.”

  “Cool. How’s little Mar?”

  “Going through a stage.”

  “Really.”

  “She has a vocabulary of two words. It’s hard to have a meaningful conversation with your grandpa when your vocabulary amounts to two words.”

  “Enjoy it,” Grinda said. “Soon the words will come in paragraphs—torrents of paragraphs and words. Your life will never be the same again.”

  “It’s good to be the grandpa,” Service said.

  Grinda went inside.

  Service called Friday. “It’s Grady. Did you and Mike do a report on the dead man at the bridge?”

  “Early on. He and his pal live in Indianapolis. The Marion County, Indiana badges interviewed the widow for us. Her statement is in the files. Ask Mike.”

  “You were pretty funny this morning,” he said.

  “Nobody reacts the way I do. I won’t blame you if it’s too much for you to deal with. The first time it happened to me, I thought I was going crazy. I talked to my doctor and he just laughed, told me I probably release more endorphins than normal.”