This was a real thing? “How’s the reading going?”
“It’s probably a waste of time, but it’s good to finish what you start, right?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“Is something wrong?”
“The Art Lake lawyer called back. He was polite but made it clear we can’t get into Art Lake without a warrant.”
“The proverbial probable-cause hurdle.”
“There it is,” he said. “Are you absolutely certain about Last Carde, Tuesday?”
“Aren’t you?”
“I just don’t understand how Art Lake fits anything we’ve got going. I feel it and I sense it, but I can’t see it.”
“The wolf tree?” she said.
“Not on their property.”
“I know,” she said. “You want to come over?”
“You’ve got reading to finish.”
“I can read and share space at the same time.”
“Thanks anyway.”
“Jello-O mode anxiety?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Good night, Detective Service.”
“Good night, Detective Friday.”
40
Iron River, Iron County
THURSDAY, JUNE 8, 2006
Service sent an e-mail to the Marquette lab, asking that the chain of custody on the gold dust be reviewed. The samples had been sent to Gabby, and pressing by e-mail was all he could do short of driving up there and doing a physical search that would just piss off everyone.
The transcription of Grinda’s interview with the dead man’s partner, the individual who had discovered the body, was next on his agenda. It made for interesting reading.
GRINDA: You guys came up here to fish?
MR. TIMBO MAGEE: [hereafter TM]: Jimbo and I live in Big Nap, and we’d never heard of the Paint until that pamphlet showed up. Usually we fish Tennessee and West Virginia, or even North Arkansas. But the Paint looked interesting, so we decided to drive up and give it a go.
GRINDA: Big Nap?
TM: Ya know, Indianapolis? Actually, we live in Speedway, but it’s all Big Nap.
GRINDA: You mentioned a pamphlet?
TM: It’s in my truck; you want to see it?
GRINDA: Please. I’ll make a copy and give yours back to you. Where are you staying?
TM: Golden Lake Campground.
GRINDA: Tell me what happened today.
TM: Jimbo and me parked at the bridge. I went through the woods to get around the holes, and he went upstream.
GRINDA: Did you hear the shotgun?
TM: (Shakes his head) There was too much river noise to hear anything.
GRINDA: Speedway?
Service grinned. She was asking questions down one line, then jumping to another line to keep him off balance. Grinda is good!
TM: A little west of downtown—you know, home of the Indy 500?
GRINDA: Indianapolis is a long drive from here.
TM: You got that right. Are you people gonna call Magahy and tell her?
GRINDA: Magahy?
TM: Jimbo’s wife.
GRINDA: Notifications will be made.
TM: I could do it. I mean, it feels a little bit my fault, hear what I’m sayin’ . . . that we come up here in the first place.
Service underlined certain passages in the transcript and passed his copy to Friday.
“Claims he never heard of the Paint,” she said. “Then he says, ‘I went through the woods to get around the holes.’ ” She looked up at him with questioning eyes.
“If he’s never heard of the Paint or been here, how did he know there were holes downstream of the bridge? They aren’t visible from the bridge.”
“Good question,” he said.
She started rereading the transcript.
“Do we have the report from the Marion County people?” he asked Millitor, who dug in a folder and handed it to him.
The report was short and to the point: 1520 EST, 4-30-06, 5700 White Horse Drive, Speedway, Indiana. Senior Detective Woodrow Agnew, Speedway Metropolitan Police Department. “I drove to Mr. Macafee’s home on White Horse Drive to inform Mr. Macafee’s wife of his death. She met me at the door and informed me that her husband (Jimbo Macafee, 41) had driven to Upper Peninsula, Michigan, three days before (e.g., April 27). Mr. Timbo Magee, Jimbo’s partner (age 32), left two days before her husband for unspecified business in the Milwaukee area. They were to meet up in Michigan to fish for trout. Mrs. Macafee (age 29) reacted normally and emotionally when informed of her husband’s death. I got water for her and tried to calm her to find out if there was someone who could come stay with her, but she told me she is alone. Her husband and Mr. Magee are owners of Real Stuff Sporting Goods in Speedway. The business was started by Mrs. Macafee’s late father, who sold it to she and her husband four years ago. Mr. Magee joined them as a partner last year. Mrs. Macafee was distraught because she said she had to nearly throw her husband out to get him to take some time off to go trout fishing. According to her, Mr. Macafee is a workaholic who does not like to be away. Macafee and Magee work together, and when both are away, she runs the establishment. She says she grew up working the business. Like riding a bicycle.”
Service looked at Friday. “The wife said the men departed and drove separately. Take another look at Grinda’s transcript.”
She read silently. “Magee says ‘We decided to drive up.’ He doesn’t say they drove together.”
“But it sounds that way in context. We didn’t know about the river, got the booklet, we decided to try it, we drove up. Everything is we.”
“It’s probably nothing.”
“I also wonder about that last statement of Magee’s—how he feels like it’s a little bit his fault.”
“Look at the notification report. The wife says they had to talk the vick into going.”
“I know, but it just seems a little too gratuitous.”
“You can’t analyze every word someone says.”
“Don’t want to analyze everything—just the stuff our guts say to question. I’m going to call Detective Agnew and talk to him.”
There were office and cell phone numbers at the bottom of the report. The detective answered on the first ring. Service explained who he was. “Got a few minutes to talk about the interview with Mrs. Macafee?”
“It’s your dime, and I don’t mind thinking some on Magahy Macafee.”
Calls her by first name. Why? “Memorable lady?”
“World-class looker, if you like women. Which I do.”
“Seems like she had to convince her husband to take the trip.”
“Seems like, and I bet I know how,” Agnew said. “She called him, and I quote, a ‘work-jerk.’ ”
This was not in the report. How much else had Agnew excised or ignored. “Jokingly?”
“There was a smile on her face, but it didn’t sound all that playful to me.”
“Her husband’s partner left two days before him. They drove separately.”
“She called Magee our partner.”
“She seem broken up?”
“You know, the usual burst of tears, red eyes, some snot. I got her a glass of water.”
“Is there a reason you noted ages in your report?”
“Mrs. Macafee’s the live-wire type. I got the feeling hubby wasn’t.”
“Did she say why they took on a partner?”
“I quote: ‘To infuse cash to enable us to grow.’ ”
“Happy marriage?”
“Are any?”
“Have you had calls from Mr. Magee?”
“Not really.”
“He called here a lot, right after it happened—to Conservation Of
ficer Grinda, our first responder. The case team hasn’t heard from him or from the widow since.”
“I had one call from Magahy asking when the body can come home. I explained the rules. She didn’t seem too happy.”
“When was this?”
“Couple of days after the notification.”
“You tell her about disposition of the body when you notified her?”
“SOP.”
“Have you been to their store?”
“No reason.”
Service made a decision. “We might want to drive down there and talk to Mr. Magee and Mrs. Macafee.”
“True what I heard, it was a booby trap?”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“From the widow.”
How did she know? “When?”
“When she called about the body. She was weighing closed versus open casket, wanted to know how bad off hubby’s body would be.”
Magee was back home by then. Did Grinda tell him about the booby trap? Had he seen it that day?
“Okay if we drive down? We’ll give you a bump if we do.”
“Works for me,” Detective Agnew said. “That widow’s major eye candy.”
Service went outside for a cigarette and Friday and Millitor went with him.
“Why don’t we just smoke in the office?” Millitor said. “We’re all out here all the time.”
“Our hosts wouldn’t like it,” Friday told him, and, “plus, I don’t smoke.”
Service related his conversation with the Speedway detective. “Something about the widow and the partner is bugging me,” he told them. Could be you’re reaching, he cautioned himself. But if you don’t reach, you can’t get the brass ring.
“You guys ever been to Indianapolis?” Service asked.
“Got a third cousin lives down there,” Millitor said.
“I’m thinking there should be a chat with the partner and the widow.”
“When do we leave?” Friday asked.
“Not we—you and Mike. This homicide stuff’s your ballpark.”
“You?”
“Not sure.”
“That again,” she said with a smile, and went inside, talking animatedly with Millitor. Service went to the radio in the Tahoe and turned his channel to District One’s frequency. “Three One Twenty, Twenty Five Fourteen.”
“Go,” Grinda said.
“Got your cell?”
“Affirmative.”
“Give me a bump.”
“Three One Twenty.”
The cell phone buzzed and Service answered and said, “Did you talk to the vick’s partner about the device?”
“Negative, and I told the techs not to say anything to anyone either. Anything else?”
“Thanks,” he said, hung up, and went back into the post.
“That trip to Indianapolis . . . I think I’ll join you two.”
Millitor said, “No need for all of us. I’ll stay here in case someone needs to contact the team.”
“What about your third cousin?”
“A regular See-You-Next-Tuesday,” Millitor said with a grin.
41
Speedway, Indiana
FRIDAY, JUNE 9, 2006
Real Stuff Sporting Goods was in the Turbocharger Strip Mall and marked only by a simple sign, nothing elaborate or expensive: Guns & Ammo, Fishing Supplies, Gunsmithing Services Available. The last part caught Service’s attention.
The shop smelled and felt old, not new as the strip-mall location suggested. They walked inside between gun displays, mainly wooden crates with packing straw, marked Shop Special: Surplus Chinese sks Carbines, Out-the-Door Special: $159.95.
Service knew about ten-round semiautomatic SKS rifles. The Type 56 had a nine-inch folding bayonet. Probably the shipment was genuine surplus from the 1950s or ’60s, not ubiquitous recent Chinese knockoffs of their own stuff. How the hell did antique military surplus find its way into the middle of the U.S.? Might be worth a call to BATF, he told himself.
They were hardly into the store when a youngish man with gel-spiked hair and an earring approached with an earnest, welcoming smile and a gushing voice that made Service cringe. “Mornin’, folks.”
His red, white, and blue nametag said Timbo—I Support Our Troops
“Nice shop,” Service said, taking out his badge and showing it. “Mr. Magee?”
“I see you that day?” the man asked Friday.
“That was Conservation Officer Grinda. I was elsewhere,” she said.
“I swear there were two game wardens there.”
“How’re you doing?” Friday asked.
“Would do a lot better if you folks were here to tell me you busted somebody.”
“Sorry,” Friday said.
Service changed the subject. “Sign outside your shop says gunsmithing services are available; what exactly does that mean?”
“I’m the gunsmith, but I don’t do any work here; the gunsmithing business is separate from Real Stuff.”
“No offense, but you look a bit young to be a gunsmith.”
“I grew up with guns. Been in business since I was sixteen, legally since twenty-one.”
“Good skill to have,” Service said.
“With fewer hunters these days, I sometimes wonder,” the man said.
“How’s Mrs. Macafee?” Friday asked.
“How do you think she’d be?” he challenged. “She’s hurtin’, but she’ll make it.”
“The SKS carbines . . . good price,” Service said. “They look like real surplus.”
“You know guns?”
“Sort of my job,” Service said.
Magee chucked his head. “It’s a helluva price.”
“Where’d you get them?”
“Gun show deal.”
“The ATF been inquiring?”
“Why?” Magee asked, looking surprised. “There’s nothing wrong. I got the paperwork, and they ain’t automatic.”
“No offense. My job to ask,” Service said.
The man looked irritated, straining to control it.
“Say,” Service asked, “maybe you can answer a couple of questions that have come up about that day.”
“I gave the officers my statement.”
“Yessir, we appreciate that, but we just need to clarify a couple of points.”
Magee shrugged. “Such as?”
“You and Jimbo had never been to the Paint before?”
“That’s right.”
“Neither of you?”
“I just said that, didn’t I?”
“Okay. You left Jimbo at the bridge and went downstream.”
“That’s what I told the officer.”
“How far downstream?”
“Two, three hundred yards, maybe,” said Magee.
“While Jimbo went upstream?”
“Guess he didn’t get all that far.”
“How’d you guys decide who went where?”
“Just decided, I guess. I don’t remember how. Does it matter?” asked Magee.
“Not really. You drove up to the U.P. separately, right?”
The man hesitated. “I told the officer that.”
“You did, but the way you said it, it sounded like you meant you came up in the same vehicle.”
“I never meant to say that.”
“Okay. That’s why we’re here, to clarify,” Service said.
“What difference does it make?”
“Probably none, but we’ve got supervisors who can be pricks about details, and when we get ready to seek the criminal indictment, the prosecutors will double-check everything.”
“Does that mean you�
�re getting close to an arrest?” asked Magee.
Service didn’t answer, asking instead, “So Jimbo, he went upstream?”
“Like I said.”
“Which means you went downstream?”
“Right.”
“Through the woods?” Service asked.
“Yes.”
“To get around the holes.”
“I could’ve waded the edges, but why waste the energy or get into the water before you have to?”
“I fish for trout, too.”
“Dry-fly man?” Magee asked.
“Pretty much whatever works.”
Friday said, “You got a booklet.”
“I gave it to the officer and she made a copy.”
“Thanks, we have it. You got it in the mail, unsolicited?”
“Yes.”
“Did it come to you or to Jimbo?” Friday asked.
The man looked confused. “I don’t remember. We both get a lot of mail about destination fishing.”
“Mrs. Macafee said she nearly had to kick her husband out the door to get him to take time off work,” Friday said.
“Jimbo didn’t know how to rest and relax. Work, work, work. Yeah, she convinced him, I guess. I guess wives know how to do that,” the man added with a wink.
Friday turned to Service. “You want to talk to the Mad Russian?”
“What Mad Russian?” Magee asked.
“The one who sent the brochure. He’s got mailing lists. It’ll tell us whether you or Mr. Macafee got the brochure.”
“What difference does it make?”
Service intervened. “If Macafee got it and he doesn’t like to take off work, why’d he even mention it? Seems to me he’d just shit-can it.”
Magee nodded. “Maybe it did come to me.”
“If we call the Mad Russian, he can confirm it, and then it will make some sense.”
“What will make sense?”
“You know . . . what you told Officer Grinda that day?”
The man looked tense. “I just told her what happened.”
“You also said something about feeling a little bit guilty.”
“That was just talk. He was my partner and friend.”
“Of course, which makes it understandable. If you got the brochure and then talked him into it, I can see that. But if the brochure came to him, not you or Mrs Macafee, how could you convince him to go somewhere you didn’t know about?”
Shadow of the Wolf Tree Page 25
