Death Roe

by Joseph Heywood

  “Very.”

  “The first thing we need to do is call Rogers in New York and tell him to impound the eggs,” she said.

  “Maybe we should wait until tomorrow to make sure he has them.”

  “First thing?”

  “I was thinking more like midday.”

  She recoiled. “The evidence could be in testing by then.”

  “Yeah, that could happen,” Service said, deadpan. “I think we should attend the hearing,” he added. “If anything goes south, it’s on my shoulders.”

  “When is it?”

  He answered with a shrug. “Ten days or so. I also have the name of a forensic accountant who will join us.”

  “You talked to Roxy Lafleur a second time?” she asked.

  “Not since Miars and I were up there,” Service said. “At some point I want to talk to Alma DeKoening and try to get a bead on where she is with her job and Fagan. We saw her drop the eggs with Veatch and go on to the plant. I don’t get why she didn’t just take them there herself.”

  Denninger rolled her eyes. “She wanted to get laid.”

  Probably true, but this didn’t explain why she’d left the eggs with Veatch. “I also think we should dig around and look at all allegations of all people on the take. We know from Roxy Lafleur that Langford Horn got a boat. We ought to see it, take photos. We also ought to look at the allegation of women and vacations and all that, one at a time, try to pinpoint who got what, when and where, if anything. We also need to talk to as many former employees as we can find to explore what they might know about the caviar operation.”

  “And coordinate everything with New York?” Denninger added.

  “I’ll be the primary with Rogers and New York for now. We need to go to New York at some point and see if we can interview Piscova’s customers.”

  “Can’t New York handle that on their own?”

  “Good question.” He had a feeling he needed to meet with Rogers to work out the coordination and a sense of how he saw the case. “The bottom line is that New York has the case, but they also had no clue about what they had until we stepped in and gave them direction. As far as I’m concerned, that makes it our case.”

  “How long has this been going on?” Denninger asked.

  “Miars and Zins had it for eighteen months. Me, less than three weeks.”

  “Teeny actually stopped you in the Mason lobby?”

  “Very unhappy man. I ignored him. I’m guessing he’ll soon be out of it.”

  “You ever get this kind of blowback before?”

  “Nothing so blatant. When you piss off people you’re more likely to get passive-aggressive crap and a lot of cold stares. I’ve gotten a whole lot of cold stares about my cases over the years,” he added. “Unless they turn out all right. Then everybody’s your pal.”

  “I heard,” she said, looking at the paper bags on the counter. “There’s not enough real food here. We need to seriously shop. You cook, I’ll do dishes. I get the shower first in the morning. I don’t wake up fast and I sleep like I’m dead. Where’s my bedroom?”

  “Our bedroom is upstairs. We each get a double bed. There’s a sauna out back on the riverbank.”

  She rubbed her face. “I’ve been told I snore.”

  “You cool with this?” he asked.

  “I’m pachydermatous,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Oblivious to reactions I create in others.”

  He laughed. “That’s makes two of us.”

  First thing the next morning Service limped through an hour-long run along the river, came back, and made a pot of coffee and breakfast as Denninger struggled downstairs in flannel PJs and wool socks, trying to will the sleep out of her eyes. Her breakfast was the same as his: one egg, one piece of dry rye toast, one small yogurt, and eight ounces of orange juice.

  “Combat rations?” she asked. “I eat real food.”

  “Pretty much.”

  After eating he called Anniejo Couch. “We’ll need some equipment here. Pencils, pens, a computer, a laser printer, a few reams of paper, couple of file cabinets, file folders, three or four white boards, markers, CDs, erasers, paper clips, cassette tapes, several cots and folding chairs . . . the drill. Is there a form to fill out?”

  “Next time. I wrote it all down and will make sure you get what you need. I think I can get the stuff there tomorrow afternoon. That work?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Your colleague there yet?” the assistant U.S. attorney asked.

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “Good. Anything else?”

  “Not for now.”

  His next call went to Roxanne Lafleur, who sounded tired.

  “Grady Service here. You up to talking?”

  “I’m sorry, but it will have to be tomorrow morning, early. I have to see the doctor tomorrow afternoon.”

  Service looked at his watch. It was 10 a.m. If he left now he could be at Slippery Creek tonight and spend the night before driving up to the Hurons tomorrow morning. “What time is good for you?” he asked.

  “I’m an early riser. How about eight?”

  “See you then.”

  He called Candi McCants on her cell phone. “You on patrol?”

  “Blasting off in a few.”

  “I’m going to head for Slippery Creek, be there tonight. You want to drop the animals?”

  “How long will you be here?”

  “Just tonight.”

  “Why don’t you just stay at my place,” she said. “It’ll be open. Let yourself in.”

  His next call was to Karylanne Pengelly.

  “Hello?” she answered.

  “It’s Grady. How’re you feeling?”

  “Beat. This is a lot harder than I anticipated. Are you coming over?”

  “I’m downstate.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  He heard the disappointment in her silence. “What’s tomorrow afternoon look like?”

  “Class till four.”

  “I’ll meet you at your place at four-thirty.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “You bet. You want me to cook?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll take care of that. It gets my nose out of the books.”

  When he hung up the phone he found Denninger eyeballing him. “What?” he asked.

  “Do I wear a uniform while we’re doing this work?”

  “It’s your choice.”

  She came downstairs a while later in corduroys and a sweater. He made more coffee and they sat down at the table together.

  “I ordered supplies. They’ll be delivered tomorrow. I’m heading up to the U.P. to interview Roxy Lafleur again. Be back the day after tomorrow. I’ve got some cassette tapes. I want to record every interview and create transcripts. We’ll share the typing. I’ll type yours, you type mine. Fair enough?”

  She nodded. He handed her the cassettes from his first Lafleur interview and his meeting with Andriaitis, and a list of Piscova’s former employees. “We’re getting a computer and a printer, but you can use your laptop; we’ll transfer it to disk and later move it all onto the new computer. Call the former employees, see if their phones are valid. Tell them you’re with the phone company and doing a routine line check. Questions?”

  “Did you get up and run this morning?”

  “Every morning I can,” he said.

  “Get me up, too.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do we find out who the area officer is and let them know we’re in the area?”

  He thought about this for a second. “No. We don’t tell anyone where we are for now.”

  “Because?”

  “You really want an answer?”

 
She shook her head.

  “Is what it is,” he said. “We’ve got Miars, the chief, and each other. Everybody else is suspect until we determine they’re not.”

  “This is sort of creeping me out.”

  “Me too. You okay holding down the fort?”

  “I don’t care for that term. How about we call it the resort?”

  “Your choice.”

  “Have you got a plan in mind?”

  “Very rough at this point.”

  She took a pen out of her pocket and grabbed a tablet of paper. “Start talking and I’ll start writing. I’ll transfer what we have to notepads. If some of my friends call on my cell, what do I tell them?”

  “Be creative,” he said. “Just don’t tell them the truth.”

  “Sick irony,” she said.

  “Okay,” he said, taking a gulp of coffee. “Ready?”

  Dani Denninger nodded and he began to talk through what he knew and didn’t know and what he thought they ought to do and in what sequence.

  When he was done he went out to his Tahoe and headed north, making a mental checklist of clothes to pack at his place. He would stop briefly at Slippery Creek, spend the night with McCants and the animals, see Lafleur in the morning, and drive to Houghton in the afternoon to see Karylanne. Pulling onto I-96 he sucked in a deep breath and tried to conjure a good travel mind-set.

  PART II

  ANDANTE

  These are much deeper waters than I thought.

  —Sherlock Holmes, “The Reigate Puzzle”

  24

  Wednesday, November 3, 2004

  HURON MOUNTAINS, MARQUETTE COUNTY

  Staying with McCants turned out to be a mistake. She had come in just after he arrived and immediately began grilling him about what he was doing.

  “So, you’re like in the federal witness protection program or what?”

  “Assignment,” he said.

  “The man of few words—as in way too few,” McCants shot back. “We have taken each other’s backs too many times to count.”

  “I’m covering your six right now,” he said.

  “Why am I not feeling comforted?”

  “You’re just tired,” he said.

  “Don’t tell me how I feel,” she snapped.

  “I can’t talk about it, Candi.”

  “Right,” she said, stalking off.

  She had gone to bed without another word, gotten up this morning without speaking to him, and departed. He knew she was pissed, but he wasn’t at all certain about what.

  He arrived at Roxy Lafleur’s cottage on time and made his way through the three dogs with a lump in his throat and his heart racing.

  The woman’s eyes were sunken, her skin drawn tight, her movement slow and labored. Last time she had looked healthy. Not anymore.

  “I know,” she said. “I don’t look so good.”

  “Have you called your doctor?”

  “I’m seeing him later today. You want coffee? It’s fresh.”

  They sat in her living room. She pulled an afghan over her legs and he poured the coffee for both of them. She handed him a slip of paper. “Angle Iron Properties is the name of the umbrella corporation for Quint’s chain of convenience stores in Ypsi, Plymouth, and Ann Arbor. Quint thinks he has a way with words. Angle iron is used for support and that pretty much describes his business interests. The whole shebang is in his wife’s name so the government can’t get at her if they happen to get to him.” She sighed and closed her eyes.

  “Sounds like he cares about her.”

  “Please,” Lafleur said.

  The second item on the list was Netsuko Hurami.

  “Who’s this?” he asked, tapping the name with his finger.

  “She’s an investigator with the RCMP out of Windsor. She came to the plant several times and wrote all kinds of letters, trying to get information about Quint’s investments in Canada.”

  Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Great—another complication, he thought.

  “What sort of investments?”

  “I’ve no idea,” she said, “but the way she stayed on it, they must be significant.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Only to relay messages to and from Quint.”

  “You have a number for her?”

  “It’s in the Rolodex, or was. Look under RCMP.”

  “You mentioned a man named Gary Hosk.”

  “Right. He worked for Crimea at one time.”

  “As a bag man?”

  She managed a smile. “That’s never in formal job descriptions, is it?”

  “How do you know he carried money?”

  “He delivered it to me in Elk Rapids, or sometimes at the plant in New York.”

  “Once, twice?”

  “More, maybe half a dozen times, but it was years ago.”

  “But after the company started supplying Crimea.”

  She nodded. “He was on retainer to Crimea.”

  “You mentioned women for Fagan’s clients.”

  “Not formally clients.”

  “You made arrangements?”

  “In Lansing I used a woman named Patricia Allard. She runs a very hush-hush and expensive escort service in the capital.”

  “Got a number for her?”

  “No. When Quint wanted me to get escorts, I used a cell phone that he gave me and, when the transaction was done, I threw the phone away. There was a new phone each time. Quint’s very, very careful.”

  Service lifted his chin and stretched his neck. “That’s pretty extreme security.”

  Lafleur held out the palms of her hands. “How it was. Down in Lansing, Allard’s known as Mama Cold.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  “I never met her. All our business was done by cell phone.”

  “She have cop problems?”

  “I’d expect anybody in that business would have potential cop problems.”

  “Did you ever meet a New York employee named Garrick Bindi?”

  “Never met him, but Quint mighta mentioned him. For some reason I think he worked at a state fish hatchery.”

  “What did Fagan say when he mentioned him?”

  “It’s kinda vague, but I think Quint called him the gate guard, or something like that.”

  Another potential fit, Service thought, but finding Bindi would be difficult.

  Last time, the woman’s dogs had gathered around him. This time they were next to her, staring at her, and he imagined he could sense their concern. “Maybe we ought to call your doctor. I’ll drive you to town.”

  “I can drive myelf just fine,” she said resolutely.

  “You don’t look well,” he said.

  “I’ve got cancer,” she whispered, and tried to force a grin. “Or it’s got me. I’m not sure which anymore.” She looked over at him. “Don’t worry. This is just part of the process. I’ll be okay.”

  He wasn’t convinced, but excused himself, made his way down to his truck, and headed for Houghton to see Karylanne.

  Passing through Chassell he got a cell-phone call from Chief O’Driscoll. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “No cell coverage where I was.”

  “We challenged the injunction this morning, but the judge stood firm,” said the chief. “There will be a full hearing in two weeks. The judge said that because the allegedly illegally taken eggs were not actually in the mix, we were short on probable cause in seizing finished product. Our lawyers think we may be screwed for this round. You need to contact New York and tell them to hold the samples until we exhaust all the legal steps.”

  “Roger that,” Service said. It sounded like the department’s lawyers were in the fight
and this was good. Sometimes they opposed the law enforcement division.

  “Where are you?” the chief asked.

  “Just finished interviewing Fagan’s Caviar Queen and now I’m headed to Houghton.”

  “Make sure you call New York,” the chief said, hanging up.

  Service called Trip Rogers, who was not in his office. He asked a secretary to go and find him.

  “What’s the status of the eggs?” Service asked when Rogers came to the phone.

  “FDA has them and testing is under way. Why?”

  “How long for a result?”

  “A week or more. Why?”

  Service told the New York environmental conservation officer about the injunction.

  “That screws the pooch,” Rogers said.

  “Partially. We’ll at least have results that will tell us something, even if we can’t use them.”

  “You think Piscova will keep the line operating?”

  “Not for long. The salmon runs are almost done, and they’re contracted only to take eggs from brights.”

  “Brights” were brilliant silver fish, freshly into the river system. As time passed the salmon began to blacken and fall apart during the process of slow death that came with spawning. “I’m guessing the natural cycle and our little raid will shut them down for now,” he said.

  Rogers said, “We could try to intercept a shipment at Crimea.”

  “What would that entail?”

  “A call to Fish and Wildlife. They have surveillance on the company.”

  “If that’s the best we can do,” Service said.

  “I’ll make some calls,” Rogers offered. “You think your legal people can beat the injunction?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Damn,” Rogers said. “Why the hell do our laws make it so damned hard to enforce the laws?”

  It was the unanswerable question for law enforcement.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Rogers said.

  “Let me give you another number,” Service said, telling his counterpart about Denninger and reading off her cell-phone number. He also explained how his chief had pulled them out of the DNR and transferred them to the U.S. Attorney’s office.

  “No shit? Your chief sounds like he has major backbone.”