Death Roe

by Joseph Heywood

  “So far.”

  “Make you feel like some high-wire freak working without a net?”

  “Something like that.”

  He called Denninger. “I’m checking in. Everything okay down there?”

  “Tip-top. I got the transcripts done this morning and our supplies are being unloaded as we speak. Did you talk to Lafleur?”

  “Yes. I’ve got the name of the convenience store chain, the name of an RCMP investigator who’s interested in Fagan’s investments in Canada, and the name of the woman who provided female talent for Fagan’s pals and associates.”

  “You want me to follow up on anything?”

  He spelled out the name. “Netsuko Hurami out of the Windsor RCMP office. She’s in the Rolodex cards I copied in Gaylord under ‘RCMP.’ Give her a bump and tell her what we’re doing and see how she reacts.”

  “Offer her a trade?”

  “Offer her a head-to-head. Tell her the big picture only—illegal eggs mixed with legal ones.”

  “Why should she care?”

  “She may not, but if she’s looking for Piscova dirt in Canada, she may be interested in any dirt we have here. Dirt follows dirt. Feel her out.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not for now. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

  “There’s snow coming into the U.P.,” she said. “I saw it on the Weather Channel.”

  Service glanced up. “I can see it in the sky,” he said. “See you tomorrow, I guess.”

  He didn’t like the tone of her voice. She sounded unsure of herself.

  25

  Wednesday, November 3, 2004

  HOUGHTON, HOUGHTON COUNTY

  Karylanne had a ground-floor apartment in a large house on Garner Street. She was close to campus and could walk while the weather was still good. It had been at least a month since he had seen her, and when he knocked on the door she took a long time to open up.

  The apartment was large, sparsely furnished, and immaculately clean. For the second time that day he found himself looking at a woman who looked a bit worse for the wear.

  “You look like crap,” he said.

  She managed a smile. “I’m just tired. Twenty-two credits is a struggle, but I’m fine. Don’t worry. I’m getting ready to broil some whitefish. I swear, I’m always hungry,” she added. Her belly was swollen to the point where it looked like the slightest jostle would make it pop.

  He followed her into the kitchen, got a can of Diet Pepsi out of the fridge, popped the tab, and sat down. “Classes okay?”

  “The usual grind,” she said. “Walter could read something once and get it. I have to pound everything into my brain and hope it doesn’t drain away.”

  The mention of his son made him gulp. “The baby?”

  “No problems, though I’m getting kicked on a regular basis. We’re still on for December twenty-eighth, and the doctor says everything looks normal and fine. I talked to my mum last night and she’s coming down for a couple of weeks after I deliver.”

  This news bothered him and he wasn’t sure why. “I’ll be here.”

  “You have a job to do,” she said. “Mum can stay for a month if she needs to, and if we don’t kill each other.”

  “Is that likely?”

  “Not really. She’ll be so into grandmothering she’ll leave me alone.” She looked over at him. “You don’t look like you’re on top of your game either.”

  “A lot of driving.”

  “I talk to McCants pretty regularly. She says you’ve been downstate.”

  “I have,” was all he said.

  “I told Candi she could bring Newf and Cat over here. I think it would be good to have company around.”

  “What did she say?”

  “No answer. I think she took it as criticism.”

  The feelings of others, Service thought, were an endless minefield. He had enough of a challenge sorting out his own. “You seen Gus?”

  “Stops by every couple of days. Shark and Limey, too. They all hover.” She lifted her hands and wiggled them. “Really, are you okay?”

  “Just tired.”

  “We promised to always level with each other,” she said, playing back a speech he had given her when he’d discovered she was pregnant and decided to take care of her.

  “I’ve got a case that’s sort of complicated,” he said.

  “As a term paper that report would not make it,” she said with a chuckle.

  They ate fish and lima beans and a simple mixed green salad and made small talk.

  “Still the twenty-eighth, huh?” he said.

  “That’s our date, not the baby’s. They have their own clocks. Don’t worry. If you aren’t here, Gus or Shark or Limey will jump right in.”

  “It’s my job,” he said. What he didn’t say was that it was more a sense of need than anything else. “I’ll be here.”

  She patted him on the arm. “Relax, Grandpa . . . we’ll all get through this.”

  After dinner Karylanne studied and Service drove over to Gus Turnage’s house, had a beer, and watched a Red Wings game with him. “Thanks for looking in on Karylanne.”

  “She’s a good kid; works her butt off.”

  They sat in silence a long while before Gus said, “Messy case?”

  “Very.”

  “You’ll wear them down,” his friend and colleague said.

  Service wished he was as confident. He should have been less impulsive and postponed the raid on the plant, but when you were a game warden, you had to act fast or risk the evidence disappearing.

  Stop making excuses, he told himself. You fucked up. Not your first time—won’t be your last. Accept it and move on.

  26

  Thursday, November 4, 2004

  HASTINGS, BARRY COUNTY

  He called Barry County assistant prosecuting attorney Gary Hosk an hour after leaving Houghton and made an appointment to see him. Hosk asked him to come to his house on Algonquin Lake near Hastings and gave him directions.

  Service pulled up to the house at 6 p.m. and went to the door. A man with a florid face greeted him at the door with a martini glass in hand. He wore an expensive blue cardigan, a button-down shirt, and a loose tie. “Service? What can I do for the DNR?”

  The man led him into his den, which was filled with shelves of books and a giant television. “Want a drink?”

  “Diet Pepsi.”

  The two men sat down. Service said, “You used to work for Crimea.”

  “Who told you that?” the man asked with a start.

  “It’s part of an investigation.”

  Hosk began to shake. “God,” he whispered. “Oh . . . my . . . God.” The man obviously had been imbibing for a while.

  “I’m just looking for some information,” said Service.

  The man’s head dropped. “I swear I didn’t do anything illegal.”

  Serious overreaction. “Nobody said you did.”

  The man tried to pull himself together and looked up.

  “You used to deliver bags of cash for your employer to Piscova plants in New York and Michigan.”

  “I delivered bags. I never knew what was in them.”

  Service was skeptical. “What if it was coke?”

  “It wasn’t,” Hosk insisted, shaking his head repeatedly.

  “Approximately nine grand in cash, per bag. No law against that,” Service said. “Is there?”

  “No.”

  “You ever meet Semyon Krapahkin?”

  “He was the boss.”

  “You met him?”

  “Once in a while.”

  “Who gave you the packages?”

  “Krapahkin’s assistant, Oleg Bauman.”
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  “Not the boss?”

  “No, never.”

  “And you had no idea what was in the packages?”

  “I never looked. A lawyer is well schooled in learned ignorance.”

  “Did you handle the contract with Piscova for salmon caviar?”

  “No, my job was to provide legal services, especially where immigration and visas were concerned. Not contracts.”

  “But you knew there was a contract.”

  “Absolutely not. All I knew was that Crimea did business of some kind with Piscova. I never knew the details.”

  “All you knew was your own narrow little world.”

  “Good lawyers learn to focus,” Hosk said, trying to make a joke.

  “You’re probably going to get a subpoena,” Service said. He wasn’t sure this was true, but he wanted to see the man’s reaction.

  Hosk abruptly stood up and left the room. When he came back, his hair was wet and he looked pale. “Okay, here’s how it was. I thought Crimea was legitimate. When I found out they were on the shady side, I resigned the account and left the firm.”

  “Shady in what way?”

  “I’m not saying anything more without my lawyer,” Hosk said.

  “If you haven’t done anything wrong, you don’t have to worry,” Service said. “We’re interested in you only for what you know about Piscova and Crimea.”

  “Not without my lawyer.”

  The man was sweating and trembling. Service took out a business card. “If you think of anything, give me a call on my cell phone.” He used a pen to circle the number and placed the card on a coffee table. “I’m sorry to interrupt your cocktail hour. I’m just doing my job. It’s not personal.”

  He drove down the street and parked to take some time to think. Hosk was badly shaken, but admitted to carrying bags. Good chance he knew they contained money, but that probably didn’t matter. Roxy would testify to receiving the bags from Hosk and that they contained money. But Hosk’s reaction made him wonder if the man was hiding something more serious, or if he was just badly embarrassed by a past that had caught up to him.

  He called Denninger. “I’m just pulling out of Hastings; be there in a half-hour. How’s the resort?”

  She laughed. “Trashed. You eat yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I bought some steaks today, and a bottle of wine. See you when you get here, boss.”

  Boss? The word jarred him; it was a title for others, not him. He didn’t like it at all.

  27

  Thursday, November 4, 2004

  SARANAC, IONIA COUNTY

  The temperature outside was in the mid-thirties and there was a light sleet starting as he pulled up to the resort. The room was filled with cardboard boxes and gear. Denninger had a fire going in the woodstove and had set up four huge erasable boards, labeling them: people, events, confirmed facts, tasks to complete: process / case-specific.

  “Impressive,” he said. “You get hold of the Canadian?”

  “Talked to her twice. She’s part of a task force looking at Americans who may be laundering money in Canadian operations.”

  “Money laundering?”

  Denninger nodded. “She said she’s been on Fagan’s trail for two years and she knows he’s doing something, but she can’t figure out exactly what. A lot of his money crosses the border into weird schemes and then disappears. Fagan does everything by word of mouth, no paper trail.”

  “Huh. She interested in what we have?”

  “Very. Everything go okay with you?”

  “Roxy doesn’t look well at all. I stopped and visited Hosk on the way back.”

  She looked at the board labeled people. “The guy in Hastings?”

  “He was not at all happy to see me. He was real hinky but admits to delivering bags for Crimea to Piscova. He claims he only handled immigration issues for the company.”

  Service walked over to the board labeled confirmed facts and wrote, “Roxy claims money from Hosk; Hosk confirms delivering, but not knowing contents of packages.” On the next line he wrote: “RCMP confirms 2-yr. investigation of Fagan’s money-laundering activities.”

  Denninger said, “Looks like a good start.”

  “Why do I get the feeling we don’t have enough boards to record what’s ahead?”

  “Let’s eat,” she said. “We both need a break.”

  She poured from a bottle of 1999 Amarone and Service looked at the bottle. “You found a bottle of this in Saranac?”

  “I brought some from my own supplies.”

  “Good choice,” he said.

  “Didn’t need your approval,” she said, taking a sip and saluting him with the glass. “We gonna run in the morning?”

  Her mind was erratic. On the phone she’d sounded needy. Now she was copping a weird attitude. He nodded, knowing that crawling out of bed in the dark would be difficult at best.

  “I may be headed up to Traverse City tomorrow. You want to go?”

  “You need me?”

  “I think it’s good for us to spend time bouncing stuff off each other.”

  “You’re the boss,” she said, obviously pleased to not be left behind again.

  She’s young, Service told himself. Very, very young. Remember that. Damn feelings anyway.

  He grilled two steaks and did two baked potatoes in the microwave. They ate in silence.

  It was 2 a.m. and Denninger was kneeling beside his bed, shaking his shoulder and whispering in his ear. “Somebody’s outside—I saw a light.”

  He was out of bed, pulling on trousers and boots and following her downstairs, both of them carrying their gear belts.

  “Where?”

  “East of the house,” she said.

  They got flashlights and radios, pulled on their gear belts, and slid quietly out the back door, her going east, and him circling to the west. He had managed to get on a shirt, but no coat, and the wind and sleet were cutting.

  “Where are you?” he heard her whisper over the 800 MHz.

  “Front.”

  “Keep coming east,” she said.

  The sky was overcast, the sleet pummeling them, no light, but he could make out her silhouette toward the woods. When he got to her, she whispered. “Voices.”

  He listened and thought he heard at least one voice, but he couldn’t make out the words. The tone sounded irritated. They went through the woods side by side until they reached a clearing and saw a dim light ahead, and two vehicles. One of them was a CO’s truck.

  “You dumb punks—I let you off with a warning last time.”

  A teenage voice challenged, “Big whoop. We were headlighting. We ain’t got no gun, dude.”

  Denninger nudged Service with her elbow, whispered, “I’ll look around,” and was gone.

  “Six of us, man, one of you. What’re you gonna do, shoot all our asses?”

  Service didn’t give the CO a chance to respond. He stepped toward the group and when he got close, switched on his light and shone it in the faces of the teens. “DNR, Conservation Officer. He won’t shoot your asses, but I will. Get on the ground, now!”

  The boys hit the ground in unison. The other CO said, “Who is that?”

  “Grady Service. Who’re you?”

  “Cullen.”

  Service stepped over to the officer, who looked to be about Denninger’s age.

  “What have you got?”

  “They had a light, and it’s after eleven. I’m sure there was a weapon.”

  “You see them toss it?”

  “No. I was running black and the ground was rough. The Grady Service? What’re you doing here?”

  Service cringed. “Keep your mind in the moment, Officer.”

  �
�Yessir.”

  “Don’t call me sir.”

  “Nossir, I won’t, sir.”

  Denninger suddenly appeared carrying a shotgun. “Hullo, Joe. Somebody musta dropped this.”

  “Dani?”

  Denninger laughed. “Boo.”

  “Jesus,” Cullen said with a huge grin.

  Service went over to the boys. “Get on your feet.”

  When they were up, Service asked, “Who belongs to this?”

  “Never saw it before,” one of the boys said quickly.

  “Good,” Service said. “The state gets a new shotgun.” He turned to Cullen. “Stroke the little wiseasses for shining after curfew and trespass, and add on the ticket there was a shotgun found and that they insist it doesn’t belong to them.”

  Service and Denninger watched while the officer wrote the tickets and sent them on their way.

  “C’mon,” Service said to Cullen. “We’re in the place just west of here. Drive over and we’ll make some fresh coffee.”

  “I thought we were going to remain incognito,” Denninger said as they walked through the woods.

  “You know him?”

  “He graduated from the academy class ahead of mine.”

  When Cullen got there, he looked around the room like he had stumbled into the twilight zone, and raised his hands. “I see nothing, right?”

  “Dead on,” Service said.

  “Am I supposed to know you two are here?”

  “Know who’s where?” Service said in response.

  “Ahhh,” Joe Cullen said, nodding solemnly. “Ahhh.”

  28

  Monday, November 8, 2004

  TRAVERSE CITY, GRAND TRAVERSE COUNTY

  Two days earlier Service had hit a wall. He had the name “Aline Bergey” off the Rolodex files and after a few phone calls had discovered she was president of Farmer’s Bank of Michigan. She had been the bank’s commercial loan officer when the bank made loans to Piscova. Having discovered who she was, he managed to get a call through to her, explaining that he was with the DNR and investigating one of the bank’s customers.

  “Which customer?” she challenged him.