Death Roe

by Joseph Heywood

  “Dewayne couldn’t catch a goldfish if he emptied the bowl into a net.”

  “Good worker?”

  “Gets the job done, more or less,” the man said.

  “Thanks,” Service said.

  “Dewayne in trouble?”

  “Thanks,” Service repeated as he walked away.

  They had the man’s home address from the computer and drove to a house on Thompsonville Highway, two miles south of the hatchery. There was a rusted, ancient black Ford Escort in the driveway.

  A woman answered the door, with a child on her hip. “Yes?”

  “Is Dewayne home?”

  “He took off to some bass tournament in Florida.”

  Service said, “One I’ve heard of?”

  “Florida Panhandle somewhere. He’s gotta be there Thursday for a Friday start.”

  “He fish a lot of tournaments?”

  “What he does is not win any, but he always seems to have enough money for his stupid toys, and I gotta work to put clothes on my kids. What did you say your name was?”

  “Service.”

  “You want me to tell him you stopped by?”

  “Not necessary,” Service said. “Does he have a cell phone?”

  “When he decides to answer it.”

  “Think I could have his number? I’ll just call him and we’ll do our business over the phone.” She gave him the number, and Service and Denninger started south toward Saranac. Denninger called the number, which went over to a message service. She didn’t leave a message.

  “What’s it cost to enter big bass tournaments?” he asked.

  “No clue, but we can find out.”

  “Let’s do that.”

  “We’re getting there, aren’t we?”

  “Looks okay for the moment.” Deep in his mind he was worried. How come Leukonovich knew about these guys, and why had she passed along their names?

  Service called Roy Rogers in New York. “Leukonovich told us that Fish and Wildlife are going to play Crimea to get a bigger fish; you heard anything about that?”

  “Not officially, but I’ve been picking up hints.”

  “We need those samples, Trip.”

  “I know; I’m working on it.”

  Service looked over at Denninger and shook his head.

  50

  Thursday, December 2, 2004

  MOUNT PLEASANT, ISABELLA COUNTY

  First thing in the morning, Service and Denninger logged onto the Internet with their laptops and did some quick research. They called Florida and made contact with the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission law enforcement division and got the name and cell-phone number for the conservation officer who handled Pensacola Beach in Escambia County.

  Service made contact with officer Joanelle Lox, told her briefly about the investigation, and asked if she had time to check out Fagan’s place. She said she would, took down the address from him, and called back thirty minutes later.

  “I’m out front now.”

  “What’s it look like?”

  “Beachfront, moderate size, maybe a million-eight. Y’all got you a camera phone?”

  Service looked over at Denninger. “Do you have a cell phone that will handle photos?”

  “My personal phone.” She gave him the number, he relayed it to the Florida officer, and hung up. Lox called the line a minute later and talked to Denninger, who put it on speaker. “Can y’all see?”

  “Comes through good,” Denninger said, showing the photo to Service, who was leaning over her shoulder.

  “Y’all don’t mind, I’ll just leave it on and go on up and make contact, and y’all can listen in.”

  “We’re here,” Denninger said.

  They saw the front door on the phone and heard a bell ringing.

  “Moanin’, ” the officer greeted a clean-shaven man with wet hair. “Ah’m Officer Lox of the FWC. We’re conductin’ a survey of the horned northern viper—tha’s a kinda snike. Y’all the owners?”

  The phone camera shifted to show a young woman, disheveled, with mussed hair.

  “We’re on vacation,” the man said.

  “My plat book shows this here’s the property of Mr. Quintan Fagan,” Officer Lox said, “that right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’re his guests.”

  “Who’re you?” the officer asked.

  “Dewayne Askin.”

  The camera went back to the woman.

  “Ya’ll married?” the officer asked.

  “No, ma’am, just good friends,” Askin said.

  “My name’s Edie,” the woman said. “These snakes you’re lookin’ for, they dangerous or anything?”

  “No, ma’am. They just sort of migrate down this way ever’ winter to breed, and we like to keep track.”

  “You want to come in?” the woman named Edie asked.

  “No, ma’am, jes didn’t want you folks ta panic when I commenced ta walkin’ ya’ll’s grounds.”

  “No problem,” Askin said. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Like ta keep folks happy,” the officer said.

  “What’s so special about these snakes?” the woman called Edie asked.

  “They aren’t endangered or anything, but they’re kinda interestin’. They make the most god-awful sounds when they’re matin’.”

  The woman giggled.

  “I best get on,” the officer said.

  “Me, too,” Edie said, giggling.

  Out in the yard, the officer said to Denninger. “You get all that?”

  “We did. What the heck is a horned northern viper?”

  The officer laughed. “Could ya’ll hear what was goin’ on inside when I got up at the door?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s just say it give me the idea for namin’ the snake. You see their hair?”

  “We get it,” Denninger said. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Glad to. Just keep on sendin’ them tourists south with beaucoup cash.”

  Denninger hung up. “Press this anymore?”

  “No, you can talk to Askin when he gets back to work. We know he and Hough are dirty, but in the greater scheme, I think they’re small fish. Let’s keep working our lists and see what develops.”

  Beaker Salant called between Service’s calls. “I’ve got a source telling me that Michigan DNR seals were found at a New York state hatchery. That true?”

  Service did not remember mentioning the seals and was pretty sure he hadn’t, which meant the journalist had another source. Or he was fishing. “I haven’t seen any seals,” Service answered, trying to hedge. Working with a reporter was a real strain.

  “But you knew there were seals.”

  “I just heard it from you.”

  “You’re being evasive,” Salant said.

  “It seems to me that the seals aren’t the story,” Service countered.

  “They’re part of it. A story is like a jigsaw, and reporters like to get all the pieces in the right places.”

  Service wanted to redirect him. “Jeff Choate is retiring.”

  “Because of my articles?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If he retires does that mean you can still go after him?”

  “I assume so,” Service said, feeling a sudden surge of panic. Why had Cecil Hopkins ordered him off Choate? “Any more stories in the works?”

  “Maybe. I got an e-mail from a former Piscova employee, who claims she took cash from Fagan, went to Chicago, and bought Krugerrands for him.”

  “Have you confirmed she was an employee?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Whoa, dude. We�
�re partners, you and me, which means we share. Michigan seals were or were not found in New York?”

  “They were, but like I said, they’re secondary to the main story.”

  “How did they get to New York? It’s my understanding that only a state biologist can use them.”

  “We’re pursuing that, but it’s not a priority. Who’s the former employee?”

  “Lauren Gladieux. You’ll keep me tuned in to the seal thing?”

  “You bet,” Service said, wondering who was using whom.

  Denninger asked, “Who was that?”

  “We need to get back to the Rolodex names and look for a woman named Lauren Gladieux.”

  Denninger went through the file. “She’s here. Beulah address and phone number.”

  Service called the number and got a message that it had been disconnected. He terminated the call and said, “Keep at it. What did each employee do for Piscova, for how long, and when? Any connection to caviar production? Did they work with Lafleur, Fagan, or Vandeal?”

  They spent the rest of the day on the phones, talking, scratching notes, finding a few people they might interview later, but none with the potential interest of Lauren Gladieux. Mid-afternoon Denninger began waving frantically at Service and he hung up from his call and listened to her.

  “You’re still in touch with her? Where was that? Why’d she change her name? She get married? No, okay. Thanks much. We appreciate it.”

  She looked at Service. “Lauren Gladieux is now known as Lauren Glad. She lives near Oil City in Midland County and works at Soaring Eagle.”

  The Soaring Eagle casino was the largest Native American gambling operation in the state. It was operated by the Saginaw Chippewas and located in Mt. Pleasant.

  “She tribal?” Service asked.

  “Don’t know. Her friend said she changed her name because the old one was too long. What’s that all about? You want to get phone ear, or go up there?”

  “Let’s roll,” he said.

  “I’m all over that,” she said. “Want me to get us rooms at the casino?”

  “We’ll come back here, or sleep in the truck. We’re spending money like crazy.”

  “Don’t think I’ve ever slept double in a patrol truck.”

  Service wondered if this was a double entendre, but it seemed straightforward and he put it out of his mind.

  They got to the casino around 6 p.m. It was a Thursday night and the lot was close to full, most of the space taken up by what had to be one hundred buses from all over the Midwest. They parked and made their way under a wooden beam entrance into the main lobby. In front and below them were rows of one-arm bandits, most of them occupied. Service saw at least three wheelchairs with oxygen bottles, elderly women with slot cards on lanyards around their necks. There was a sandstone wall with flying eagles in relief. “Uplifting,” he grumped. He had always found casinos depressing. What did people expect—that hope and eagles would carry them up to the good luck god?

  “Hey,” Denninger said, looking at a wall turned bulletin board, “The second annual indigenous Upper Peninsula farming conference will be here in January, and the Michigan Mosquito Control Association conference in February.”

  “Weather sucks for farming in the U.P.,” Service said, “and judging by our mosquito populations, the control association must be hauling them up there and unloading them. Let’s find the manager’s office.”

  The casino manager was too busy to see them, but an assistant manager came out. She was young and bouncy and did not appear to be tribal. Service badged her. “We’re looking for one of your employees, Lauren Glad.”

  “Is she with the casino or the resort?”

  “Soaring Eagle is all we know.”

  “This could take some time. Why don’t you go into the Water Lily and have a drink.”

  “We’re on duty.”

  “We have coffee and soft drinks,” the woman said, showing them into the dark restaurant and seating them before talking to a waitress who brought a carafe of coffee.

  “They must think we’re gonna be here a while,” Denninger quipped.

  The manager came back after they had each had a cup. “Sorry to take so long. We’re short-handed. Lauren Glad works rolling stones.”

  Service glanced at Denninger. “Rolling stones?”

  “Crap tables.”

  “Is she working tonight?”

  “Tomorrow; she has the morning shift. Is there a problem?”

  “No, we just need to talk to her.”

  “Try tomorrow morning. She comes on at eight.”

  “Thanks,” Service said.

  On their way out to the truck they found that light snow had turned heavier. “Let’s find her residence,” Service said as they got in.

  Oil City was ten miles east on M-20. Though named, there was no actual town and never had been. Back in the sixties it had housed a slew of bars populated by oil and natural gas roughnecks exploiting the fields in the area, and Central Michigan University students looking for a little excitement and action. Oil City had been a tough place back then. Today, there wasn’t much to see. They found a trailer set back from Greendale Road, a green VW bug parked in front. The parking area had not seen a shovel recently, but lights were on inside.

  They went up into the mudroom that led to the front door and knocked. There were two pairs of heavy boots, probably women’s, Service thought.

  The woman who opened the door had wide eyes and long black hair. “Yes?” she asked.

  “Lauren Gladieux?”

  “Cops?”

  “DNR.”

  “Game wardens?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You used to work for Piscova.”

  “I don’t know nothing,” she said.

  “We haven’t asked a question yet,” Denninger said.

  “It don’t matter. I got nothing to say.”

  “It’s about Krugerrands and Quintan Fagan.”

  “That sonuvabitch. He claim I stole from him?”

  A sore point, Service thought. “Stole what?”

  “Krugerrands. It’s not true. I never took none of them dumb coins.”

  “Why don’t you tell us about it?”

  “I’m still trying to forget that bastard.”

  No sign she was going to invite them in. “Maybe we can help.”

  “I don’t want no help. I just want to be left alone.”

  “Fagan accused you of stealing Krugerrands?”

  “I never stole nothing. He accused me so he could fire me.”

  “Why?”

  “I wouldn’t go to bed with him.”

  “So he accused you of stealing?”

  “After he chewed my ass he told me I was either gonna go along or that would be the end of me.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “He always says things so they can be interpreted differently.”

  “And you said no.”

  “No; I said yes, and I went with him one time and that was enough for me. No job’s worth that.”

  “You bought Krugerrands for him?”

  “He gave me Northwest Airline bags with cash and I went to Chicago and bought them at a bank down there. I made maybe four trips and he hit me with the fuck-or-be-canned speech.” She looked up at Service. “Is he trying to claim I stole them?”

  “Not that we know of,” Service said.

  “He scared me, so I moved and changed my name. How’d you find me?”

  “We can’t say.”

  “If you found me, he can, too. You don’t know what he’s like.”

  “He’s not looking for you,” Denninger said. “It would be good if you talked t
o us. When did you buy the Krugerrands, where, from whom, all of that. We don’t want to cause you a problem.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Fagan, not you. Did you keep records?”

  “On my calendar.”

  “Do you have it?”

  “Somewhere.”

  “Think we could take a look?”

  “I suppose,” she said.

  The woman let them inside. The furniture was in bad shape. There was a Native American spirit wheel on one wall, made of wooden strips—probably white ash, Service thought—and decorated with feathers. “You make that?”

  “A guy I dated give it to me, said it would heal my spirit. It worked for a while, but then he started showing up drunk and that ended that. I got no time for drunks.”

  She showed them the calendar.

  “You’re sure these dates are right?” Service asked. The calendar was from 2003.

  “I quit last April and moved. I was in Chicago in the fall.”

  “So you did this four times?” Service asked. She nodded. “He send anybody else?”

  “He keeps everything secret. I don’t know.”

  “You could file charges,” Denninger said.

  “Wasn’t no rape. I give it up.”

  “He coerced you.”

  “I guess, but I don’t want to talk about that no more. I’m making a new life and I don’t want nothing to do with all that old junk.”

  They thanked her for the information, and left. It was 10 p.m. by the time they got into Service’s truck, and snowing hard. “We’ll take it slow heading back,” he said.

  “Safer to get a room.”

  Service raised an eyebrow and Denninger did likewise. “You think those spirit wheel things work?”

  “They work for those who believe they work,” he said. “Otherwise it’s a good place to hang feathers.”

  She laughed, said, “You’re cold, dude.”

  “Is that cold as in hot, or cold as in cold?”

  “Depends on what you believe,” she said.

  He was no longer sure what he believed in when it came to the department and its mission. The mission, yes. The department? Not sure, up in the air, a sea change coming—great waves like Superior’s fabled Three Sisters. He believed in Nantz, and his dead son. Brook trout remained beautiful and predictably unpredictable. He would always believe in brook trout and tannin-stained water. What else? Even the list of possibilities was short. Only one thing declared itself, to take the case all the way, no matter what. He was not sure it was a standard that would be achievable, and that alone made it worth pursuing. He kept all these thoughts to himself.