The man stared at her and fled the room.
“What’s going on?” Service asked.
“Fagan is the broker-buyer.”
“That’s legal?”
“Costa Rica says the paperwork for his broker’s license is in progress and therefore active. The Costa Ricans don’t willingly cooperate with U.S. authorities, except under special circumstances. I would guess that Fagan fronted the money for Angledenny, and now he is buying it back. Angledenny will make twenty-five thousand for doing nothing, and the condo will now belong to the brokerage. It will be very difficult to detect Fagan’s name.”
“You detected it.”
“I have gone as far as I can.”
“Fagan greased palms there?”
“It’s an old and revered Latin custom.”
Angledenny came back fifteen minutes later and handed Leukonovich a slip of paper.
She read it silently, then out loud. “Refugio Seguro.”
“That’s it,” the representative said.
“May I ask how you came to know this broker, Refugio Seguro?”
“Through a friend.”
“His name?”
“Langford Horn.”
“This Mr. Horn has had dealings with this broker?”
“I don’t know. Said he’d heard good things about the company.”
“Of course you checked into it?”
“Called them; we talked.”
“When did you see the property?”
“Digital photos.”
“You did not visit?” she asked, raising an eyebrow to make her point.
“No need. it was a spec investment. The photos were good enough for me.”
“Your purchase was when?”
“January this year.”
“And the sale?
“Late October.”
“You held it less than a year?”
“Like I said, I had a cash-flow problem, and this was entirely legal.”
“Are there tax advantages in Costa Rica?”
“I don’t know the details. My financial advisor told me it was a good deal.” Angledenny suddenly stiffened. “A pre-audit?”
“Yes.”
“To hell with you. I haven’t even filed my return. It’s not even due for five months. You want to audit, wait until it’s filed.”
“You force me to report an uncooperative attitude.”
“Call it what you want—we’re done here.”
The representative left without paying his part of the bill and Leukonovich said, “I am sure the link to Fagan is Horn, but I will investigate further. There is, however, another connection I’m sure you recognize.”
He didn’t, and shook his head.
“Representative Angledenny’s father wrote the bill that outlawed the practice of snagging in the state.”
“Which gave the legal egg harvest market to Fagan,” Service said.
“Zhenya would call it a monopoly. The records show that even in unusual years when Piscova did not get the contract, Fagan was the majority shareholder in the companies that did.”
“Belated payback,” Service said.
“Perhaps. I will eventually know.”
“But nothing for us to act on now.”
“Do you speak Spanish?”
“No.”
“Refugio Seguro means ‘safe haven.’ ”
“But Fagan already has all sorts of real estate holdings.”
“Perhaps he needs a particular domicile in a particular location for a specific reason—perhaps in a location that does not extradite.”
Service rolled his eyes. “His own rat line. The sonuvabitch smells what’s coming down.”
“Media coverage has made that abundantly clear,” she said.
Grady Service had no comeback. Had he shot himself in the foot?
58
Friday, December 24, 2004
HOUGHTON, HOUGHTON COUNTY
Charles Marschke was wearing a flame-orange parka that reached below his knees and boots that made him look like he was headed to the Iditarod. Since Nantz’s death, her personal financial advisor/manager had assumed the same role for him. Over the past couple of weeks they had spoken several times, culminating in this morning’s meeting. It was Marschke who had chosen the bank, one of the smallest in the U.P., to handle matters.
The meeting was at the Iron Range Bank & Trust Company on East Montezuma Avenue. Present were Arlo Maki, Iron Range president, trust officer, and general counsel; Marschke; Karylanne; Service; and an unidentified woman.
Service had told Karylanne nothing in advance other than he wanted her to go to a meeting with him. She was well on the road to recovery, and Little M (as the baby was now being called) was healthy, alert, and happy, as long as she was fed regularly on her schedule.
Karylanne had missed finals and arranged to take them late, in January. She would not return to school until the next fall, which would give her nine months with the baby before diving back into the academic grind.
Maki, the bank’s virtual one-man band, had a sheaf of papers on the table. Service helped Karylanne sit down and Marschke got the meeting started. “Grady wants to provide for you and your daughter. The papers here this morning create a trust for which you will serve as executor until your daughter’s eighteenth birthday. You will receive an annual salary as executor. In the event of Grady’s death, you and your daughter will inherit his assets equally. Questions?”
Karylanne looked stunned, unable to speak.
Marschke said, “Good. Let’s get started signing the paperwork so we can get everyone home for Christmas Eve. I will serve as your financial advisor and manager. Mr. Maki here is the bank’s trust officer, and will actively manage both the trust and your investment portfolio.”
Maki began pushing papers at her and Karylanne began signing. Maki took the signed pages, peeled off copies, and put them in a folder. When the stack was signed, the woman stepped to the table.
“What’s this?” Karylanne asked.
“Just sign,” Service said.
Karylanne looked at the paperwork. “This is a deed.”
“Sign,” Service said, and she did as she was told.
Meeting concluded, the participants split up. Service drove Karylanne to a neighborhood west of downtown and pulled into a subdivision of new homes. He pulled into a driveway, got out, went to the front door, and opened it. Karylanne stepped inside. “This is your new home,” Service said. “Three bedrooms, well built but not fancy.” He handed her the keys. “It’s paid for. If you decide you and Little M want something different down the road, it’s your decision.”
She turned and looked at him, tears in her eyes, shaking her head. “I don’t . . .”
“You won’t have to worry about money for the rest of your life, which means you can go after whatever you want.”
“I haven’t earned anything,” she said.
“It’s not about earning. It’s about family,” he said.
They celebrated Christmas Eve at Gus Turnage’s house, along with his three sons, two of them with their wives, Marschke, Shark, and Limey. There were people sleeping all over the house.
On Christmas morning Shark was already sitting by the tree, anxious to start opening presents. Limey said, “The big red one’s for you,” but Shark shook his head and picked up a package and held it out to the baby. “This is yours, kid.”
Karylanne said, “She can’t open a present, Yalmer.”
He looked puzzled, mouthed, “Oh, yeah,” and ripped the wrapping away. He opened a box, took out a double-barreled shotgun, snapped together the pieces, and held it out to the baby, who stared up at him and the weapon.
“Yalmer,” Limey Py
ykkonen said. “You got a shotgun for a newborn?”
“Not just a shotgun. It’s a Beretta S687, twenty-six-inch barrel, four-ten gauge. We’ll get her started on it.”
“The barrel’s longer than she is,” Limey said.
“She’ll grow into it. I got it off eBay. It’s a work of art!”
Service said, “The baby is two weeks old.”
“Hey, youse gotta get ’em started early, eh.”
Limey shook her head, tacit admission that she knew she would never be able to change the strange ways of her husband.
Service saw that his friend was as proud as he had ever been and he knew that whatever happened to him, his granddaughter would have a support system second to none, and the knowledge warmed him.
Later in the day he called Roy Rogers in New York.
“I’m on a little Christmas break, but we’ll have the reports all done and in your hands two days after the New Year.”
“Based on the samples I’ve already seen, we should have everything ready for indictments by early February.”
“Trial?”
“Florida’s pushing hard for April, but it could be May, and if Fagan’s attorneys get cute, they could push it into summer.”
“You want Denninger and me out there?”
“That’s the U.S. Attorney’s call, but one thing’s for sure, and this is my call alone: When the time comes to arrest that sonuvabitch, I’m going to fly out there and watch you do the honors.”
“That will be a pleasure.”
59
Monday, December 27, 2004
ALBA, ANTRIM COUNTY
They had started compiling the criminal case report, double-checking transcripts against tapes, detailing charges against Vandeal and Fagan. The package was nearly two feet tall, and by the end of the week would go by overnight messenger to the the Northern District of New York’s Syracuse office. Leukonovich was working alongside them and assembling her own case report and evidence.
Despite the deadline, Service continued to fret. They had a list of two dozen former employees, half of whose phone numbers and whereabouts were no longer known; they could still talk to the other dozen, however, and Service didn’t want to close the report until they had done so. The Syracuse U.S. Attorney wanted the criminal report but Service felt like they needed more. Denninger tried to argue with him and Leukonovich just smiled. He left the women in Saranac and headed north.
Max and Travis Seti were on the list, with separate addresses in Antrim County. Service called Max, identified himself only as an investigator for the U.S. Attorney out of Grand Rapids, and said he wanted to talk to the man about Piscova. The man said, “No,” and hung up. He called Travis next, and opened the same way, but Travis vacillated and hestitated. “You related to Max?”
“My older brother.”
“Max says he’s willing to talk.”
Travis agreed reluctantly. Service then called Max back and told him he was going to talk to Travis and if necessary would get a subpoena to talk to him as well. Max then agreed.
The meeting was at Galwa’s Tavern in Alba. Max and Travis looked to be in their forties, and like they had never seen the break-even side of life. They were short and sturdy, with stringy gray hair and sparse gray whiskers, silver earrings, and noses that suggested they’d been flattened by too many fists. He let them order coffee and got right to the point.
“You both worked at Piscova.”
Nods, no words. This was going to be like pulling teeth. “Doing what?”
Shrugs, still no words.
“Okay, boys; it’s your turn to talk, and here’s how it works: I ask a question, you answer. If not, we’ll head for the Troop post in Mancelona and do this formally. I don’t know that either of you have done anything wrong. You worked in processing at Piscova. Processing what?”
“Fish eggs,” Max said.
Travis nodded.
“What kind of eggs?”
“Salmon,” Max said.
“Kings,” Travis added.
“For what?” Service asked.
“Piscova,” Max said.
“The company,” Travis said.
The brothers were uptight. “Eggs for customers?” Service asked.
“Yeah,” Max said.
“Customers,” Travis echoed.
“What customers?”
“They didn’t tell us that stuff,” Max said.
“Salmon eggs,” Travis said, catching a glare from his brother.
“Describe your jobs—what you did in the process,” Service said.
“Just the regular stuff,” Max said.
“Salt vats, drying racks?” Service asked, trying to lead them into specifics.
Max gave no indication of hearing the question. Travis nodded almost imperceptibly and Service locked eyes with him. “You were making caviar.”
Silence. “Who was the customer, Travis?”
“Criminy,” Travis said.
“Criminy?”
“Da Bright Brigade guys.”
“It’s the Light Brigade, you moron,” Max said.
“Yeah, Light Brigade; I get them two confused.”
Service said, “You mean Crimea?”
Travis nodded. “Right, Criminy.”
“You made salmon caviar, which Piscova sold to Crimea.”
“Yeah,” Max said.
“Criminy,” Travis repeated, old habits dying hard.
“All Michigan eggs?”
The brothers looked at each other. “No,” Max said.
“Other sources were involved?” Service asked.
“New York,” Max said.
“Why were they mixed?” Service asked.
Max said, “Taste.”
“Did you taste the mix?”
The brothers made faces, shook their heads. “Looked too gritty,” Max said.
“Like the bottom of a fish tank ain’t been cleaned,” Travis offered.
“You see containers from New York?”
Nods in unison.
“The ones saying ‘Bait Only’?”
More nods. “You never asked why Michigan eggs were being mixed with bait eggs?”
“Fuckin’ A, we asked,” Max said sharply.
Sore point. “What did they tell you?”
“Taste,” Max said.
Travis agreed.
“How many years did you make caviar?”
“Three seasons,” Max said.
“Why’d you leave the jobs?”
“Heard things,” Max said.
“Such as?”
“Like it wasn’t too cool to mix the eggs.”
“Who said this?”
“Rex Towne, Calvin Lumette.”
Both were names on his list. “Processors with you guys?”
“Yeah,” Max said, “till they was fired.”
“Did you two get fired?”
“We quit. Had enough of Vandeal and his holier-than-thou bullshit,” Max said.
“Asshole,” Travis chimed in.
“Know anybody still there?”
“No,” Max said. “We in trouble?”
“Piscova’s got trouble.”
“You gonna get Vandeal?” Travis asked.
“Hope to, and Fagan.”
“The asshole and the prick,” Max said, nodding his approval.
“You have words with Vandeal when you quit?”
“Just left,” Max said.
“Got our paychecks and out the door,” Travis said.
“We gonna get dragged into their shit?” Max asked.
“I don’t think so, but I’d like to get statements from both of you�
�what you did, with whom, where—all the details.”
The men agreed, took nearly an hour to handwrite their statements. Both men knew the egg mixing was illegal, but had done it for three years. When it started to be clear that it might not be safe, they quit. Their statements provided more names for follow-up; Service wondered if there was any way to get to the others.
When he got back to Saranac, Denninger was typing up a report on her phone interview with Mary Quet, a caviar processor who had worked for Piscova for seven years. Denninger said, “She claims the FDA tested the eggs and ruled them safe.”
Service stared at his partner. “Really?”
“Claims she saw the FDA inspector, a woman.”
If there was only more time, he thought. “At least she confirms mixing. That helps.”
“Fagan fired her.”
“Not Vandeal?”
“Fagan. She’s good-looking, built. Met Fagan in a bar, he macked on her, she fell for it, and did the nasty with him. He gave her a job, would drop by from time to time to tell her he needed to talk privately, take her into an office, unzip Big John, tell her Big John was her pipeline to promotion and raises. One day he gives her the same old line and she tells him Big John is more like Little Jack, and she wants a raise or no more pipeline maintenance. He said okay, she took care of him, and the next night she showed for work and Vandeal told her she was being laid off because demand was down, but they would call her back when the business turned around.”
“Let me guess,” Service said. “It never got better.”
“You must be a detective.”
Service asked, “When was this FDA meeting?”
“Ninety-six, ninety-seven, she thinks.”
“When was she laid off?”
“Oh-one.”
“She thought the eggs were safe?”
“She had some doubts because she saw the New York containers, but Vandeal and Fagan both said the mixing was for taste, and the FDA inspector seemed to agree with the company.”
“We have to talk to the FDA.”
“You want me to bird-dog that?”
“No, I’ll go after it. Add Rex Towne and Calvin Lumette to your interview list and get them on paper. I talked to the Seti brothers today, and they say Towne and Lumette got fired because they were questioning safety. I’ll type my transcripts tonight and you can have them to help you. Let’s try to keep all this shit organized, one folder per individual, each folder containing lead source, tape, transcript, and written statement. We can fold what we need into the main report electronically.”
Death Roe Page 29
