“Who leads you?” he asked.
“You and I lead ourselves, and are guided by the mission and our sense of duty.”
“I keep asking myself how much we didn’t even get to, and then I wonder if our limited results are by design.”
Leukonovich shrugged, and for once, broke out of her third-person voice. “I feel similarly after each investigation.”
“That’s when you meditate?”
A bottle and two glasses appeared on the table. “Zhenya finds that alcohol helps dull the mind. Luksusowa is inexpensive Polish potato vodka, triple distilled, very smooth. I carry my own into the heartland and keep it available for special moments.”
The bottle had a silver, almost metallic label with the name printed vertically. Service opened it and tipped some liquid into each glass. He pushed one glass to her, using the bottle, and picked up the other. “To the dulling of minds.”
“And elevated senses,” Leukonovich added. “A delicious paradox.”
He’d awoken upstairs, semi-dressed, in one of the double beds, with one of Leukonovich’s long legs draped over him, his head pounding. “Are you awake?” he asked.
“Not again,” she mumbled. “It is too early to declare wakefulness with any certainty. More data are required.”
Again? He felt his heart jump. “Did we . . . ?”
Zhenya ran her hand over the contour of his hip and put her head lightly against his shoulder. “Zhenya makes a joke and requires sleep now. No more talking.”
He had snippets of memory from the previous night, but nothing close to a full picture, and lingering inside him, guilt and a sense of betrayal lay like tumors. He gently shook her. “Seriously, did we . . . ?”
She exhaled deeply. “We did nothing to shame the souls in our pasts. Zhenya distinctly remembers every moment except the one where scrofulous nomadic camels found a way to deposit excrement in her mouth.”
“Neither scrofulous, nor sleeping,” he said. “Dead camels.”
“Zhenya finds no consolation in further specificity,” she said.
“Where do you go next?” he asked.
“Where duty requires.”
“Did I tell you about my granddaughter?”
“Sleep,” she said. “Zhenya has no patience for pillow talk, especially when no pillowing has occurred.”
His head hurt, but he couldn’t sleep. Not like this. Her skin was warm and soft and he was tempted, but he said, “I’m going to make coffee,” and slid off the bed.
The sound of the coffeemaker made his head ache more, and he did not hear Leukonovich come downstairs. She was standing by the sliding-glass door, staring out at the snow, her body backlit by a dreary sky. “Do you believe each snowflake is structurally unique?” she asked.
“Never thought about it,” he said.
“Zhenya loathes snow,” she said wistfully.
“This is nothing. Try three hundred inches a year.”
She turned, grinning slyly. “Zhenya would require a minimum of twelve hundred. I would have coffee now.”
Service stared at her. “What?”
She filled a cup for each of them and sat down across the table from him. “The woman you lost—she was remarkable, but she is gone, and you must continue to live.”
“I told you about Nantz?”
“And your son, and the girl he made pregnant, and your granddaughter, and your late father, and a superhuman called Tree, and an Asian woman called Candi, with an ‘I,’ not a ‘Y.’ Zhenya suffered a night of alcohol-induced domestic abuse by personal information overload.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You are sad, you are mourning, and you bury yourself in work. All these feelings will fade. You are trying too hard to analyze and fulfill your obligations, but in this, you miss the most important factor: obligation to self.”
“It’s only been seven months.”
“Nonsense,” was her only response.
Service saw a bottle on the counter. It was empty. “What’s that?”
“Krupnik, a Polish honey liqueur; it’s a scientifically and time-proven aphrodisiac.”
“But you said that nothing—”
“I believe that science has not taken into account a constitution such as yours. In Gdansk we had a long history of alcoholic beverages. A Dutchman called Vermoellen made a liqueur called Der Lachs, which means ‘salmon.’ Zhenya is thinking that a bottle of salmon would have had a stronger effect on such a leśnik myśliwy.” She looked him directly in the eyes. “Yes, Zhenya tried to seduce you and failed. Zhenya loathes failure more than snow. Go back to your forests and swamps, Detective. Your soul and memories are there. Someday, perhaps, when your wounds are healed, we will meet again.”
She was a very strange woman, but he found himself drawn to her.
“I think I’d like that,” he said.
64
Tuesday, January 4, 2005
BELLAIRE, ANTRIM COUNTY
His work was done, the package was in New York, and he was alone for the first time in weeks. Yet somehow, he still couldn’t let go. He had called former FDA inspector Arwaddy in Ann Arbor that morning. “Sorry to bother you again,” he began, “but who in the Michigan Department of Agriculture would your report have gone to?”
“I sent the copy you asked for. You question its veracity?”
“No, not at all—but I’m curious about what happened to it after it left your hands.”
“My reports went to my supervision and from there, back to relevant state agencies.”
“But where in MDA?” he pressed.
“Often, but not always, the local contact was the agricultural extension service agent.”
“Did you interact with the agent in Elk Rapids?”
“No. If there’s nothing more, I have a meeting.”
He sat and thought: May 9, 1997, was seven and a half years ago, and a lot could have changed since then. He could go to MDA and play bureaucratic phone tag, or try another route, and hope. He looked up CO Venus Wire’s cell number and called her in Antrim County.
“Service here.”
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Day by day.”
“I hear what you’re saying.”
“How long have you been in Antrim?”
“Since ninety-five; why?”
“Can you remember who the ag extension agent was in ninety-seven?”
“Same one as now, Abe Hostetter.”
“Good guy?”
“Too smarmy for my taste, but the farmers up here seem to like him. I stroked him for a tagging violation a couple of years back. Found him with a nice buck at his truck, still untagged. Said he’d gotten excited and forgotten. He’s been pretty cool toward me since then.”
“You know where he lives?”
“Right in Bellaire.” She checked her computer and read off an address and phone number.
“He married?”
“Divorced. His wife left him for a golf pro who got a job in South Carolina. Definite trade up for her.”
He thanked Wire and drove north with only a general plan in mind. At 8 p.m. he was parked across the street from the address; the house was dark. The outside temp was 23 degrees and there was a steady wind out of the west. He turned up his heat, cracked his windows, opened his thermos, and poured a cup of coffee, settling in to do what experienced game wardens did best: wait.
He awoke to lights on in the house. His dash clock said 10:14 p.m. Decision time: call or knock? He was tired of treading lightly and got out of the truck.
“Geez, hold your horses,” a voice keened as he pounded on the door.
A man with sparse red hair and a pathetic mustache opened the door and stared out at him.
&nb
sp; “Conservation Officer, Department of Natural Resources,” Service said, showing his badge.
“I know who you game wardens work for. What do you want?”
“A little chat.”
“It’s past my bedtime.”
“Sleep in tomorrow,” Service said, stepping toward the threshold.
“You can’t just walk in,” the man said.
“Something to hide in there, Mr. Hostetter?” Service said, making a show of leaning over the shorter man to look into the house.
“I resent that. How do you know my name?”
“If there’s nothing to hide, you won’t mind inviting me in.”
The man held the door open, nodded, and Service stepped inside. The man left the door open.
“Burning energy,” Service said.
“You won’t be here that long. What do you want?”
“May ninth, ninety-seven. FDA Inspector Arwaddy went to Piscova. She filed a report. It’s not in the FDA’s files.”
“I’m Michigan Ag, not FDA. What’s your question?”
“FDA calls for you to receive a copy.”
“Did you check with MDA? I don’t keep copies of reports past current year plus one. That’s our agency’s policy statewide.”
“This report never made it to MDA,” Service said. He was guessing, but so far things seemed on track. The man started to shake, and not because the door was open.
“Are you making an accusation?” The man’s shaking seemed to be worsening.
“You remember the report,” Service said. Statement, not question.
“I want my attorney.”
“Fine, call him.”
“Her,” Hostetter said.
Bingo, Service thought. “Let me guess: Constance Algyre, attorney at law.”
“Sweet Jesus,” the man said. “You’ve already checked MDA.”
He had no idea what the man was driving at, but decided to let him think whatever it was that he was thinking. “The report?”
Hostetter was shaking all over and trying to keep it in check. “Okay, here’s the truth. I’m a people person. My administrative skills aren’t so hot. I try, but stuff gets lost, okay? Not intentionally. It just happens; know what I’m saying?”
“The thing is,” Service said, “the report said Piscova was engaged in illegal activity, specifically and willingly adulterating food for human consumption. That’s a felony. The report should have closed down the company, but it’s still operating.”
“Honest, I don’t remember,” Hostetter said.
“You have so many reports like that, you can’t remember this particular one?”
“I just can’t recall, okay?”
“Not okay,” Service said menacingly. “The other thing is, your lawyer is also Piscova’s lawyer, and I’m wondering if a little grease helped that report slide into the circular file.”
“I’m calling my lawyer,” Hostetter said, reaching for the phone.
Service put one of his business cards by the phone. “Tell Algyre I’ll talk to her before we take the next step.”
“We?”
“Didn’t I mention, I work for the U.S. Attorney?”
The man shook his head. “What next step?”
“Abe, Abe . . . what step do you think?”
Service left the house and sat in the truck, waiting for a call from Algyre, which never came. He was willing to bet that Hostetter’s phone records would show a call to someone at Piscova.
Arwaddy wrote her report. Presumably she had sent it—he’d seen the copy. Presumably the FDA sent it to MDA, which sent it down to Hostetter, which meant there should be a copy in MDA’s files—unless the FDA had sent it straight to Hostetter, which he doubted. FDA was an up-down organization from what he knew of it. But what if it had been stifled at FDA? Would that mean Fagan had somebody there? Or had Arwaddy never sent the report? Stop it, he told himself. There was enough to stir the pot, and there was one more person he needed to see. The criminal report he’d filed contained numerous charges, including thirty-eight counts of failure to report cash transactions. Roxy Lafleur had lived well off the Piscova caviar skim. How much money was going elsewhere, and for how long had it been going on?
65
Wednesday, January 5, 2005
PETOSKEY, EMMET COUNTY
Service called Glen Sheppard, editor of The North Woods Call, the state’s small, most influential outdoor periodical. A Korean War vet, editor Sheppard was a longtime friend of DNR law enforcement, the kind of fearless and principled editor who took on any and all power brokers if he thought they were in the wrong—including DNR Law Enforcement. The paper’s small circulation belied its influence among a broad cross section of people interested in everything from hunting to bird-watching. Sheppard, his wife, and their pets lived and worked out of his house on an isolated drumlin near Ellsworth, in northern Antrim County.
Service worried about waking up the old curmudgeon, who was an early-to-bed type, but he needed help, and Shep was the man to provide it. Service had originally considered giving the Piscova story to Shep, as the most influential outdoor editor in the state, but the man’s publication ran on a shoestring, and he was known to be extremely close to certain elements in the DNR. Service felt this might have made it easy for Shep to accidentally reveal that Service was the source, so he’d gone with Beaker Salant instead. His reasoning at the time: Why put Shep in the middle of a shitfight he hadn’t asked for?
“Sheppard,” a man’s voice growled over the phone.
“Grady Service.”
“Seems I’ve been hearing that name a lot recently,” the editor said.
“Highly complimentary things, I’m sure.”
“Depends on who’s doing the talking,” Sheppard said. “Why the call?”
“I need information on Angledenny.”
“L. Bradley or G. Wilson?”
“L. Bradley’s old man.”
“That’s GW. Term-limited in ninety-eight. His kid took the seat on his old man’s coattails and GW’s old man had it before him, a great example of political power as a family hand-me-down.”
“What’s GW doing nowadays?”
“Mostly retired. He owns a construction company that builds high-end summer homes on the lakeshore. Got a grandson running the outfit.”
“GW sponsored the snagging ban.”
“Rammed it right through the legislature and pissed off a lot of people who couldn’t understand all the fuss over a bunch of stinky, dying fish.”
“Black hat, white hat?”
Sheppard chuckled. “Gray, like most of them we send to Lansing. All his time as a solon aside, GW’s a pretty good man. Not perfect—but who among us is?”
“What was the motivation for the bill?”
“The Michigan Salmon Society thought snagging was a serious problem for long-term salmon reproduction and with all the money salmon fishermen were bringing into the state, the state chamber of commerce and tourism bureau jumped on the issue.”
“Is it a coincidence that Piscova ended up with a monopoly on egg harvesting in the state?”
“You looking for a scrap with Quint Fagan?”
“Just asking questions. Where’s GW live?”
“Bay View in Petoskey. Got a show house with a paint job that looks like somebody puked up a Christmas cookie.”
“He winter in Michigan?”
“Far as I know. He’s a tough, outspoken old bastard. Don’t think he ever got into that Arizona-Florida snowbird baloney; plus, the grandson who runs the construction company’s young, and the old guy likes to keep an eye on him.”
“How old is GW?”
“Gotta think . . . mid-eighties, give or take, still sharp as a brand-new Swedish hand ax.”<
br />
“Thanks, Shep.”
“Want some advice from an old fart?”
“You bet.”
“You’re a Vietnam guy. You can take the best damn GIs in the world and send them into battle, but if the civilians who give the orders don’t have their act together, you can’t win.”
“Copy that.” Service took this as a warning that it would be hard to find consensus in state government to pursue Fagan. He’d already seen the evidence.
It was late, and there was no point trying to find the retired lawmaker tonight. Service drove to the Petoskey state police post, checked in, and let the dispatcher know he’d be sleeping in his truck in the parking lot.
After a shower, shave, and coffee at the post in the morning, he drove to Bay View, a collection of expensively renovated Queen Anne homes in the northeast part of town. There had been two inches of fluffy snow during the night, and the neighborhood looked like something out of a kid’s storybook. He found the house, which was red, green, and white, and noticed someone in a parka and pac boots stooped over a snow scoop, clearing the driveway. The scoop was like those used by Yoopers, but plastic rather than metal.
Service parked on the street and walked up the driveway. “Nice scoop,” he said in greeting.
“Neighbors think I’m nuts, but what the hell do I need a snowblower for? Work’s good for the old ticker.”
“Is Representative Angledenny here?”
“That depends. Brad’s in Lansing. I’m GW.”
“Grady Service, DNR.”
The old man laughed and wiped a pearl of mucous from his nose. The son looked nothing like him. Angledenny propped the snow scoop against a snowbank by the garage and took off his choppers.
“Service,” he said with a smirk. “I heard you rattled hell out of my son’s cage, you and some female IRS freak. Game wardens still drink coffee, or have they sissified to latte?”
Service grinned, said, “We’re still on coffee.” He followed the man through the garage and into a large kitchen with a breakfast nook. A small white dog began barking and the old man said, “Ignore her. She was my wife’s idea. Lost Sally in July, inherited the dog. Lousy trade.”
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