“Sorry about your wife.”
“Alzheimer’s; no idea what planet she was on at the end.”
No emotion, just straight facts. The old man poured coffee in mugs that said hers and her dog’s.
“I know about you. A marine in Vietnam, state police, DNR; you’ve maxed out your pension nut and got more than enough time to retire, so what keeps you going? You one of them crusader types?”
Angledenny was nothing like his son. The man put an ashtray on the table, took a half-cigar out of his pocket, and said, “Watch this.” He flicked a Zippo lighter open and the dog came charging into the room, barking, yipping, snarling, hopping around like it had been injected with speed. Angledenny lit the cigar and blew a puff at the dog, which retreated, whimpering. “Beat it, ya four-legged cotton ball. The queen’s gone. Long live the king.”
Angledenny took another puff. “It’s a good thing to rattle my kid’s cage. Do it myself as often as I can. I held that seat a long time, and he got it because of me, but he’ll be out on his keister come next election. He doesn’t believe that, but I know the voters here and he’s done. Runs with a crowd of assholes and everybody knows it. You asked him about that stupid Costa Rica investment . . . I told him to stay the hell away from Horn and Fagan, but kids don’t listen.” The old man tilted his chin and blew a perfect smoke ring.
Fagan’s name had never come up with Angledenny. He and Leukonovich had talked about him, but not to L. Bradley. “You don’t like Fagan?”
“Can’t say I care about the sonuvabitch one way or the other, but a sleazeball is a sleazeball, and we’ve got some sad history. Term limits came in and I was six months out from my last election; my PAC got a check for twenty-five grand from an outfit called the Michigan Salmon Society. I’d held this seat so long I could tell you within ten the final vote count every time, and name the people who voted against me. I never spent more than ten grand for a campaign, and only spent that on radio spots just before Election Day, to make sure voters knew I was still interested. Twenty-five grand was way over the top and made me wonder what the hell was going on. I took the check, put it in my desk, never cashed it.”
Angledenny took another sip of coffee and kept talking. “Soon after I got that check, the MSS began a statewide PR campaign against snagging salmon. Good stuff, got your attention—so I told my people to call the MSS in to give me their spiel.”
A puff of smoke. “They come in, looking like good old boys in plaid shirts, but they put on the damnedest dog-and-pony show I ever saw, stuff to make Detroit’s car ad boys drool. I was impressed, and the message made sense. They showed me graphs that talked about the estimated egg loss yearly from snagging, and what the long-term effect would be on natural reproduction by the fish. Even though I liked their cause, there was a disconnect: Here were these plaid-shirt guys, average Joes, giving me this high-powered, knock-your-socks-off presentation. It was too slick by half. Still, I supported them, so I called Legislative Affairs and they sent over a young sharpie who drafted the legislation for me. I introduced it and ramrodded that sonuvabitch all the way to Clearcut’s desk. When he signed it without protest, I thought maybe he was beginning to have an outdoor conscience.”
More coffee; the man was in the groove now, talking, not bothering to see if Service was listening or getting any of it. “Bill got signed, MSS went out of business. I called one of the plaid-shirt boys and asked him what the hell was going on. He told me they’d run out of money, that their sugar daddy had pulled out. The guy says their main funding came from Shamrock Productions, the same outfit that did the dog-and-pony show and media campaign. I asked my people to find out who and what Shamrock Productions was.”
“A Fagan company,” Service said.
Angledenny looked at him and arched a brow. “Took a little pressure, but the plaid-shirt boys eventually told me that Fagan funded them, and gave them the twenty-five K for my PAC. So I called Fagan.”
“You’d met him before?”
“Never really met. Seen him here and there. The capital’s a small place. Turns out that the analysis we did on the bill showed only the upside. We didn’t know there was a connection between Shamrock, Piscova, and Fagan, or what a monopoly on egg harvesting meant. Our focus was on Michigan sportfishermen and the economy, and based on that, the ban was the right thing to do. I saw it as my legacy to the people of the state—until the Shamrock-Fagan connection popped up.
“So I set up a meeting. The greasy little bastard came to my office and I passed his check across the desk and told him to stick it up his ass. He just laughed at me, took the check, and left. A few weeks later Sam Bozian pulled me aside at a reception and told me he was disappointed. Said he’d signed the bill as a favor to me, and since then, he’d heard I wasn’t a team player. Nothing more, no names—just that. I lost it. I told Sam he’d been a politician his whole damn life and had never had an actual job, but when his term was up he’d find life a little different than the damn cocoon he’d been living in. I learned later that Shamrock Productions created all of Bozian’s political ads. Sam didn’t give a shit about sportfishermen. He just wanted to support his pal Fagan.”
The man’s bitter soliloquy was not at all what Service had expected, and he was trying to sort it out. His gut said the old man was telling him the truth, and either this was the way it was, or the man was the most accomplished liar he’d ever met.
“So,” Angledenny said, “what is it you want? You met my son, figured the apple wouldn’t fall far from the tree?”
“Something like that.”
Angledenny laughed sarcastically. “I think my Sally-girl let the mailman get in her pants to make that kid. Always been different. You looking for dirt on Fagan?”
“Information.”
“You think he bribed me to push through that bill?”
“I didn’t come here with a preset notion.”
“He didn’t have to bribe me,” Angledenny said. “I bit on the line, pushed it through, and made it easy for him. I got snookered, and if you think that makes me feel like a dope, you’d be right.” Angledenny studied him for a moment. “You want dirt? I’ve heard that Fagan got his start with dirty money. He went to school at Florida International University and didn’t have a pot to piss in. He took out student loans, did all sorts of odd jobs, did all that crap a starving student has to do to keep himself in school and afloat. Then he graduated, and within six months all his loans were paid off and his business was up and running. I called Fagan one time and asked him if the rumor was true. Know what the bastard said? ‘Your wife’s got a cute little black dog.’ A week later somebody threw mothballs on the lawn, the stupid dog ate them, and that’s all she wrote. I said to hell with it; I’m not screwing with this guy anymore.”
“You never went to the cops?”
“With what, ‘Your wife’s got a cute little black dog’?”
“According to the rumor, what was the source of his start-up cash?”
“What I heard is a guy named Amos Grenchev was his banker. Grenchev’s an Israeli from the Ukraine, the moneyman for a crook named Lev Lazarus.”
“L-Two out of Tel Aviv.”
Angledenny stared at him. “Son, the word on you is that you’re one tough, honest hombre, but the world’s never been a place for an army of one. Ask Jesus himself.”
He left the retired legislator deep in thought. Krapahkin was connected to L2 and to Fagan. Was it a triangle, and did Zhenya or Rogers or anybody else know anything about this? Or was it just rumor? Not rumor, he decided, too many specifics—some of which might be off to some degree, but the level of specificity was suggestive of a rumor with real roots.
He tried to call Leukonovich, but got a recording and decided the time had come to go home. As he crossed the Mackinac Bridge, he felt like he had failed and was running away with his tail between his legs. It was a feeling t
hat left him angry.
66
Monday, February 14, 2005
SLIPPERY CREEK CAMP
He had been home just over a month. He’d fetched Newf and Cat from Candi, and had had a less than satisfying talk with her.
“Called you. Some guy answered, ‘Candi’s Sweet Shop.’ ”
“Your point?”
“No point; just telling you I called.”
“How lucky for me,” she said icily.
They had not talked since then. Captain Grant had not asked about the Piscova case and he’d not volunteered anything. Service called Karylanne every night, but had not yet been to Houghton to see her and the baby.
Denninger called a couple of times, said Cullen had asked her out and what did he think about it? Her decision. He liked Denninger, felt momentarily jealous of Cullen. They were both good kids.
Leukonovich never called back.
He’d gone to see Lafleur’s doctor to ask questions about her cancer and a possible link to mirex. He’d been rebuffed, told in no uncertain terms that he needed a subpoena to overturn the privacy law. Without Anniejo Couch’s backing, he couldn’t get the records. It was another dead end and more disappointment.
Beaker Salant called twice, looking for more stories, but he had nothing more to give the reporter.
That morning’s run had been nearly an hour in the snow, with Newf plowing a path ahead of him. He lifted weights, shoveled snow away from his truck, split some kindling, showered, and had his regular breakfast
When the phone rang, he wasn’t in the mood to pick it up, but relented. “Trip Rogers here. You want the bad news or the bad news?”
“Nice to have a choice.”
“Wrong answer. The decision was made here—not by me—to not pound doors to arrest Vandeal and Fagan. The U.S. Attorney’s office called the men’s attorneys and told them there were warrants and they needed to turn themselves in. Vandeal came in Friday, was charged and bonded out. Fagan’s coming in today. Sorry, buddy. I really wanted you to be the one to arrest that prick.”
“Projected date for trials?”
“One trial, two accused, each with his own legal team. Syracuse is pushing for May, could be later, but Manny Florida seems motivated. Someone in Florida’s office said he thinks the defendants’ lawyers will drag things out.”
“You want me there for the trial?”
“Nope. Your report was thorough. Manny Florida said it’s the best he’s ever seen. He kicked sand in my face over mine.”
“What charges did they go with?”
“Dozens of counts of de facto Lacey Act violations and conspiracy to violate the Lacey Act, conspiracy to defraud the United States government with cash transactions exceeding one hundred K, causing financial institutions to fail to file currency transaction reports, structuring illegal transactions at financial institutions. They’re also charged for substantive financial crimes in violation of federal codes and with forfeiture. If Manny Florida can bring this home, they’re gonna do serious time and pay the piper big time.”
“Sounds like Leukonovich’s work is a big part of the case.”
“That woman is unbelievable,” Rogers said. “Cold-blooded, efficient, unbending, no wasted energy. The IRS calls her Super Z. The name ought to be Walking Dead. Gotta be nothing but coolant in her veins.”
“She been around there?”
“I’d think so, but I don’t really know. I turned in my report and I’m done there except to answer questions. I’m back on other stuff. You?”
“Back to the grind, too, more or less.”
“Listen,” Rogers said, “I’m sorry about this arrest thing, but that’s how she goes sometimes, yes?”
“Yep, way she goes.”
“Great working with you. Maybe we’ll get to do it again.”
“Maybe.”
“You know, we learned from the Piscova files that they have a big business for their caviar with the Japs out of Seattle. Fagan has an office and warehouse there.”
Service suspected Rogers had known this for a while and had kept the information back. He was sick of the case, sick of pushing against the wall.
He put the dog in his truck, loaded his ice-fishing sledge, and drove to Black Cedar Pond. He augered a couple of holes in the ice, baited two rods, set up his tip-ups, turned his gear bucket upside down, and sat down to wait for the eyes to cooperate while Newf raced around the lake and through the cedars along the bank. He had been there about an hour, and had caught a pair of fat, twenty-inch fish, which were plenty for him, but he liked fishing through the ice and still hoped to catch another keeper.
“This is a pathetic sight,” a voice said.
Service looked over his shoulder to see Candace McCants standing behind him.
“You on patrol?”
“Just checked out of service.”
“Have any fun?”
“Absolutely none.”
“You always have fun.”
“Not recently.”
He thought he detected a catch in her voice. “There a problem I need to know about?”
“Well, I’ve considered hiring a skywriter to put it up for you to see, but the weather sucks for that, and I hate billboards on ethical grounds, so I’m sort of limited in how I get this across to you.”
He turned around on his bucket and faced her. “You want some coffee?”
“Not really.”
“Want to fish? I got a couple of nice ones.”
“Me too,” she said.
“We’re not talking about fish?” he said, sensing her tone and seeing a sparkle in her dark eyes. Less sparkle than predator’s glare.
“You’re right, it’s not about fish,” she said. “You know what today is?”
“Monday, right?”
She pulled out her telescoping baton and he flinched, but she extended it and used the tip to make an outline in the snow. The sky was yellow and purple, clouds coming in, light snow beginning to fall. At that moment Newf barked and Service turned to see the tip-up flag bouncing. He grabbed for the rod, but something knocked him off his bucket to his knees.
“You are so pathetically lame. Read the damn snow,” McCants said with a growl, pointing.
He saw a crude heart. “Valentine’s Day?”
“Well, duh.”
He looked back at the tip-up. The fish was still on.
“You reach for that rod and I will kick your ass right here, right now. You and me have business, Grady Service.”
It hit him like a hammer—the hints, her changing moods. He felt stupid. “You mean?”
“Yeah,” she said, nodding, a smile forming on her face. “Hallelujah. My place or yours? Get naked, get drunk, and so forth and so on.”
“And walleye on the grill?”
“All the sensitivity of a cinder block,” she said, taking a step toward him.
“You know . . .” he said, but didn’t finish. They were in the middle of a kiss rolling around in the snow on top of two feet of ice and the dog was circling and raising hell at something in the air, and they stopped long enough to look up and see a pair of bald eagles soaring over them.
Grady Service said, “But—”
McCants said, “Finish that statement and I will personally stuff that big fish down your throat. You want to keep rolling around on the ice or shall we go act like normal people on Valentine’s Day?”
“This is normal,” he said.
“You scare the hell out of me,” Candace McCants said, reaching for the tip-up and pulling another walleye through the ice. Service patted her on the rump and they started collecting his gear.
“I’m not sure this is the right thing for us,” Service said.
She glared at him. “Who makes y
ou the arbiter of right and wrong?”
Newf stood at McCants’s side, her massive tail swinging, Candi’s hand on the top of her head. “Your dog and cat love me.”
“They love me, too.”
“There you go: A plus B equals C,” she said.
“I flunked algebra.”
“Okay, what’s one plus one?”
“Two,” he said.
“Wrong,” she said. “It’s one, stupid.”
“I guess I need a refresher.”
“Lucky for you,” she said with a huge grin that warmed him in a way he had not felt in a long, long time.
“The guy on your phone?”
“My big brother. I have four, you big dope—remember?”
67
Sunday, February 20, 2005
GWINN, MARQUETTE COUNTY
Simon del Olmo called about a gray wolf shot in Iron County during deer season. An anonymous informant had called the state’s report-all-poaching line, said a man named Presley Corvo had been drunk and bragging it up in a local gin mill. Del Olmo had found the skinned carcass. Could Grady check out the guy?
The area had gotten almost eighteen inches of snow in the last thirty-six hours, and county trucks were working overtime to keep the main roads clear. The temperature was eight below zero Fahrenheit, the warmest it had been in four days. Snowbanks in Gwinn were seven feet high and pure white from the new snow. Most of the winter they were the color of sharkskin. Service found the house, pulled into the unplowed driveway, and hit an ice bump, which jolted the Tahoe as he bounced over it. Shit!
He got out, looked back at the bump, and saw a hand sticking out of the snow. His heart began to race as he dropped to his knees and frantically began to brush snow away. His last thought: It’s frozen?
68
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
MARQUETTE, MARQUETTE COUNTY
The voice to his left was faint and growing louder. Service felt like his whole head was trying to explode and he was blind.
Death Roe Page 32
