Candi McCants said, “I know you’ve got a quadrillion questions, but you’re not supposed to talk. Just lay there and listen. The body you ran over was Presley Corvo’s mother. He was tweaking on meth, beat her to death two nights before you arrived, and dumped her in the driveway, thinking it was the backyard. When you pulled in he thought you were after his lab, so he charged you with a softball bat and started pounding away.”
“What brand?”
He could hear her gasp. “Easton, you jerk. Linsenman was cruising by, saw your Tahoe, saw Corvo pounding somebody in the snow, jumped out, and took the asshole down. Corvo swore you’d just run over his mother and totally wigged out. Linsenman saw that the body was frozen solid and Corvo’s eyes sunk in his head like red coals. He cuffed him, went into the house, and found the meth lab. Apparently Corvo was one of his own best customers. There was also a wolf pelt. Linsenman got it over to Simon who sent it to Michigan State’s lab for DNA to compare with the carcass tissue he found in November.”
Linsenman was a longtime Marquette County deputy, an outdoorsman who loved dogs, and he’d been in several misadventures with Service over the years. His first name was Weasel, but everyone called him Linsenman.
“My head,” Service said. “I can’t see.”
“Major concussion, no fracture to your head, but Corvo got some licks in on your face. Your nose has been reconstructed and he shattered the orbit of your left eye. They’ve wired that back together. Probably be a couple more surgeries to finish the job and make you pretty again. What I want to know is how the hell do you make a wolf case, a murder, and bust a meth lab all when you’re flat on your ass and out cold? Every CO in the state is talking about you!”
He wanted to laugh, but even the thought of trying made him ache. “My eyes.”
“Temporary thing. They’ve got a bandage over them and everything will be fine over time. Linsenman told me he thought you were dead and he just about lost it. Corvo’s lucky he got pinched by a pro. What else? Oh yeah, Linsenman’s getting promoted to sergeant, but not because of this, so don’t congratulate yourself.”
“Little M?”
“The baby and mom are fine. Karylanne was scared to death, but Simon and I talked to her and calmed her down. She and the baby are at your cabin.”
He cringed. His camp was no place for a baby. There were no real beds and it was not very well insulated. Shit. “Take them to your place,” he mumbled.
“I tried; no go. Karylanne insists on Slippery Creek. The doctors are saying you’ll be here another week, then it’s home and four months off.”
“Overload,” he whispered. “Shut up, Candi.”
Who is this woman? he asked himself, reaching out with his hand, which McCants pressed to her face. It was wet.
69
Thursday, April 7, 2005
SLIPPERY CREEK CAMP
Roy Rogers called around noon. Grady Service’s head still ached for extended periods each day. “Heard you ran into some trouble,” the New York ECO said.
“Some.”
“The trial here is looking good, but I have to tell you that Manny Florida’s using your indictments to bargain with Fagan’s and Vandeal’s lawyers.”
“Bargain how?”
“He’ll drop a bunch of your charges in order to press ours.”
Service stared at the phone. Throw them away? Weren’t they all valid? What had been the point of the whole fucking exercise? New York didn’t have shit until he’d caught Baranov selling salmon eggs and Baranov had told him about the Piscova egg business. He’d let Baranov’s ticket drop in exchange for information. But this shit in New York wasn’t the same degree of bargaining. Baranov was small. Fagan was big.
“You don’t have much to say,” Rogers said.
“More like too much to say, and this isn’t the right time,” Service said.
“I hear you, man. I thought you’d want to know.”
“You go along with Florida?”
“Since when do federal prosecutors look for input from state employees?”
“Ever wonder why we do this?” Service asked.
“A lot more nowadays than in years past. The trial’s scheduled to start May first, and Florida’s office is saying two to four months to put it in the jury’s hands.”
What happened to the concept of swift justice? Service wondered.
70
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
SLIPPERY CREEK CAMP
Leukonovich called. “I am in Syracuse. The trial is progressing satisfactorily. Zhenya has informed U.S. Attorney Florida about Costa Rica, but Mr. Florida is personal friend of Mr. Fagan’s attorney, who has assured him that Fagan will not flee if the verdict comes in for the government. Florida believes fervently that Fagan is only an overreaching businessman, not a thug.”
Words popped into Grady Service’s mind: Your wife’s got a cute little black dog.
“You waited a long time to call back,” he said, leaving it at that. Z was Z; she offered no excuses, no defense. He immediately called Manny Florida, left a message, and did not get a callback until almost midnight.
“What’s the matter, hotshot, you feeling left out—want in on the glory?” Manny Florida had obviously been into the sauce.
“Write this down,” Service said. “Fagan’s going to run and leave shit on your face.”
Manny Florida exploded with derisive laughter. “Yo, Ranger Rick, hunker down and leave the heavy lifting to the pros.”
“Up your ass,” Service said.
“Whatever,” Florida said, and hung up.
Why was nobody listening to him? Krapahkin had tipped him about Costa Rica and Leukonovich had confirmed Fagan’s recent and somewhat murky purchase of property there. He was going to run. Why couldn’t the others see what was so plain to him?
The surgeon made him wear a clear plastic mask to protect his handiwork. Service felt like a goalie for the short-bus team. His head still ached. Without whatever painkiller they’d given him, he felt like his head was freezing or boiling, with no in-between. There was medicine to “manage the discomfort,” but there was no drug that could stop the pain in that part of the soul dedicated to being right.
“Five months off duty,” the doctor was saying now over the phone.
“Three,” Service countered.
“This is not a negotiation,” the doctor said.
“Bullshit. Everything’s a negotiation.”
“This one’s nonnegotiable. Maybe we should have you talk to a psychiatrist.”
“Fine; tomorrow will work for me.”
“I don’t think it can be arranged that quickly.”
“See, we’re negotiating,” Service said with a snarl. “We all do it, every day.”
“Do you or do you not wish to consult with a psychiatrist?”
“No. Tell him to use the time he might have had with me to heal himself.”
Service made another call, this one to Rogers. “Fagan’s going to run.”
“We’ve already talked about this. Manny Florida doesn’t buy it.”
“Do you?”
“By fiat, not so much. Team, team, team.”
Intimating that he wasn’t a team player? This hurt so sharply he couldn’t give voice to his feelings.
McCants came over after getting off patrol, peeled off her outer shirt and body armor, and looked him over. “You’re all worked up again.”
“We’re in a plague of assholes.”
“You’re supposed to rest, recuperate, grow new brain cells.”
“I hate this case.”
“There is no case,” she reminded him. “You’re on the bench.”
“Says you.”
She held out his pills. “Be a good boy.”
The next day Sergeant Milo Miars dropped by in uniform, shiny new lieutenant’s bars gleaming on his collar. Miars held out two sets of green chevrons. “For when you come back.”
He was still undecided about Miars, harbored a vague suspicion the sergeant had sidestepped to let Service and Denninger carry the puck and absorb all the abuse from the Piscova case. He ignored the chevrons, left them sitting on the table.
It was good with Candi, even though she wasn’t Nantz. Not great, but nice . . . okay. He was distracted, she was working: stasis of sorts. He couldn’t be around his granddaughter—too much risk to his face. The surgeon had been clear in his instructions: No sex, no running, and no weight lifting. His jaw was wired shut, and he was on a liquid diet of pureed crap, like baby food virtual calories and nothing more. He had dropped twelve pounds and was continuing to lose weight. But there was good news too: No need for his dentures right now.
Only Fagan and Vandeal charged out of how many? A helluva lot of people were going to skate free, with their reputations intact, and this rankled. He’d barely scratched the wrongdoing, felt this in his gut.
“Whatever you’re hatching,” McCants said out of the blue, “don’t.”
He shrugged and glowered.
She said softly, “Have you checked your dog lately?” Her voice had a strange tone and he looked at her. “I think she is with puppies,” she said.
“Bullshit; she was spayed when I got her.”
“Wrong. I talked to Kira.”
Kira Lehto, his former girlfriend, DVM, full-time vet, BN . . . Before Nantz. Before Candi.
“She never spayed her. She thought you were going to take care of it.”
Service looked at his humongous dog. “With our luck the father will be a Chihuahua.”
“You said ‘our,’ ” McCants said. “That’s sweet. Actually, I’ve seen a wolf hanging around here.”
“God, no,” he said.
“Just reporting what I’ve seen,” she said.
“What’s the gestation time?” A wolf? Jesus.
“Nine weeks,” she said. “You’re getting to be a regular midwife.” After taking a breath, she added, “Whatever it is that’s eating at you, you need to let it go.”
“I’ve pissed off a lot of people in the department.”
“Only those who deserve it. The rest of us are cheering.”
“This is tectonic,” he said. “A major fault line.”
“Plates shift open, close. The big gaps are rarely permanent. There’s a lot of angst in the department. Always will be. Stress; making tough, fast judgments; lousy working conditions; it all piles up and sometimes the angst gets loose.” She laughed. “I don’t even know what it is we’re talking about.”
“But you’ve heard rumors.”
“The holier-than-thou crusader.”
“The alleged witch hunt.”
She shrugged. “You find any?”
He nodded. “Not enough.”
“One’s enough, Grady. It warns the wannabes.”
Maybe, he thought. But miss a few cancer cells and the disease comes back. He couldn’t get Roxy Lafleur out of his mind. Her death had to count for something. Didn’t it?
“Candi?”
“Yeah?”
“If there’s really a wolf in this thing, I’ll have to get rid of the pups.”
“I know.”
“Do me a favor. Call SuRo Genova, see if she knows a good refuge for wolf-dog pups.”
“Not a problem. ’Course, we don’t know for sure there is a wolf involved.” She looked over at him. “How the heck do you know if a pup’s a wolf-dog or not?”
“Animal control people look at the animals and decide if they look wolfish or not.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Nope. All there is to go on. The DNA of a Chihuahua and a wolf are identical.”
McCants shook her head.
Grady Service glared at his dog and said, “Tramp.”
71
Friday, May 20, 2005
SLIPPERY CREEK CAMP
Captain Grant dropped by unexpectedly. Service invited him in and made fresh coffee while Newf sniffed around, trying to decide if the captain’s formal air was a wall or something else.
“Recovering?”
Service’s jaw was swollen from his latest and to-be-last surgery, but his jaw was unwired and his eye nearly open again. “Getting there.”
“That Corvo thing came out of nowhere,” the captain said, and Service heard in his former supervisor’s voice that there was more to come. “You had occasion to interact with a Troop detective named Zarobsky during the Piscova case.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
“What’s to tell? He works with a state treasury agent named Jornstadt. He’s banging her. We saw them only a couple of times: to announce their arrival on the case, and then, to announce their departure when U.S. Attorney Endicott got cold feet.”
“Words were exchanged between you and Zarobsky?”
“Not really. He was being an asshole and I reminded him that banging his girlfriend was not synonymous with work.”
Service felt the captain studying him. “Zarobsky filed a complaint, alleging unprofessional conduct on your part and recommending you undergo anger management training.”
He felt no anger over hearing this. He felt like he was getting beyond anger over anything in his life. “And?”
“Acting Director Hopkins had a call from U.S. Attorney Florida, who alleges you were also disrespectful to him. Given these allegations, Cecil has decided you will attend the class.”
“Shouldn’t this be the chief’s decision, or yours?”
“The chief was in opposition, as was I, but Cecil is the boss.”
“Great. Do you think I have a problem with my temper?”
“In my opinion you have almost perfect emotional control. Maybe too much. You are one of those rare individuals who seems to be able to control his emotions and focus on central issues and the mission.”
A thought came to him. “Is Hopkins trying to force me to retire?”
“No. I’m certain that there are some residual hard feelings in the Fisheries division, but it seems to me this is meant more as a sop to the New York attorney general, the Troops, and the DNR internal audience than to the Michigan State Police.”
“Sacrificial lamb.”
“Purely symbolic,” the captain said.
“When does the inquisition begin?”
The captain opened his briefcase, took out a folder, and placed it on the table. “Don’t go into this with a negative attitude. Trust in the chief. There are several dates. Pick one and call Dr. Purloy. He’s in East Lansing, provides this service to a number of state agencies.”
What was this talk about trust? “I should’ve gone when my jaw was wired shut,” Service said, which earned a smile from his captain.
72
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
MIAMI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, FLORIDA
Grady Service had driven to Detroit, spent the night with Treebone and Kalina, and caught an American Airlines flight early that morning to Miami, where he would catch a connecting flight to San José, the capital of Costa Rica.
He hadn’t been able to get the Costa Rica link out of his head. Two weeks ago he’d called a former FBI agent turned lawyer who had helped him on several occasions, and asked if she knew anyone in law enforcement in Costa Rica. Shamekia had referred him to a retired FBI agent named Fernando Fischer, who had enjoyed a long career in the New York field office. Fischer’s father was Puerto Rican, his mother from Costa Rica. He had been born in Queens and retired in 1995 to San José, where he did some part-time PI work and ran an outfit called
Azul-Verde Aventura, some sort of ecotourism outfit in Puerto Limon on the Caribbean coast.
A call from their mutual friend led Fischer to contact Service.
“Shamekia don’t hand out a lot of compliments,” Fischer said. “But you’re top of her list of good guys. You looking for a tour?”
“Tour?”
“Blue-Green Adventures. We can take you into the rainforest or onto the big water, or drop your ass in a mudbath and make your skin all pretty.”
“More in the line of fact-finding. There’s an American named Quintan Fagan, who holds property under a brokerage called Refugio Seguro.”
“Never heard of him. He dirty?”
“Trying to find that out,” Service said, holding back, not wanting to surrender too much information too quickly. “You know the environmental folks down there?”
“NGO or government?”
“Government, I guess.”
“Dolores del Rio.”
“Sounds like a movie star.”
“She’s the senior investigator for the Ministry of Environment and Energy, and she’s got the reputation of Eliot Ness among the Ticos. Down here, Dolores is the man.”
“Ticos?”
“What the Costa Ricans call themselves. What is it you’re looking for?”
“I’ll start with knowing something about Fagan’s property, where and what it is, and so forth.”
“He lives here, of course.”
“Of course?”
“One cannot purchase real estate in Costa Rica unless one is a resident.”
Unless one is a resident, Service thought. Interesting.
“I will call you when I have something to share,” Fischer said, and hung up.
That call had taken place three weeks ago. Ten days ago, Fischer had called back and suggested Service come down for a visit to observe some interesting things. Fischer did not elaborate. Service had immediately called Yooper Travel in Escanaba and made arrangements. Candi was keeping the dog and cat, and though she had a lot of questions about where he was going, all he told her was that he had to get away—not exactly a lie, if not the whole truth.
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