Chasing a Blond Moon (11 page)

“Right. Skin trade guys sometimes don't like to stir shit where they live.”

“You obviously want Wan.”

“He works for Mao Chan Dung.”

“You know this or this is a hunch?”

“I make it a point to know shit I need to know.”

“What do you get out of this?”

“Dung likes to open new turf. Asia and Russia suck. Dung set me up and hey, all's fair, right? But now maybe I get him back where it gets him most—in his bank account. Like Ralph said, it's our duty as citizens.”

“But you live in Canada.”

“If you say so. Forget superfluous and irrelevant shit, man. You don't need to know where I live. It don't matter, see? They don't got no category yet for world citizen. One more thing. You need to talk again, don't look for me here. You call Ralph,
capisce?”

“
Va bene,
” Service said.

The man spit his vodka out laughing.

6

On the drive from the Soo to McMillan, Service kept thinking about Ralph Scaffidi, who had never been a mobster but seemed to know a helluva lot of people who knew a helluva lot about shit mobsters knew about. He tried to call Joe and Kathy Ketchum, but couldn't run them down. Then he called Treebone and asked him if he had somebody in Grand Rapids who could do some research for him. Tree said he would get back to him with a name. Service knew he could always call in another detective from the Wildlife Resources Protection Unit, but the lead was so thin right now, he didn't want to get a lot of DNR people involved.

Griff Stinson's camp was a few miles north of the village, on the south bank of the Tahquamenon River. Unlike most Yoopers, who lived in towns and kept remote camps (usually for R&R from their wives and kids), Griff's camp was his year-round home. The small log cabin had been built around the turn of the twentieth century with the trademark small doors of that era. Small doors kept heat inside. Griff's wife was sprawled beside the driveway on a chaise lounge. She wore a red two-piece bathing suit.

“Hey, Vernelia,” Service said, sliding out of the Yukon.

“He's out back in his shop, hey,” Vernelia said. She was a generation younger than her husband, a woman in her late forties who still turned heads in town and had a colorful history of hell-raising before inexplicably and suddenly settling down with Stinson. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a topknot, and the couple's brown miniature dachshund, Cootie, was lying at her feet. Cootie looked at Service and began wagging her tail.

Stinson's shop was a metal outbuilding with a concrete slab floor and oil heat. The outfitter used it to store equipment and to tinker with new bait recipes.

The bear guide was a veteran of Korea. He wore a faded Red Wings cap and had a pipe clamped between his teeth. The wiry Stinson was in his mid-seventies and clean-shaven. He was in the center of his work area with a large barrel that gave off a sweet scent.

“New formula?” Service asked. “Vernelia said you were back here.”

Stinson grinned. “She sittin' out there in her underwear?”

“Looked like a bathing suit to me.”

“Underwear, same thing,” Griff said. “She likes to sit out there in that chair givin' the pulpy drivers hard-ons.” He didn't seem particularly bothered by what she was doing.

“Seems like you gotta try something new every year,” the guide said, using the cut-off handle of a canoe paddle to stir the slurry in a stainless steel drum. “Take a whiff.” Service stepped close to the barrel, sniffed tentatively, and backed away.

Griff said, “Mashed Brazilian waffle cones, red gummy bears, bulk black maple syrup, day-old stop-and-rob freeze-burgers, and mini-PayDays.”

“They'll smell that for sure,” Service said.

“Mr. Bear always sees the world through his nose,” Stinson shot back. “It's gettin' 'im to stop and eat interests me.”

A horn roared from a passing truck. “That's three,” Stinson said.

“Three?”

“Vernelia gets them truckers all worked up and then they get her all worked up. Six honks and she'll be back here beggin' me to give her some sweets.”

“Maybe one of those drivers will slam on his brakes and step over to talk to her.”

“Her choice, what she does,” Stinson said. “Here 'cause she wants to be. Someday, she don't want, she'll be gone.”

“You're okay with that?”

“Fully growed woman got the right to choose. What can I do for you?”

Service was not so sure he could be so nonchalant about Maridly having a dalliance, though he had to agree with Griff that people had the right to decide what they did and who they did it with.

“You borrow a trap from Joe and Kathy and have a bear get loose?”

Stinson sat down, took a foil pouch of tobacco out of his shirt pocket, and loaded the bowl of his pipe. “You hear that from?”

“Bearclaw.”

“How's Betty doing?” Stinson asked. Griff and Bearclaw had been an item many years back.

“Still doin' her job,” Service said. He had no idea how serious it had been or why it had ended.

“Will till the day she packs it in,” Griff said. “That gal's got her a big dose of dedication and an ironclad notion of right and wrong. She liked sex, you know that? Loved it, but not with the lights on. Lights on was wrong, but anything went with the lights out. How does a person get to thinking like that?” Griff looked up and seemed to ponder his own question.

“No idea,” Service said.

“Vernelia, she don't ever want the lights out.”

Strange day, Service thought. “You had a bear get loose on you?” Service asked, trying to steer Griff back to the point of their meeting.

“Don't believe it
got
loose. I'm thinkin' maybe somebody give it some help.”

“Evidence?”

“Lock pin was scraped and bent.”

“Bear's work?”

“What bear's strong enough to bend three-quarter-inch steel? What happened was I had this big old boar over to Gimlet Creek and he tore up couple of my satellite camps. First time I put it down to fate and lousy hinges on my window shutters. Second time I figured he'd keep on tearing stuff up less I moved him, so I put out a barrel.”

“And you got him.”

“Sat right there in a tree stand and heard him go in and the gate come down. I climbed down, checked the cage, and come home to have dinner and sweets with Vernelia. Next morning the animal was gone, the trap busted.”

“You're figuring tampering?”

“Wasn't an animal did that to steel. Somebody
took
that animal.”

“Took it?”

“I found the trail. Had Cootie with me and she followed the trail to a tote, where it disappeared. Way I read it, somebody dragged the animal out to a truck and drove away.”

“When?” Service asked. It would take a tranq gun and drugs to do this, and neither was readily available. He decided to add this fact to his list.

“August 22.”

“How big an animal?”

“Dandy size, four hundred, I'd say. Four hundred easy.”

“First time this has happened to you?”

“Won't happen again,” Griff Stinson said with a determined nod. “I gotta trap another one, I'll move it at night and be done with it. Vernelia will just have to wait.”

Another passing truck sounded its horn with three long, loud hoots and Griff grinned. “That's six. You best be movin' along, Grady.”

“Why would somebody steal a bear from a trap?” Service asked.

“Griff, honey, I got some sweets waitin' for you inside,” Vernelia called from the side of the cabin.

“Got some for Service?” the bear guide yelled back.

“Sorry, hon. Just enough for one today.”

Stinson grinned at Service and winked. “Who knows why somebody'd steal an animal? Not like they can make 'im a house pet. Some mysteries ain't to be figured out, like why somebody steals a bear, or a woman like Vernelia gets wet between the legs from the horns of logging trucks. Is what it is, eh?”

Service watched Stinson duck to get through the low door of the cabin, got into his truck, and headed west.

Treebone called in on the cell phone as Service stopped in McMillan, getting ready to drive west on M-28. “There's a woman in Grand Rapids—Kentwood. She's an ex-Chicago cop, a real pro.”

“She expensive?” Service asked.

“Dawg, don't you people have budget for anything?”

“Only for smoke and mirrors.”

“Shit. I'll have her give you a bump.”

“You got all my numbers?” Service asked his friend.

“Cell, office, and home, dawg. Later.”

7

He tried to call the Ketchums again, but they were still unfindable. East of Munising he called Candace McCants on her cell phone. “You on something right now?” he asked.

“If that's a professional question, the answer's no. If it's personal, the answer's, I wish,” she said.

“Meet me in Trenary, forty minutes at SBT?”

“See you there,” she said.

Andy Ecles, a retired businessman from downstate South Haven, had moved to Trenary the previous summer, bought an old cafe, spiffed it up, and renamed it the Star & Bucks Toastatorium—which locals called SBT. The village was famous for Trenary toast, which had the consistency of hardtack and was edible only when dipped in hot liquid, preferably hot black coffee.

McCants was already seated when Service arrived.

She waved a cigarette at him and smiled. “How's wifey?”

“We're not married,” Service said.

“On paper,” McCants said. The Korean-born officer was in her fifth year of duty, five-six and one hundred sixty pounds of muscle. She wasn't afraid of anything and had an inordinate amount of common sense. She had been adopted by a family in Detroit when she was twelve and joined the DNR after finishing a police academy at Kalamazoo Valley Community College.

“What up?” she asked.

Service gave her the plastic sleeve containing the photograph.

“Who's this?”

“Was. He's dead,” Service said.

“That prof over to Houghton?”

“How'd you guess?”

“Not a lot of Koreans living in the Yoop. Even fewer dying. Why the heck are you carrying the photo of a suicide?”

“It's a homicide, which hasn't been announced. There's a sign behind the guy. Can you read it?”

“Can't you?” she asked playfully.

Service rolled his eyes.

McCants held the photo in front of her. “The characters are Korean. The sign says
Jung Gahn,
which means Righteous Room. This is integral to traditional Korean archery. Archers always meet at a place called a
jung,
which in Korea is an elaborate building, a sort of cross between a temple and a country club. When they arrive, they bow toward the entry sign. In this country, it's usually just an elaborate sign.”

“In this country?”

“There are a few
jungs
around.”

“In Michigan?”

She shook her head. “Closest is in Wisconsin, I think. You dogging another homicide?”

Service ignored her. “Why righteous room?”

“Korean archery is intertwined in the country's history. It's serious business and
very
formal. To be an accomplished archer you're expected to be a righteous person. If you're righteous, your arrows fly true. It's all about discipline and living correctly. See the flower on the bow cover? That's
Moogoonghwa
—Rose of Sharon. Each level of archery is called a
don.
The highest level is ninth
don,
but few people ever get that far, maybe two or three in the world at a given time.”

“This guy is ninth
don?”

She smiled. “What's his name?”

“Pung Juju Kang.”

“Not ninth,” she said with a grin. “There are only two at that level right now and everybody of Korean descent knows their names. It would be like a Canadian not knowing Mario Lemieux or Wayne Gretzky. How old was the guy?”

“Fiftyish.”

“He could be fourth through sixth
don.
Each level is unbelievably demanding and you can only advance two levels a year, which in itself is rare. Most people take five to seven years to move up one.”

“How do you know all this?”

“In Korea, archery is
the
sport—for men and women. We all learn to shoot early in school.”

“What's with the weird bow?”

“It's traditional, handmade, designed to be shot from horseback. Only a few people in Korea are qualified and licensed by the government to make the bows or the arrows. They make the bow from a composite of water buffalo horn, bamboo, oak, mulberry, or acacia. Everything is joined by a special glue made from some kind of saltwater fish, and the back of the bow is covered with a special birch bark from China to make it waterproof. It takes four to six months to make one bow.”

“Do people hunt with them?”

McCants shook her head. “Like I said, Korean archery is steeped in history. Buddha's teachings discourage the use of the bow for killing.”

“Even in war?”

“Buddha doesn't really address war, which makes for a sort of philosophical and theological loophole. In that belief system, war is to be avoided. If traditional archers used their bows to hunt animals, they'd fall off the righteous path.”

“Seems like people would have hunted with the weapons.”

“They did early in the country's history, but as bow training became more formalized and regimented, it became exclusive to the military and hunting with the weapons was no longer allowed. Soldier archers were sent after animals to hone their skills before they could be formally declared qualified as soldiers, but hunting was banned for civilians.”

“There's no hunting in Korea?”

“Sure, but only with firearms, and even that's pretty limited. Even so, a lot of Koreans are interested in western bow hunting. Some Koreans believe that their ancestors were the first Native Americans and they're very nostalgic about how American Indians lived.” She tapped the photograph of the dead man. “What's your interest?”

“There was bear scat in his vehicle when the body was found.”

“You mean inside the veek?”

“Yep.”

“How did he die?”

“Food poisoning.”

McCants scrunched her face.

“Some chocolate-covered figs he ate were laced with cyanide.”

“In other words, you
are
dogging another homicide,” she chided.

“The bear shit is my sole focus. Plus there were bear galls in with the figs. I just go where the cases take me.”

“Who's got the homicide?”

“Houghton detective named Pyykkonen.”

“The one boffing the new sheriff?”

Service stared at his friend. “Is there some sort of central repository for Yooper gossip?”

She laughed and said in a conspiratorial tone, “There aren't that many women up here. We operate like the Borg,” she said, “all part of one hive.”

He shook his head. “What do you know about the outfit in Wisconsin?”

“
Jung.
”

“Right,
jung.
”

“I heard there was one between Milwaukee and Madison. The town's called Jefferson, I think.”

“Are these
jungs
organized like clubs?”

“More like religions, and they all report back to Korea. This is deadly serious stuff. For the ninth
don
you have to score 39 of 39 at one hundred and forty meters.”

Service looked at the photo and quickly converted the distance to almost four hundred and fifty yards. “With that toy bow?”

“Don't let the size fool you, Grady. That bow pulls more than fifty pounds and good shooters regularly plug targets with small bamboo arrows. The bow may look like something out of
The Lord of the Rings,
but it's lethal as hell.”

“How do I get in touch with the Wisconsin outfit?”

“Why don't you let me call them? Speaking Korean will probably make things go faster.”

“I want to know if Pung was a member, or if he was a member in one of the outfits anywhere in the country.”

“Or Korea?”

“Okay, right,” Service said with a nod. “I need to know more about him.”

“I'll give it a try,” she said, dipping a piece of concrete toast into her coffee.

Andy Ecles came over to the table as they were getting ready to leave. “Howdy, officers. You two looking for bad guys?”

“Always,” McCants said.

“You didn't hear this from me,” Ecles said, “but if you want a bad guy, give a visit to Bryce Verse.”

“Verse?” McCants asked.

“He's from over to Manistique, but he's got a camper-trailer parked out on the back side of the Pavola farm.”

McCants said, “Why does Mr. Verse qualify as a bad guy?”

“I hear he just got out of Kinross,” Ecles said. Kinross was a Level II state correctional facility in Chippewa County in the eastern Upper Peninsula. “He was in here with a couple of young girls a couple of days ago. He was packing and the girls were bragging how they'd been shooting deer.”

“You
saw
a weapon?”

“The three of them were high and rowdy, but I saw enough to know what I saw.”

When they got outside, McCants slid her 800 MHz radio out of its holster, and set Channel 20. “Station Twenty, this is Four One Twenty Three. Can you run a file?”

“Go ahead, Four One Twenty Three.”

“Last name is Verse: Victor, Echo, Romeo, Sierra, Echo. First name Bryce: Bravo, Romeo, Yankee, Charlie, Echo. No middle name known. Allegedly just out of Kinross. Run the name, see what we come up with.”

“Bryce Verse,” the dispatcher in Lansing said. “Right back at you.”

“You can go,” McCants said.

“Think I'll hang for a while,” Service said.

“You missing this part of the job?” she asked.

He nodded. “Sometimes.”

Station Twenty called back, “Four One Twenty Three, Bryce Verse just finished three years at Kinross, paroled three weeks ago. You want his PO's name?”

“Go ahead.”

“PO is Jenna Traffic, out of Manistique. You want her numbers?”

McCants wrote down home, office, and cell phone numbers, switched to her own cell phone, and tapped in a number. “Jenna Traffic? This is Candi McCants, DNR. You got a problem child named Bryce Verse?”

Service watched his colleague making notes on a small pad. “Okay, Jenna. We heard today that he's got a camper set up near Trenary. He was seen in town a couple of days ago in the company of two minor females, allegedly high and packing.” McCants listened, then smiled. “I hear ya. Think I'll head out to his camp and have a chat with your boy.”

She flipped the phone shut and looked at Service. “Supposed to check in with his PO within forty-eight hours, but she hasn't heard a word from him. She says he's a genetic dirtbag. He went up for aggravated assault, two OUILs, and statutory rape. Moody also busted him several times over in the Manistique area for fish and game before he got sent away. Apparently Moody was also the arresting officer on the aggravated assault beef.” Eddie Moody, a CO for part of Schoolcraft County, was also known as Gutpile because of his spectacular ability to find the remains of poached white-tail deer.

“A Renaissance man,” Service said.

McCants grinned.

Service followed her back into the restaurant where they found Ecles behind the counter. “The girls with Verse,” she asked. “You know them?”

“Everybody in town knows all the kids—especially Cathalina Sector and Tina Kangaho. Both of 'em are fourteen and both of 'em are trouble.”

“One of them related to the Pavolas?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Is Verse related to the Pavolas?”

“Doubt that,” Eccles said. “Never seen him till ten days or so ago. Old man Pavola died some years back and his wife moved downstate to live with her daughter. Pavola's sons and son-in-law come up for deer season, but most of the year the place is empty.”

“Posted?” Service asked.

“Not since I lived up here,” Ecles said.

“You said the girls are trouble,” McCants said. “What kind?”

“Out of control. Sex and booze, out all night, skipping school, all that. They run with older men.”

“Families?”

“Technically, but they don't seem to pay much attention and the girls do pretty much as they please.”

“You mind if I tag along?” Service asked when they were outside again.

“Ought to let your missus know.”

“Cut that out.”

McCants grinned. “Our boy probably won't even be there.” She dug out her Alger County plat book, and found the location of the Pavola farm. It touched up against the Delta County line and had been part of his old territory, which was now hers.

Service followed her in his truck.

A mile from the farm she pulled over and ambled back to his vehicle. “Let's hide my wheels and take your unmarked.”

“You got a good hide in mind?”

McCants smiled. “I learned from the best.”

She parked off a two-track in a copse of pines, covered the grill and hood with downed branches and leaves, and the two officers drove on to the farm. As predicted, nobody appeared to be in the old house, which badly needed paint. A rutted track veered away from the house across a hay field. The two of them stood on the running board of Service's truck using their binoculars to scan the surrounding fields.