Chasing a Blond Moon (41 page)

They found Walter in a yellow hallway. There was a red rubber donut about forty feet away and he was flicking a tag of fire-pink yarn at the target. Using reach casts, which Service had not taught him. Where the hell had he picked that up? The casts were near the target all the time, the technique designed to throw a mend into the line to help the fly drift parallel to an obstacle with little drag. Many fishermen never learned to do it correctly. Walter looked like he had control of it.

“Where'd you learn that?”

Walter tilted his head, showed a flash of surprise, said, “Book, by the wall.”

Service walked over to the wall, picked up a casting guide by Lee Wulff, one of the old masters and too advanced for most beginners.

“He's cleaned out the library,” Karylanne said. “Walter,” she said sharply. “Your father's gonna feed us.”

“That's cool,” he said, making one last cast.

With few restaurants open late, they ended up at Sundog's Seiche, a coffeehouse and college hangout run by the wife of an astonomy professor. Service had an avocado and tuna sandwich and listened to Walter and Karylanne talking back and forth. The boy was more at ease with her than he had ever been with a girl at that age, and when the girl talked, Walter paid attention. When he looked at the boy's face, he imagined he could see Bathsheba's eyes.

“Are you staring at me?” Walter asked.

“Not staring at, just staring.”

“Right. Who do you see, Sheba or you?”

“I see somebody who looks pale and needs to beef up.”

“So I can clog my arteries?”

Karylanne said, “There's a training table for jocks. It's run by a full-time special health nutritionist.”

When Service played at Northern, hockey players had lived on burgers, beer, and pasta—especially beer.

“When did you learn to cook?” Walter asked him.

“My old man was a lush and he'd go days without thinking about food. Somebody had to remind him, and I was always hungry.”

Walter nodded. “What did you call him?”

Karylanne said, “My father will always be my daddy.”

Service smiled. “If I'd called him Daddy he would have backhanded me through a wall. I called him, Old Man. And Sir.”

“He didn't mind?”

“I don't think he noticed. Mostly he thought about violets.”

Karylanne said, “He liked flowers?”

“Violet, violator,” Service said.

There was silence while they ate.

They dropped Karylanne at her dorm and headed for Walter's room.

“How's my casting look?”

“I'll tell you that after we see your grades. Got a place where I can bunk tonight?”

“Sure, and my grades are fine. It's not easy, but I'm keeping up. Are you going to give me some fatherly advice about Karylanne?”

“She looks like she can take care of herself.”

“Kinda like Maridly,” Walter said. “You want to grab breakfast in the morning at the training table?”

“Gotta work.”

“Whatever, old man.”

Service saw that the boy was grinning. “Stop busting my balls.”

“That's Maridly's job,” Walter said as he clicked off the lights. “Good night, Daddy.”

“Consider yourself backhanded,” Service said, smiling in the dark.

Service, Gus Turnage, and Pyykkonen went to the Miltey Boat Company in two vehicles. Gus knew Joe Miltey, said he'd be less belligerent if they came in force.

The Miltey Boat Company was built on the banks of the Pike River, where it flowed into Pike Bay, the southernmost feature of Portage Lake. Five aluminum hulls were lined up at the garage door of a large pole ­building. Three finished boats were at the other end of the building, one of them not entirely shrink-wrapped, the plastic hanging off like a partially shed skin. There were piles of cans and pallets with boxes everywhere. Service looked at a dock by the building, saw the Technicolor swirls of gasoline in the river.

Joe Miltey was in his late forties, with a red face, veins showing in his cheeks and nose, and red hair starting to gray. His office was inside the production area. He sat at a desk in the middle of a circle of desks. Windows looked out on the production line and Service counted only three people working. There was one clerk in the office with Miltey, who was scribbling on a clipboard and did not look up. Miltey's company didn't look like it was thriving.

“I get tree of youse?” the man finally said.

Service put a piece of paper on the marred and distressed desk. All the furniture looked like it dated to the time when the company was still building fishing tugs.

Miltey looked at it, said, “Is this supposed to be a winning lottery number?”

Gus said, “That depends on if you can keep your big foot out of your big mouth.”

“Those are serial numbers off one of your boats,” Service said.

“You bring a subpoena?”

Gus winced. “Joe, you've got piles of epoxy and paint cans outside, and a fuel storage tank is leaking into the river. You want to play games, we can send over DEQ and let you talk to them. In the end, Joe, we'll still get what we want.”

“Maybe he's got something to hide,” Pyykkonen said. “This is a homicide case and I don't think you want to be obstructing it, Mr. Miltey.”

Joe Miltey went to one of the file cabinets and came back with a piece of paper he dropped on the desk. “Irv McCrae bought da boat in nighny-six.”

“Got an address?”

Miltey shoved the paper across.

The address was Freda, a village fifteen miles west of Houghton on the Lake Superior coast.

“Thanks,” Gus said.

“Yeah, right,” Joe Miltey said.

Service called McCrae from his truck. The man had a sandpaper voice and claimed he sold the boat to Margaret Soper in Painesdale last July and asked if Service wanted her number. Service wrote down the name, thanked McCrae, and showed his notebook to Pyykkonen.

“Round and round we go,” she said, shaking her head.

Gus followed them to Painesdale. Maggie Soper came out on her porch.

Pyykkonen said, “You bought a boat in July from Irv McCrae in Freda, a twenty-six-foot Miltey Commander with a blue hull.”

“I sold a boat to da professor,” she said.

“You didn't mention that the last time we were here.”

“Youse was askin' aboot real estate, hey. I don't read minds.”

“How long after you bought it did Pung buy it?”

“I never even seen it. The professor called me up and said he found dis boat for a good price and he wanted it for fishing. Said since nine-eleven, foreigners can't get registrations and stuff. Said he'd give me the money and he'd buy it in my name.”

“How much?” Pyykkonen said.

“Four thousand plus a thousand.”

“Where's the boat now?”

“I thought youse had it,” Soper said.

“Have you got a bill of sale? Did you register the boat?”

“He said he'd take care of all that, but he never got the paperwork to me.”

“But you got the cash,” Pyykkonen said.

The woman smiled smugly. “I don't care for your tone of voice.”

“We'll talk again,” Pyykkonen said, “and next time you're gonna hate my tone of voice.”

Service called Station 20 for a title and registration check. The boat had last been registered to McCrae two years before, which meant it was good for another year, unless it was sold. The Certificate of Number had not been surrendered to the secretary of state as the law required when a boat was sold. A search showed no new registration had been filed for.

Service called McCrae again. “The secretary of state says your registration hasn't been turned in.”

“Geez, I give it to da fella picked it up. Said he'd take care of it. Is this a ticket?”

“Who picked up the boat, Irv?”

“Asian fella. I tink 'is name was Harry. Teacher up ta Tech, said he was picking it up as a favor to the Soper woman. Am I in trouble?”

“Was Harry a young guy?”

“Everybody's young compared to me. I'd say mebbe he was fifty, ya know.”

“We'd like for you to look at a photo for us.”

“What's this all about?”

“Relax, Irv. Just look at the photo when the detective comes, and we'll leave you be.”

Service looked at Pyykkonen. “Looks like Harry picked up the boat himself.”

“He didn't want a paper trail,” she said. “Sounds like he didn't expect to be a boat owner long.”

“He wasn't,” Service said. “Have you talked to the ex's lawyer yet?”

“Three of them, never the same one twice. They insist there's no son. We've gotten nowhere.”

Every case had a key, and more and more it looked like Soong was it—but he couldn't stop wondering why the boat had been scuttled near Laughing Fish Point.

“I guess I'd better get on out to Freda,” Pyykkonen said, but he wasn't listening.

He ended the day with a call to Nantz, explaining the Toogood photo mystery. She said she would have time soon, and would check into it.

34

He was hungry but not in the mood for a sandwich, and settled on an old recipe for quick black bean and hominy stew. He heated olive oil in a big pan and added green peppers, onions, and garlic. When the vegetables softened, he poured in chicken broth, added the hominy, ham, cumin, coriander, minced chipotles, and a can of black beans. As the stew was thickening he got a call from Ironhead Southard.

“Honeypat left Allerdyce last year before Christmas. The word is that she hooked up with Kelo and Limpy didn't like it, which as far as I know is the first time that old reprobate's been bothered by anything like that,” the retired officer said.

Service stirred the stew halfheartedly and thought. Ironhead had basically told him what he already knew—that Honeypat had fled in December—but Ironhead didn't know that he had stimulated the split by telling her that Limpy had been hitting on his grandson's girlfriend. Outi Ranta blamed Honeypat for what she had gotten involved in, and made the point that Honeypat would never change. These words felt indelible. Outi needed money and she was looking for some fun. Honeypat had come up with a scheme. Outi had dealt with Charley Fahrenheit while Colliver dealt with Skunk Kelo. What was Honeypat's angle?

The more he thought about it, the tougher it was to imagine Limpy going off the wall because Honeypat had hooked up with another man. It had never bothered him before, and Limpy's alleged reaction didn't fit. Where was the greed in this, wanting to keep something that was exclusively his? Possible. Honeypat had sex with the ease that most people took a drink of water, and with about as much meaning. The flow of men and women in Limpy's clan had always been hard to pin down, and by and large, who was with whom never seemed to matter to Allerdyce, who had always been about money and the power that came to him through his poaching enterprises. In many ways he was a feudal lord operating on values that dated back centuries to a world he defined as black and white, with little gray. He took care of his clan; they did what he ordered, like some sort of lowlife, plaid-and-Carhart-mafia. Was the break with Honeypat real and permanent, or something else? No matter how hard he tried to think it through, there was no reasonable conclusion. Limpy had actively tried to undermine his grandson's interest in the DNR. This certainly amounted to some form of greed: keeping what he had. The salient point was probably that Limpy thought he was losing Aldo and had moved to prevent this. Did the same apply to Honeypat? Had Allerdyce tried to find her and bring her back? Had he been involved in Outi Ranta's death?

Service scooped the finished stew into a one-gallon plastic container, made sure the lid was tight, and called Les Reynolds. “I'll fax you a photo first thing in the morning. Show it to Colliver, see what he has to say.”

“Do we have a suspect?”

“Maybe.”

“No problem. I'll call you back as soon as I've had the talk with him.”

Service took the container and drove to the Marquette office. He went through the files to find a photograph of Skunk Kelo, and faxed it to Reynolds at his office.

Why would Honeypat go after Kitella? What was the old Arab proverb, the enemy of my enemy is my friend? He wasn't sure if it was from the Koran, or who for certain used the saying—only that it was some group with a beef, of which there were plenty in the world. By this logic, Kitella was a potential ally for Honeypat, but her actions made no sense, lacked context. Service called the sheriff's department and learned that Linsenman was off duty.

He called the deputy at home.

“How about we take a nice hike in the autumn woods?”

“It's night, Service.”

“The best time to see animals in their native habitats.”

“Nature?” Linsenman said. “I have squirrels in my yard. I don't need anything more. You scraping the barrel for help?”

Something like that. He had seen Linsenman hold his ground and his cool in a shootout a few days before. Such nerve was uncommon. “Meet me at Da Yoopers Tourist Trap and we'll take my truck.”

“In uniform?” Linsenman asked.

“No need for that. This is a social call.”

Linsenman exhaled and said, “I bet.”

Service said, “You might want to bring your sidearm.”

“Oh, boy,” Linsenman said.

The deputy got to the Trap on US 41 a few minutes after Service, got into the Yukon with a thermos, and looked over his shoulder into the backseat.

“What?” Service asked.

“Wanted to see if you had a rocket launcher back there.”

“We're just going visiting.”

Linsenman didn't ask who or where, but as they made their way south into the western part of the county, Service saw the deputy's uneasiness growing.

“I don't much care for this direction,” Linsenman complained.

“I thought we'd pop down to Limpy's, see how he's doing.”

They were moving at fifty mph when Linsenman opened his door.

Service looked at him.

“I'm thinking of jumping.”

“You'll get hurt.”

“What difference does it make when or how we get fucked over?” He pushed the door open and slammed it. “We can't make social calls in daylight?”

“Limpy likes the night,” Service said.

“So do vampires,” Linsenman mumbled.

“We'll just walk in, offer him some stew, and have a nice visit. It's a beautiful night. We're lucky to work in the Yoop.”

The deputy said grimly, “The issue is, will we collect our pensions here.”

The Allerdyce compound was built on a narrow peninsula between North and South Beaverkill Lakes, a long distance from anything that might be termed a town, much less civilization, and it was not the sort of place you just stumbled on to. With water on two sides and swamps on both ends, it was difficult to reach, even if you knew where it was. There was a two-track from a USFS road down to the compound's parking area, and a half-mile hike from there along a twisting narrow trail through dense and interlocked cedars, hemlocks, and tamaracks. In terms of ­isolation it was a fortress, and since Service had led police officers into the area the summer before last, Limpy had beefed up his defenses, sprinkling sound sensors and motion detectors along the entry road and adjacent forest.

Service knew that as soon as they got out of the vehicle they would be under surveillance, and if Limpy didn't want them in the compound, they would not get that far.

The two men carried flashlights, but did not turn them on. Service had spent so much of his life working in the dark that his eyes always adjusted quickly. Even as a boy he had never been afraid of the night, one of the few things his old man had ever complimented him on.

Halfway to the compound they heard a wolf howl in the distance. Too far away to be one of their watchers, Service thought.

The final approach to the camp was dark, and as they squeezed out of a dense grove of cedars he could see dim light and the outlines of the shacks where the clansmen lived. One step further and Service stopped.

Linsenman whispered, “I can't see shit. What?”

Service remained still, rotating his head slowly to the side and back again. There was movement along the ground, dark shadows stalking. He looked around deliberately and realized that they were surrounded by whatever it was.

“Oh, boy,” Linsenman said.

Service felt the hairs stand up on his arms and neck, his breathing quicken. “Walk in my steps,” he whispered to the deputy, “and don't look around. Keep your eyes up and on my back.”

“This is crazy,” Linsenman said.

Over the years Limpy had resided in different cabins, but the past few times he'd seen him, he'd been in the same one. Service led them directly to it, his eyes on the tree-based horizon, moving steadily, neither slowly nor quickly. The ink sky was filled with stars, but the light did not penetrate trees.

The cabin was dark, which was not unusual. Service stepped onto the porch and Linsenman plowed into his back, muttering, “Shit.”

Powerful spots came on, splashing light across the area they had just crossed. Service looked back, saw more than a dozen pairs of eyes gleaming on the edges of the illuminated area. The eyes moved slightly and he finally saw what they were: dogs—dark, squat animals, all of them staring up at the porch, watching. He felt a wave of panic and pushed it away. They were on the porch; the problem was off the porch. Old Vietnam training: Isolate the problem, and focus on the problem you have, not the one you had, or what comes next. Now counts, nothing more. Limpy was inside, waiting, and Service knew that the dogs had been a reception committee designed specifically for him. Limpy might look like he couldn't add snake eyes, but he had an amazing cunning, quick to ascertain and exploit a foe's weakness.

He rapped on the door and waited.

Limpy himself opened it, grinned one of his toothless smiles and cackled. “I'll be damned, sonny, youse comin' all the way out here.”

“We happened to be in the neighborhood,” Service said. Allerdyce's cackle deteriorated into a wheeze, which terminated in a wracking cough.

“Come on in, come on in,” the old man said, clearing his throat and holding the door wide.

Service felt Linsenman pressed up against him as Limpy closed the door and engulfed them in black.

They waited motionless as a kerosene lantern hissed to life, throwing a dull pink-orange glow into the middle of the room, enough to render shadows, but not enable sight. Service heard faint movement to his right, someone brush against something, suck in air.

“Take a seat, sonny,” Limpy said from a chair directly across from them.

“When—” Linsenman started to ask, but Service nudged him to be silent. Limpy usually moved like a wraith in the dark. Not tonight. He had tracked him all the way to his seat.

Service and Linsenman sat in wooden chairs facing Limpy, who sat in an old rocker of heavy wood.

A young woman stepped out of the shadows and Service gave her the container. She took it and withdrew. She looked to be fourteen or fifteen, a child only in her face.

“Brought some stew,” Service told Limpy.

“Kind of you, sonny. More like yer old man every year.”

“This is Linsenman,” Service said.

“I know,” was all Allerdyce said.

Service smelled the stew warming. He had rehearsed several ways to open a conversation but concluded that his presence alone would signal Allerdyce that he was interested in talking. He would leave the old poacher to pick the subject and deliver whatever message he was hoarding.

The girl brought stew in bowls. She served Limpy first.

“Dis little piece is Lixie,” Allerdyce said. “Youse want some, help yourself. She's a good one.”

One, a piece of property. “Good as Honeypat?” Service asked. The girl was just one more possession, Service thought. Was Honeypat different? Did greed and ownership require Limpy to be the one to share, and that it was not the property's choice? Probably.

Limpy stared over at Service and glared. “Bring up dat name.”

Allerdyce sipped his stew, made a face, bellowed angrily, “Hotter, you bitch!” He held the bowl out, his hand shaking, the stew spilling onto the floor.

The girl sheepishly rescued the bowl and disappeared. When she brought it back Limpy took a spoonful and made a face. “Hotter, Goddammit! Hot, hot!” She took the bowl and the process was repeated. When she brought it back he sampled one spoonful, stopped chewing, and placed the bowl on the floor. The girl didn't fetch it.

At least this kid was dressed, Service thought. He had always been offering Honeypat to visitors and now it was this young girl. If he'd offer Honeypat and this girl, why would he come down on Kelo?

Allerdyce stopped, looked over at the detective. “You make dis?”

Service nodded, tasted the stew, put the spoon back in and set the bowl on the floor, mimicking Allerdyce. Linsenman's spoon was clicking busily against his bowl.

“Youse come out some day, teach Lixie to cook. She knows what ta do in da bed, hey, but her cookin's bad. Never gets nothing hot but her pussy!”

Linsenman ate faster.

Service said nothing.

“Youse seen da mutts,” Allerdyce said.

“Beautiful animals,” Service said, his stomach immediately beginning to knot up.

“Rescued 'em,” Limpy said. “Got da fight in 'em—all scars and broke stuff, hey. Been beat, shot, kicked, cut, but you gotta kill one to stop it. Born ta be what dey are, hey. Don't know nothin' else. Born in dere blood, fight till youse can't fight no more. One gets jumped, dey all fight. Like family's s'posed ta.”

“Just like NATO,” Service said. He squinted to see better and caught the outline of a pile of books off to his left. He could read a couple of titles. Cookbooks. What was going on here? Books for the girl?

“Da town?” Allerdyce said.

Linsenman sniggered quietly. Nadeau was a village in Menominee County.