Death Roe (33 page)

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 that 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 you 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.

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.