Death Roe (6 page)

“We're not harassing anyone, Mr. Director. We're gathering evidence as part of an authorized investigation.”

“I authorized no such investigation,” Teeny said.

“Talk to Chief O'Driscoll,” Service said.

“Lorne hasn't said anything to me about this,” the director said. Service thought he heard him sputter at the end of the sentence.

“Just doing our job,” Service said, closing his phone. He stepped outside and called the chief, who answered on the second ring. “We're at Piscova in Elk Rapids. I just got calls from Jeff Choate and the director, demanding to know what we're doing.”

“What did you tell them?'

“That we're here as part of an authorized investigation. I told them both to call you.”

“Find anything yet?”

“That depends on your definition. We found an estimated six hundred thousand dollars' worth of rare gold coins in a safe in the office. The plant manager don't know nuttin', claims they belong to the owner.”

O'Driscoll paused before speaking. “What do the coins have to do with our investigation?”

“Not sure yet.”

“Will your warrants stretch to cover the coins?”

“The company's lawyer says no.”

“Anything else?”

“We're just getting into the paperwork, but I found an old Rolodex. No idea what's in it yet, but we'll take it along. You think we should grab the the coins?”

O'Driscoll took a long time to speak again. “Better leave them. Take photographs, do a formal count, and get an affadavit from the Piscova people, verifying the count.”

“Okay, chief.”

“Where are you taking the records?”

“Lieutenant Bosk told Miars we can have some space at the District Five HQ in Gaylord.” Brett Bosk had joined the DNR about the same time as Service, had been a solid CO, and was respected as a lieutenant as well.

“Good. Everything by the book, right?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Late in the afternoon they began to carry boxes out to the trucks. Roy Rogers nudged Service and asked the girl Alma to step outside with them, turning on his tape recorder.

“What's your job here?” Rogers asked.

“Quality assurance manager for Piscova,” she said.

“Caviar Queen and bookkeeping too?” Rogers said.

“It's a lot of work, but the pay's not bad.”

“What happened to Roxy?”

The woman looked at Rogers for a moment. “Ms. Lafleur? She retired in August.”

“Retired. Did she move?”

“I don't know. I never met her,” Alma said.

“Have you got an address for her?”

“I can look it up, if you guys haven't taken my Rolodex yet.”

Service nodded. Rogers said, “We can look it up ourselves. Thanks.”

The woman went inside. “Who's Roxy?” Service asked.

“Don't really know. We heard the name from one of our inspectors. There was a woman named Roxy—the New York plant people called her the Caviar Queen. She went to the New York plant several times a year to inspect eggs.”

“Caviar queen?”

“The egg lady,” Rogers said.

Vandeal came outside. “I just talked to my grandson. They won a close one. Are you people about done here?”

“Let me get the receipts for you,” Service said. Why wasn't Vandeal more concerned about the subpoenas?

Vandeal took his time reading the lists before signing and dating each page.

The young woman with him handed Miars a business card, and Miars handed it to Service. It read
constance algyre, attorney at law
, and listed a Traverse City address, several phone numbers, and an e-mail address.

“Thanks, Connie,” Service said.

“
Ms.
Algyre,” the woman said icily.

He turned to Vandeal. “What's Shamrock Productions?”

“One of the boss's side businesses.”

“Fish business?”

Vandeal shrugged. “Video production. Mr. Fagan has a lot of outside business interests.”

Loading complete, Service dug out the old Rolodex that he'd found and located an address for Roxanne Lafleur. She lived on Smokey Hollow Road in Traverse City.

Service walked over to Venus Wire. “You know where this is?”

“About halfway up the Old Mission Peninsula. Take M-Thirty-Seven north past Mapleton to where the road splits and bear right. That's Smokey Hollow Road. You want me to show you the way?”

“Thanks, no. You guys get the stuff back to Gaylord. Thanks for everything.”

“Not a problem,” Wire said. She was about thirty, muscular, smiled easily.

Rogers asked, “Is it out of our way?”

“No, it's fairly close.”

“We've got rooms in Gaylord,” Rogers said.

“We can swing by the address before we head to Gaylord.”

Service walked over to Miars. “Rogers wants to visit the old quality assurance manager.”

Miars said, “I'll order pizzas for about eight people at the district office. We can get together there and start going through all this stuff. Call me when you're an hour out and I'll place the order.”

10

Tuesday, October 19, 2004

OLD MISSION PENINSULA, GRAND TRAVERSE COUNTY

It was closing dark by the time Service found the address, a driveway through a stand of towering maples, oaks, and white pines, a sagging, heavy link chain across the driveway.

“Nobody home,” Rogers said.

“Maybe, but let's take a little walk.”

He parked the Tahoe on the road and the three of them walked almost a third of a mile back to an expansive house overlooking the East Arm of Grand Traverse Bay.

“Five thousand square feet easily,” Leukonovich said.

“Gotta be millions for a place like this,” Service added. It immediately struck him that with his inheritance from Nantz, he could afford such a place, and the thought made his stomach roll.

They walked around the house. No lights inside, no sign of life.

“Let's talk to the neighbors,” Service suggested.

It took four houses to find someone who knew Lafleur. The woman's name was Harris and she was one of those rare people who showed no fear of cops. “Roxy? She's gone.”

“Gone—like on a trip?”

“Just gone.”

“Missing?”

“All I know is that she retired, closed up the place, and left.”

“With her husband?” Rogers asked.

“She never married. Worked all those years at some fish business up in Elk Rapids. House like that, I figure she must've owned the company.”

“What's she like?”

“Private. She never socialized, but I'd see her out walking her kids now and then, and she was always friendly.”

“Kids?” Service asked.

“Three chocolate Labs. They're pretty much her whole life.”

“No idea where she might be?”

“I saw her car loaded up, and there's been no mail in her mailbox. I assume she arranged to have it forwarded.”

They thanked the woman for her help, and returned to the Tahoe.

“We'll talk to the post office Monday,” Service said as they headed east toward Gaylord.

“Those people are kinda hinky about addresses,” Rogers said.

“They can be managed,” Leukonovich said from the backseat.

11

Tuesday, October 19, 2004

GAYLORD, OTSEGO COUNTY

The group met at 8 p.m. but there was minimal discussion. Instead, they divvied up paperwork from the plant: Rogers took the contracts; Miars got records pertaining to state weir operations; and Leukonovich, the financial reports. Service carefully dismantled the old Rolodex, took the cards to a copier, and began copying each one. The Rolodex contained more than a thousand entries: DNR contacts from both New York and Michigan; Piscova's suppliers and service providers; lawyers, insurance agents, and bankers; others in various aspects of the fish business in Michigan and other states; and, most important, the names of employees, most of them no longer with the firm.

Copies made, Service began looking through the pages one at a time, making piles by category. Around 11 p.m. he walked into the conference room and announced, “I need a smoke.” Rogers walked outside with him, Service lit up, and handed Rogers a stack of copies. “New York DNR employees.” Rogers looked through the stack, pulled one out, and shook his head.

“Something I should know?” Service said.

“Garrick Bindi,” Rogers said. “He worked at one of our hatcheries and got canned for stealing equipment. That was two, maybe three years back. Same plant where the manager resigned. Since then we had an informant call and claim it was Bindi, not the manager, who used to unlock the gates and let people in to steal eggs. He got paid in cash, they didn't take many each time, and nobody picked up on it until we got the tip, began looking at our data, and there it was. Pretty damn clever. You can steal a shitload if you're not too greedy. I think I mentioned this earlier.”

“You forgot details. Did you bring charges?”

“Had an informant's claim and no evidence. We brought him in and talked to him several times, but he played dumb. About a year ago he boogied.”

“Foul play?”

“More likely he split because he didn't appreciate the heat.” Rogers tapped the sheet again. “If this means anything, I've got a pretty good idea who he was letting in.”

“Based on the card? There are a lot of your state employees in that pile.”

“Bindi's the only worker bee. The rest are people with pull who could do things for Piscova—contracts and such. He stands out as the oddball.”

“If he's gone, there's not much you can do unless he screws up, and somebody grabs him for something else.”

“Yeah . . . unless somebody from Piscova knows where he is, or admits to the egg thefts.”

Service looked at his New York counterpart. “The Caviar Queen?”

“Could be,” Rogers said.

“Where'd you get her name?”

“Lemme have one of your smokes. I quit the damn things two years ago, but right now I need something to settle my nerves.” Rogers lit up and inhaled deeply. “Finding twenty grand in that wreck wasn't enough to bring in the IRS,” he explained. “I mean, they might have sent over a junior agent, but instead, they sent Leukonovich, who is like their big-case hound dog.”

“Why?”

“It's taken me a while to get it out of her, but she says the IRS got a tip from a former subcontractor who claimed he got stiffed by Piscova. He also told the IRS that he knew a woman who had personally transported bags of cash back and forth between New York and Michigan. Said he had dates, times, and details.”

“Roxy, the Caviar Queen. Why didn't you tell me this earlier?”

“I'm making my way in this case like a blind man with earplugs. Until you called, we were nowhere. We needed time to get comfortable with each other, yes?”

Service took a sheet out of his pocket and handed it to the New Yorker. “Addresses for the Caviar Queen. It lists the house we saw on the Old Mission Peninsula, another place in Florida, and a camp in the U.P., in Northern Marquette County. No phone numbers, just addresses.”

“She's sure not here,” Rogers said, scanning the page. “Her place in Florida was listed as Sugar Sand Estates, and someone had written Pensacola Beach in parentheses. What kind of budget do you have for this case?” Rogers asked.

“Unspecified, but I've got enough to call one of our people and have them visit the Marquette address.”

“I'll talk to Zhenya, see if she can get one of her people to check out Florida.”

“Who called the IRS about Piscova?”

“Zhenya's a team player—the IRS team, period. She plays things close to the vest and she isn't saying, but I overheard her say something about a Greek during one of her phone calls.”

A Greek? Service went back to his papers, pulled the stack of former employees, and handed half to Rogers, who raised an eyebrow. “Better than nothing,” Service said.

There were more than a hundred names, and it took a while to sort through them.

“You don't have to have a Greek name to be Greek,” Rogers pointed out.

“Read,” Service said.

He found two names right away: Vasilios Kefalis and Theo Trisagios. A notation said Kefalis died in 2000. He set aside the sheet for Trisagios.

“Prokos?” Rogers said.

“That's Greek.”

“Tassos Andriaitis?”

“You bet.”

They found five names in all and looked at their titles: Trisagios had been a truck driver; Prokos, the plant engineer; a woman named Litsa Agonas worked in contract liaison; a man named Belafis had been a janitor; Andriaitis had held the title of processing supervisor.

“Let's talk to our IRS colleague,” Service said. “But let me do the talking.”

Leukonovich came outside with cup of coffee. “It's a lot warmer inside,” she said. “Cold disagrees with Zhenya.”

Like all reptiles,
Service thought. “We're outdoor guys,” he countered. “We've been looking at employee names from an old Rolodex and I found a note linking Roxy the Caviar Queen to a certain man with a Greek name.”

Leukonovich took a measured sip of coffee. “You called me outside to tell me that? Why is this significant?”

“There's a list of dates and dollar amounts on the entry for one of the Greeks and a mirror entry on Roxanne Lafleur's record.”

“I see,” Leukonovich said. “Which person?”

Service handed her the sheets and watched her go through them, reading deliberately, but lingering over one more than the others, before looking up. “There are no dates or amounts on any of these.”

Service took the pages from her, pulled out the one for Prokos. “The specifics are on another sheet.”

“Are we sharing?” she asked, looking him in the eye. “Or are we not?”

“Very good question,” Service said. “
Are
we?”

She shook her head, and a smirk formed. “You don't have dates or amounts,” she said. “You were fishing for a name.”

“
Nolo contendere
,” Service admitted.

“According to policy, practice, legal casework, and ethics, Zhenya is forbidden to share the names of informants. There is nothing personal in this, gentlemen.”

“Understood,” Service said.
What kind of woman referred to herself in the third person?

“Are we done?”

“For the moment,” he said.

“What the hell just went on?” Rogers asked after she went back inside.

“I juked her. The sheet she paid the most attention to was Andriaitis. He lives in Baldwin, according to the information here. That's about an hour north of Grand Rapids.”

“You think the address is current?”

“We'll find out.”

Service called a retired CO named Carl Burke, known to Lake County locals as King Kong. A sleepy female voice answered, “Wha—?”

“Have you got a gorilla in bed there with you?” Service asked.

“Grady Service, what the heck are you doing calling here at this time of night? We go to bed at nine.”

“Hand the phone to Carl, Jen.”

“Jesus Christ!” a voice boomed into the phone. “Don't you know retired wardens actually sleep at night?”

“I need help, Carl.”

“Do I need a fucking pen or something to scribble with?”

“Maybe not. You know everyone around Baldwin and in Lake County, right?”

“If this is a quiz, what can I win?”

“The name Tassos Andriaitis ring a bell?”

“What if it does?

“Bottle of single malt is what it means.”

“Fuck that single-malt pussy piss. I'll take a half-gallon of Jack. Tassos Andriaitis has a place on the flies-only water of the Pere Marquette. He's up here early summer, before he heads back to work in Alaska.”

“What sort of work?”

“Has his own fish business up there. Does business all over the world.”

“Stand-up guy?”

“Nobody in the fish business can meet that standard, but he's a pretty solid guy. Very, very tough and a total asshole about fair play, yada yada, which don't mean he wouldn't put you in the poorhouse with a deal that benefits him.”

“Where in Alaska?”

“HQ's in Anchorage, but he has all sorts of stuff all over the state. He works June through December up there, and heads down to his place in Florida. He comes up here to fish and rest for April and May.”

“Where in Florida?”

“Pensacola Beach.”

“
Really
?”

“I just said so, for Chrissakes. Your hearing going bad?”

“He have girlfriends?”

“What am I, his biographer? I had to two-finger my case reports. His old lady's name is Mel and she'd take off his balls with pinking shears if he strayed. No girlfriends, not Tassos. He's about money and fair play.”

“I'll have your Jack delivered,” Service said.

“This what you needed?”

“More than you can know. Give my apologies to Jen.”

“Hey, Grady, don't never retire, man. It's fucking boring!”

Service closed the cell phone and sat back. “We need to go to Alaska,” Service announced.

Rogers said, “I think I donated my snowshoes to the Sisters of the Poor.”

“We'll get you some loaners.”

“I'll have to clear this with my supervision.”

“Me too. Let's do it first thing in the morning and take it from there.”

“You gonna share what you learned?”

“In the morning. I need sleep,” Grady Service said. What he needed more was guidance for handling a case that was beginning to look like it could be far more complicated than anything he'd ever dealt with before.

What he wanted to do more than anything was start thinking about the upcoming firearm deer season, but it was beginning to feel like this case might override the things he'd rather do, not to mention the things he knew best. It was a disconcerting thought.

Leukonovich and Rogers headed to their rooms at a local sleep-cheap, and Service called Luticious Treebone, a habitual night owl, even though he was now retired.

He and Treebone had finished college the same year—Service at Northern Michigan University, where he'd been a fair student and solid hockey player, and Treebone at Wayne State, where he'd graduated cum laude and lettered in baseball and football. They had both volunteered for the marines and met at Parris Island before serving together in the same long-range recon unit in Vietnam. They had been in hell together, and rarely spoke of it.

After Vietnam they had entered the Michigan State Police Academy in Lansing and spent two years as Troops before transferring to DNR law enforcement. After a year as a CO, Tree had moved to the Detroit Metropolitan Police Department, where he had risen to the rank of lieutenant in charge of one of the city's numerous vice units. Had it not been for his wife Kalina's dislike for the U.P., Treebone would not have transferred to Detroit, but now that he was retired he planned to spend a lot of time at North of Nowhere, the name of the camp Service had bought for his friend.

“You know what time it is?” his friend challenged him.

“Does it matter? I've got what feels like a complicated case developing—involving at least two states, the IRS, environmental violations, fraud, and God knows what else. It feels way out of my league.”

“Bullshit. Just grow you a tree.”

“Say again?”

“What we did in Vice. You write down people, places, events, and times. Then you connect them all with different-colored lines to see if there's a pattern, see how everything fits. It'll look like a genetically fucked tree when you've got it.”

“You want to meet and show me?”

“I said,
we
done it, not me. I had people to do that crap.”

“I need help, Tree.”

“Man, I hate that tone. North of Nowhere work for you?”

“That works, but I don't know when yet. I've got to go to Alaska. I'll call you and we'll set up a time.”

“I don't mind some extra days up there. I'll bring my bow, see what wanders by.”

“Black man with a bow and arrow?”