Shadow of the Wolf Tree (22 page)

33

Ironwood, Gogebic County

SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 2006

Friday called Service on his cell phone as he drove west from Crystal Falls. “Peachtree Enterprises has filed theft complaints on two occasions,” she said. “Several hundred pounds of wire were stolen from their plant in the first instance, and just under a ton from a delivery truck a year ago March. That truck came to the Baraga Maxie Unit. The Wisconsin State Patrol handled both investigations. The first one they got an employee for. The second remains unsolved; the driver of the truck was a long-term employee of a contract transportation company Peachtree had used for years.”

She added, “The driver made a delivery to a max-control facility in Wabash, Indiana, crossed the Mackinac Bridge, overnighted in Manistique, and got to the prison the next morning. The goods were gone when he got there.”

“Sleeper truck?”

“Motel. Everything checked out, and the Manistique city cops and Troops there helped the Wispies by canvassing the area. Nobody saw anything.”

Wispies—Wisconsin State Patrol members.
“How bulky is a ton of wire?”

“Requires a fifteen-foot bed or box. I checked the databases and called Negaunee on the off chance they had a report of a stolen or abandoned truck that would fill the bill. No hits yet.”

Service thought for a minute. “Probably happened in Indiana, not Manistique.”

“Really?”

“Goods were unloaded in Indiana. The truck was open and vulnerable there.”

“Theoretically it could be either,” she said.

“Yeah, but the thing about stolen goods is that the further you move them, the greater your exposure. It's also possible this hasn't got a damn thing to do with our case.”

“I had the lab send a wire sample to Peachtree to verify the lot. We'll find out if there's a match.”

“Have you talked to the manufacturer yet?”

“As soon as we're done. I'll let them know to expect the sample and ask them about white phosphorus.”

She didn't forget. I did.
“Mike there yet?”

“Should be by the time you get here. Sorry about last night. Your personal life is none of my business. I still don't like Funke.”

“There in ten,” he said, terminating the call.

• • •

Millitor looked exhausted. He drank an entire cup of coffee in one pull and immediately refilled the cup. “I spent last night at the Duck Creek Bar. Annie Bonner was a no-show, but the Go-Deps all seem to know her. She's nineteen and already has a pretty nasty-looking sheet: possession of dope, misdemeanor larceny by conversion, two Minor In Posessions, and a DWI. The court suspended her license and sentenced her to traffic school and five days' public service. The Go-Deps think she hooks part-time, which they think is ironic because she's pretty much available free of charge most of the time.”

“She complete traffic school?”

“Scheduled for today and tomorrow in Ironwood, eight to five. She has to get her license back before she can do her public service component. The county won't pay for her gas.”

“Want to take a run up that way, see if we can catch her at lunch?”

Friday said, “I'll be talking to Peachtree and D.O.C. Purchasing. I still want to know if Alger or Baraga has had any wire pilferage.”

Another angle that had slipped his mind.

“We'll be back this afternoon,” he told her. Ironwood was about ninety miles west of Iron River, pretty much a straight shot on a good two-lane highway with wide shoulders, which helped you see deer, bear, moose, wolves, and other sundry critters crossing at night.

Service checked his AVL to see if Three One Eighteen was active, but his marker didn't show. He called him on the cell. Three One Eighteen was Loren Barr, two years out of the Academy; he'd been a Chippewa County road dep before catching on with the DNR.

“Loren, Grady Service. You in service yet?”

“Yeah.”

You know Annie Bonner?”

“You mean Anyboner? Every cop over here knows her—no doubt some of them biblically.”

“Out of control?”

“Trending.”

“You ever bust her?”

“Not yet.”

“Where's traffic school over there?”

“Gogebic Community College. They've even got a driving course in Parking Lot D, and a classroom in the Lindquist Center. You need backup?”

“No thanks.”

“You haven't met Anyboner yet.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

“Not a problem.”

Sandy Tavolacci called while they were en route to Ironwood and was not a happy man. “Where the hell do you get off harassing my client?” the lawyer demanded.

“Which one?” Service answered. “The paying one or the nonpaying one?”

“You think this is a joke?”

“What the hell do you want, Sandy? I'm busy.”

“I want to meet with you about Tikka Noli.”

“When I'm ready.”

“We're ready now.”

“That's what Custer said, and look how wrong he was.”

Tavolacci hung up.

There were nine students in Parking Lot D, either young or elderly, the two ages when driving skills seemed to cause the most problems. Service spotted an attractive young woman in Lycra shorts, more body doodads and things stuck in her face than he could count, and a long-sleeved sweatshirt, stenciled in red with an arrow pointing down: meet my samson. She leaned against a light pole while the instructor negotiated the course with an elderly student who took out every orange pylon she was supposed to avoid.

The young woman paid no attention as Service and Millitor approached her, but said, “S'up, fuzzy-wuzzies? I'm here eating my shit. You see that old bitch? She drives like a total fucking glooey, man.”

“Annie Bonner?” Service said.

“You don't know, you're the only swinging dick in the county,” she said with a gutteral growl.

Service showed his shield, but she barely looked. “Cracker Jacks or the Dollar Store?”

“Pretty hot out here for long sleeves,” Millitor said.

“Gotta breeze comin' off Lake Superior,” the girl said.

Millitor held up a finger. “Musta hit a calm.”

“Happens, dude.”

“I'm thinkin' you ought to shed that shirt, enjoy the sun,” Millitor said. “You look pale.”

“I've got, like, seriously sensitive skin. It stays on,” the girl said. “Free country.”

“For some people, the trick's to stay free,” Millitor said.

“What the
fuck
do you want, dudes? I'm trying to concentrate here.”

“That's the sound bite of the day,” Millitor said with a grin.

She turned and faced Service. Eyes sunken, folds of skin from too-rapid weight loss. “I'll talk to youse,” she said, “not Old Dirty Harry.”

“I think Clint's got the bigger gun,” Millitor said, obviously enjoying himself.

“There's a news flash,” she said, holding her forefinger and thumb about an inch apart.

“Kareem Abdul-Jabbar,” Service said.

“Am I supposed to know her?”

“
He
knows you.”

“Don't 'zackly put the dude in exclusive company,” she said.

“You're on the nod, girlie,” Millitor said.

Her nostrils flared, but no explosion came. “
Man.
”

“Just a few questions,” Service said.

“Kareem Abdul-Jabbar,” Service repeated. “If we have to haul you over to the cop shop, your class will be done, and you'll have to do it all over again. You want
that
?”

She sighed. “Okay,” she said with a glare. “So I, like, know the dude—what's the big deal?”

“He's headed south to the graybar hotel,” Millitor said.

“Shit happens, man.”

Service said, “He told me you told him about someone you know who cooks meth, Red P, maybe likes to cook red to white.”

“Mostly I'm, like, totally color-blind, man,” she said. Then, “I talk, what do I get?”

“We'll let you finish your class and your sentence, and get out of your way.”

“You got a fag?” she asked.

Service held out his pack and lit one for her. She inhaled deeply and exhaled explosively.

“Big dude, hung like the Hulk, southern guy. Likes to blow shit up.”

“Got a name?”

She pursed her lips. “Brett Fav-ree,” she said.

“It's Favre,” Millitor said, “Packer quarterback, and that tip ain't gonna fly.”

“I'm not talking to him,” she said to Service, and stomped her foot in frustration.

“One more chance,” Service said, “or you're out of here.”

“Just know his first name, man. Jericho. I made that boy tumble down good,” she said with a leer.

“Local?”

“Marquette, dude. Said he teaches chemistry or ebonics or some-such shitology up at the college, but you know men,
man.
They lie about the number of dicks they got to get some, ya know?”

“Address?”

She shrugged. “Did him at the Fuck Creek Bar,” she said. “Can I get back to my class?”

“He a regular down there?”

“What's regular?” she countered.

“You're there a lot.”

“I seen 'im now and then.”

“Recently?”

“Couple of weeks back, maybe.”

“Taller than me?” Service asked.

“Wasn't that kinda big I'm talking about. Hang it out and get it up, and I'll tell youse.”

“Cook or candyman?” Millitor said, reaching for her sleeve.

She yanked her arm away and nearly fell. Service caught her and put her back on her feet.
Eighty pounds max,
he thought. “Maybe he multitasks,” she said.

“Maybe?”

She twitched a shoulder.

“I'll take that as a yes,” Service said.

• • •

The two drove to the Gogebic County sheriff's office in Bessemer. A prisoner in a jumpsuit was washing a patrol car. The shift sergeant was inside talking to another resident.

Service introduced himself and gave enough information to encourage cooperation. “You guys ever deal with a crank cook called Jericho? Could be an aka.”

“Talk to Casey, he's our UPSET guy—knows all the scumbags.”

“But you've never heard the name?”

“UPSET plays things tight. Casey's in back right now. You can catch him if you hurry.”

Casey was Levi Casey, complete with facial hair, months since his last haircut and fingers stained yellow by nicotine. “The sergeant sent us,” Service said, and went through his story again.

Like a lot of narcoppers, Casey was laid-back, used to wading in ambiguity. “You talked to Anyboner? Real sweetheart, ain't she?”

“Jericho,” Service said.

“Guess I heard that name, the dude with the alleged legendary long schlong. We looked for him for a while, but he never showed.”

“Marquette-based?”

“Could be from anywhere, or he could be total bullshit. Druggies make up all sorts of names and throw them around to get us off their scents. Tell so many lies they can't remember what's what even when they try.”

“You check with Marquette?”

“Don't have the time or budget for that kind of follow-up. We put it in an e-mail and sent it over. If they can make something, good for them.”

“You ever hear he likes to blow up things?”

Casey grinned. “He's a cook, and the odds are he'll get his wish sooner or later.”

Millitor said, “Bonner's wearing long sleeves in the sun today.”

Casey pursed his lips. “I don't think she's a spiker unless she started this weekend. But I'll stop over and check her out.”

“Tell her if this Jericho thing turns out to be bullshit, we'll be back,” Millitor said.

“Anyboner don't scare,” Casey said.

• • •

On the way west, Millitor lit a cigar. “I got offered the UPSET lead in Iron and passed on it. Sometimes the gut is right,” he said smugly.

“The girl looks bad,” Service said.

“Classic clinical signs. Won't be long till she gets way out there and can't get back. Brain's already toasted.
Addicts,
” Millitor said with a tone more sympathetic than accusatory.

Service held up his cigarette. “You'd think we could emphathize.”

“You'd think,” Millitor said.

34

Crystal Falls, Iron County

SUNDAY, JUNE 4, 2006

“How many times I gotta say it?” Tikka Noli whined.

They were in an interrogation room in the Iron County Jail. Service's lab contacts in Marquette had called as he headed for Crystal Falls to let him know the package from Noli's place was made from the same plastic that they got from the woods, and that the contents were also white phosphorus, though the tests had not yet been done to reveal if they were chemically identical and from the same batch of chemicals. Service wasn't sure how they would go about doing such tests, but it sounded dangerous.

“Had a white phosphorus fire in the woods not that far from your place, Tikka. Plastic from your package is the same as those in the woods. What else can I conclude?”

“Man, you have got to believe me,” Noli said. “That shit is my old lady's. She's crazy as a shithouse rat.”

Service glanced at Tavolacci, who was looking nervous, probably needing to puff one of his stinky little cigars. “Is ‘shithouse rat' an official mental health classification?”

“Seriously,” Noli said. “If I could I'd put her in a nice facility where they can give her her meds and watch after her, but my old man's will sets it up so that if she's incapacitated, a lawyer becomes her executor
and
controls the power of attorney, and she inherits
everything.
”

“So she stays out in the free world, even if she's sick,” Service said.

“My old man died and I've been taking care of her ever since. She's fucking insane—and mean. Yeah, she's out, I sell the property, then we put her inside and everybody's happy.”

“Even her?”

“Nutcases are incapable of happiness.”

Grady Service's mother had died in childbirth. He wondered if he'd be thinking of her the same way if she had lived. “Still not buying, Tikka.”

“I hate to do this, but that shit belongs to my mother. I was just leaving the place one day when two broads showed up to deliver it.”

“Two women?”

“Yeah, spikey-dykey types.”

“I don't think I know that term. Do these women have names?”

Noli rolled his eyes. “Thelma and Louise. How the
fuck
am I supposed to know? My old lady didn't formally introduce us; I saw the packages in the back of their truck.”

“Right, someone's carrying exposed white phosphorus in a truck bed. That's certainly believeable.”

“No man, not naked in the bed. There was a metal box in back, stenciled with ‘Danger: Explosives!' in red paint. You know, the kind of box you usta see around the old mines.”

Service didn't know.

“You get a mine name?”

“No.”

“Thelma and Louise?”

Noli shrugged. “You'll have to ask my old lady for their names.”

“Write down a license plate?”

“I'm not crazy. One of the bitches looked like the kind who'd cut my throat, she caught me doing something like that.”

“Okay, let's assume this is the truth, and these women brought these packages. How many did you see?”

“Just the one, sitting on top the box.”

“So it
was
exposed, not inside the box?”

“
Dude.
”

“None in the house afterwards?”

“No. I don't like snooping, the old lady packing and all.”

“So why would she want explosives?”

“To fuck up my plans, of course. She runs with a bunch of nutcases, old women who think they're environmental activists because they want all the world's cats and dogs spayed.”

“How could she fuck up your plans?”

“Hey, the Taide Jarvi people are hinky about attention. The old lady starts a fire, Taide Jarvi will back off.”

“Have they?”

“Not yet, because I called them up soon as I heard about that shit and told them I'd take their offer.”

“Which was?”

“Half-million for twenty acres.”

“At the river?”

“No, up the hill.”

“The hill with the eagle's nest?”

“No, further east—the one with the quartz outcrops.”

Service stepped out to the desk and got a plat book, brought it back inside. “Show me what we're talking about, Tikka,” Service said.

The man used a pencil to draw in the property line and put an X on the outcrop. It was the ridge with the outcrop he'd found.

“You own a four-wheeler, Mr. Noli?”

“Don't everyone?”

“Do you keep it at your mother's place?”

“It's at my place in Gaastra.”

“I'm going to want to get some tire casts.”

Noli shrugged.

Tavolacci suddenly looked interested. “Are we . . . like, getting somewhere here?”

“Maybe, Sandy.”

“You gonna charge my client?”

“Still waiting for forensics,” Service said.

“Can he go tonight? You already held him as long as you can without charges.”

“Sure, he can go.”

Meeting done, Grady Service drove to the South Branch of the Paint and made his way up into Noli's property, where he used a hammer to knock off some samples. He put them in an evidence bag, marked them, and headed back to the office to fetch Friday, whose vehicle was still in the shop. He'd told her he'd take her to Marquette for the weekend but the weekend had evaporated because of work. He intended to now drop her off on the way to his place.