Death Roe (19 page)

42

Thursday, November 18, 2004

SARANAC, IONIA COUNTY

Chief O'Driscoll called a few minutes after 11 a.m.

“No go,” he reported. “The judge went ballistic over the article yesterday, said he would not let cases be tried in the media when they belonged in
his
court! You know anything about the article?”

“Haven't seen it.”

“The reporter claims FDA tests in New York were positive for mirex—positive on the very samples, the judge pointed out with great enthusiasm, that are supposed to be impounded. How do you suppose the reporter learned
that
?”

“Reporters are sneaky. I guess New York and the FDA moved pretty fast,” Service said, trying to deflect the inquiry.

“The acting director received two letters this morning: one from Piscova, claiming they're being targeted and harassed by an undercover DNR investigation; and the second from the BAO, announcing that they are commencing an audit of all DNR-LED undercover investigations—that given the state's budget crisis, all such activities except those with the highest priorities should be eliminated or reduced in scope.”

“You agree with such crap?” asked Service.

“These actions have no teeth.”

“If Fish and Wildlife gets new samples for us, we can press forward, right?”

“Just make sure the seizure is legal this time.”

“It wasn't
illegal
last time,” Service shot back. “We were there. They were mixing the damn eggs.”

“I'm not a lawyer, but they're saying that absent yesterday's news article, the judge might very well have ruled in our favor.”

Fuck
, Service thought, cringing. Was the chief just yanking his chain?

“Who signed the BAO memo?” Service asked.

“Julia Gates.”

“Not Langford Horn?”

“Gates works for Horn. He was copied.”

“Don't you find the timing just a little suspicious? Fagan and Piscova complain about an undercover investigation, and one of Horn's people decides an audit is in order?”

“Coincidences happen,” O'Driscoll said.

“Horn is up to his ass in this Piscova business and is part of this investigation.”

“BAO operates independently. They decide who to audit, when, and why.”

“Even if it's politically motivated?”

“That's the system.”

“It sucks,” he said.

“I won't dispute that view,” the chief said.

“It's not an undercover DNR investigation,” Service said. “It's through the U.S. Attorney.”

“Rest assured I will make those very points to the BAO. When will Fish and Wildlife effect the next seizure?”

“After New Year's.”

“Let's hope that whoever is stimulating news coverage will cease and desist. These articles are
not
helping us.”

Calling off Salant, Service guessed, would be like trying to call back a rock after you'd launched it at a plate-glass window. The question was, should he even try?

43

Friday, November 19, 2004

LANSING, INGHAM COUNTY

The conversation with Chief O'Driscoll had left Service in a funk, and he'd spent all day Thursday going through files and transcripts and making phone calls.

He called Roxy Lafleur, hoping she was home from her stay in the hospital. She was.

“Heard you had a rough ride,” he said.

“Calm water for now,” she said. “It wasn't that bad, and it was great that Tas came all the way from Alaska. What can I do for you?”

“Patricia Allard. You mentioned her at our second meeting. How can I get in touch with her?”

“Like I said, when we needed girls, she gave a track phone to Quint who gave it to me, and when the arrangements were done, I threw the phone away.”

“You never met her?”

“Not that I know of.”

Not that she
knew
of? “Where'd Fagan meet her?”

“Could've been anywhere, but it was just about three years ago. I really don't know exactly when, where, or how.”

“Does Fagan have favorite hangouts in Lansing?”

“Several. Galollypops in Okemos, that's out on Grand River past the mall. The Seiche is on Grand River about a block from the Lansing Center. And there's a place he calls the North Lansing Country Club. It's actually called Almancio's, out on Comfort Street. It's run by a man they call El Fontanero, the Plumber. It's a total dump.”

“You've been to all these places?”

“Sure.”

“But you never met Allard?”

“Not that I know of. But Quint's secretive, and I might've had a drink with her for all I know. Why?”

“Just wondering,” he said.

His next call went to Tree. “You know any good vice cops in Lansing?”

“Best one I know retired last June. Name's Gunnar Robuck.”

“He still in town there?”

“Lives on an old farm out in DeWitt, just north of Lansing.”

“You got a number for him?”

“Somewhere; let me look. You get your tree made yet?”

“It's growing.”

“When you call Gunnar, make sure you use the name ‘Backtrack.' ”

“Inside joke?”

“Like you, that sonuvabitch can find anyone. Here's his number.”

Service wrote it down and dialed the man, who answered after several rings.

“Backtrack Robuck?”

The man chuckled. “You must be a friend of Treebone's.”

“Long time. Name's Grady Service. I'm a detective with the DNR.”

“Service? I heard him talk about you. Together in 'Nam, right?”

“Right. I'm looking for a woman who runs escorts. Her name's Patricia Allard.”

“She
get some
out of season?”

Pathetic joke. “Something like that.”

“Heard of her,” Robuck said. “They call her Mama Cold. She works out of Almancio's.”

“The North Lansing Country Club,” Service said.

“That's the place.”

“She been busted?”

“We hauled her in a couple of times, but nothing stuck. She's smart, real cautious, and coated with Teflon, meaning she has friends in high places.”

“You know where she lives?”

“Nope, but I could find her if I had to.”

“How?”

“Trade secret,” Robuck said. “You want help?”

“I'll see if I can make contact at the bar.”

“El Fontanero is her gatekeeper.”

“Paid?”

“I think he trades service for service, if you get me. His real name's Sentio Agular. Made a fortune off his dive and he don't take chances, but if he can make a buck or thinks he can get an advantage, he'll cooperate,” Robuck said. “Don't sit at the bar. Sit at the far tables and order a beer, and when the waitress asks you if you want a menu, tell her you're looking for special ice cream. That will bring Agular over to check you out. The flavor you want is tutti-frutti, which means you like all colors and types. Don't squeeze and don't be in a hurry. Be polite and smile a lot,
comprende
?”

“Affirmative.”

“You can't find Allard, call me. I like finding people.”

“Thanks.”

“Tell Treebone now that he's retired, he's worthless like the rest of us.”

“I'll tell him.”

He sent Denninger to Traverse City to find realtor Lulu Sparks and get a showing of Fagan's house on the Old Mission Peninsula.

“Stop in TC and buy some knockout threads,” he said, digging in his wallet and passing her six one-hundred-dollar bills. “You're a trophy wife. Act the part,” he explained. “Your old man's a film writer, looking to move to the area from LA. You got a gifted kid you want to put in the private school at Interlochen. Your kid's a genius, your old man's a stud, and you are so hot, people can get burned just standing next to you.”

“For real?” she asked with wide eyes. “This sounds really off the wall.”

“You haven't done it yet. I want to know what Fagan's asking for the house and how willing he is to make a deal. Find out if Lulu knows him, and how well.”

“They didn't prep us for this at the academy,” she said.

“Women don't need to be prepped to look good,” he said.

“Sexist comment?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Not as far as I'm concerned.”

Late that afternoon Service drove to Lansing and did a drive-by. The neighborhood had probably never seen good days. Most of the shops around the bar had signs in Spanish. There weren't many people on the street. A Budweiser truck was backed into the alley beside the bar.

He drove out near the airport, bought a salami sub sandwich for dinner, and sat in his truck and ate it. He disconnected the radio and computer units and stashed them in back under a blanket and assorted debris.

The inside of Almancio's was dark and cavelike and he stood inside the entry and let his eyes get accustomed to the light conditions. It was 8 p.m. and there were a few people at the bar, frantic Spanish music squawking on the juke. He made his way to a table in back and sat down. A waitress sidled over. She wore satin pants and a vest over a white shirt. Her blouse was unbuttoned far enough south to advertise. “You new?” she asked.

“Do I look new?” he said.

“I don't mean age,” she countered.

“I'm looking for some special ice cream,” he said.

“This is a bar, not a dairy,” she said.

He gave her a smile. “I guess I'm out of luck. I really wanted ice cream.”

“Let me talk to the boss,” she said. “It's not on the menu.”

The man who approached the table was thin and wolfish, clean shaven, with long black hair streaked silver on one side, and tied back in a ponytail. “What can we do for you?” he asked.

“Special ice cream.”

“Try Baskin Robbins or Ben and Jerry's.”

“Neither has the flavor I want.”

“What flavor's that?”

“Tutti-frutti.”

“Easier to find that particular flavor in summer.”

“You ever get a craving?” Service asked.

“Only when I'm pregnant,” the man said with a grin. “But it truly is most difficult to find tutti-frutti, and this time of year it can be quite expensive.”

“Price isn't a barrier,” Service said.

The man looked at him and grinned. “Perhaps that will make it easier to locate. You want this tonight?”

“If possible, but if not . . .” Service held up the palms of his hands.

“Like I said, costs a lot this time of year, even more to find on short notice.”

“Not a problem,” Service said.

“You had dinner?”

“What would you recommend?”

“
Biftek
. Very nice. Grilled with special spices and sautéed in a nice Rioja. You don't like it, it's on the house.”

“Can't beat an offer like that.”

“We cook it medium rare.”

“Works for me.”

“What're you drinking?”

“Rioja sounds good.”

“A glass?”

“Bring a bottle. I'm filled with hope and good cheer tonight.”

The man brought the wine and poured it for Service. “Your first time here?”

“Not my last, I hope.”

“You work?”

“Pilot,” Service said.

“For an airline?”

“Company pilot, not commercial airlines. Ford Motor Company.”

“You fly for Ford?”

“Yep.”

“Enjoy your wine. The food will take a while, but it's worth the wait. You got a name?”

“Ford Travers.”

“Your name is Ford and you fly for Ford?”

“Ironic, huh.”

It took an hour to get the food. The place filled up. He nursed his wine and wondered how Denninger had done with the realtor. At midnight he was full and ready to go to sleep. To think Miars wanted him as an undercover barfly up north turned his stomach. No chance. He'd had less than a third of a bottle and could still feel it in his blood. Why the hell was this dragging out so long? His gut said something was wrong.

Agular came back to the table a few minutes later, looking agitated, but trying to hide it. “
Hombre
, Senor Travers, I am most sorry, but there's no tutti-frutti tonight.”

“Price isn't important,” Service said.

“I am sorry.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“There is no tutti-frutti. No offense.”

“None taken.”

Service limped to his truck, four blocks away, got in, swallowed some ibuprofen, and reconnected his radio and computer. Something had soured the deal. He'd played it the way he'd been told. Had Agular looked him over and gotten hinky? Or had Allard been there and nixed the deal? Frustrating.

He drove west and called Robuck. “I wake you up?”

“Thirty years in vice. I sleep more in the day than at night. How did it go?”

Service related what had gone down and his opinion of why no connection had been made.

“Somebody recognized you,” Robuck said. “Busted. You want me to find her?”

“I could use the help.”

“Take some time.”

Service gave him his cell-phone number and headed for Saranac.

Denninger's truck was parked in front, but not Leukonovich's vehicle. Shit; he'd sent Denninger to Traverse to the city to play big shot, forgetting that all she had was her truck with the big gold shield on the doors.
Idiot!

She was sitting at the table when he walked in, dressed in a dark green dress and four-inch heels, with her legs crossed and a long leg sticking out.

“How'd it go?” he asked.

“I was nervous as a virgin guest of honor at an orgy,” she said. “But it was a total
hoot!
”

“Lulu bought it?”

“No question. Fagan wants three-five, but for the right buyer and fast turnover, he'll let it go for three-one. I think we could get it for two-nine if we press them, honey.” She put her head back and laughed.

“I forgot you didn't have a civilian vehicle,” he apologized.

“Not a problem. I called Helen Gallow—we went through the academy together, and she's got west Grand Traverse County. She loaned me her husband's Jaguar XK; he's an emergency room doc.”

He was impressed by her initiative. “What did you learn about Fagan?'

“Officially, nothing, but Lulu and I stopped for a drink out on the peninsula and she doesn't hold her liquor very well. She's doing Fagan, or vice versa, or whatever. If she can sell this place, she stands to make a ten percent commission. The usual is seven.”

“How often does she see Fagan?”

“Not much, but when he's in town he gets a room at the Sands Hotel on One Thirty-One, and I get the feeling she spends a lot of time there—in ‘conference' with her client.”

“She seen him recently?”

“No, and she's not happy about it. Says he's been in a bad mood, but she's sure it will pass.”

“Bad mood, huh?”

“Yeah.” Denninger got up and yawned. When she got to the stairs she put one foot up and struck a pose. “Between us, hot clothes make my juices flow, and there's just us here tonight,” she added.

“I have a headache.”

She laughed. “Don't steal my lines.” She went very slowly up the stairs, vamping it to the hilt, and making him smile.

He was badly tempted to follow her up to the loft, but resisted. He started to call Karylanne, but held up. She needed rest. He called McCants instead.

“I just now walked in,” she said breathlessly. “Sixteen hours. We've got a ton of overtime for deer season.”

“You'll earn every penny,” he said. “Anything interesting?”

“The usual fools. Three wolves are down so far, no leads or arrests.”

“How's the Mosquito?”

“Quiet. I sometimes think you terrorized everyone you ever came across in there.”