Chasing a Blond Moon (42 page)

“Like the treaty organization in Europe,” Service said.

He had never seen Limpy eat so lightly; tonight he had barely touched his food. When he'd taken Limpy to McDonald's, he had eaten one nugget, put the rest in his coat, and later he had seen him dig through a trash can. Something was definitely going on.

Allerdyce stared at him. “Youse know I'm not stupid, sonny,” he said. “Lixie,” he added. “Fetch da mutt.”

Service heard claws scraping the wooden floor. The girl emerged from the dark with a rope attached to a short-haired, low-slung dog with piles of loose skin, only one ear, and scars crisscrossing its fur. Some of them looked new. “Youse take 'im,” Limpy said. “Got no fight. It stays I got to put it down. Don't earn da keep in da family, don't get to keep da take, hey. Don't want to waste lead.”

The animal did not look at Service or Linsenman. It watched only Limpy. Service took the rope from Lixie, let it hang slack, wishing it was longer. The animal didn't cringe, it just stared at Allerdyce, who grinned and rubbed his whiskers.

“Youse don't act like family, youse gotta go,” Allerdyce said. “Dat's da law here.”

Lixie placed the empty plastic container in Service's lap. It had not even been rinsed.

Limpy put his hands on his knees, tried to get to his feet, but couldn't seem to manage it. Lixie held out her hand and helped haul him upright. He shuffled unsteadily on stiff legs to the door with his visitors, straining for breath, wheezing like he was exhausted.

“Good grub, sonny. Youse best be careful dem mutts out dere. Dey don't much like dis one, ya know.”

Service and Linsenman stepped onto the porch and the door slammed behind them. They heard a bolt click.

“What . . . the . . . fuck . . . was . . . that?” Linsenman whispered.

Service ignored him. The spots were no longer lit; the dog on the rope was pulling and growling low like he had a bee trapped in his throat.

“Side by side this time,” Service said. The dog was surging, straining to go.

When they stepped down from the porch the area erupted in snarls and barks and growls, and dark forms pranced around herky-jerky. Service's hand was shaking, his heart pounding.

“Give me the leash,” Linsenman said calmly.

For the first twenty yards the dogs charged in to snarl at them and retreat, snapping their jaws.

As soon as they were in the trees they could hear the animals crashing en masse through the underbrush on either side of them.

From time to time, the dog on the rope would snarl and lash out, or freeze suddenly until whatever captured his attention moved away.

The last hundred yards they heard nothing, and the dog on the rope settled into an easy walk until it saw the Yukon and balked.

“You can let him go,” Service said.

“So that old asshole back there can kill him? You don't want him, I'll take him.”

“Let's get out of here,” Service said.

The dog snarled when Linsenman opened his door, but the deputy talked softly to the animal, reached down, and hoisted it into the truck.

“I think I'll call him NATO,” Linsenman said. “You see how those other dogs danced at him, but none of them had the balls to take him on. I think Limpy is dumping him because he couldn't handle him.”

NATO lay his head on Linsenman's knee.

“You get what you want?” the deputy asked.

“Maybe,” Service said. “Understanding Limpy is like trying to read hieroglyphics.”

“That's good,” Linsenman said. “That stew was great, but I'm never ever going on another night hike with your woods cop ass.”

The deputy rubbed between the dog's ears, said, “If this man ever comes to our house, you can bite his balls off.”

Service was happy to see that the dog didn't respond.

At least one of Allerdyce's messages was clear: Animals that refused to run with the pack and pull their weight were out of the pack, and Limpy was the alpha male. Did this refer to Kelo, Honeypat, or Aldo? The subtext wasn't clear at all. What really rubbed at him was Allerdyce's curious qualification about a family acting the way it's supposed to—all for one and one for all.

Ten minutes after Linsenman departed with his new pet, Service realized that while his decision to go to the compound had been an impulse, his reception there was not, and such a reception meant that Allerdyce had been expecting him, which made the message even clearer. Or was the message one of misdirection? Limpy's mind was unconventional and anything was possible. Superficially, a reasonable person would assume that Honeypat and Kelo had been thrown out because they wouldn't abide, but Service knew that it had been Honeypat who chose to walk. The circulating story made it seem like she had hooked up with Kelo and been thrown out. That didn't fit facts or history as he understood it.

More importantly, the man he had met the last two times was not the man he had known and battled for so many years. If Allerdyce was sick, it wasn't a passing bug.

35

Cambridge was patiently watching him go through the phone calls in and out of Ranta's house. Cambridge had thoughtfully hand-printed a name beside each number, but there was no Kelo, Colliver, Fahrenheit, or Honeypat—no nothing.

Cal Shall had always preached to his students: “There's always something in every case that's not clear or obvious until it's over. Sometimes that something is nothing.”

“Satisfied?” the undersheriff asked.

“Can I get a copy?”

“Keep that one.”

“What about her business calls?”

The undersheriff rolled his eyes. “It just goes on and on with you.”

“James, we're trying to get to the bottom of this.”

“No, Detective,” Cambridge said with a snarl. “This is my jurisdiction,
my
case, and I am trying to get to the bottom, but you keep trying to dig the basement deeper.”

The undersheriff did not say he would seek the business phone records.

Les Reynolds called at 10 a.m. while Service was driving north toward Marquette.

“Colliver says that photo is the guy he dealt with. You got a name?”

“Jukka Kelo, but most people call him Skunk.”

“I think we're going to BOLO the man, all agencies, detain for questioning in connection with a felony investigation.”

A good lawyer would have Kelo on the streets in a blink. All they had were claims, and those only from Colliver. Fahrenheit thought Colliver was working with an older man and would not be able to corroborate. “Whatever floats your boat, Les. I doubt you'll find him.” There was no point in telling the warden about the Allerdyce clan and all that entailed, including their ability to disappear when they needed to.

Fern LeBlanc called right after he finished talking to Reynolds. “You had a call yesterday from a doctor named Ferma and she sounded rather unhappy you weren't available. She said she's in Cambodia and would e-mail you some information.”

Tara Ferma. Service smiled. “I'm heading back to the office now.”

He found the captain in his office staring at a computer screen.

“Cap'n?”

Grant swung his chair around. “You found your way back.”

“I'm here, somebody wants me there. I'm there, somebody wants me here. I feel like a dog always on the wrong side of the door. I can't be everywhere.”

The captain smiled. “You seem to manage: McCants and the meth lab, coming to the assistance of a Troop when shots were fired, swan killers, a junkie, Indians trying to scalp each other, and McCants and bear hunters.”

“Those things aren't getting my case solved.”

“I agree. Everything you've done is commendable, but how many of these diversions
required
your participation? McCants is a good officer with a fine mind. The county and state were coming to the trooper's aid. There are times when the bad guys are going to get away with things. If they repeat, as many are wont to do, the odds swing to us. You have to husband your time, Detective. And your energy. A detective's beat is his mind, not geography.”

“I don't think I'm cut out for this.”

“What you're doing is trying to recalibrate your expectations. You used to work the Mosquito. Even when you had a quiet day, you were physically there, acting as a deterrent. Detectives don't deter. They can only react to what is passed to them and go from there, to dig out the facts, find and assemble evidence.”

It was not a satisfying conversation, despite what seemed like sympathetic words.

Service returned to his cubicle and called up his e-mail. The blinking mail icon indicated a lengthy message coming through and after five minutes, he left the machine to download on its own, got coffee in a paper cup, and went outside for a smoke. It was sunny and cool, Lake Superior a dark green and fading to its winter color. By November it would be the hue of spent charcoal and treacherous, the most dangerous time to be on the water. Traffic raced by on US 41, mostly trucks bristling with antennae. Without trucks life in the U.P. would be even more hardpressed than it was. The U.P. tended to lag behind most states in choices for people, but they always got here sooner or later, both the good and the bad, and most of it by truck.

Four consecutive automobiles went by with women talking on cell phones. Nantz was always on the cell phone, and while initially he had not been receptive to having one, it had proven its value. He mashed his cigarette in a red bucket filled with sand and went back to his office. The e-mail was still downloading and he hoped a power interruption wouldn't knock it off-line. He picked up Outi Ranta's telephone record and studied it. She averaged six or seven incoming calls a day: the bank, power company, standard fare. Three or four calls went out, the two main recipients S. Imperato and L. Ranta, her sister-in-law. Lenore Ranta had worked for years at Marble Arms in Gladstone, selling knives, and was married to a knife-maker at the factory. Not many calls between sisters-in-law, but some. Service looked back to the spring. More then than now, few since Onte's death. Significance of the reduced frequency? The Ranta brothers had been partners in the business at one time, but Onte had ended up with the whole shebang at some point. Hard to say what any of this meant, just numbers to look at. Still. . . .

Cambridge needed to get hold of her business records. If there was nothing more to this case, they all needed to know. It was tangential to his interests, but a tangent was like a small hole in a tooth: It felt larger than it was. Why weren't there calls from Ranta to her own business? There were until June, but after her husband's death, none, which was when she took over the running of the business. Most small businesspeople lived their work. Odd. He looked through the records. No calls to the store, absolutely none. That seemed unusual at best.

Ranta's work reminded him that Honeypat told him she was working at HPC as a bookkeeper on the night shift. He had somehow ignored this, maybe thought it was bull, but it was a detail and he had time.

He called the pet casket company in Gladstone and asked for Mae Loireleux, the manager. She was well known in the local business community and reviled by employees who called her “Mae Not” because she insisted on doing things her way, and wasn't open to innovation unless the idea came from her. He knew the woman enough to exchange greetings and not much more. She had a loud voice and an in-your-face style that kept most people at bay. Her husband had bailed years ago and as near as Service knew, she was alone and likely to stay that way.

“Mae?” he said when the receptionist got her. “Grady Service, DNR.”

“How's your business?” she asked. To Loireleux all life was reduced to business.

“Steady,” he said.

“Wish ours was. Little dips in the economy we can get past, but this economy is like the bloody Grand Canyon, eh? You'd think people would be consistent in their affection and concern for their pets, but it isn't so. Times get tough, people cut back. I can understand that; I mean, we do it with our kids, right? Are you a father? No, you're the bachelor with the trail of broken hearts. I have a daughter, she's sixteen and not sweet. She's been bugging me for a cell phone. I said, ‘We live in Gladstone, your friends aren't but two blocks away, why do you need a phone, eh?' I told her times are tough and we have to cut back, and my ex, of course, he's no bloody help. He said it's up to me, so I told her no more talk about cell phones, end of subject, we don't need surprise bills at the end of the month. The girl can't pick up her room or keep gas in the car, eh. So that's a week or so ago and she gets quiet and yesterday she pipes up at breakfast, and she's got the solution—a
prepaid
cell phone, like those cards you can buy at the convenience store. She said she'll make the payments with her babysitting money and it won't cost me anything. I told her I'd think on it.”

“That's nice,” Service said, wishing she would shut up.

“Sorry,” she said, “I guess my daughter's got me all worked up. You called me.”

Finally, he thought. “Do you have an employee named . . . Grace Thundergiver?” He'd almost said Honeypat Allerdyce.

“I wish I still had her,” Mae Loireleux said.

“Still?”

“She worked here for a week and left, no explanation. Just disappeared and never come back, not even to pick up her paycheck.”

“She was a bookkeeper?”

“At night. Said she didn't want a public job, insisted she'd be happy with numbers. You don't find many people that good with numbers, but she was one of them.”

The woman sounded impressed. “She left, but you'd still like to have her back?”

“Well, I wouldn't hire her again based on the way she left, but she knew all about phones and computers. She used one of the prepaid kinds and talked several of the girls here into doing the same. With her mind for numbers, I figured she could tell me if it was a good deal.”

“When did Ms. Thundergiver leave?”

“Musta been coupla weeks ago. I can check if you want. Why?”

“I'm just doing some follow-up on a case. How did she come to HPC?”

“Just walked in one morning and started talking. The woman has the charm for sure, especially with the men, but the women thought she was nice too.”

“Did she leave a number?”

“Just her cell phone. Said she didn't have a phone where she was staying, that the cell was all anybody needed.”

“Do you have record of it?”

“You betcha.”

She left the phone, came back and gave him the number, and he wrote it down.

The area code was in Colorado. He dialed the number, got a no-longer-in-service recording.

He looked in the phone book and found the name of a business in Marquette that sold prepaid phones and asked the clerk who answered if all prepaid numbers were in Colorado.

“No,” she said, “Georgia and some other states too, because the tariffs are lower there, which is why the businesses are there. In the telecom business you look for any advantage you can find.”

“So you could live in Michigan and have a number from one of those other states?”

“Of course. Everything is managed by computers,” the woman said, not sounding particularly happy about the reality.

“Is it possible to get a record of all calls to and from a prepaid number?”

“Not without a subpoena, and the rules on that vary by state. Most of these businesses run out of states that are pretty protective of privacy. That's another reason they're there.”

More than interesting, Service thought. Allerdyce had never had a telephone and the nearest pay phone was a long way off. How he communicated with his people had been the subject of considerable speculation in the division over the years. While Allerdyce's competitors were going electronic, there had been no evidence of Limpy following suit until last year when Service was certain he'd seen Limpy using a Family Radio Service device. He also knew that Limpy had installed a complex advanced warning system at the compound. Maybe the old poacher was more ­up-to-date than people thought. Honeypat sure seemed to be keeping up with the times.

The Marquette office had phone books for the entire Upper Peninsula. Service got out the Delta County book, called Marble Arms, and asked to talk to Lenore Ranta, sister-in-law.

“Lenore, Grady Service.”

“I heard youse found Outi,” she said.

“I didn't find her, but I was there.”

“Too selfish to commit suicide,” Lenore said. “All that woman cared about was money and men. If Onte hadn't died I think he'da left her, the way she fooled around.”

“Someone in particular?” Some of the things you learned after a person died were not all that flattering. Mourning passed quickly except for those closest to the dead.

“Strangers, one-night-stands, never local. I give her that, not putting out in da back yard.”

“Onte knew?”

“Was what killed 'im, ask me.”

Her interpretation.

“She was a pro, ya know, down to Windsor when Onte met her.”

“He told you this?”

“We hired a detective, cost us a heap, but worth it, hey. She just kept spendin' and spendin' and da business was goin' down da tubes.”

“Did the two of you talk much?”

“Before Onte passed, ya know, da right ting to do for family, but since den, forget it. She never liked family, just money. Her idea for Onte to buy us out, hey. We needed cash back den, and we couldn't stand da woman, so we took da offer. My hubby never really wanted out. We'd like ta buy 'er back, but da bank's gonna get it now, and dey don't offer good deals, hey. Onte left a will. She din't.”

“Did Outi use a cell phone?”

Lenore snorted. “Had two of 'em, one for da business and one for her other stuff, ya know.”

“Do you have her number?”

“Only way to get one of 'em was sleep wit 'er.”