Dead Frenzy (18 page)

No, this is not going to happen! Osborne leaned hard to his right. The bike went down and he felt himself land on his right side. The engine cut out. Osborne moved his right arm and elbow gingerly. It had taken the brunt of the fall. Felt okay. No pain, no break. The instructor loomed overhead. “Are you all right?”

He grabbed the bike so Osborne could crawl out from under. “Are you okay?” he asked again as Osborne got to his feet.

“Yes, I am—shaky, but I think I’m okay.” Shaky? His entire body was trembling.

“Take a deep breath.” Osborne inhaled. “Take another one. You dropped that bike like a pro, you know.”

“I did?”

“Yeah, great job. Look, bike’s okay, too.” The instructor looked hard at him. “You don’t have to ride if you don’t want to.”

“What did I do wrong?”

“You dropped your wrist so when you applied the hand brake, you pulled on the throttle—then you yanked on your clutch but not enough to disengage—that was the noise you heard.”

“Well, I won’t do that again.” Osborne looked across the parking lot to where his fellow students were clustered, all watching, all looking very worried. He reached for the bike, swung his leg over, pulled in the clutch, and pushed the ignition. Wrist up, way up, he took a deep breath and started back across the parking lot. As he neared his classmates, they burst into applause.

Later, as they headed back to the classroom, Cheryl came up behind him. She reached inside her vest for a pack of Camels and shook one out, offering it to him.

“No, thanks,” said Osborne, “I don’t smoke.”

“Paulie,” said Cheryl, pausing to light her cigarette, then inhale deeply, “I am so glad you got back on the bike. You know what they say—everyone who rides has one accident. You’ve had yours, you lucky stiff.”

“Cheryl, this isn’t easy. I was terrified.”

“I am so glad to hear you say that. Me, too.”

Back in the classroom, she settled herself into the chair right next to his. Osborne looked down, aware for the first time that something felt strange on his right foot. No wonder—he had peeled back the entire sole of the heavy leather motorcycle boot.

Cheryl saw it, too. “Holy shit,” she said, “I can get you a new pair of those cheap. I’ll bring ‘em tonight when I make my pickup.”

No doubt about it, he was her buddy.

Lucy
Priebe was waiting outside the UPS customer entrance when Osborne drove up. Leaning against the building, arms crossed and a grim look plastered across her face, she stayed perfectly still as he parked and got out of his car.

“Jackpot, Dr. Osborne,” she said, pushing herself away from the building as he walked toward her. “You’ve got thirteen boxes for Webber Tackle and I’m out of here. My husband is picking me up. By the way, if you need a snack or something, we have a vending machine in the back.”

“Thanks, Lucy. I had a sandwich on the way over.”

A twenty-minute visit with Erin after the motorcycle class had given him just enough time to down peanut butter on wheat toast with a glass of milk. It hadn’t occurred to him earlier that between the time he left the motorcycle class and the time he was due to take over at UPS, he wouldn’t have time to drive home and grab a bite. All he’d had during the lunch break at the college was a cup of chicken noodle soup, so when he got to Erin’s, he was starved.

Since the kids were playing outside, they had a few minutes to chat. Or at least she talked while he chewed. The good news was that Mark had agreed to see the therapist and they were likely to start marriage counseling the next week.

“Mark hates his job, Dad. He’s been afraid to say anything because he thought I would think he’s a loser.”

“And … do you?” Osborne watched his daughter’s face carefully, looking for that familiar twitch of annoyance that Mary Lee had used so effectively to convey what she thought versus what she said. But Erin’s expression was open and honest.

“Maybe I’m the one who’s always wanted to be a lawyer,” she said. “I guess that’s why I pushed him that way. So, you may find this strange, but we’re talking about me going to graduate school and Mark staying home with the kids. You know how he loves to work with his hands. We could buy old houses, and while the kids are in school, he can fix ‘em up to rent.

“Dad.” She leaned toward him as she spoke, excitement in her eyes. “You know I’d make a damn good lawyer. I would love trial law, I know I would.”

“How would you swing that financially?” Osborne drank his milk quickly, checking his watch.

“I can apply for some grants,” said Erin, a little wistfully. They both knew grants would hardly generate enough to pay for law school. Mark’s parents were hardworking people of modest means so they weren’t likely to be able to help either.

“Mark’s determined to spend all that money on a motorcycle?”

“Dad, he’s getting a fabulous deal. It’s not as much as I thought. He’s getting a brand-new Harley for like five thousand dollars. I want him to have it. After all the hard work he’s done on this house, after these months of torture working for those creeps. The one good thing to come out of that office is this bike deal.”

“How’s that?”

“Mr. Kasmarek’s the one who put Mark in touch with the guy who sells the bikes. He met him up at the casino a couple weeks ago. He’s doing some legal work for the guy, too. I think, I’m not sure.”

“Mark is?” Osborne tensed.

“No, Chuck, the boss.”

“What’s the guy’s name—the one selling the bikes?” asked Osborne, keeping his tone casual. All that Erin knew was that he had signed on to help Lew police the motorcycle rally. She knew nothing about the chop shop, nothing about the Ecstasy. “I enjoyed the class today—might be interested in buying a bike myself.” As he spoke, he hoped she wouldn’t notice the shredded sole on his boot. He had pulled off the loose chunks and walked sideways on what was left, hoping to save his socks.

“You’re kidding, Dad. That would be so cool. Guy’s name is Patrick Baumgartner. That’s who Mark wrote the check to anyway. Some woman named Cheryl is going to have it ready for us. We pick it up Sunday.”

Osborne set the half-eaten sandwich down on the kitchen table and took his time wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. He had better check with Lew before saying a word to Erin. The last thing she needed was for something to go wrong before the DEA closed in on Patty Boy. But he sure as hell didn’t need Erin and Mark walking into a major drug bust either.

“Sunday, huh. Can I go along? I’d love to see what they’ve got available,” said Osborne. The next bite of his sandwich went down the wrong way and Osborne choked.

“Are you okay, Dad?” Erin watched with concern from where she stood at the kitchen sink. “Need the Heimlich?”

“No, I’m fine.” Osborne waved her off as he cleared his throat. “About going back to school, hon …” Osborne stood up as he wolfed the last quarter of the sandwich, washing it down with a huge gulp of milk.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Dad.”

“If you and Mark are able to work things out, don’t let the money be a problem. I’ll help you with that.” He put his arm across his daughter’s shoulders and pulled her close. “Now don’t you two go without me Sunday—okay?”

“Sure, that’ll be fun.” She walked him toward the front door. “I can’t believe you’re doing this, Dad,” she said. “That Lew person has really changed your life. Maybe …” Erin stopped at the top of the stairs leading down from the big yellow Victorian house. She cut her eyes sideways, giving him a sly look. “Maybe you ought to change hers.”

“Now what does that mean?” He faked a grimace to cover his embarrassment.

“You know what that means, Dad.” She grinned and sent him off with a wave.

Osborne got into the car thinking how happy she looked. More than anything in the world, he wanted to keep her that way.

He called the police department immediately after checking the shipment for Webber Tackle. “Thirteen boxes, Lew. Four rattle when shaken and they’ve all been shipped down from different locations in Canada. Overnight deliveries. Just what your DEA agents have been expecting.”

“Is there room in that loading area for my cruiser?”

Osborne looked over his shoulder into the dark area behind him. “Yep, plenty.”

“Good. Have the door up and close it the second I’m inside.” She arrived within five minutes.

At the sight of the boxes, Lew’s first reaction was consternation. “The Canadian angle complicates this,” she said. “I found out today that the reason the DEA hasn’t moved on Patty Boy sooner is they are in a major dispute with U.S. Customs over who has jurisdiction. Until they sort that out, neither agency can act.

“It’s all politics,” she said as she studied the boxes stacked one on top of the other in the delivery bay. “On the other hand, when it comes to the Loon Lake Police Department, the fact is that Patrick Baumgartner and his Webber Tackle operation are located right here—no question who has jurisdiction.”

“Lewellyn, you cannot take this on alone.”

“If it were any other weekend but this, I would not hesitate to move on that goombah as long as I had backup from Oneida and Vilas County, but I’ve got every extra officer of theirs already assigned to crowd control.” At the look on Osborne’s face, she raised both hands. “Don’t worry. I’m taking orders—surveillance only. Just pray the DEA and Customs guys get their acts in order before anyone gets hurt.

“Speaking of which, we better hurry. What do we have? Thirty, forty minutes before they pick these up? Let’s open a couple before she gets here.”

“Can we do that without their knowing?”

“Probably not. We’ll make it look like they arrived damaged and you repacked the best you could.”

And so they selected two boxes to open: one that rattled, another that was quite heavy. Lew sliced through the packing tape on the first box. Inside were six small Styrofoam packets wedged tightly together. She dumped out the packets, then stomped on one end of the outer box.

Repacked, it would look like it had been squashed under something heavy.

The Styrofoam units were taped shut. Dropping to her knees, Lew slit the tape across the top of one and carefully pried it open. Antique fishing lures, several in small boxes, were wrapped in plastic and packed tight inside. Lew removed the bubble wrap from around one box and read from the lid: “A Musky Wizard Minnow … and the dealer tag says it’s from the early nineteen hundreds.” She sat back on her heels as she spoke.

“This is an old Pflueger lure—unused and in the original box, too,” she said. “I’ll bet that’s worth a couple hundred bucks.” Her fingers worked opened the small faded box with the same delicate touch she used to tie on a trout fly. She held the black lure with its treble hooks and propellers out for Osborne to examine. “You know it’s old when it has glass eyes.”

She reached for another packet. Through the plastic, Osborne could see the lure was mottled with red-and-green spots against a cream background. Lew undid the bubble wrap. “Hey, a Chippewa Skimmer! They made these down in Stevens Point.”

“How do you know all this, Lew?” said Osborne, examining the colorful lure.

“My uncle ran a sporting goods store in Minocqua. He loved old lures and would tell me about them while we were out fishing. Jeez, Doc, look at all these metal spoons…. Oh, gosh, and this!”

She held out a small box so he could see its contents. The lure was an exquisite pale yellow with four treble hooks so shiny they sparkled under the fluorescent lighting in the dingy room. “This looks like it’s in perfect condition,” said Lew. She checked the cover of the box: “Night Radiant Moonlight Bait #1000. Is this gorgeous? Ooh, would I love to have one of these, Doc.”

Osborne pointed to a small white sticker on the side of the box.

“Ouch,” said Lew, “two thousand five hundred dollars. I’ll pass.” She sat back on her heels. “I guess these lures explain the rattles, particularly those metal spoons. Still, won’t hurt to check.”

Using the punch on her knife, she bored into the top section of the Styrofoam container. She looked in, then handed it over to Osborne. It had a curious weight to it and he could see why: The interior was packed with pills. The Styrofoam, which appeared thick from the outside, was in fact only a thin layer. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of pills were packed around the antique lures—no wonder the box rattled.

Lew checked her watch. “Fifteen minutes left, better hurry.” The second box was longer than the first and much heavier. She sliced through the packing tape, folded back the flaps, and carefully removed a top layer of Styrofoam sheeting. Beneath the sheeting, set into Styrofoam casings like those used to pack computers, were three rod tubes, each cushioned in bubble wrap. Lew reached for one.

The wrapping came off easily to expose the tube and a label banded to its cuff. Lew scanned the tiny print, then looked up, stunned. “I don’t believe it, Doc. This is a Garrison bamboo fly rod.” She unscrewed the top of the tube. “Not the original tube, however—the rod sits too low. See? The original tube would have been made to fit perfectly.

“Let’s see if this is what it says it is.” She pulled out the rod sack, undid its tie, then slipped out the butt section. “Ralph has spent a lot of time instructing me on how to tell a Garrison rod,” she said softly.

“I’m sure he has,” said Osborne. She gave him a sharp look.

Even Osborne had heard of Garrison fly rods, mainly because Ralph Kendall, the pain-in-the-butt owner of Loon Lake’s only fly-fishing shop, never let a customer out the door without a reminder that he owned one. That was another thing Osborne disliked about Ralph, in addition to his pretentious attitude toward fly-fishing and his extreme attentiveness to Lew.

“This honey yellow bamboo and the chocolate brown silk marking these ferrules are distinctive to Garrison,” said Lew as she examined the rod section. “Impossible to fake. And here, at the butt of the shaft—see?” She held it toward Osborne. The rod maker’s name and other markings were clearly visible. “Value?” she answered before he could ask. “Anywhere from twelve to twenty thousand smackaroos, Doc.”

“And Ralph let you use his?” Osborne’s eyes widened.

“Heavens, no. But I would love to someday. They say even the worst caster can drop a dry fly seventy feet with a rod like this. To cast that distance and still be able to drop the fly with exquisite delicacy, tail pointed downstream? I’ll tell you, that’s the ultimate in fly-fishing, Doc. Perfect imitation of an insect in flight upstream. Jeez, just imagine what it must be like to cast with a rod like this…. ”

Her voice had dropped to a whisper. Fingers cupped carefully around the mouth of the tube, she slipped the rod back into the safety of its container, rewrapped the tube in its plastic, and set it back into the casing. She tipped up the edge of the box.

“I wonder … this box is pretty damn heavy for holding lightweight fly rods.”

Together, wedging their fingers down the sides, they discovered that the Styrofoam bed holding the rods was only five inches deep. Hooking their fingers under it, they pulled up and out.

Chrome gleamed beneath. Lots of chrome. Tagged with original labels, too, as if it had come right off a dealer’s shelves or out of a Harley-Davidson warehouse: six chrome luggage racks, two sets of Screamin’ Eagle Performance Mufflers, and a bundle of chrome fork sliders.

“I see another layer down there,” said Osborne.

“Ssh,” said Lew, looking up. “I hear something.”

Osborne stood up and looked out the window. “Cheryl’s here—parking.”

“You keep her busy while I get this box in order,” said Lew.

“Paulie! Hey you!” Cheryl hopped down from her van and waved to Osborne as he hurried out the entrance toward her. She slid back the side door and stuck her head inside while hollering, “Where’s your bike? I got a surprise.” As he approached the van, determined to keep her there as long as possible, Cheryl turned, a bright smile creasing her weathered face.

“I had to rush but I think I got the right size.” She held out a pair of motorcycle boots, turning them so he could see the chrome eagle on each heel.

“Cheryl, those look expensive. You don’t need to do this.”

“But that’s not all, man. Check this out.”