Shadow of the Wolf Tree (27 page)

41

Speedway, Indiana

FRIDAY, JUNE 9, 2006

Real Stuff Sporting Goods was in the Turbocharger Strip Mall and marked only by a simple sign, nothing elaborate or expensive:
Guns & Ammo, Fishing Supplies, Gunsmithing Services Available.
The last part caught Service's attention.

The shop smelled and felt old, not new as the strip-mall location suggested. They walked inside between gun displays, mainly wooden crates with packing straw, marked
Shop Special: Surplus Chinese
sks
Carbines, Out-the-Door Special: $159.95
.

Service knew about ten-round semiautomatic SKS rifles. The Type 56 had a nine-inch folding bayonet. Probably the shipment was genuine surplus from the 1950s or '60s, not ubiquitous recent Chinese knockoffs of their own stuff. How the hell did antique military surplus find its way into the middle of the U.S.?
Might be worth a call to BATF,
he told himself.

They were hardly into the store when a youngish man with gel-spiked hair and an earring approached with an earnest, welcoming smile and a gushing voice that made Service cringe. “Mornin', folks.”

His red, white, and blue nametag said
Timbo—I
Support Our Troops

“Nice shop,” Service said, taking out his badge and showing it. “Mr. Magee?”

“I see you that day?” the man asked Friday.

“That was Conservation Officer Grinda. I was elsewhere,” she said.

“I swear there were two game wardens there.”

“How're you doing?” Friday asked.

“Would do a lot better if you folks were here to tell me you busted somebody.”

“Sorry,” Friday said.

Service changed the subject. “Sign outside your shop says gunsmithing services are available; what exactly does that mean?”

“I'm the gunsmith, but I don't do any work here; the gunsmithing business is separate from Real Stuff.”

“No offense, but you look a bit young to be a gunsmith.”

“I grew up with guns. Been in business since I was sixteen, legally since twenty-one.”

“Good skill to have,” Service said.

“With fewer hunters these days, I sometimes wonder,” the man said.

“How's Mrs. Macafee?” Friday asked.

“How do you think she'd be?” he challenged. “She's hurtin', but she'll make it.”

“The SKS carbines . . . good price,” Service said. “They look like real surplus.”

“You know guns?”

“Sort of my job,” Service said.

Magee chucked his head. “It's a helluva price.”

“Where'd you get them?”

“Gun show deal.”

“The ATF been inquiring?”

“Why?” Magee asked, looking surprised. “There's nothing wrong. I got the paperwork, and they ain't automatic.”

“No offense. My job to ask,” Service said.

The man looked irritated, straining to control it.

“Say,” Service asked, “maybe you can answer a couple of questions that have come up about that day.”

“I gave the officers my statement.”

“Yessir, we appreciate that, but we just need to clarify a couple of points.”

Magee shrugged. “Such as?”

“You and Jimbo had never been to the Paint before?”

“That's right.”

“Neither of you?”

“I just said that, didn't I?”

“Okay. You left Jimbo at the bridge and went downstream.”

“That's what I told the officer.”

“How far downstream?”

“Two, three hundred yards, maybe,” said Magee.

“While Jimbo went upstream?”

“Guess he didn't get all that far.”

“How'd you guys decide who went where?”

“Just decided, I guess. I don't remember how. Does it matter?” asked Magee.

“Not really. You drove up to the U.P. separately, right?”

The man hesitated. “I told the officer that.”

“You did, but the way you said it, it sounded like you meant you came up in the same vehicle.”

“I never meant to say that.”

“Okay. That's why we're here, to clarify,” Service said.

“What difference does it make?”

“Probably none, but we've got supervisors who can be pricks about details, and when we get ready to seek the criminal indictment, the prosecutors will double-check everything.”

“Does that mean you're getting close to an arrest?” asked Magee.

Service didn't answer, asking instead, “So Jimbo, he went upstream?”

“Like I said.”

“Which means you went downstream?”

“Right.”

“Through the woods?” Service asked.

“Yes.”

“To get around the holes.”

“I could've waded the edges, but why waste the energy or get into the water before you have to?”

“I fish for trout, too.”

“Dry-fly man?” Magee asked.

“Pretty much whatever works.”

Friday said, “You got a booklet.”

“I gave it to the officer and she made a copy.”

“Thanks, we have it. You got it in the mail, unsolicited?”

“Yes.”

“Did it come to you or to Jimbo?” Friday asked.

The man looked confused. “I don't remember. We both get a lot of mail about destination fishing.”

“Mrs. Macafee said she nearly had to kick her husband out the door to get him to take time off work,” Friday said.

“Jimbo didn't know how to rest and relax. Work, work, work. Yeah, she convinced him, I guess. I guess wives know how to do that,” the man added with a wink.

Friday turned to Service. “You want to talk to the Mad Russian?”

“What Mad Russian?” Magee asked.

“The one who sent the brochure. He's got mailing lists. It'll tell us whether you or Mr. Macafee got the brochure.”

“What difference does it make?”

Service intervened. “If Macafee got it and he doesn't like to take off work, why'd he even mention it? Seems to me he'd just shit-can it.”

Magee nodded. “Maybe it did come to me.”

“If we call the Mad Russian, he can confirm it, and then it will make some sense.”

“What will make sense?”

“You know . . . what you told Officer Grinda that day?”

The man looked tense. “I just told her what happened.”

“You also said something about feeling a little bit guilty.”

“That was just talk. He was my partner and friend.”

“Of course, which makes it understandable. If you got the brochure and then talked him into it, I can see that. But if the brochure came to him, not you or Mrs Macafee, how could you convince him to go somewhere you didn't know about?”

“Yeah, I'm sure now it must've come to me.”

“We'll check.”

“Go right ahead. Is this going to take much longer? I've got a heap of work to do.”

“Shouldn't be much longer,” Friday said, adding, “I'm a plain old cop, not a game warden, and I don't know anything about fishing or any of that outdoor junk.”

“Should try it,” Magee the salesman said. “Could set you up with our starter kit and our cop discount.”

“See,” Friday said, “the part I don't understand is if you'd never been to the Paint River, how did you know to go through the woods to go around holes you had no way of knowing were there? Can you help me understand this?”

“There are holes there,” he said.

Service said, “There are, but you can't see them from the bridge.”

The man rubbed his jaw. “I could see 'em. So could Jimbo.”

“He could?”

“Yeah, we talked about them, and he decided he didn't want to mess with downstream so I volunteered to go that way.”

“A few minutes ago you said you couldn't remember how you guys made the decision.”

“Now I remember.”

“In my experience,” Friday said, “when an individual loses a friend and partner, and they were the last to be with that person, every detail becomes nearly indelible.”

“What's your point?”

“Just sharing my experience with you.” She looked over at Service. “Anything else?”

“Not for the moment.”

Friday looked at Magee. “I guess that's all for now. We'll be in touch as the evidence suggests.”

“What evidence?”

“Sorry—just a generic term.”

Service looked at the man. “You a good gunsmith?”

“I like to think so.”

“You specialize in routine stuff, or do you do custom jobs?”

“I'm full-service. Depends on what kind of custom job you're talking about.”

“I don't know; just a theoretical question, I guess.”

“By the way,” Friday said, “who told you there was a booby trap involved?”

“Booby trap?”

“Detective Agnew of the Speedway Metropolitan Police told us Mrs. Macafee asked about the booby trap.”

Magee's eyes narrowed. “I've got no idea where she got that.”

“Not from you?”

“Not from me.”

Service nodded for Friday to leave, but he pivoted. “You ever make a booby trap, spring-rig a shotgun?”

“What the fuck is going on here!” the man exploded.

“We'll be in touch,” Service said, and the two officers left the shop, stopped outside, and saw Magee hurrying toward the back of the store.

“He seems a bit stressed,” Friday said.

“Think the widow might be getting a phone call?”

“Phone records often tell the tale. You need lunch, or shall we see Mrs. Macafee first?”

“I'm good for now,” she said.

“You were good in there,” he said.

“We make a pretty good team,” she said.

“No Jell-O mode,” he said.

“Well, we had to work today. Maybe that won't be true tomorrow.”

Neither of them laughed.

Weren't you supposed to pick up your vehicle today?”Service asked.

I called them and told them it could be a day or two,” Friday said. “Nice thing about being a cop. You don't have to provide a lot of detailed explanations.”

42

Rocky Ripple, Indiana

FRIDAY, JUNE 9, 2006

The Macafees lived in a rural village seven or eight miles northwest of the town of Speedway. The modest ranch house sat on the banks of the White River, which had a bit of a muddy look but with a healthy current. In town there had been several vehicles with bumper stickers reading
i'm not lost—i live here.
The two officers looked at each other and shook their heads. Friday mouthed, “Indiana.”

Having not called ahead, they pulled into the driveway just as a woman was getting into a white 2005 Lexus. She was wearing Asic trainers, and a turquoise leotard under a loose orange shirt. When they got out of the Tahoe and started toward her, she ignored them, hurriedly scrambled into her vehicle, and started the engine. Grady Service stood directly behind the Lexus and when she started to back up, he smacked the hood with the heel of his hand. She stopped.

Friday knocked on her window and the woman sat staring straight ahead, apparently trying to decide something. Service watched her take a cell phone out of her purse, press a speed-dial number, and start talking. Friday exchanged glances with Service, who said, “Let her finish. She's not going anywhere.”

When she was done talking, the woman got out and exhaled. “I called my lawyer. I'm not going though this bullshit alone.”

Service showed his badge. “What bullshit would that be?”

“My lawyer will talk for me,” she said. “That's what he gets paid for.”

Friday took out a small laminated card and began reading the woman her Miranda rights, but the woman said, “Wait! Why are you doing this? Oh my God!” and ran into the house.

“Kinda brittle,” Friday said.

“Must be a little birdie gave her a call.”

“A birdie with spiky feathers,” Friday added, nodding.

Service said, “Let's call Agnew, see if he can break away and join us.”

The local detective had begged off the earlier meeting, but now arrived—just ahead of Macafee's lawyer. They had just enough time to talk him through the interview with Magee and Mrs. Macafee's reaction to their arrival.

The lawyer introduced himself as Reuben Hocksinger, the widow's attorney and longtime family friend. “What's going on here?” the lawyer asked.

“We dropped by to talk to Mrs. Macafee about her late husband,” Friday said, “and she went ballistic.”

“She's been under a great deal of stress. We all have. Jimbo was a fine man.”

“We're just doing our jobs,” Friday said.

The lawyer said, “For out-of-state events like this, isn't it customary to ask local police to do the grunt work?”

“That's why Detective Agnew is here.”

“Woody,” the lawyer said.

“Mr. Hocksinger,” the detective answered.

“You two know each other?” Friday asked.

Agnew shrugged.

Friday told the lawyer, “We just want to clarify some points with Mrs. Macafee.”

“Fine,” the lawyer said. “Let me go inside and calm Magahy down. Then we'll make some coffee and you folks can come on in and we'll talk like civilized people.”

Service looked at Agnew after the lawyer was inside. “When you notified her of her husband's death, you sniffed something when you talked to her, eh?”

Agnew nodded. “But I couldn't quite get a steady bead on it. I drove over here last night. There was a vehicle here all night. I saw a picture in the house the day I talked to her. I ran the plate to be sure: It was Magee.”

“Gives the term partner some deeper meaning,” Service said.

“Not like the first time we seen it in our business,”Agnew said.

Ten minutes later the lawyer had them set up to talk at the dining room table, but as soon as coffee was served, Friday suggested they move into the attached garage, and the woman and her lawyer put up some resistance before relenting.

Smart, Service thought.
Great technique for an interview. Move people out of their physical comfort zone.

In the garage, Friday said to the woman, “You told Detective Agnew that you and Mr. Magee had to convince your husband to take vacation time.”

“What are you implying?” the lawyer asked.

“Let your client answer the question,” Friday told the lawyer. “We're not in court.”

The woman was trembling, rubbing her hands together. “I said that, yes. It was true.”

“Okay,” Friday said. “Mr. Magee told us about a brochure about the Paint River. That's the pamphlet that got the men interested in driving up there.”

“I saw the brochure,” the woman admitted.

“Okay. Did that brochure come to you, your husband, or his partner?”

“I don't remember. It was just around, and they got to talking about it. I told them they should just take some time and go and I'd hold down the fort.”

“Okay, the brochure was ‘just around.' ”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Friday said. “You told Detective Agnew about a booby trap; do you remember that?”

“I'm not sure.”

“You're not sure you told him that?”

“I might have.”

“So you knew there was a booby trap.”

“I guess I did, and I was worried about how Jimbo would look—ya know, how he'd look for the funeral and all?”

“What kind of booby trap?” Friday asked.

“A gun-thingey, right?”

“A gun-thingey?”

“It was, wasn't it?”

“How did you know what it was?”

Hocksinger intervened. “Where's this going?”

“It's just a background question.”

The lawyer looked at his client. “Mags?”

“Jimbo died by a gun, so the booby trap had to be a gun-thingey, right? Timbo told me.”

“When did he tell you this?”

“I don't remember. Why is it important?”

“We just would like to understand the time frame.”

“I really don't remember. Everything sort of runs together, ya know?”

Friday said, “I do know, and I'm sorry. You're doing fine. Timbo told you your husband was killed by a booby trap?”

“He said something like there mighta been a rigged gun-thingey, a booby trap.”

“Might've been a rigged gun? His words?”

“Yes.”

“Did he see it?”

“I don't know. You'll have to ask him. Jimbo
was
shot, right?”

“Did Timbo call you before we got here?”

She looked at her lawyer, who nodded, and said, “Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He said you guys were asking a lot of crazy questions, and you don't have a suspect, so you're desperately trying to nail someone so you'll look good.”

“He said that?” Friday asked.

“Yes.”

Friday said, “Are you sleeping with Mr. Magee, Mrs. Macafee?”

The woman's eyes opened wide. “That's not . . .”

“
Our
business?” Friday said. “Sure it is. If you're sleeping with your husband's partner and you both talk your husband into going fishing to a place he'd never been before, and he ends up dead, that's
exactly
our business.”

“It's some sort of nut-group,” Mrs. Macafee said.

“What nut-group is that?”

“I don't know—Timbo told me.”

“Are you or are you
not
sleeping with him?” Friday repeated.

“No, I'm not.”

“His vehicle was here all last night,” Detective Agnew said.

“We're finished here,” the lawyer said. “Any more questions, you'll have to make it formal. This interview is terminated.”

“
His
idea to spend the night?” Friday asked the woman.” Or yours because you needed company?

Magahy Macafee looked at her lawyer, who held up his hands and shook his head.

“Okay, we've slept together—what of it?”

“Before your husband died?”

“What difference does that make?”

Friday switched directions abruptly. “So Timbo leaves two days before your husband to do business in Milwaukee.”

“What's that got to do with me sleeping with him?”

“Did you sleep with him before he left?”

“Yes!”

“Timbo or Jimbo?”

The woman looked flustered and sighed. “Not at the same time. I'm not one of
those.
”

Friday asked, “Do you know what business he had to do in Milwaukee?”

“He didn't say.”

“Did he call you while he was gone?”

“I don't remember.”

“Meaning you didn't hear from him for what, five, six days?”

“Time's all discombobulated,” the woman said. “Ya know?”

“You realize we're going to look at phone records: yours, your husband's, Timbo's.”

The lawyer took his client by the arm and pushed her back into the house. “This is over,” he said, slamming and latching the door.

Service walked out of the garage and lit a cigarette.

“What're you thinking—the partner's good for this?” Agnew asked.

“Not sure.”

“He says that a lot,” Friday said. “My gut is telling me they're both involved. We'll need a warrant for phone records. You want to look down here? Could be a prepaid throwaway involved.”

Service said, “The call had to come to someone somewhere, if there was a call. Let's do some more spadework before we up the ante on this thing.”

“I'll help you with the warrant for the phone records,” Agnew said.

“Magistrates down here picky?”

“An experienced cop learns which ones aren't.”

Friday said, “Can you talk to Timbo, see if he can show receipts for gas, hotels, a schedule for meetings in Milwaukee, and if he had business, call and confirm times, dates, length, all that?”

Agnew said, “Are you thinking he skipped Milwaukee, headed over your way to set things up?”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” Friday said. “He claims he was on business in Milwaukee. Let's give him the chance to prove it. If he can't, we'll move to the next step.”

“You two headed all the way back today?” Agnew asked.

“Nope. Morning. Drive's gonna take us about eighteen hours from here.”

They had rooms at a Red Roof Inn, Indianapolis Speedway, a mile from the world-renowned track, and they went to the Ginza Japanese Steakhouse, north of the track, for an early dinner. Nondescript place, with inadequate parking, but they were after the lunch and before the dinner crowd. There were no small tables, the place designed more for groups than couples. It was like sitting around a bullring watching the chef do his thing. When no others were seated, the chef came out and began to flip and twirl his knives, and Service said, “I'm sure it's a great show, chef, but save it for the dinner crowd.”

The man looked at him. “You sure?”

“Yep.” Service looked at the menu and said, “Two spicy tuna sushis, two small salads with sesame dressing.”

“Drinks?”

He looked at Friday. “I get to choose? Japanese beer,” she said. “It's not very romantic here,” she said.

“We're still working.”

“You seem troubled.”

“My gut's still churning. If Magee and the wife conspired to pop hubby, we'll get them, but what's all the rest of the anti-fishing shit about, and how come Mrs. Macafee and Timbo knew about it?”

“What are you thinking—that Magee is behind the whole deal?”

“You met him. You think he's that smart? I'm wondering when the
FBI Bulletin
warned of the Let Fish Live Free threat?”

“How would he get it?”

“With the Internet you can get all kinds of shit,” he said, or maybe it came through Trout Unlimited or the Federation of Fly Fishers, warning their members. I just want to run it down, and once we get that figured out, we'll see where we are.”

“Travel day tomorrow, right?”

“Yep,” he said.

“I've got a good idea where we'll be tonight,” she said. “Let's tell the chef to get the lead out.”