Shadow of the Wolf Tree (4 page)

5

Marquette, Marquette County

THURSDAY, MAY 4, 2006

As soon as Grinda told him about the possibility of involvement by extremist environmental groups, Service's initial thought was of Summer Rose Genova, DVM, herself a bunny-hugging environmental activist and one-time foe, turned prickly friend and ally. He had once interceded on her behalf with the feds, and she remained grateful. Genova ran an animal rehabilitation facility in western Mackinac County, and was highly respected by all the east-end COs she worked with.

“SuRo—Grady,” he said when she picked up on the other end of the line.

“They haven't put you out to pasture yet?”

“The end is always just one case away.”

Genova laughed sympathetically. “What is it you want?”

“Let Fish Live Free,” he said.

The pause on the other end of the line was palpable. “The Twit Sisters,” Genova said brusquely.

“You say that like you know them.”

“Wun't waste my time on the likes of them. They're cartoons—ignorant, trendily passionate, intellectually lighter than air. They want to live the life of crusader rebels, but all they do is yada yada. I'd guess recovering anorexic, convenience vegan, trust-fund babies—probably left elite schools to find their humanity, and join a way-cool cabal with copious magnum spliffs.”

“Not high on your admiration list.”

“Too insignificant to make any list other than Twats Turned Twits.”

Grady Service stifled a laugh. Intellectually lighter than air? “Don't hold back to spare my sensitivities.”

“Rats trying to tear down the establishment maze their kin built, own, and operate. This whole anti-fishing thing is as bogus as Bigfoot. Any fish biologist knows pain comes from certain parts of the cerebral cortex, and sports fans, fish don't
have
those parts, end of science, end of bleeding hearts, full stop. The whole issue is craponey! Some elements of the environmental movement have been hijacked by showbiz, glitz, and fools. Greens once had a modicum of integrity, but this has spun out of control. I mean, PETA is now publishing comic books to show children the cruelty of their evil
fishing fathers?
What in bloody hell are they thinking?”

He had no idea what she was ranting about. “Are you suggesting LF Two is ineffectual?”

“They like to make threats, maybe once in a while throw pebbles to disrupt fishermen near Aspen or Steamboat.”

“No violence?”

“Only if you count ruining their manicures.” She paused again. “Iron County—one person killed, another wounded on the second day of trout season, case presumably under investigation—is that what this is about?”

“I'm just curious about LF Two.”
She doesn't miss much.

“Bullshit, rockhead! I'll tell you right now, you're going down the wrong damn road.”

“Our Mother Earth,” he said, trying to redirect her.

“Omears aren't into the anti-fishing sideshow. Small group, single issue—global warming. They stay focused on genuine issues, the shit that really matters.”

“LF Two's an offshoot.”

“What the hell does offshoot
mean
? None of these outfits are organizations in any traditional or hierarchical sense. They're movements, religions without churches, buildings, bylaws, or appointed clergy. An individual buys into a philosophy and talks a few friends into joining him or her. There's no organization, no home office, no infrastructure, no mission statement, nothing.
Offshoot of Omear
? Jesus, they're more likely the spawn of the Sorority of Needy Doodahs. LF Two doesn't do violence. And they sure as hell don't do anything that isn't tied to a potentially large major media event and audience.”

He had instinctively begun thinking down this line at the river. “Nonviolent people can become violent.”

“In a shooting war, maybe, but over
fish
? Not so much.”

“Unless a group picks up a new member with a different view of the world.”

Genova sighed. “I loathe theoretical discussions. You're a detective. Rely on Sherlock Holmes. If it swims like a duck and quacks like a duck.”

“That's not Sherlock Holmes.”

“This is about Iron County, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“Where'd the notion of the LF Two connection come from?” she asked.

“
FBI Bulletin
predicted action on the second day of trout season.”

“
FBI Bulletin?
Information from the same folks who failed to show interest in why certain Arab exchange students wanted to learn to take off airplanes but not land them? The same FBI that so recently used you as bait and tried to hang
your
ass out to dry . . . That FBI?”

“I hear you,” he said. His own opinion of the FBI was low at best.

“Forget LF Two,” SuRo said. “It's got to be some other group and some other issue. Don't believe me, talk to Frodo the Finn, ex–Earth Liberation Front, did seven years in a federal lockup in Wyoming for sabotage.”

“Does this Frodo have a human name and address on this planet?”

“Shows how piss-poor your outfit's intelligence is. His name's Sven Lidstrom, and he has an herb farm near Tunis.”

“What county?” He pretty well knew the U.P. like most people knew their own backyards, but he couldn't place Tunis.

“Southern Baraga County,” she said.

It figured:
Baragastan.

“You know this Lidstrom?” he asked.

“We're acquainted.”

“Think he'd talk to me?”

“He's not a law enforcement fan, but he might if I put in a good word for you and you promise to play nice.”

“I'm a professional.”

“Attila the Hun used to make the same claim. Seriously, Grady, the man's paid his debt to society. He did the crime and the time, and now he just wants to live his life.'

“Don't we all.”
Grady
?

“Sugar, not vinegar,
capisce
? I'll call you when I get something set up. He doesn't have a phone.”

“Why's he in Tunis?”

“Everybody's gotta be somewhere.”

“Does he know anything about LF Two?”

“Ask him,” she said, adding, “I'll get back at you.”

6

Slippery Creek Camp

THURSDAY, MAY 4, 2006

Neither Cat nor Newf came out to greet them when he and Tree pulled up to the cabin. There was a new white Ford pickup by the house, and as he got out, CO Dani Denninger came onto the porch and grinned. Denninger had been at the Academy with Nantz and had helped him with a couple of cases over the past few years. She was young, attractive, and showed a lot of promise as a game warden. She also sometimes seemed to lack confidence and needed a lot of emotional support. Last he knew, she was working a county below the bridge.

“You lost?” he greeted her.

“Transfer,” she said, smiling. “Meet the new Speedboy.”

“Baragastan,” he said.
Oh boy.

“Is it that bad?” she asked.

“No, it's a joke—sort of.”

“I thought I'd stop by and say hi on my way west. You look good,” she added.

Service ignored the compliment. She looked
damn
good, but he wasn't going to go there. “You got a place to stay yet?”

“I'm going to rent Speedboy's place in L'Anse.”

“That's good.” Finding adequate and affordable housing was often a problem for conservation officers.

“You know Kragie?” she asked.

Junco Kragie was the second officer in Baraga County. Service nodded, saying, “Solid, unflappable.”
And cheap.
He kept this to himself.

“Tree told me what happened. You catch the case?”

“Part of it. The state and county want in.”

“Is that good?”

“Is how it is. Time will tell. You staying for dinner?”

“If you're asking
and
cooking. I've got wine in the truck.”

“You bet,” he said, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. There had been moments when Denninger had come on to him, and he wondered if her transfer had anything to do with him.

“I took the job because this is where I want to be,” she said, seemingly reading his mind. “It has nothing to do with us.”

“There is no us.”

“Did I not just say that?”

Leave it alone,
he told himself. “I've got to make dinner.”

“Have you seen Zhenya?” she asked, following him inside.

Zhenya Leukonovich was an IRS special agent known in her agency as Super Z, and she'd been a huge help in solving a recent case. She was also one of the strangest women he'd ever met—totally professional, totally unpredictable, probably loony—and had exerted a powerful sexual attraction he had somehow resisted.

“No,” he said.

“I thought for sure you two would be an item by now,” Denninger said. “She had the hots for you.”

“You thought wrong.”

“Yo, Zhenya—she's here?” Treebone asked, hobbling in.

“You want dinner or not?” Service snapped.

7

Iron River, Iron County

THURSDAY, MAY 11, 2006

The Iron River State Police post provided a small working room, and the uniquely named Michigan State Police detective Tuesday Friday drove down from Negaunee to join him there. He didn't know Friday, but had heard roundaboutly that she'd been a good road officer, was newly promoted to detective, and just coming off maternity leave. Iron County detective Mike Millitor would join them as soon as he closed a county case he was working.

Detective Tuesday Friday was in her early thirties, small, almost delicate in her movements. She had a pageboy haircut that looked like a bowl of hair, and wore cheaters around her neck on a chain that looked like M&Ms. She wore loose slacks, black flats, and a gold ankle bracelet. Her smile was thin.
More soccer mom than cop,
Service told himself. She plopped a bulging purse on the floor and clawed at her hair before opening the purse, pulling out a notebook, and flipping it open.

“I read Officer Grinda's report,” she said. “Who manufactures razor wire? This anti-fishing group, Let Fish Live Free—what do we know about them? Your colleague—where did her tip come from? Where's the evidence, and who's following up on it? The shotguns . . . what make, and were the serial numbers intact, or filed off? What about fingerprints?”

Service held up his hands to stop the onslaught.

“Sorry,” she said. “Too much caffeine makes my mouth run. What's it do to you?”

“Gives me the shits.”

Her laugh was a dead ringer for the braying of a donkey. When she stopped laughing she sucked in a breath. “I'm sorry. I'd hate to know what you think of me right now.”

“Relax. Your questions are all good ones.” He saw her exhale. “Maybe delivered a tad fast,” he added.

“Can we just start over?”

“How about we wait for Detective Millitor, so we can all start on the same page?”

“Fair enough,” she said. “I have to confess that your reputation is as intimidating as all get out.”

“My reputation?”

“The professional part. I'm really sorry about your girlfriend and your son. I can't imagine losing a child. God, I
know
I'm making a terrible first impression.”

As addled as she seemed to be, his gut told him she was good people, and that he needed to lighten up and ease her into the work.

“Okay,” he said. “You're a new detective, yes?”

“This is my first case.”

“And you're just off maternity leave. Boy or girl?”

“Firstborn son,” she said. “Is there a proverb or something about that?”

“None that I know of. Sit down and relax. There's no need to charge forward yet.”

“But someone was killed.”

“Our hurrying won't bring him back to life. Does your son have a name?”

“Shigun Wellington Friday,” she said. “My ex-husband's aunt married a Nigerian soccer player by that name. The name was his idea, not mine. Go figure.”

“Sounds okay to me,” he said.

She glared at him. “He'll need a wheelbarrow to carry his name,” she said.

It was Grady Service's turn to laugh.

Mike Millitor was Service's age, with a bit of a paunch, white hair, and a neatly trimmed mustache. “Heard good things about you from del Olmo and Grinda,” the detective said to Service.

Service introduced the two detectives.

“Who has the lead?” Millitor asked.

“If this is some anti-fishing group,” Friday said, “I think that gives the lead to the DNR. I'll take the homicide segment.”

Service nodded, and after going through what had happened from his perspective, said, “Tuesday, you want to run your questions by us?”

She went through them one at a time, and when they were done, the work was apportioned. Friday would look at the evidence, including the razor wire and fishing line used in the other booby traps, and try to establish the manufacturers, and, hopefully, the points of purchase—a real long shot. Millitor said he'd follow up on the shotguns.

Service would look into the anti-fishing group. He knew he ought to contact the FBI, but decided to put that off until SuRo Genova got him an audience with Frodo the Finn.

Working the Internet, he found several accounts of Frodo/Lidstrom's crimes and got the name of a Boulder, Colorado, detective who had broken the case. It was clear from the tone of the news articles that the FBI had not been happy to share credit with Detective Sondra Orly. SOP with feds.

A phone call to Boulder revealed that Detective Orly had retired and was now living in Aurora. He had to use his charm to get an address and phone number.

“Orly,” she answered the phone.

“Detective Grady Service, Michigan Department of Natural Resources,” he began.

“Is Lidstrom in Dutch again?” Her voice was raspy from too many cigarettes.

“Not that I know of. Why would you ask that?”

“Nice guy, but a follower, not a leader. I'm just hoping he can stay clean. I knew he was in Michigan.”

“You put him away?”

“He tumbled pretty darn easy. The FBI had all sorts of wacky theories, and when they got one of his prints, they wanted to set up surveillance to see if he would lead them to others, but I went directly to him and he caved right away.”

“Did he lawyer up before he confessed?”

“Nope. Waived his rights, the state gave the case to a public defender, and that was that. We tried to make a deal for other names and so forth, but the PD wouldn't let him go that way, so he got a full swing of the sledgehammer of justice.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I like Frodo. Nice guy, easily misled. No way he was the ringleader. Is he doing okay?”

“Far as I know. How'd you know he was in Michigan?”

“He sent me a postcard. Some burg called Tunis, right?”

“It's hardly a town.” He wasn't sure
what
it was.

Orly laughed. “That fits. Frodo's not what you'd call a city guy.”

“Are you aware of a group called Let Fish Live Free?”

“Heard of them. Pulled some stunts in some resort communities.”

“Violent?”

“Not that I've heard. Not real effective, either. Out here in Colorado we have some flaming environmentalists who know how to play the game and shake up the establishment, and I'm talking seriously hard-green. LF Two isn't one of the ones with real crust. What's going on?”

“I've got someone setting a meeting for me with Lidstrom.”

“Why?”

“See if he knows anything about the anti-fishing movement.”

“Even if he does, he won't talk. He's sorry for what he did, but he won't rat on anyone. He's a nice guy who has seen the light.”

“It's worth a try,” he said.

“I wouldn't waste my time,” she concluded. “But let me know if I can help in any way.”

She sounded like she meant it.

Service drove over to del Olmo's house and threw his bags in the spare bedroom. He'd bunk here until the case was done. Tree would stay at Slippery Creek, where he'd left his vehicle. Eventually his friend would head over to his camp in Chippewa County, or home to Detroit when he felt up to it. Operating from del Olmo's would put him within fifteen miles of the Iron River office and make his life easier and cheaper than staying in a motel.

Elza Grinda was in the kitchen, looking blankly into the refrigerator when he came in. When she turned, he saw that the bruise on her head had changed colors.

She grinned. “I think of it as a beauty mark.”

“You talk to your drug team friend—what was her name, Jenks?”

“They have a couple of individuals in mind.”

“You working with them?”

“Not directly. They're keeping me in the loop.”

“Keep me in it too, okay?”

“Cool. Simon is in a canoe on the Fence River today. He won't be back until late. Just you and me for dinner. We've got our choice between leftovers and leftovers.”

“Leftovers are my favorite,” he said.

“You meet the other detectives yet?”

“Today.”

“Impressions?”

“Could be interesting, “he said. “You ever heard the name Shigun?”

She laughed. “It's unique . . .”

“Apparently not in Nigeria.”

“Did Nantz ever tell you that you are an odd man?”

“Regularly. What do you think she meant?”

“Think about it.”