by Jon Jackson
Luck nodded. “Will do, Colonel. But what about Mulheisen?”
“The people will be showing up in Traverse City before long. I’ve already made arrangements for them to requisition a government facility at the Coast Guard base. We’d better get out there, organize a quiet little manhunt. Although . . .” —he paused, thinking—“maybe you’d better stay here. Get cracking on that disposal project. I’ll drive up there myself. Let me have a jolt of that Dickel, eh?”
12
Running Dogs
Mulheisen was no tourist. He’d spent a couple of hours in Traverse City the day before and hadn’t even noticed its main attraction, the bay. Actually, there were two bays, separated by a long, narrow peninsula; on the map it was the space that created the little finger on the mitten of Michigan. From his eighth-floor room in the hotel the view in the morning was spectacular, if one had a taste for shining lakes, rolling hills, and gorgeous fall foliage. He could see the east bay below, beyond it the Old Peninsula, and beyond that the west bay. Mulheisen wasn’t in the mood for it, but he could hardly ignore the glorious scenery.
His main concern was getting free of Joe Service, not a prospect he’d ever envisioned. He had sometimes imagined that he would be happy to see the man safely tucked away in prison. All that was changed, of course. What he felt was that he needed to be free of Joe Service, free to do some things that Service’s presence seemed to inhibit. But he had a feeling that it wouldn’t be so easy to shake him. For one thing, he was dependent on Service for transportation.
They were at breakfast, not in the huge and too-fancy resort hotel but at a pleasant little country restaurant several miles from Traverse City. Service had the idea that the city was not the safest place for them. Colonel Tucker and his crew would be looking for them and Traverse City was the obvious place to look, with its airport and bus terminals. It wasn’t a big enough city to hide in. A few hardworking agents had a good chance of spotting them. They would, for instance, almost certainly discover that they’d stayed at the high-rise hotel, although it might be pretty low down the list of hotels to check. Just a telephone check would reveal that Mulheisen had registered, though not Joe Service—he’d used an alias.
Once one drove out of the city a considerable array of convenient options presented themselves—motels, restaurants, resorts, dozens of small lakes with cabins. This was prime tourist country and the fall color tour was on. Joe had driven to a little place up in the highlands, among blazing hardwoods under a beautiful blue sky. Mulheisen would have preferred rain, but Joe was upbeat. He was a blue-sky boy.
Mulheisen wanted to know what was going on and to get his car back. Independence was a burning need. He was not, after all, a dog who ran with the pack. He was grateful for the rescue, but that was last night.
Joe suggested that they find an obscure little resort cabin to use as a base of operations. Joe offered to register for them, with a name that Tucker would never identify with either of them. Mulheisen rejected that.
“We’re like two guys in a horse costume,” Mulheisen said.
Joe laughed. “Sounds like fun.”
“That depends on whether you’re the horse’s ass,” Mulheisen rejoined. “Either way, you can’t run with the field.”
Mulheisen’s mood improved as he hungrily dug into breakfast: pancakes with dried cherries drenched in local maple syrup. After two forkfuls he decided it was his favorite breakfast ever. Especially with local country sausage. With every bite he remembered the warnings of Dr. Hundly. But he felt that diet was something he’d have to worry about later. He had too many other problems to think about for now.
Joe was giving him a highly edited version of his employment with Tucker. Mulheisen understood that the account was necessarily short on details; he was, after all, a cop, even if a retired one. Joe Service wasn’t about to provide complete information; who knew what Mulheisen’s next role might be? The account was interesting, nonetheless.
“Tucker is some kind of empire builder,” Joe said. “Maybe it’s the natural way of spies. He’s got angles, little groups he’s formed over the years. What do they call it . . . networking? Something like that. Well, we all do stuff like that. I suppose when you were on the force you had your own little groups—allies, snitches, resources. I do a little of that myself.”
Mulheisen nodded. But, as he told Service, he’d pretty much put that kind of stuff behind him. Tucker sounded like a guy who reveled in it. “Tell me more about this Lucani outfit,” he said.
Joe explained what he had learned about it. “The essence of it, of course,” he said, “is that no one knows but the Colonel who all is involved. Maybe he has other groups too. But this one seems to be special. I’m not sure how much of it is known to his bosses. Maybe none of it, maybe all of it. But I’d be surprised if they knew about his association with guys like this Luck character. Still, what do I know? Maybe it’s all part of his program.”
“But I thought you said that it was a group of disaffected agents,” Mulheisen said.
“That’s the way it was presented to me,” Service said. “But for all I know that’s just what he, and they, want me to know. The point is, the Lucani got me out of that hospital.”
“Why?”
“Obviously, to help them infiltrate Humphrey’s outfit. I helped them. In the long run, though, Humphrey slipped through their fingers.”
“Slipped through everyone’s fingers,” Mulheisen grunted. “Except for the Reaper’s.” He finished up his pancakes. He knew that someone had gotten to Humphrey ahead of him. He supposed that had been Joe’s work. Obviously, Joe wasn’t going to tell him about that, so he didn’t bother to ask. It was a dead issue, dead as Humphrey. “And now he wants you to help find these bombers. What do you know about that?”
“Nothing,” Service said. “But he wants me involved. He’s put out the word, with the help of Luck, that I was tied in. He must think that will bring me in. That’s the way he works, always from an angle, always some kind of misdirection. If all he wanted is my investigative help, why not just ask for it? But, no, that’s not his way.”
He shook his head at Tucker’s deviousness. “You know, Mul, I’ve made it my business to find things—information, people, money. I’m good at it. I have my own contacts in the so-called underworld. If there’s a connection there, I could find it.”
“So why aren’t you helping him?”
Service shrugged. “Tucker’s a manipulater. He thinks he’s some kind of genius psychologist, maybe, but if he was he ought to know that I hate that kind of screwing around. I’m not against helping him, I just don’t like the way he goes about it. Wheels within wheels, little plots and subplots that you don’t know about. I need clarity,” Joe declared, “a view of the terrain. Otherwise, I feel like the guy in the hind end of the horse. I can’t operate that way. Carmine was like that, you never knew what was going on. But Humphrey, he’d level with you. Still, I have to admit, if Tucker had asked straight out, I’d have told him to get lost. ‘Sorry, not interested.’ I helped him with his other stuff—I felt obligated. So I paid him back for his help. But I’ve had enough of his games.”
“But now he’s pulled you in anyway,” Mulheisen said. “Well, I’m in a different situation. I’m interested in getting to the bottom of this but I’m like you, I don’t like being manipulated. And now it’s gone too far. There are other angles, too, that puzzle me.”
“Like what?” Service wanted to know.
“Why is he involved with Luck? What is Luck up to? And what does it have to do with the bombing?”
“So, what do we do?” Joe asked.
“We?” Mulheisen smiled.
Joe smiled back. “I’d like to help.”
“Joe, I’m out of my depth,” Mulheisen said. “I don’t even know what’s going on. I’m no longer a sworn officer. I should be calling the sheriff, except that I don’t trust the sheriff. I should be talking to some old pals at the DPD, but I’m not sure of that either. I’
m not used to operating like this. I feel lost.”
“Who don’t?” Joe shrugged. “Look at it this way: we’re not officials, but we’ve got resources. And the thing is, you know and I know that the Colonel and his friends are looking for us and as long as we don’t know what they intend, it’s probably best if they don’t find us, at least until we get a clearer idea of what the game is.”
Mulheisen sighed, at least internally. Service was right. “What I’d like to do is get my car,” he said. “I feel too hampered without it.”
“We could do that,” Joe said. He went on to explain that as long as Luck and Tucker didn’t know that they were allied, he had a considerable latitude to act. “For instance, I could steal your car.”
Mulheisen had to laugh. “And then what?”
“Well, it’s a pretty obvious vehicle. You shouldn’t be driving it around. But if you’re worried about it, I could get it, I’m sure. Then we could park it somewhere and rent another vehicle to use. What do you need it for anyway?”
Mulheisen didn’t feel he could explain. He was sure that Joe hadn’t been fully forthcoming with him about his own activities. Mulheisen didn’t want to be too frank about his plans. “But,” he said, “there are some things about Luck that I’d like to find out. Maybe the most important thing is, I need to feel that my mother is all right, that she’s not going to be harassed.”
“We can work that out,” Joe said.
Mulheisen supposed it was so, but he felt impotent. For all his independent attitude, he realized now that he’d always been deeply dependent on being in an official position, with authority, with an official legal apparatus at his fingertips. Now what did he have? A disaffected outlaw who wanted to be his sidekick. It didn’t encourage him.
“You have to take stock,” Joe advised. “Who do you know who would help you? What kinds of friends do you have? Do you know anyone in these parts?”
Mulheisen told him about the mechanic, Charlie. He’d been helpful.
“Well, that’s one,” Joe said. “Who else?”
Mulheisen thought. Suddenly, for no reason that he could think of, it flashed into his mind that he’d met some friendly folks up this way several years ago, when he was investigating an earlier case. This case had involved a man who was the chief counsel for an insurance company and been involved in a massive insurance swindle. The man had run into unexpected trouble when his wife discovered his involvement. He’d had his wife killed. Mulheisen had tracked the man to his summer home in the middle of a brutal cold snap following an incredible blizzard that had nearly paralyzed the state of Michigan for days. The summer home had been near a well-known resort some miles south of here, Jasper Lake.
In the event, Mulheisen had caught his man and his hired killer. But the stolen money, in the form of bearer bonds, had disappeared.
Mulheisen remembered what had happened to the money. A private investigator had taken it. Somehow, this clever fellow, in the employ of then mob boss Carmine Busoni, had slipped into the midst of an altercation between the disgruntled killer and the maddened executive, and while they were distracted with their own dispute he’d absconded with the loot. This clever fellow was Joe Service.
It had been Mulheisen’s first contact with Service. He hadn’t known much about him then. Later, he’d gotten to know too much about him. It wasn’t at all clear if Joe Service was aware that Mulheisen knew of his involvement in this case; they’d had very little, if any, direct contact on it. In fact, it was only later, after he’d questioned the two principals, that Mulheisen tumbled to the fact that it was Service who had been the mysterious interloper.
Mulheisen shook his head. “I can’t think of anybody else,” he said.
Service said, “Well, you know Charlie. You think he’d hide you out?”
“Do I need to hide out?”
“What do you think?” Service said. “Those guys were holding you, probably for Tucker to show up and tell them how to dispose of you. I’d say they were going to relocate you permanently, underground, in some undisclosed location. Your cop connection isn’t worth much now, you’re on your own. You’re on the street, Mul. You have to fall back on friends, take stock, figure out your next move.”
Mulheisen sipped his coffee and thought about it.
“I’m happy to help,” Joe Service said. “We’ve got a common purpose.”
“Really? How’s that?” Mulheisen asked.
Service sighed. “I told you: my whole world is at stake with the Colonel, and with his buddy Luck. I can’t afford to just walk away. Pretty soon, they’ll figure out it was me who sprung you. Now, I know a lot of useful people, Mul. It’s my life. Networking. I could disappear, I’m sure, but I don’t want to do that. But you? Can you hide out for the rest of your life? No way. You’ve got your mother to think about.”
“I was thinking about Luck,” Mulheisen said. “He’s the key. And a part of the key is his late wife, I suspect.”
Joe Service perked up. Mulheisen spelled out some of his suspicions: the wife’s odd disappearance, but possibly her presence in Luck’s life to start with.
“I could help with that,” Service said. “I told you, that was my business, finding out things like that. I’ve still got lots of contacts.”
“Do you think you can find out who she was?” Mulheisen said.
“It’s possible. Even probable,” Service said. “Want me to try?”
“Sure. But first I need to liberate my vehicle.”
“Let’s check with Charlie,” Service said.
On the drive to Queensleap, Mulheisen said, “You said something last night about Hook. What was that all about?”
Joe related what he’d heard from Fedima—he didn’t go into details about her history, except to say that she had been in Kosovo. “It’s a stretch,” Joe said, “but it could be the same guy. I thought I’d mention it to Tucker, if the occasion ever came up, see what he thinks of it. Just a coincidence of names, probably.”
“There are no coincidences,” Mulheisen said.
In Queensleap, they simply pulled into Charlie’s gas station. When Charlie came out to pump the gas, wiping his hands on an oily rag, Joe rolled down the tinted window and Mulheisen said, “Hi.”
“I’ll be damned,” Charlie said. “Hey, there’s some revenooers lookin’ for you.”
“I know,” Mulheisen said. “I need a little help. This is my associate. He’ll tell you his name, but it’ll be a lie.”
“Uh-huh,” Charlie said, stuffing his rag in his hip pocket and leaning on the door. “What kind of help you need?”
“It’s about your old school chum, Imp,” Mulheisen said.
“Is Imp after you? Or are you after Imp?” Charlie asked.
“Both. What I need is to get my car. It’s up at the motel.”
“I could have it towed,” Charlie said. “Johnny Dobbs’s boy, Lester, does all my towing. He could bring it to Dobbs’s Garage, or he’ll bring it here. But do you want to be driving around in that car? It sticks out like Johnny’s pecker when he sees a woman.”
“Just bring it here, if it can be done without bringing the revenooers with it,” Mulheisen said. “When I went by to get it before, the sheriff was up there, keeping an eye on it.”
“They ain’t now, as far as I can tell,” Charlie said, “but it could be someone is watching. Lemme think.” He stood and audibly scratched his chin. “Maybe I oughta just take a run up there and have a look. Pull your truck into that open bay.” He pointed toward his garage. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
The two men waited while Charlie jumped in his truck and drove the four blocks or so up the hill to the Queen’s Castle Motel. He was back before any customers deigned to stop.
“I think it’ll be all right,” he said. “Trudy Morehouse is running the front desk. Lester knows her. I didn’t see nobody else around.” He went to the phone and dialed. “Hey, Johnny! Yeah. I need Lester to go pick up a car for a customer, haul her down to me. It’s at the
motel. If Trudy’s up there, which I think she is, and she asks, it’s for the sheriff. Thanks.”
He hung up and said, “Anything else you need, Mul?”
Mulheisen shook his head. “Just like that, eh?”
“Wal, a feller buys you a drink, you got to reciprocate.” He grinned. “I like that word. Especially if it means piss in Imp’s boot. What’s Imp done to you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“He pissed in my boot,” Mulheisen said. “What did he ever do to you?”
“’Bout the same,” Charlie said. “You ever run into a guy that just rubbed you the wrong way? That’s Imp. That sumbitch all’s had everything his way, ever since we was kids. I never liked him. His ol’ man, Eb, was all right, I thought, what I knew of him, but Imp was a pain in the butt. Anything else I can do for you? How ‘bout you, Phantom?” he said to Joe.
Service just laughed. “Actually, Mul’s too polite to ask, but he needs a place to stay. Someplace quiet and private, if you know what I mean.”
Charlie thought he might have something in that line. It wasn’t too fancy, he said, but it had a phone. He could also provide an old pickup truck. “It runs good,” he said. “Four-wheel drive and everything. Got a good radio. It’ll get in and out of the cabin.”
The cabin was back in the woods, at the end of a long road, next to the Manistee River. Good brown trout water there, Charlie said. The cabin had been built by a friend of Charlie’s, Old Tom Adams—“his grandfather invented the Adams fly, for Tom! One of the greatest fishermen ever.” Adams had built the cabin himself, as a fishing retreat, and when he died he left the cabin to Charlie, having no heirs. Charlie didn’t use it much. “Only trouble was,” Charlie said, “he built it on some land belonged to Eb Luck. Tom claimed Eb give him the property, and I think he did, but we ain’t never found a deed. Still, Eb never contested it. I used go out there with Tom and fish and drink. But with him gone it wasn’t the same. Made me lonely. Fish were gone, too.”