“What?” she asked.
“We set on a subpoena for the archery club?”
“No,” she said. “The prosecutor says we don’t have enough to justify one.”
“Not even if Pung was a member?”
“He’s a prick,” Ficorelli said, joining in. “Don’t worry, Service. I’ve got a plan. We don’t need a fucking subpoena. We’ll get the list.”
Pyykkonen smiled supportively.
Service exhaled and returned his attention to a cup of hot coffee.
After breakfast they thanked Ficorelli’s mother and Service thought he saw Wayno’s hand on Pyykkonen’s rump, touching her like this wasn’t the first time.
Outside Wayno gave them directions to the jung and told them he had some things to do before they joined up at 10 a.m.
Service and Pyykkonen cruised into town and checked out a place called Bipedal Bowling, where Rafe Masonetsky worked. The sign said, only two-lane bowling east of wyoming. burgers: five for a buck. The parking lot for the bowling alley was behind the building with the red brick facade. It was small, unpaved, and there were few lights.
“What the hell does that mean?” Service asked, pointing at the sign.
“We’re in Wisconsin,” Pyykkonen said. “They think differently down here.”
“Why the hell won’t the prosecutor cooperate?”
“He’s cooperating—on the warrant for Masonetsky. We’ll have an extradition order by tonight. It’s all set.”
“Good. But what about Randall Gage?”
“Don’t worry, Wayno has a plan.”
Wayno? “Last night you looked ready to kill the guy.”
“I was. He grabbed my ass while you were outside.”
“And you slapped him. I saw the mark.”
“Not that hard.”
“And now the ass-grabber is Wayno?”
“Leave it alone,” she said. “When I was a rookie in Lansing, my first supervisor was a woman, the first female sergeant in the Lansing force. I had another officer grab me one night on patrol, so I asked her what someone should do when that happened.”
Service watched her while she drove.
She glanced at him. “She said, ‘First, decide if you like it.’”
“So you didn’t like it?”
“I liked it just fine,” she said, “but I didn’t want him thinking he was in control.”
“What was all that talk about porcupines and ladybugs?”
Pyykkonen looked over at him and smiled. “Porcupines have sex every day of their lives, and the orgasm of a female ladybug lasts up to nine hours.”
Service mulled it over for several minutes as they moved through town. The slap and antagonism had been replaced by bedroom hair and red eyes, and the sex habits of porcupines and ladybugs. “Jesus!” he blurted out. “You slept with him?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes. It was my decision and now you’re wondering, am I Macofome’s regular squeeze, or what? Again, that’s equally none of your business. I sleep with whoever I please, when I please. As I understand it, you’ve gotten around yourself.”
Service stared at her. Had she been checking up on him, and why? The thought made him wince.
“If men can do it, women can do it,” she said. “Welcome to the twenty-first century. Sex is just sex.”
They met Ficorelli about a mile south of the jung, which had the formal name of Oconomowoc Korean Archery Center (OKAC).
The little warden was jacked up on adrenaline. “You make your request. If he cooperates, fine. If not, step back and let me take over.”
“What’s you plan?”
“I’ll take care of it,” Ficorelli said.
The OKAC was an old barn that had been re-sided and re-done. The range itself was built at the back of a housing development, with a treeline to the north and homes on both sides. Service saw a large sign with Chinese characters. The one he had seen in Pung’s photo? He felt encouraged.
Randall Gage came out to meet them. He was a short, dumpy man wearing a padded black coat and black felt boots that stretched up to his knees. He wore a Fu Manchu mustache, carefully trimmed, and had dark eyes, which made him look menacing.
“Mr. Gage, I’m Grady Service. You talked to my colleague, Officer Candice McCants.”
“I figured I’d see somebody,” he said. “I’ve talked to my lawyer. You can’t have our list. It’s an unwarranted intrusion of privacy.”
Ficorelli didn’t wait for Service to react. “Okay, Randy, let’s talk a different matter. State law does not allow the discharge of an arrow within one hundred and fifty yards of an occupied dwelling. This is called the safety zone rule.”
“I know the law,” Gage replied. “It applies only to hunting and we are not a hunt club. We are an archery shooting range.”
“Did you or did you not complain to the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department about someone who shot a deer on this so-called range?”
“I did, but I did not file a complaint. We took care of that through club rules.”
“Where did this happen?”
Gage pointed to a side of the long range.
“There?” Ficorelli asked, seeking confirmation.
“Yes, I just said there.”
“What happened to the member?” Service asked.
“As a consequence, you dumped him?” Ficorelli said.
“Our members are very serious about rules.” Gage looked confident. “He was dismissed.”
“A club rule was broken,” Ficorelli said.
“Yes,” Gage said. “What point are you so ineptly trying to make?”
“This,” the little warden said. “A rule was broken on your property. In breaking your rule, two state laws were also violated. A deer was killed out of season and an arrow was discharged within the safety zone.”
“I never filed a complaint,” Gage said, his eyes beginning to dart.
“I’m filing the complaint. You’ve just confirmed the violations.”
“It was not inside the safety zone,” Gage insisted.
Ficorelli pointed to a tree and a fence behind it to the east. “See the green roof beyond the fence? It’s fifteen yards from the house to the tree, and from that tree to your first target is one hundred and twenty yards, meaning you’re fifteen yards short of the required safety requirement. I am going to ask the prosecutor to close you down for safety violations.”
“We’re a range,” Gage said.
“You admitted to the killing and to the distance. I have no choice but to act.”
“You little bastard.”
“As a matter of fact,” Ficorelli said. “I am a bastard. My mom never married my dad. I don’t consider that a negative.”
“I am going to call my attorney,” Gage said.
“Good. I’ll call the prosecutor and we can get the both of them out here, and while we’re at it, we’ll need your membership list in order to talk to those involved. Once they’re under oath we’ll be asking them about night shooting of rabbits and cats.”
“You think you’re pretty smart,” Gage said, holding his cell phone.
“C’mon,” Ficorelli purred. “You do, too. Your ass is against the wall. My colleagues from Michigan want to confirm the names of some of your members. Is that too much to ask in return for looking past your transgressions?”
“What are the names?” Gage asked.
“They want to read them on the list for themselves,” Ficorelli said.
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“No,” the warden said. “I’m trying to save you from lying. If you don’t show them the list, I’m gonna go forward on charges and then we’ll get the list and then we’ll charge your ass with perjury and conspiracy.”
Gage pivoted and went quickly into the buildi
ng.
Ficorelli stood calmly.
Gage returned and held out a folder. Ficorelli nodded at Service.
Service took the folder, went to an outdoor table and sat down with Pyykkonen standing beside him. Both Pungs were members. There was a line drawn through Terry’s name. The Masonetskys were both members; Rafe Masonetsky’s name also had a line drawn through it. The elder Masonetsky was a member of the club’s board of governors. His kid had been suspended in college and kicked out of the club. He was undoubtedly an unhappy parent.
“Rafe Masonetsky shot the deer,” Service said.
“I don’t have to disclose that,” Gage said, trying to maintain some dignity.
“Terry Pung’s name is crossed out.”
“At his father’s request,” Gage said.
“Is there a record of that?” Service asked.
“No, it was a personal conversation.”
“When?”
“Early August.”
“Why?”
“That’s between father and son,” Gage said.
Which was not long before the elder Pung turned up dead. Cause and effect? “Thank you, Mr. Gage.”
“Shove it,” Gage said, snatching the folder back and stalking away sullenly from the three officers.
Service looked at Ficorelli and smiled. “You nailed that one.”
“Told you I had a plan,” he said.
The Wisconsin State Police insisted on being in on the arrest so as to facilitate the transfer under the extradition order. After processing, the prisoner would be officially turned over to Pyykkonen, who would take him back to Houghton. They spent most of the day talking to various officials and getting a tactical plan in place. In the end it was decided that there would be a city cop named McYest, a county deputy named Mawbry, a trooper named Kalminson, along with Service, Pyykkonen, and Ficorelli, whose role was primarily that of observer.
McYest drove by the bowling alley around 9 p.m. and reported that Rafe Masonetsky’s truck was in the parking lot. The alleys closed at eleven and employees were usually gone by 11:30. The decision was made to assemble in the parking lot at 10:45. After some debate, the team also decided that Kalminson and Pyykkonen should enter the premises and make the arrest inside as close to 11 p.m. as possible. McYest would position himself out front on the street. Mawbry, Service, and Ficorelli would be in the rear parking lot as backups.
Service had been involved in hundreds of arrests during his career and knew from experience that while most situations went as planned, some went down the toilet, and almost always without warning. He had no feelings one way or the other about this one.
It was dark, the parking lot poorly lit. Pyykkonen and Kalminson were inside less than thirty seconds when a tall, powerfully built man came striding out. He wore dark baggy pants that hung around his hips and looked ready to fall. He ambled deliberately, showing no haste. Ficorelli whispered, “Rafe.”
What had gone wrong and where were Pyykkonen and the Wisconsin trooper? Service asked himself as he stepped forward from the shadow of the truck to block the man’s path.
“Rafe Masonetsky?” Service said.
“Dude, who wants to know?”
Service jiggled the badge hanging from a chain around his neck. “Detective Grady Service, Michigan DNR, Mr. Masonetsky.” Ficorelli moved along the far side of the truck to get behind the man. Deputy Mawbry headed for the door to let the others know Rafe had somehow gotten outside.
“How’s it goin’?’” Masonetsky said. He seemed calm.
“You’re off early tonight,” Service said.
“I got a date, dude.” Masonetsky pivoted to look at Ficorelli. “What is your problem?” The football player looked back at Service. He was no more than three feet away and made Service feel small.
Service had been waiting for Pyykkonen and Kalminson but sensed he had to act before the man bolted. “Rafe Masonetsky, you are under arrest.” He carefully listed the charges and quickly moved into Miranda, reading the prisoner’s constitutional rights from the plastic card he carried at all times.
“You’re creepin’ me out fuck-head,” Masonetsky said menacingly.
“Lay down on the ground and put your hands behind you,” Service said.
“Fuck you, the ground’s cold.”
“Do you want a lawyer?”
“I don’t need a lawyer, dude, that bitch wanted it,” Masonetsky said. “She couldn’t get enough of it.”
“You put roofies in figs.”
“That was Terry. The bitch wanted it. The roofies were to help her relax.”
“Terry gave you the figs?”
“Whole thing was his idea, dude.”
“Did he join in?”
“Dude, he just wanted to watch, know what I’m sayin’?”
“I’ve got it,” Wayno Ficorelli said. He held up a small cassette recorder.
Service felt his adrenaline rising quickly. Masonetsky was in the process of making a decision. Service wished he could see his eyes.
“Down on the ground, Rafe,” he said. Using first names sometimes softened arrest situations.
There was a flash of white light and pain surging through Service’s face and head and he felt himself going out and clutching.
He awoke with a throbbing head and face in a white room with masked faces above him.
“You’re in a hospital, Detective,” one of the masks said.
“In Madison,” another mask added.
Madison was forty miles west of Jefferson. “Where are the others?” Service asked.
He tried to sit up, but hands kept him down. He reached for one of the restraining hands, but pain shot up his arm and he let his right hand drop back to his side. “You’ve had a pretty nasty bump,” a mask said. “We’re going to put you to sleep now and do some repairs.”
“What am I, a damn Chrysler?”
Nobody laughed. A plastic mask was placed over his face. He heard a hiss in the background.
Service saw Ficorelli sitting next to the bed, flipping though a magazine. Pyykkonen was standing by the doorway. Nothing else registered.
“He’s waking up,” Pyykkonen said.
A nurse came into the room and fiddled with an I.V. drip beside the bed. Service felt like an object. A doctor came in after the nurse. He was young and tan. “How do you feel?”
“Numb,” Service said.
“We give great dope,” the doctor said. “Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.”
“Right, in Madison. You were transported from Jefferson. Do you remember that?”
“No.”
“You have a severe concussion,” the doctor said. “We put twelve stitches into your upper lip and fifteen into your forehead. Your nose is fractured and we played with getting that straight, but you may need more attention later. You had some gravel lodged in the back of your head, but I think we managed to get all of that. Your right pinkie is fractured and splinted. That should heal fine. It was a clean break. We’re not worrying about an infection, but we are going to keep you here tonight. We are going to be waking you up periodically to make sure your brain doesn’t try to take a vacation. If you need anything, press the button under your left forefinger. Please press it now.”
Service pressed the button.
“Okay, good. I’m sorry we’ll have to wake you up, but it’s for the best. I’m sure you understand.” The doctor left the room.
Service tried to adjust his body position, but couldn’t. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“Wayno?” Pyykkonen said.
“Masonetsky head-butted you. Blood went everywhere, but you didn’t go down. You grabbed him by the throat and head-butted him back, two or three times. It sounded like a concrete block dropped from the ceiling in an empty gym. He started to go down, but yo
u wouldn’t let go. You had your hands locked on his throat. I grabbed at you and yelled at you to let go, but you were on automatic and I couldn’t get through. I had to snap your finger to break your grip. I’m sorry about that.”
“He kept you from doing more than hurting the boy,” Pyykkonen said.
“Masonetsky?”
“He’s a mess,” Ficorelli said. “Broken cheekbones, fractured nose, fractured jaw, concussion, cuts and abrasions. It was like two big bucks going head to head. We’ve called your captain.” Good, Nantz would know.
“They’re going to hold Masonetsky until the day after tomorrow,” Pyykkonen said, “then I’ll drive him to Houghton.”
“Why did he come out early?”
“Gage called his old man, and his old man tipped his kid that we were asking about him.”
“There’s a plane coming to fetch you, Mr. Big Shot,” Ficorelli said. “Some senator is sending it.”
Timms. “She’s a state senator,” Service said. “Not a real one.”
“Real enough to run for governor,” Pyykkonen said.
Service nodded.
When he awoke he felt pressure beside him, shifted his head and found Maridly Nantz cozied up against him, outside the covers. Walter Commando was asleep in the chair where he had last seen Ficorelli sitting.
He tried to move his left hand, but it hurt. He lightly nudged Nantz with his elbow.
“Not tonight, honey,” she whispered. “You have a headache.” She slid her hand up to his face and let it rest there. No words were necessary. He went back to sleep smiling.
12
Walter Commando was back in Service’s room, sitting in a chair, a book in his lap, but he was not studying. Nantz had gone out to make arrangements.
“What are you staring at?” Service asked his son.
The boy drew in a deep breath, seemed hesitant to answer. “You look, like . . . heinous.”
“That’s bad?”
“Like, mega.”
“Is that bad as in bad or bad as in cool?”
“Way cool. The bad guys won’t be able to look at you.”
Chasing a Blond Moon Page 16