“Are you with one of those insipid reality television programs?”
“No, I’m a cop.”
“I can’t help you,” she said.
“Should I try to reach Professor Ferma by e-mail?”
“She’s not amenable to interruptions when she’s in the field.”
“I really need to talk to her. We’ve found hair and scat samples here and the federal Fish and Wildlife forensics lab in Wyoming think it’s Selenarctos thibetanus. The hair samples are blond, and definitely not from one of our bears.”
“Where are you again?”
“Michigan.”
“It’s not possible for thibetanus to be there unless it’s in a zoo. Thibetanus is translated literally to Tibetan moon bear, and the name alone gives flight to a lot of fancies.”
“We have the hair samples and you know what Sherlock Holmes used to say.”
“Sherlock Holmes?”
“The detective.”
“In Michigan or Montana?”
“In fiction, in London. He was English.”
“I don’t have time to read make-believe,” she said. “Did somebody kill the bear?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Well, I can tell you the bear didn’t kill a human. The Cambodians use thibetanus as entertainers. They’re fairly docile when raised in captivity.”
“The feds think that this may be a blond moon bear. They have a reference sample and the new hairs match.”
“They’re mistaken. It’s no doubt a color phase of thibetanus,” she said.
“From the little I’ve read, that’s one school of thought. Is there any way to talk to the professor?”
“Not directly.”
“This isn’t a lark,” he said. “There’s a homicide involved, and I can always get in touch with Montana Fish and Game, get a judge, get subpoenas.” No way this would happen, but it was worth floating as a trial balloon.
She said, “Look, I’ll pass the word to the professor. That’s the best I can do.”
“That would be great.” He gave her his phone numbers and e-mail address and hoped she’d follow through.
Back in his office, he rested his elbows on his desk and his forehead against his hands.
“You look like I feel,” Fern LeBlanc said.
“How’s the captain?”
“They’re holding him overnight for observation. His doctor says it’s not a stroke, but I don’t believe the man. Either of them. Did you see the captain’s leg?”
He had seen. “No sense letting our imaginations run wild,” he said.
“Don’t patronize me,” she said. “Observation is not imagination. This has happened before. The captain does not take care of himself.”
“He looks good.”
“You can’t see inside him,” she shot back.
The combination of her concern and bullheadedness was interesting.
Her voice softened. “Has he said anything to you about retiring?”
“The captain doesn’t confide in people.”
“He admires you, Detective. He’s logical and cerebral. You are emotional, impudent, and impulsive, Hyde to his Jekyll.”
“Isn’t it Heckyl?”
She rolled her eyes. “Everything is a joke with you,” she said. “Testosterone,” she added, as she whirled away.
He was tired and decided his next to last task of the day would be a call to Sandy Tavolacci.
“Hey Sandy, it’s Service.”
“What’s the good word from the woods cop shop?”
“I’ve got two of them for you: Charley Fahrenheit.”
“Don’t get your balls in an uproar. He’s a friend of a friend and I owed a favor. We gotta do favors in our business, am I right?”
“We’re not in the same business, Sandy, and you’re the attorney of record.”
“That’s a technicality. What’s your interest anyway? Last I knew, woods cops didn’t fuck with civil suits.”
“We don’t, unless there’s some related criminal activity.”
“You so low on work you gotta chase employment cases?”
“Bear poachers, Sandy. Bear poachers,” he repeated, and hung up. Let the sleazy little bastard stew on that for a while.
His last task was a call to Wisconsin.
“Ficorelli,” the Wisconsin warden answered on his cell phone, his voice barely audible.
“Wayno, it’s Service.”
“You still on that case?”
“Until I nail somebody,” Service said.
“I hear what you’re sayin’,” Ficorelli said. “How’s Limey?”
“Haven’t seen her in a while.”
“She’s a hot one, eh?”
“Am I interrupting?” Service asked.
“No, I’ve got my binocs on a slimeball trolling for muskies on a closed lake. What’s up?”
“There’s a Wisconsin guy we’re interested in. He lives in Marinette County, a place called Harmony. He worked at the Enstrom helicopter factory in Menominee. I know that’s not your turf, but I thought one of your guys could—”
“My guys, my ass. I’m on it,” Ficorelli said. “What’s this dirtbag’s name?”
“Charley Fahrenheit.”
“That an alias?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, I’ll crank him through the computer and get back at you. This is a hurry-up deal, yes?”
“Kind of urgent.”
Ficorelli laughed. “With urgent and pregnant there ain’t no kind of. Is or isn’t. Cut me a couple of days?”
“Thanks, Wayno.”
“Am I just scratching for scent or do you want me to rattle cages?”
“Just scratch—for now.”
“Not a problem. Remember, I’d like to join you guys up in da Yoop, be a real woods cop like you when I grow up.”
He doubted Wayno would ever grow up, but there was something about his irreverence and spunk he liked. “I remember.”
Newf looked up when he pushed back from the desk. “I’ve had enough fun for one day. How about you?”
She lifted her butt and stretched.
As they passed LeBlanc’s desk he said, “If that red dog comes around tonight, I expect you to kick its ass.”
Fern LeBlanc said, “What if I prefer diplomacy to warfare?”
Service grinned. “Sorry, I was talking to my mutt.” It had been a very long day.
21
It was nearly dark when he drove up the driveway and parked, his eyes alert for the marauding red dog. He was so focused on the dog that it didn’t immediately register that the interior house lights were on. Had he forgotten to turn them out? Possible, he decided. He’d been less than alert when he and Newf left. As they walked toward the back door a low growl rolled out of Newf. Her ears were flat. At the back door he heard music inside, Norah Jones singing “Turn Me On.” Nantz had discovered Norah recently, and her tunes always turned Nantz on.
He tried the door. It was open. He’d never failed to lock it before. His hand went to his SIG Sauer. He unsnapped his holster, and thumbed the safety off. No way he’d left the door unlocked. Somebody had gone inside; but if they’d broken in, why were the lights on, music playing?
Moving cautiously down the hall he heard a voice call out, “It’s okay if youse gotcher gun out, as long as it’s da right gun.”
He peeked into the living room. Honeypat Allerdyce was seated on the couch, a glass of wine in hand. Her hair was cut short and done up. She wore a blue skirt and jacket, and navy blue stiletto heels. Gold earrings dangled from her ears. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her dressed up. Usually she was wearing nothing or close to it. Now she looked like a stockbroker or something. The metamorphosis was astounding.
“Detective,” she said, saluting him with her
glass. “There’s wine on the counter in the kitchen. I hoped you’d be here earlier. I didn’t want to sit on the back porch. We wouldn’t want the neighbors gettin’ the wrong idea, hey? I hope you can forgive me for letting myself in.”
“Honeypat,” Service said. He didn’t ask how she got in. The Allerdyces didn’t need keys. In all the years he’d known her, she had never looked like this. She looked to be about 40 max, and this came as a surprise.
“Pour yourself a glass,” she said.
Newf went into the living room and lay down, eyeing the woman. Service went into the kitchen. The wine was a 1994 Château Smith Haut Lafitte, a passable Bordeaux, and not one from his collection. Was this a gift or a bribe? And what did she want? He poured himself a glass and sniffed it. Good nose.
Norah Jones was starting on “Lonestar.”
“Sweet tunes,” Honeypat said. “Norah lights my fire.”
He sampled the wine and sat down in a chair beside the couch. The wine was dry. “Thanks,” he said. “This is smooth.”
“You and your woman live good,” Honeypat said, looking around.
He did not reply. Honeypat Allerdyce was nearly the savage that her father-in-law lover was, and she had always done as she pleased, her sexual appetite legendary.
“I owe you,” she said. “That thing you told me last fall about Limpy and Daysi.” She had slapped Limpy after Service had told her about the old man’s moves on Daysi, and she’d stormed out of the family compound in southwestern Marquette County.
“I know youse didn’t do it for me,” Honeypat said. “I don’t mind. I never went back.”
“I saw Limpy,” he said. Had it been yesterday? Time was jumbled.
“He tell you Aldo’s queer?”
Service nodded.
“Aldo wants to be a game warden and Limpy’s gonna do anything he can to shoot him down. I thought you ought to know, seeing I owe youse.”
“Thanks,” he said, lifting his glass.
“Wine okay?”
“Good,” he said, even better than very good. “Limpy said you’ve got your own place now. Ford River.”
“He was trolling to see what youse knew. He don’t know where I am and I aim to keep it that way. He finds me, I’ll be in for it. Does Aldo have a chance with youse people?”
Service nodded. “He spoke to our captain and the cap’n told him he doesn’t care what his grandfather does. Aldo is responsible for himself.”
“That’s good,” she said, taking another drink. “Make you nervous, findin’ the lights on?”
It had. It was difficult not to stare at the woman. Dressed like this she looked almost elegant.
“Like my new look?” she asked.
“Do you?” he asked, turning the question back on her.
She smiled. “Nice clothes always get me going,” she said. “How come you never took some off me? That time years back before Limpy went off to Jackson and you were hunting him, I’d’ve given it up.”
“I was working,” he said.
“I’ve got a job now,” she said. “HPC, right here in Gladstone.”
HPC was Hoegh Pet Casket Company, the largest maker of pet caskets in the country, maybe in the world. “They asked me to be a tour guide, but I didn’t think that was too smart. I’m working as a bookkeeper on the night shift. It’s boring, but it pays the bills.”
It was surreal to hear her talking like a normal person.
“I’ve got a new name, too. Grace Thundergiver. Going back to my roots,” she said with a laugh. “My mother was Mohawk, my father part Crow.”
He’d never known this about her. “Does Limpy know you’re Native?”
She smiled and shook her head. “Did, he’d have skinned me way back. Surprised I can hold down a job? I kept Limpy’s books for years.”
This was an interesting tidbit worth filing away for future use.
“Not surprised,” he said. She was smart and tough, and dressed this way, more than presentable. “I’m surprised you’re telling me all this.”
“Wanted youse ta know,” she said. “In case. Do you know Outi Ranta?”
“Ranta Lumber.” Her husband, Onte, had died last spring.
“Outi and I go way back. I moved in with her after I left Limpy and before Onte got sick. We’ve been friends a long time. I was with her when Onte passed. I live in her guesthouse.”
Rantas lived on The Bluff, less than a half-mile west, which explained why there had been no vehicle in the driveway. Onte had gotten sick in late winter, and died by the end of spring. Had Honeypat been there all that time?
“I come ta see youse once before,” Honeypat said. “Your woman was ridin’ your mule on the back steps.”
Service remembered the night. He had begged Nantz to go inside, but she didn’t want to.
“Got me going,” Honeypat said. “Still does when I think about it. Tink your woman would go for a threesome?”
“Not a chance,” he said. This was more like the Honeypat he knew.
“Too bad, eh. Would suit me.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Your woman being out of town, I thought maybe youse’d like some company. I’d give it up now.”
“Your largesse is appreciated,” he said.
“We get dese clothes off, I’ll give you somepin’ youse can really appreciate.”
He didn’t doubt it. “Thanks anyway.”
She finished her wine, set the glass down with a flourish, stood up and primly smoothed her skirt. “Guess I’d better get along. No offense,” she added, “but your woman’s gone and you and me’s not so different and I owe youse.”
“The information settles the score,” he said. “We’re even.” Were they really not so different? The comment bit deep, left him antsy.
Honeypat shrugged. “You know where I am, you want some.”
Service nodded. He knew, and he was suspicious of Honeypat dropping in and laying all this information on him.
He walked her to the door. “Limpy comes around,” she said, “one of us is dead.”
She might be right about that.
She stuck out her hand and when he reached to shake, she grabbed his hand and licked his palm. “I’ll keep it nice and wet for youse,” she said. “Fact is, it’s always wet,” she said with a leer. “Flirtin’ aside, thanks for Aldo. He’s a good kid, not like the rest of his kin. I want to see the boy get out.”
He watched her walk up the driveway into the dark. He almost felt sorry for her. If Limpy wanted her, he’d eventually find her. He was glad she had come, but not happy she lived so close. Her sensuality had shaken him. She was trying to do something good for Limpy’s grandson. Aldo’s chances of escaping the family were better than hers. Had he misjudged her all these years? Getting out was always tough.
There was a ville in the mountains of Vietnam. He and Tree were skirting it, en route to a recon job. They saw and heard kids playing, water buffaloes with bells around their necks were jangling away, and a flute of some kind keening across the landscape. They could smell shit from the fields and paddies. The place was small, a half-dozen hovels. To the east there was a range of low green hills. To the west were steep mountains with limestone outcrops.
“How do people get out of that?” Service had asked his friend.
“Most don’t. Most don’t want to. Those that do, have to learn to see over them.” He pointed at the low hills.
“Can’t be that easy.”
“Didn’t say easy, bro. Just what they got to do.”
He hoped Honeypat and Aldo could see over the hills that were in their way. He also remembered that night on the porch steps. They were drinking martinis, watching the sun sink over Little Bay de Noc. He didn’t blame Honeypat. The memory got to him, too.
Back in the kitchen he poured another glass of the gi
ft wine and began to do the chopping and preparations for a quick dinner. He found it amusing that some food rags talked about quick dinners, referring to cooking time, and paying little attention to how long it took to get to that point. After he did the chopping, he dolloped some olive oil in a large skillet, added carrots and a half-pound of pork. He cooked it until the meat lost its pink color, dumped in pineapples and water, three tablespoons of Rasta Joe’s barbecue sauce, a teaspoon of ginger, green pepper, and two cups of Minute Rice.
The cooking took only five minutes. He fed the animals while the rice cooked, then took his plate to the kitchen table, poured more wine, and ate slowly. Honeypat’s wine was very good.
She’d come on Aldo’s behalf. She’d also come because she was lonely and because of fear, giving him information and hoping without asking that he would keep an eye on her. Grace Thundergiver: No way could that be her real name. He grinned. Honeypat had a flair for the dramatic.
Maybe he’d keep an eye on her—from afar.
Nantz called as he was getting ready for bed.
“Long day,” she said. “You?”
“The Cap’n’s in the hospital.”
“Oh no! Another stroke?”
“Doctor says no, but when the Cap’n went out to the ambulance, he was dragging his leg and trying to hide it. I think his doctor’s covering for him.”
He considered not telling her about Honeypat, but that’s not how their relationship was.
“When I got home tonight, Honeypat was here.”
“Did you invite her in?”
“She was already inside. She picked the lock.”
“Wench,” Nantz said. “She in her birthday suit?”
“Nope. She brought me information about Aldo.” He related the events of the day.
“Limpy is a prick,” she said. “Honeypat hit on you?”
“You remember that night on the back porch steps?”
Nantz laughed lustfully. “Every minute of it, and I’m glad we can count in minutes and not seconds!”
“She was out there, watching us.”
“She told you this?”
“Wondered if you’d be interested in a threesome.”
Nantz laughed gleefully. “She’s a piece of work. What did you say?”
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