Service thought someone should write a country song using all the one-liners game wardens used with violets.
“This is like a nightmare,” Fahrenheit said.
“Always is when it comes time for payback,” Ficorelli said.
“You worked with an old man in Michigan. He got a name?” Service asked.
Fahrenheit got up from the table and looked down the hallway. “My old lady gone?”
Ficorelli nodded. “At a friend’s.”
“I’m gonna tell you the truth here: I never met the man. Colliver knows him. I dealt with a woman.”
“Does she have a name?” Service asked.
“She’s Indian, man.”
“What’s her name?”
“Hannah.”
“Are you telling us she set up the cable theft?” Ficorelli asked.
“She wanted the cable. She didn’t say why.”
“You gave it to her?”
“That was the deal.”
“When?”
“July, about a week after I got it.”
“See her since then?”
“Week, ten days ago.”
“Was Colliver with you?” Service wanted to know.
“It wasn’t business this time, know what I mean? Colliver dealt with the man, I dealt with Hannah.”
Ficorelli rolled his eyes.
“Where’d you meet?” Service asked.
“Casino up to Watersmeet. She got us a room. She gets them comped.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know man, she just does. I think she used to work there or something.”
“What’s she look like?”
“Dark hair, pretty.”
“Tall, short?”
“Little thing.”
“Age?”
“I don’t know. Thirties, forty, I guess. Listen, we didn’t do nothing we didn’t both want to do.”
“You had a fight with a man named Kitella.”
“Wasn’t much of a fight. Fucker is crazy. Man, we’re just walking around looking for sign and this fucker come out of nowhere with a baseball bat.”
“This was in June?”
“We were scouting for the fall.”
“Were you on his land?”
“Hell no, it was state land, but this asshole says it’s his, he’s got the license as a guide.”
“Guides don’t get exclusive licenses for an area,” Service said.
“I’m just telling you what the man claimed.”
“He took your hearse.”
“Ganked all our gear.”
“You didn’t report it.”
“Man, it was our rig, understand.”
“For poaching.”
“Right.”
“Colliver talked you into going back—to get even.”
“I didn’t want to go. Some guy kicks my ass, that’s it, he wins, know what I’m sayin’. But Colliver, he wouldn’t leave go, you know?”
“So you went.”
“Yeah, we knew where Kitella’s camp was, went to scope it out. This broad come out of the woods at me with a gun. Colliver run into the old man.”
“Did you see him?”
“Just the woman,” Fahrenheit said, shaking his head.
“She offer a deal?”
“No, Colliver heard that from the old man. Hannah had a radio. Her and me just sat there and when she got a radio call, she split.”
“Then Colliver told you about the old man.”
“Right, said he’d help us get Kitella, but he wanted some stuff.”
“Cable.”
“Right.”
“Did Colliver ever meet the woman?”
“Not that I know of. I took the spool up there and gave it to her.”
“Kitella ended up in the hospital,” Service said.
“That don’t break my heart,” Fahrenheit said.
“Were the woman and old man part of your bear business?”
“No.”
“You never saw her before this summer?”
“Not till that day in the woods.”
“Hannah.”
“That’s the name she told me.”
“Where did you sell the bears?” Ficorelli asked.
“Milwaukee.”
“Got names?”
“Colliver handled all that.”
“Bear Boy shoots ’em, his pal sells ’em,” Ficorelli said.
“That’s how it was,” Fahrenheit said.
“You take the galls?” Service asked.
“Got them first, and the paws, but we took the whole animal. Can sell all that shit, you know?”
“How many?”
“Six the last two years.”
“All in Michigan?”
Fahrenheit nodded.
“Here’s the deal: We bust Colliver and you testify,” Ficorelli said.
“I don’t do time,” Fahrenheit said.
“That’s not the deal.”
“Man,” Fahrenheit whined.
“Where do we find Colliver?” Service asked.
“His place, up on the river near Porterfield. It’s ten minutes from here.”
“Does he have a job?” Ficorelli asked.
“He works at not workin’.”
“Okay, Charley-boy, you’re gonna call Colliver and tell him you’re coming up. I’ll ride with you. Service will follow.”
“I don’t got to call. I just show up,” Charley Fahrenheit said. “We’re pals.”
“This time you’ll call. We want to be sure he’s there,” Service said.
“I don’t like this shit,” Fahrenheit said.
Ficorelli went to the living room and made a quick call.
Service looked at Fahrenheit. His eyes showed no emotion, his shoulders were slumped.
“You use a rifle on the bears?”
Fahrenheitt nodded. “It’s Colliver’s. My old lady don’t allow no guns. Always gotta have her way.”
“Colliver has it?”
“No man, I told you. That Kitella guy took everything, wiped us out.”
Ficorelli came back. “Make your call, Charley.”
Fahrenheit used the phone in the kitchen. “Dude, I’m comin’ over.” He hung up, looked at the officers. “He’s high.”
Great, Service thought.
By the time Service retrieved the Yukon, Fahrenheit and Ficorelli were in the pickup and waiting. Wayno waved for him to follow.
The house was two stories and was built on the south bank of the Peshtigo River. It needed fresh paint and a new roof. The yard had a pile of tires and the rusted hulks of four old vehicles, which had been cannibalized for parts.
There was a man standing in the yard when the pickup pulled in. The man turned to run, but Ficorelli jumped out of the truck, his weapon drawn, yelling. Service parked behind the pickup.
“I want my lawyer!” Colliver shouted. “Right fucking now!”
Ficorelli pushed Colliver on to the steps of the porch.
Colliver stared at Fahrenheit. “Pussy!”
Colliver was five-eight and well over two hundred pounds, with a bulging belly and long shaggy hair that hadn’t been washed in a long time. Service stood so he could observe both men.
“I’m Ficorelli,” Wayno said. “He’s Service.”
“Fuck the both of youse.”
“I had to tell ’em,” Fahrentheit said in his own defense. “The old lady put ’em on to us. They know everything.”
“Keep your chow hole shut, Bear Boy.”
Service walked around the house. There was a gutted deer hanging in a tree by the river. He almost missed it, but a crow fluttered up as he passed and caused him to stop and look.
“Got a deer out back,” Service said.
“Out of season,” Ficorelli said to Colliver. “And you don’t have privileges if it was, asswipe.”
“Put a liplock on my love muscle, you little faggot,” Colliver said.
Wayno used his radio to call Les Reynolds and the county. He advised Reynolds to get a search warrant.
Colliver said nothing while they waited.
He was tense and looked like he would bolt at the first opportunity. Ficorelli warned him, “Go ahead and run, you fat fuck. I’ll break both your fucking legs.”
“You talk big with a gun, man.”
Ficorelli started to unbuckle his gunbelt and Colliver hung his head. Service glared at Wayno. The Wisconsin warden was a cowboy. He’d never cut it in Michigan.
Warden Reynolds arrived with two county patrol cars right behind him.
Service showed him the deer. Reynolds checked the opacity of the eyes. “Late last night, early this morning,” he said. Service had come to the same conclusion.
Another deputy brought the search warrant.
Colliver whined but didn’t resist when they went into the house.
There were three freezers in the basement, all of them filled with packages of meat. They found four bags of bear galls, a dozen of them. Two mason jars filled with weed were in plain sight on the kichen counter.
Ficorelli held up the bags with the galls. “Looks like you aren’t his only Bear Boy,” he told Fahrenheit.
Ficorelli and Reynolds read Colliver his rights, but he refused to talk and demanded his attorney. Service stood beside him while he made the call, noted the numbers, and grinned. It was Sandy Tavolacci’s number.
It took two hours to search the house, log what they found, and transfer the men to the county jail.
Reynolds made a call to an assistant prosecuting attorney and explained what was going on.
He invited Service to sit in on the interrogation, which wouldn’t start until Tavolacci arrived.
Ficorelli made a phone call, and announced he had to get back to his own turf.
Service called the Crosbees and asked that they watch Newf and Cat for another day.
The assistant prosecutor’s name was Minerva Branch. She was in her fifties and wore thick glasses and spoke with a speech impediment. She said, “Leth ith really happy to nail thith one.”
“He’s not nailed yet,” Service said. “His lawyer’s good.”
“I know Thandy,” she said. “We’ve fenthed before. He lotht,” she added with a wink.
“I didn’t know he was a member of the Wisconsin bar.”
“Michigan, Withconthin, Minnethota, Illinoith, Indiana, Ohio, a weal Midwetht legal forth.”
A speech impediment made it tough to compete in a profession where speech was the primary tool. Service wondered if juries sympathized with her.
A deputy brought Colliver a tray of food. The prisoner threw it against the wall. “Fucking swill!” he said pushing the tray away.
Service and Branch ate hot dogs brought in by one of the jailers. “I keep tellin’ them brath, but all they bring are dogth.” She sounded resigned to gustatorial hell, and ate the whole dog.
“Lookth like you guyth went by the book,” she said as they ate. “That helpth a heap. How’d you get to them?”
“Front door all the way,” Service said.
She smiled. “You got inthide, thath all thath matterth.”
Service tried to think about an old man and an Indian woman named Hannah. While they waited, he called Grinda and asked her to meet him in Watersmeet.
“It’s on my way home,” she said. “You want a bump?”
“No, I’m driving up there tonight. I’ll TX when I get close.”
“See you tonight.”
When Tavolacci arrived he found Service sitting with Les Reynolds, the APA, and his client. Sandy looked at Service, and shook his head. “What the heck is this? You’ve got no jurisdiction here,” the lawyer said.
“I’m an observer,” Service said. “Remember what I told you on the phone?”
The lawyer frowned and stuck his nose in a notebook.
Minerva Branch passed a signed Miranda card to Tavolacci. “By the book, Sandy. Firtht item of buthineth, no bail.”
“C’mon, for one measly deer?”
“Multiple offender, unemployed, a dothen bear galth in pothethion, and he’th a flight rithk.”
“He’ll walk,” Tavolacci said.
“We’ll see,” the APA said.
Branch’s speech problem seemed to fade when she got down to business.
Tavolacci wanted fifteen minutes alone with his client.
Service and Branch went outside. He lit up. She looked longingly at his cigarette.
“You want one?” he asked, holding out the pack.
“Like life itthelf,” she said. “But I got kidth and they don’t buy it. You got kidth?”
“One,” he said, realizing he was getting used to the idea.
“Blow a little thmoke thith way,” she said, leaning toward him.
He did and she inhaled and laughed. “Blathted kidth.”
Tavolacci was somber when they went back into the room. “My client is pleading not guilty and he will not talk. We want bail.”
“Not a chance,” Branch said.
“The judge will decide,” Sandy countered.
Colliver was booked and taken to the courthouse for arraignment.
Service walked into the courtroom with the APA, who saw the judge and whispered to Service, “Thith will be innerething.”
The judge said, “Ms. Branch.”
“Defendant has multiple convictions and is accused of going over the state line to kill six bears over two years and we have evidence of a dozen more. You can see the other charges as well.”
No trace of a speech problem, Service noted.
“Mr. Tavolacci, it’s your turn,” the judge said.
“My client is a solid citizen, currently unemployed. He has not had a conviction in two years, he is not a risk for flight, and he did not kill any bears. Mr. Fahrenheit shot the animals.”
“Save your arguments for trial,” the judge said.
“This is a fuck job,” Tavolacci said.
“One more word and you are in contempt, Mister Tavolacci.”
“Holy cow,” the lawyer moaned.
The judge’s gavel hit the desk like a gunshot. “First offense is a fine. See the bailiff on the way out. The county doesn’t take checks. Second offense you spend the night inside, am I clear?”
“Yes, your Honor.”
She turned to look at the prisoner. “Are you employed, Mr. Colliver?”
“I work around my house,” he said.
“What sort of work do you do?”
“This and that.”
The judge raised an eyebrow. “Your annual income?”
“I don’t remember.”
“How long has it been since you had a paying job?”
“I don’t remember,” Colliver said.
“Bail denied,” she said. “Remand to county until trial. Conference in my chambers, tomorrow at 11 a.m. See you then, counselor.”
There was no sign of Fahrenheit.
“Did I miss something in there?” Service asked when they got outside.
“She’th Judge Marfug. She’th vegan, antivivithectionith, and a thufi master.”
“Sorry?” Service said.
“Soo-fee,” the APA said, forcing the word out. “She danth by thpinning. She hathe people who violate fith and game lawth.”
“What happens to Fahrenheit?”
“Got to get him a lawyer.”
“He opened the door for us.”
“It will be taken into account,” Branch said, touching his arm
. “I won’t fight bail on him.”
Service visited Fahrenheit in the jail. “The court will appoint an attorney.”
“I don’t know if I can afford bail,” he said.
Service gave him his card. “If you help us find Hannah and the old man, things will go easier for you.”
“I told you everything,” he said.
“If you think of anything else, call me collect. You’re gonna have plenty of time to think.”
“Can you let my old lady know?”
“Sure.”
He swung by Fahrenheit’s house. No lights on. He continued into town to the Muskie Motel. Wayno’s truck was there. The feisty little warden had no judgment. Service went to the reception desk. “I’m looking for a man and a woman. The man’s driving that truck.” He pointed to the lot and held up his badge.
The man behind the desk looked through his register. “Room 28, ground floor on the end.”
Service knocked on the door and said softly, “Wayno.”
Ficorelli cracked open the door, peered out, his hair damp. “What?”
“Charley’s in the county jail. If his wife wants to hire a lawyer for him, now’s the time, otherwise they’ll appoint someone.”
“I heard,” Mary Ellen Fahrenheit called out. “Let him rot.”
“The APA won’t fight bail,” Service said over Ficorelli’s head.
“I’ll post bond when I get to it,” the wife said. “Do him good to think about what he’s done.”
Wayno nodded and closed the door.
Service went into a McDonald’s and got a cup of coffee. It was a long drive to Watersmeet and too late to call the office. Fern would be pissed.
24
It would take too long to get to Watersmeet through Michigan. Service headed due west out of Marinette, and forty miles out swung north on W-32 just east of the Menominee Indian Reservation. From the turn it was pretty much a straight eighty-mile shot through the Potawatomie Indian Reservation and Nicolet National Forest to Iron River, and then another forty miles to Watersmeet, a total of about one hundred and sixty miles, all on two lanes in the darkness under a canopy of stars and a gray sliver of moon.
The road north passed through few villages and no towns of any size, the undulating terrain marked by rolling hills and occasional hogback ridges, both sides of the two-lane road covered with dense forests that grew down to within a few feet of the shoulders and threatened like a constrictor to cross and pinch the road closed. The air was cooling, inviting nightly freezes that would begin to sink a layer of permafrost into the ground for the snow blanket that would follow. Deer were still in their summer habitats, grouped by gender, bucks with bucks and does with fawns. Soon, when the weather turned cold enough, bucks’ chests would swell with hormonal surges and they would separate, each male alone to begin hunting does to mate with. Tonight the deer were interested only in food, and were gathered in openings and along the roads, taking the easy grass, their eyes reflecting a witless green in his headlights.
Chasing a Blond Moon Page 29