Chasing a Blond Moon

by Joseph Heywood

  It was not a satisfying conversation, despite what seemed like sympathetic words.

  Service returned to his cubicle and called up his e-mail. The blinking mail icon indicated a lengthy message coming through and after five minutes, he left the machine to download on its own, got coffee in a paper cup, and went outside for a smoke. It was sunny and cool, Lake Superior a dark green and fading to its winter color. By November it would be the hue of spent charcoal and treacherous, the most dangerous time to be on the water. Traffic raced by on US 41, mostly trucks bristling with antennae. Without trucks life in the U.P. would be even more hardpressed than it was. The U.P. tended to lag behind most states in choices for people, but they always got here sooner or later, both the good and the bad, and most of it by truck.

  Four consecutive automobiles went by with women talking on cell phones. Nantz was always on the cell phone, and while initially he had not been receptive to having one, it had proven its value. He mashed his cigarette in a red bucket filled with sand and went back to his office. The e-mail was still downloading and he hoped a power interruption wouldn’t knock it off-line. He picked up Outi Ranta’s telephone record and studied it. She averaged six or seven incoming calls a day: the bank, power company, standard fare. Three or four calls went out, the two main recipients S. Imperato and L. Ranta, her sister-in-law. Lenore Ranta had worked for years at Marble Arms in Gladstone, selling knives, and was married to a knife-maker at the factory. Not many calls between sisters-in-law, but some. Service looked back to the spring. More then than now, few since Onte’s death. Significance of the reduced frequency? The Ranta brothers had been partners in the business at one time, but Onte had ended up with the whole shebang at some point. Hard to say what any of this meant, just numbers to look at. Still. . . .

  Cambridge needed to get hold of her business records. If there was nothing more to this case, they all needed to know. It was tangential to his interests, but a tangent was like a small hole in a tooth: It felt larger than it was. Why weren’t there calls from Ranta to her own business? There were until June, but after her husband’s death, none, which was when she took over the running of the business. Most small businesspeople lived their work. Odd. He looked through the records. No calls to the store, absolutely none. That seemed unusual at best.

  Ranta’s work reminded him that Honeypat told him she was working at HPC as a bookkeeper on the night shift. He had somehow ignored this, maybe thought it was bull, but it was a detail and he had time.

  He called the pet casket company in Gladstone and asked for Mae Loireleux, the manager. She was well known in the local business community and reviled by employees who called her “Mae Not” because she insisted on doing things her way, and wasn’t open to innovation unless the idea came from her. He knew the woman enough to exchange greetings and not much more. She had a loud voice and an in-your-face style that kept most people at bay. Her husband had bailed years ago and as near as Service knew, she was alone and likely to stay that way.

  “Mae?” he said when the receptionist got her. “Grady Service, DNR.”

  “How’s your business?” she asked. To Loireleux all life was reduced to business.

  “Steady,” he said.

  “Wish ours was. Little dips in the economy we can get past, but this economy is like the bloody Grand Canyon, eh? You’d think people would be consistent in their affection and concern for their pets, but it isn’t so. Times get tough, people cut back. I can understand that; I mean, we do it with our kids, right? Are you a father? No, you’re the bachelor with the trail of broken hearts. I have a daughter, she’s sixteen and not sweet. She’s been bugging me for a cell phone. I said, ‘We live in Gladstone, your friends aren’t but two blocks away, why do you need a phone, eh?’ I told her times are tough and we have to cut back, and my ex, of course, he’s no bloody help. He said it’s up to me, so I told her no more talk about cell phones, end of subject, we don’t need surprise bills at the end of the month. The girl can’t pick up her room or keep gas in the car, eh. So that’s a week or so ago and she gets quiet and yesterday she pipes up at breakfast, and she’s got the solution—a prepaid cell phone, like those cards you can buy at the convenience store. She said she’ll make the payments with her babysitting money and it won’t cost me anything. I told her I’d think on it.”

  “That’s nice,” Service said, wishing she would shut up.

  “Sorry,” she said, “I guess my daughter’s got me all worked up. You called me.”

  Finally, he thought. “Do you have an employee named . . . Grace Thundergiver?” He’d almost said Honeypat Allerdyce.

  “I wish I still had her,” Mae Loireleux said.

  “Still?”

  “She worked here for a week and left, no explanation. Just disappeared and never come back, not even to pick up her paycheck.”

  “She was a bookkeeper?”

  “At night. Said she didn’t want a public job, insisted she’d be happy with numbers. You don’t find many people that good with numbers, but she was one of them.”

  The woman sounded impressed. “She left, but you’d still like to have her back?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t hire her again based on the way she left, but she knew all about phones and computers. She used one of the prepaid kinds and talked several of the girls here into doing the same. With her mind for numbers, I figured she could tell me if it was a good deal.”

  “When did Ms. Thundergiver leave?”

  “Musta been coupla weeks ago. I can check if you want. Why?”

  “I’m just doing some follow-up on a case. How did she come to HPC?”

  “Just walked in one morning and started talking. The woman has the charm for sure, especially with the men, but the women thought she was nice too.”

  “Did she leave a number?”

  “Just her cell phone. Said she didn’t have a phone where she was staying, that the cell was all anybody needed.”

  “Do you have record of it?”

  “You betcha.”

  She left the phone, came back and gave him the number, and he wrote it down.

  The area code was in Colorado. He dialed the number, got a no-longer-in-service recording.

  He looked in the phone book and found the name of a business in Marquette that sold prepaid phones and asked the clerk who answered if all prepaid numbers were in Colorado.

  “No,” she said, “Georgia and some other states too, because the tariffs are lower there, which is why the businesses are there. In the telecom business you look for any advantage you can find.”

  “So you could live in Michigan and have a number from one of those other states?”

  “Of course. Everything is managed by computers,” the woman said, not sounding particularly happy about the reality.

  “Is it possible to get a record of all calls to and from a prepaid number?”

  “Not without a subpoena, and the rules on that vary by state. Most of these businesses run out of states that are pretty protective of privacy. That’s another reason they’re there.”

  More than interesting, Service thought. Allerdyce had never had a telephone and the nearest pay phone was a long way off. How he communicated with his people had been the subject of considerable speculation in the division over the years. While Allerdyce’s competitors were going electronic, there had been no evidence of Limpy following suit until last year when Service was certain he’d seen Limpy using a Family Radio Service device. He also knew that Limpy had installed a complex advanced warning system at the compound. Maybe the old poacher was more ­up-to-date than people thought. Honeypat sure seemed to be keeping up with the times.

  The Marquette office had phone books for the entire Upper Peninsula. Service got out the Delta County book, called Marble Arms, and asked to talk to Lenore Ranta, sister-in-law.

  “Lenore, Grady Service.”

  “I heard
youse found Outi,” she said.

  “I didn’t find her, but I was there.”

  “Too selfish to commit suicide,” Lenore said. “All that woman cared about was money and men. If Onte hadn’t died I think he’da left her, the way she fooled around.”

  “Someone in particular?” Some of the things you learned after a person died were not all that flattering. Mourning passed quickly except for those closest to the dead.

  “Strangers, one-night-stands, never local. I give her that, not putting out in da back yard.”

  “Onte knew?”

  “Was what killed ’im, ask me.”

  Her interpretation.

  “She was a pro, ya know, down to Windsor when Onte met her.”

  “He told you this?”

  “We hired a detective, cost us a heap, but worth it, hey. She just kept spendin’ and spendin’ and da business was goin’ down da tubes.”

  “Did the two of you talk much?”

  “Before Onte passed, ya know, da right ting to do for family, but since den, forget it. She never liked family, just money. Her idea for Onte to buy us out, hey. We needed cash back den, and we couldn’t stand da woman, so we took da offer. My hubby never really wanted out. We’d like ta buy ’er back, but da bank’s gonna get it now, and dey don’t offer good deals, hey. Onte left a will. She din’t.”

  “Did Outi use a cell phone?”

  Lenore snorted. “Had two of ’em, one for da business and one for her other stuff, ya know.”

  “Do you have her number?”

  “Only way to get one of ’em was sleep wit ’er.”

  “Do you remember when she started using a cell phone?”

  “Last spring when Onte was sick, I tink. Yeah, I’m sure, it was den.”

  “Do you know what brand or service it was?”

  “She never showed it to me, but I seen ’er usin’ it plenty. Was purple, I remember.”

  Service immediately called the store in Marquette again and got the same clerk. “I don’t have the brand, but the phone I’m interested in may be purple,” he said.

  She laughed. “They almost all make a purple phone now, and there are companies who make colored covers. Purple doesn’t tell us anything. Sorry.”

  He noticed that the e-mail had finished coming in, and saw that the note, along with an attachment, was from Ferma. Her address was: bearwoman@worldnet.com. The message was to the point:

  Dear Officer Service: I regret the untoward delay in responding to your inquiry. A colleague was derelict in informing me. If the samples of S. thibetanus are as purported, they represent invaluable scientific evidence of what may be a rare color phase of S. thibetanus, or more likely, and in my opinion, a new species of ursus, heretofore unconfirmed, but long rumored. Reports of the animal have persisted in Southeast Asia for the past century. During the Vietnam War there were several serendipitous reports, but the Khmer Rouge was in brutal and absolute control of the target habitat, and no on-site scientific inquiries or expeditions were possible. A live animal has never been confirmed by a reliable source, and the sole evidence consists of the hair sample preceding yours. As a ­conservation ­officer you are undoubtedly aware of the global animal parts market; in this regard, a live specimen of a new mammalian species would be scientifically invaluable. Commercially such an animal would bring a price beyond imagination, one estimate being in the range of $200K USD. Everything must be done to ensure the safety of a live specimen. That you collected samples in Michigan may suggest that a live animal has been captured and maintained there. There being no modern photograph extant, I am attaching a copy of a rare nineteenth-century print (of poor quality) from Southeast Asia. You will note the hanging cage. We believe this species to have been decimated over the centuries. Its flesh is said by practitioners of various cultural traditional medicines (China, SEA, etc.) to possess significant medical properties, which is what drives the current market in bear parts. More importantly, it is thought that the consumption of the animal’s flesh will cause good fortune and power to accrue to the consumer. Specifically, it is believed that if the animal is eaten immediately after being dipped in vivo into boiling oil that the meat and tissue provide advantages beyond medicinal powers. The heart is, of course, the most valued part. The rarity of the animal, we believe, stems from these and similar beliefs fostered in part by those who seek commercial gain. If through some fluke there is a live specimen, we must do all in our power to see that it is protected, or a species may pass that will never be seen again. The animal is thought to range in size from 45 to 65 kilos, which places it at the lowest end of the ursine spectrum. Males, of course, are larger than females. Please keep me informed of further developments.

  Sincerely, T. Ferma, Ph.D.

  He checked the top of the note. No copies. The professor apparently didn’t wish to share her speculations with others—or share credit if her hunch was right. Goddamned metrics. He got out his dictionary, looked under the listing for measures, converted kilograms to pounds, which worked out to ninety to one hundred forty.

  He looked at the sepia print for a long time. A light-colored bear (nearly white against the brown background) was locked in what looked like a huge birdcage, suspended in the air. Despite the print’s poor quality, the animal’s terror seemed palpable.

  The captain came over after Service called him, read the note without comment, and studied the photo on the computer. When he was finished, he looked up at his detective and said, “Siquin Soong?”

  Service forwarded the e-mail to his home computer before leaving the office, and called Les Reynolds, who was just leaving his house for night patrol. “Can you talk to Colliver? We need to know if he ever called Kelo, and if so, the number. Otherwise, how did they communicate?”

  “Consider it done,” Reynolds said.

  Les Reynolds was a pro, unflappable, thorough—very unlike Wayno Ficorelli.

  36

  Nantz called at 5 p.m. “Did I catch you eating?”

  “Thinking about thinking about it,” he said. His mind was too occupied to be hungry.

  She laughed. “You’re not thinking about food. I’m hungry for you, Service, what about that?”

  “That’s different,” he said.

  “Jackson on Friday, right?”

  “We’re all set. I talked to Tree. He and Kalina have a plan for us. Fourteen hundred hours at the airport, right?”

  “I’ll have to be handcuffed to not attack you on the tarmac.”

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  “I talked to the people at the Lansing Board of Education and they did some poking around. It turns out that the yearbook photographs of Toogood and another kid got flipflopped by mistake that year.”

  Service sat back and put his hand on his forehead. A mistake?

  “You’re not talking. Do you want the right photo faxed up to the office?”

  “Yes, to tie off the loose end. Thanks.”

  “You’re still not talking.”

  “Stuff on my mind.”

  “Hope it’s the same stuff I have on mine,” she said. “How’s our kid?”

  “Good. I stopped to see him the other night.”

  “I know, he called me. He was really pleased, Grady.”

  “Is this a conspiracy?”

  “Of the best kind, honey. Nothing but the best.”

  Her voice made him smile, did something to his chemistry. “I love you, Mar,” he said.

  “Friday, babe,” she said. “Gotta scoot.”

  Service greeted the sun, sitting on the back steps with Newf and Cat, who had decided to grace them with her presence. They shared a raspberry Pop-Tart.

  Les Reynolds called later that morning as Service sat in his office, staring at the photograph of the blond moon bear on his computer screen.

  “We got a number from Colliver. It�
�s a cell phone.”

  “Prepaid?”

  Reynolds paused. “Just a cell phone. We called the number, but no answer. The vendor gave us an address in Nelma, Wisconsin, that’s Forest County. I’m there now with the county people and the Wispies. There’s a body.”

  Wispies were members of the Wisconsin State Patrol, the state’s equivalent of the MSP.

  “Who does the phone belong to?”

  “It’s registered to an Oliver Toogood of Iron County.”

  Service sat back and blinked. Trapper Jet? “Did you find Kelo?”

  “The deceased is an elderly male with one leg. There’s gonna be an autopsy.”

  “That’s Toogood,” Service said. “He claimed that Kitella burned his cabin.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Get the autopsy results to me soon as you can, okay?”

  “One of the Wispies used to be a registered nurse. He says the old man looks like he starved to death.”

  Service went outside to walk around and clear his head and the captain followed him.

  “Are you all right, Detective?”

  Ollie Toogood had not been the only nearly blind man.

  Trapper Jet and Honeypat had teamed up against Kitella. Skunk had helped. This made sense, he tried to tell himself, but there was something still gnawing at him. The cell phone in Nelma had not been disconnected. Somebody wanted them to find Ollie. They would not find Kelo, Service expected, dead or alive.

  The fax from Lansing came in just before noon. The student photo was definitely Ollie Toogood.

  Service wished Eugenie Cukanaw would call back with information on Magic Wan, but after their one brief conversation with the investigator, she had not returned his call. He pulled up the picture of the bear again. The blue boat had been scuttled off Laughing Fish Point for a reason. The bear could have been moved with a lot less trouble, but Terry Pung had taken the boat there, and sunk it. Why?

  Irvin Wan allegedly had a camp in the U.P. His connection to Pung, if any, was not apparent. He couldn’t just sit around. He needed to start preparing to look, and western Alger County looked like the only logical starting place.