Shadow of the Wolf Tree

by Joseph Heywood

  “So, you’re . . . military?”

  “Retired early on a medical. Nobody wants to ride in a tank with a freak.”

  Who is this weirdo? Service wondered as the waitress brought the burgers.

  “You ever heard the term ‘hard green’?” Funke asked.

  Service shook his head. “Money?”

  “Maybe in Fairyland long ago; now it refers to environmental activists who aren’t interested in fucking around with publicity and winning public sympathy. The motto of my outfit was ‘Strike hard,’ and that’s also what these assholes believe. They don’t believe in change from within. They want to blow the whole system to fucking kingdom come and invent and run the new kingdom themselves.”

  “You know who these people are?”

  “Some of them. Very few. What Leukonovich is looking for is their funding sources so we can choke the cocksuckers.”

  He’s some flavor of national security, but which agency? ATF, Homeland Security, FBI, NSA? The federal government’s security system rivals the organization Funke attributes to Van Dalen Foundation.

  “You think we’re dealing with some kind of hard green outfit here?”

  “Not an outfit. Think al-Qaeda and the Animal Liberation Front. No dues, no oaths, no secret handshakes. You just go out and stir the shit, help foster chaos with body count, and you’re a member. Nobody gives you orders or directions. We call this style of organization ‘terrentrepreneurial.’ ”

  “Chaos?”

  “The perfect habitat for terrorists.”

  Something he’s not telling us, Service thought. Maybe a lot he’s not telling.

  Funke said with a growl, “Don’t bother wasting your time trying to figure out what outfit I’m with. You’ve never heard of it and you never will, unless we fuck up, and we don’t plan on that happening.”

  “Art Lake?”

  “Tonight’s the first I’ve heard that term.”

  “Part of Van Dalen?

  “Leukonovich has a scent. When she gets a good trail, I expect she’ll be in touch.”

  Funke ignored my first question. “The name Gorsline ring a bell?” Service asked.

  “Ring one for you?”

  “I think I understand what Zhenya is doing. What about you?”

  “I never know what Z is up to, and I’m just passing through. I wanted to meet the man Z talks so much about. She says you’re like an alpha wolf tracking his last meal.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

  “Fuck compliments—it says what it says. That’s enough for our kind!”

  Our kind? Service wasn’t sure he liked the term or its vague emphasis.

  • • •

  Friday was quiet in the truck afterwards. Twenty miles south she said, “Leukonovich?”

  “An IRS agent I once worked with.”

  “According to Funke, whom I would note is one particularly creepy individual, it sounds like Leukonovich has a pretty keen interest in you—for someone she just worked with once.”

  “She’s different,” he said.

  “As in good different, or not-so-good different?”

  He looked over at her. “Interesting different, scary different.”

  “Did you sleep with her?” She held up her hands, “Sorry, sorry, that’s none of my business.”

  Five miles later she looked at him. “Have you heard the rumors about me?”

  “There are always rumors and gossip about female officers newly transferred or promoted.”

  “Knowing that doesn’t make it less unsettling. The word on you is that you’re a player and a shit-disturber, but what I see is a man who works well with women and treats them as equals. It’s not always that way in the Troops.”

  “There aren’t that many COs, and we all do the same job and share the same risks. The challenges on the Indiana or Ohio border are qualitatively the same as they are here. We judge by performance first, personality and cooperation second. Plumbing isn’t relevant.”

  “Now Funke,” she said in an abrupt change of subject and direction. “He really gives me the willies.”

  “Leukonovich vouches for him, and no, I haven’t slept with her.”

  “I said it was none of my business.”

  “But you still wanted to know. Now you do.”

  “Now I do, but my uneasiness about Funke persists.”

  Unknown branch of government, overly breezy style, a sense he knows more than he cares to share, asked no penetrating questions, no follow-up on anything he’d been told. “I have reservations, too,” he admitted.

  33

  Ironwood, Gogebic County

  SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 2006

  Friday called Service on his cell phone as he drove west from Crystal Falls. “Peachtree Enterprises has filed theft complaints on two occasions,” she said. “Several hundred pounds of wire were stolen from their plant in the first instance, and just under a ton from a delivery truck a year ago March. That truck came to the Baraga Maxie Unit. The Wisconsin State Patrol handled both investigations. The first one they got an employee for. The second remains unsolved; the driver of the truck was a long-term employee of a contract transportation company Peachtree had used for years.”

  She added, “The driver made a delivery to a max-control facility in Wabash, Indiana, crossed the Mackinac Bridge, overnighted in Manistique, and got to the prison the next morning. The goods were gone when he got there.”

  “Sleeper truck?”

  “Motel. Everything checked out, and the Manistique city cops and Troops there helped the Wispies by canvassing the area. Nobody saw anything.”

  Wispies—Wisconsin State Patrol members. “How bulky is a ton of wire?”

  “Requires a fifteen-foot bed or box. I checked the databases and called Negaunee on the off chance they had a report of a stolen or abandoned truck that would fill the bill. No hits yet.”

  Service thought for a minute. “Probably happened in Indiana, not Manistique.”

  “Really?”

  “Goods were unloaded in Indiana. The truck was open and vulnerable there.”

  “Theoretically it could be either,” she said.

  “Yeah, but the thing about stolen goods is that the further you move them, the greater your exposure. It’s also possible this hasn’t got a damn thing to do with our case.”

  “I had the lab send a wire sample to Peachtree to verify the lot. We’ll find out if there’s a match.”

  “Have you talked to the manufacturer yet?”

  “As soon as we’re done. I’ll let them know to expect the sample and ask them about white phosphorus.”

  She didn’t forget. I did. “Mike there yet?”

  “Should be by the time you get here. Sorry about last night. Your personal life is none of my business. I still don’t like Funke.”

  “There in ten,” he said, terminating the call.

  • • •

  Millitor looked exhausted. He drank an entire cup of coffee in one pull and immediately refilled the cup. “I spent last night at the Duck Creek Bar. Annie Bonner was a no-show, but the Go-Deps all seem to know her. She’s nineteen and already has a pretty nasty-looking sheet: possession of dope, misdemeanor larceny by conversion, two Minor In Posessions, and a DWI. The court suspended her license and sentenced her to traffic school and five days’ public service. The Go-Deps think she hooks part-time, which they think is ironic because she’s pretty much available free of charge most of the time.”

  “She complete traffic school?”

  “Scheduled for today and tomorrow in Ironwood, eight to five. She has to get her license back before she can do her public service component. The county won’t pay for her gas.”

  “Want to take a run up that way, see
if we can catch her at lunch?”

  Friday said, “I’ll be talking to Peachtree and D.O.C. Purchasing. I still want to know if Alger or Baraga has had any wire pilferage.”

  Another angle that had slipped his mind.

  “We’ll be back this afternoon,” he told her. Ironwood was about ninety miles west of Iron River, pretty much a straight shot on a good two-lane highway with wide shoulders, which helped you see deer, bear, moose, wolves, and other sundry critters crossing at night.

  Service checked his AVL to see if Three One Eighteen was active, but his marker didn’t show. He called him on the cell. Three One Eighteen was Loren Barr, two years out of the Academy; he’d been a Chippewa County road dep before catching on with the DNR.

  “Loren, Grady Service. You in service yet?”

  “Yeah.”

  You know Annie Bonner?”

  “You mean Anyboner? Every cop over here knows her—no doubt some of them biblically.”

  “Out of control?”

  “Trending.”

  “You ever bust her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Where’s traffic school over there?”

  “Gogebic Community College. They’ve even got a driving course in Parking Lot D, and a classroom in the Lindquist Center. You need backup?”

  “No thanks.”

  “You haven’t met Anyboner yet.”

  “Thanks for telling me.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Sandy Tavolacci called while they were en route to Ironwood and was not a happy man. “Where the hell do you get off harassing my client?” the lawyer demanded.

  “Which one?” Service answered. “The paying one or the nonpaying one?”

  “You think this is a joke?”

  “What the hell do you want, Sandy? I’m busy.”

  “I want to meet with you about Tikka Noli.”

  “When I’m ready.”

  “We’re ready now.”

  “That’s what Custer said, and look how wrong he was.”

  Tavolacci hung up.

  There were nine students in Parking Lot D, either young or elderly, the two ages when driving skills seemed to cause the most problems. Service spotted an attractive young woman in Lycra shorts, more body doodads and things stuck in her face than he could count, and a long-sleeved sweatshirt, stenciled in red with an arrow pointing down: meet my samson. She leaned against a light pole while the instructor negotiated the course with an elderly student who took out every orange pylon she was supposed to avoid.

  The young woman paid no attention as Service and Millitor approached her, but said, “S’up, fuzzy-wuzzies? I’m here eating my shit. You see that old bitch? She drives like a total fucking glooey, man.”

  “Annie Bonner?” Service said.

  “You don’t know, you’re the only swinging dick in the county,” she said with a gutteral growl.

  Service showed his shield, but she barely looked. “Cracker Jacks or the Dollar Store?”

  “Pretty hot out here for long sleeves,” Millitor said.

  “Gotta breeze comin’ off Lake Superior,” the girl said.

  Millitor held up a finger. “Musta hit a calm.”

  “Happens, dude.”

  “I’m thinkin’ you ought to shed that shirt, enjoy the sun,” Millitor said. “You look pale.”

  “I’ve got, like, seriously sensitive skin. It stays on,” the girl said. “Free country.”

  “For some people, the trick’s to stay free,” Millitor said.

  “What the fuck do you want, dudes? I’m trying to concentrate here.”

  “That’s the sound bite of the day,” Millitor said with a grin.

  She turned and faced Service. Eyes sunken, folds of skin from too-rapid weight loss. “I’ll talk to youse,” she said, “not Old Dirty Harry.”

  “I think Clint’s got the bigger gun,” Millitor said, obviously enjoying himself.

  “There’s a news flash,” she said, holding her forefinger and thumb about an inch apart.

  “Kareem Abdul-Jabbar,” Service said.

  “Am I supposed to know her?”

  “He knows you.”

  “Don’t ’zackly put the dude in exclusive company,” she said.

  “You’re on the nod, girlie,” Millitor said.

  Her nostrils flared, but no explosion came. “Man.”

  “Just a few questions,” Service said.

  “Kareem Abdul-Jabbar,” Service repeated. “If we have to haul you over to the cop shop, your class will be done, and you’ll have to do it all over again. You want that?”

  She sighed. “Okay,” she said with a glare. “So I, like, know the dude—what’s the big deal?”

  “He’s headed south to the graybar hotel,” Millitor said.

  “Shit happens, man.”

  Service said, “He told me you told him about someone you know who cooks meth, Red P, maybe likes to cook red to white.”

  “Mostly I’m, like, totally color-blind, man,” she said. Then, “I talk, what do I get?”

  “We’ll let you finish your class and your sentence, and get out of your way.”

  “You got a fag?” she asked.

  Service held out his pack and lit one for her. She inhaled deeply and exhaled explosively.

  “Big dude, hung like the Hulk, southern guy. Likes to blow shit up.”

  “Got a name?”

  She pursed her lips. “Brett Fav-ree,” she said.

  “It’s Favre,” Millitor said, “Packer quarterback, and that tip ain’t gonna fly.”

  “I’m not talking to him,” she said to Service, and stomped her foot in frustration.

  “One more chance,” Service said, “or you’re out of here.”

  “Just know his first name, man. Jericho. I made that boy tumble down good,” she said with a leer.

  “Local?”

  “Marquette, dude. Said he teaches chemistry or ebonics or some-such shitology up at the college, but you know men, man. They lie about the number of dicks they got to get some, ya know?”

  “Address?”

  She shrugged. “Did him at the Fuck Creek Bar,” she said. “Can I get back to my class?”

  “He a regular down there?”

  “What’s regular?” she countered.

  “You’re there a lot.”

  “I seen ’im now and then.”

  “Recently?”

  “Couple of weeks back, maybe.”

  “Taller than me?” Service asked.

  “Wasn’t that kinda big I’m talking about. Hang it out and get it up, and I’ll tell youse.”

  “Cook or candyman?” Millitor said, reaching for her sleeve.

  She yanked her arm away and nearly fell. Service caught her and put her back on her feet. Eighty pounds max, he thought. “Maybe he multitasks,” she said.

  “Maybe?”

  She twitched a shoulder.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Service said.

  • • •

  The two drove to the Gogebic County sheriff’s office in Bessemer. A prisoner in a jumpsuit was washing a patrol car. The shift sergeant was inside talking to another resident.

  Service introduced himself and gave enough information to encourage cooperation. “You guys ever deal with a crank cook called Jericho? Could be an aka.”

  “Talk to Casey, he’s our UPSET guy—knows all the scumbags.”

  “But you’ve never heard the name?”

  “UPSET plays things tight. Casey’s in back right now. You can catch him if you hurry.”

  Casey was Levi Casey, complete with facial hair, months since his last haircut and fingers stained yellow by nicotine. “The serge
ant sent us,” Service said, and went through his story again.

  Like a lot of narcoppers, Casey was laid-back, used to wading in ambiguity. “You talked to Anyboner? Real sweetheart, ain’t she?”

  “Jericho,” Service said.

  “Guess I heard that name, the dude with the alleged legendary long schlong. We looked for him for a while, but he never showed.”

  “Marquette-based?”

  “Could be from anywhere, or he could be total bullshit. Druggies make up all sorts of names and throw them around to get us off their scents. Tell so many lies they can’t remember what’s what even when they try.”

  “You check with Marquette?”

  “Don’t have the time or budget for that kind of follow-up. We put it in an e-mail and sent it over. If they can make something, good for them.”

  “You ever hear he likes to blow up things?”

  Casey grinned. “He’s a cook, and the odds are he’ll get his wish sooner or later.”

  Millitor said, “Bonner’s wearing long sleeves in the sun today.”

  Casey pursed his lips. “I don’t think she’s a spiker unless she started this weekend. But I’ll stop over and check her out.”

  “Tell her if this Jericho thing turns out to be bullshit, we’ll be back,” Millitor said.

  “Anyboner don’t scare,” Casey said.

  • • •

  On the way west, Millitor lit a cigar. “I got offered the UPSET lead in Iron and passed on it. Sometimes the gut is right,” he said smugly.

  “The girl looks bad,” Service said.

  “Classic clinical signs. Won’t be long till she gets way out there and can’t get back. Brain’s already toasted. Addicts,” Millitor said with a tone more sympathetic than accusatory.

  Service held up his cigarette. “You’d think we could emphathize.”

  “You’d think,” Millitor said.

  34

  Crystal Falls, Iron County

  SUNDAY, JUNE 4, 2006

  “How many times I gotta say it?” Tikka Noli whined.