Cedarville was located at the head of the Les Cheneaux Islands archipelago, a string of islands that had been home to some of America’s neufiest families for more than a century. Marquette Island, the largest in the chain, had its own private airport. Lots of locals worked as caretakers for absentee estate owners, and were often rich and reliable sources of information to game wardens.
Service called Colyard at home and got his wife, Pam, whose volume equaled her husband’s. “How’s it feel to be mingling with the rich?” he asked.
“Give it a break, Service!” she shot back.
“Growler around?”
“He said he was going to patrol the Pine River today. Has reports of snaggers over there.”
Service thanked her, looked up Colyard’s cell-phone number, and buzzed him.
The voice that answered made Service move the phone away from his ear.
“What?!”
“Service.”
“Call me back in five, okay?”
“Where are you?”
“Join the twenty-first century and look at your frigging AVL!” Colyard shouted before hanging up.
Service flipped up the computer screen and touched it several times to take him into Mackinac County via the automatic vehicle locator. He saw Colyard’s icon about five miles up a two-track that dead-ended at the river.
Service arrived at the site to find Colyard with six men around him, all of them yelling and trying to talk and Colyard drowning them out. “I don’t give a shit how the last frigging officer interpreted the frigging rules. You gotta frigging one-ounce torpedo and you’re jerking it like a frigging bird dog won’t get in the water, and that’s the action of snagging. I don’t give a shit whether you’ve got a frigging fish on the end or not. You’re attempting to take by unlawful means. That’s the frigging law, asswipe!”
“Discussion group?” Service said to announce his presence.
“Ain’t no discussion here,” Colyard said. “These wads claim the last CO said they have to have a fish in possession for it to be a violation.”
“Only if you’re fishing legit methods,” Service said. Heads immediately dropped.
“Don’t run!” Colyard bellowed as Service saw one of the group bolt. He reacted immediately, took one step, felt a sharp pain in his upper calf, and went down on all fours with searing pain. Colyard glanced at Service, flew after the fleeing man, took out his baton, and struck the runner on the outside of the knee, sending him sprawling. He immediately rolled him on his face, pulled his hands behind him and cuffed him, while the man started screaming, “They’re too tight, they’re too tight!”
Colyard dragged the man over to Service and looked at his colleague. “Does the detective got him a boo-boo?”
“Something popped in my calf.”
“Ice, elevate, heat,” the other officer said.
“I’ll try to remember that,” Service said. He struggled to his feet, but when he tried to take a step, pain shot through his leg again. He wavered and Colyard caught him by the arm. At that moment the other five snaggers all fled like cockroaches under a sudden light.
The one on the ground moaned, “My leg is killing me.”
Colyard laughed out loud. “Your stupidity is killing you. Where the hell do your buddies think they’re going? I’ve got all their frigging drivers’ licenses.”
Service said, “I guess this isn’t working out the way they’d planned.”
Colyard said, “I love it when they run!”
Service limped to his truck and got in.
Colyard said, “I’ve got ice in the cooler in my truck,” and went to retrieve it. Service took a blue latex glove from the box of them he carried, filled a glove with ice, and used duct tape to secure the makeshift ice bag to the back of his leg.
“Stylin’!” Colyard said with a deep laugh. “We’ll wait for the jerkwads to come back, stroke them, and send ’em on their way.” He looked down at the man on the ground. “Any of your crew got outstanding warrants?”
“My leg!” the man keened.
“Don’t be a baby. They don’t write warrants on frigging body parts, bug-brain.”
“Let me have some more ice,” Service said. “I’m gonna take off. I’ll stop along the way and get more.”
“Bullshit. After I get done with this mob, we’ll head over to my place and let Pam play doctor with us.”
“Us?”
“I’ll think of something for me,” Growler said. “I love sympathy sex! What the hell are you doing over this way?”
“I need computer advice.”
“For what?”
“Questions for New York wardens.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Salmon egg processing.”
“Hmm. Talk to their environmental branch law enforcement people.”
“I’m cold,” the man on the ground said.
“Yeah,” Colyard said. “Guess you didn’t run long enough to frigging heat up.”
“You hit my leg,” the man protested.
“Don’t remind me, jerkwad. I was aiming at your frigging skull,” Growler said. “My aim ain’t what it used to be.”
“I’ll get a lawyer,” the man said.
“Good—you’ll need one: resisting arrest, attempting to flee, fishing with illegal methods . . . he’ll have plenty of work to do. Just lay there and shut your piehole.”
“Interesting bedside manner,” Service said from the truck.
“Took years to develop,” Growler said. “Can you believe they actually pay us to have all this fun?”
Joe Colyard was a happy man, up to his neck in the job in the woods and relishing every minute of it. Service envied him.
7
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
ST. IGNACE, MACKINAC COUNTY
Miars called as Service started to cut west just north of St. Ignace. “Where are you?”
“On Two, headed toward Iggy.”
“Meet me at the Castle Rock Parking lot.”
What was Miars doing back in the U.P.? He lived near Roscommon, two hours below the bridge. Castle Rock? Tourists were told it was an old Indian lookout, which was pure bullshit. The land had been bought by a local just before the Great Depression, who turned it into an enduring tourist attraction of absolutely no historical significance. The rock was a 200-foot high column of limestone. The first time Nantz saw it she called it every white man’s dream—a big white woody. Nantz, he thought, shaking his head.
Service didn’t get out of his truck. Miars did and signaled for him to roll down his window. “The chief told me you’re working on something for him.”
Service said nothing.
“Captain Grant also told me you’re anything but a cowboy. He says you’re more like a shit-magnet,” Miars said with a grin, and stuck out his hand. “I guess we got off on the wrong foot. Sorry about that. I never had a legend reporting to me before.”
“No problem,” Service said, not sure he meant it. “And can that legend crap.”
“Piscova,” Miars said. “Zins and I have been on the case for a year and a half, but Zins was a political animal and scared shitless of stepping on toes in the Fisheries division or anywhere else in Lansing. We got allegations of too-cozy connections between the company and some inside people, and as soon as we started looking into them, Director Teeny started sending some not-so-subtle messages to back off. Zins wouldn’t let me do shit after that.”
“You think the director’s involved?”
“I’m not ruling out anything or anyone, but you need to understand that if your case swings inside, it could get down and dirty in a hurry.”
Grady Service could not understand why Governor Lorelei Timms had not yet replaced DNR director Eino Teeny, a B
ozian appointee, and the former governor’s political stooge.
“Grapevine says Teeny’s desperately looking for a position outside the state, but nobody wants him,” Miars confided. “The governor gets the balls to dump him, I’ll drive down to Lansing and personally escort the man out of the Mason Building.” The Mason Building was home base for the Department of Natural Resources, in the state capital.
“You’ll be part of a large contingent,” Service said. This Miars seemed different, more relaxed and open. “How’d the case start?”
“Whistle-blower said the contractor gave one of the Fisheries guys a new boat. Then an auditor reported Piscova was in arrears for payments to the state for three years of its contract. Six months later the same auditor declared there was no problem. Now you see it, now you don’t.”
“I heard something similar about connections,” Service said, deciding to cooperate. “But nothing about contract audits being whitewashed.”
“Been rumors for years,” Miars said.
“I never heard them.”
“Now that you’re in the unit full-time, you’ll hear and smell every fart from Lansing. What exactly do you have?”
“I laid it out at the RAM.”
“Do it again. I’m in a different frame of mind.”
“I pinched a guy taking salmon eggs. He told me about selling them to a guy who works for Piscova, claimed there’s a statewide network. I watched him make a sale. Turns out the buyer was Piscova’s plant manager from Elk Rapids.”
“Willem Vandeal?”
“That’s him.”
Miars sighed. “Bozian stripped the state and invited all the bloodsuckers in on the feed. Where are you going with it?”
“Thought I’d call New York.”
“I’ve got a contact over there,” Miars said. “Name’s Heygood.”
“Environmental side?”
“Nope, Fish and Wildlife—but he can point you.”
“You want in?”
Miars said, “The chief told me to stay out of your way. And he’s right. I’ve got the unit to worry about now. You need help, you call.”
Was Miars backpedaling? “The more we know about what each of us is doing, the better off we both are.”
“I buy that, but for now I’ll let you proceed on your own.”
“Let’s drive down to the Troop post by the bridge and borrow a landline. You can at least call your buddy, and let’s see how far we can get.”
Sergeant Miars stared at the latex glove taped to Service’s calf, but said nothing as they walked into the Michigan State Police post on the north side of the Mackinac Bridge. They borrowed a phone and Miars called Heygood and jotted down some notes while they talked. The most scribbling took place after he said the name Piscova.
“Environmental conservation officer Roy Rogers,” Miars said. “He’s got something going with Piscova. My friend doesn’t know what, but he says Rogers is a tiger.” He held up a telephone number.
Service made the call and reached Rogers on the first try. “Roy Rogers, for real?” Service greeted the man. “Detective Grady Service, Michigan Department of Natural Resources.”
“Lame stuff. It’s Roy Rogers the third,” the man said. “My old man’s idea of a joke. People call me ‘Trip,’ for Triple.”
Service put him on speakerphone and introduced Miars.
“I stumbled on a thing with a company called Piscova,” Service began, outlining what he knew for the New York officer, including the mention of egg packaging from New York containing product-not-fit-for-human-consumption labels.
“Hmm,” Rogers said. “How long you had this?”
“Couple weeks,” Service said, “but Sergeant Miars has been on an internal investigation a bit longer, looking for possible improprieties between the contractor and the department.” He didn’t want to give the New York man a specific time frame because it seemed embarrassing.
“You on the case full-time?”
“As of this morning,” Service said, not sure yet that there was a case.
“Good. I think you and me are playing in the same sandbox. We know shit is going down, but so far, no luck in nailing anything specific. We’re trying to get federal and state warrants to look at Piscova’s processing operations here and over there in Michigan. There are rumors of paper bags full of cash floating around. Might be good to hit both plants at the same time.”
“I’ll have to talk to my chief,” Service said.
“Okay, do that. We also found some Michigan Fisheries seals at one of our hatcheries. Nobody can explain how they got there, or why. We heard someone was opening the hatchery gates at night but we could never prove it, and the plant manager denied it and quit.”
“Michigan seals in Piscova’s New York plant?” How the hell had they gotten there? Only state biologists possessed such seals.
“I hear you,” Rogers said. “How do you want to play this?”
“You think you can get the warrants?” Service asked.
Rogers chuckled sarcastically. “Let me ’splain something, Detective. This is New York State. We don’t take kindly to environmental shitwads,” Rogers said. “We’d publicly burn them at the stake if it wouldn’t degrade air quality. I’m asking to get into both plants,” Rogers added, “but I think I’d like to see the Michigan operation firsthand. You got a problem with that?”
“Works for me. Call when you have paper.”
“I was going to hit the New York plant, but I think I’d rather look at yours. I’ll send one of my people to serve the warrants on this end. Next Tuesday work for you guys?” Rogers asked.
Service looked at Miars, who nodded.
Rogers said, “We’ll coordinate with the state, and fax directly to the county seat. You guys can pick up the warrants, if you don’t mind.”
“We’re happy to take care of that,” Service said.
“Give me a contact number and I’ll call you back. What’s the closest airport to Elk Rapids?”
“Traverse City.”
“Good, we’ll meet there. I’ll call later with flight times.”
“We’ll pick you up,” Miars said.
Service punched the button to break the connection and looked over at Miars. “We’ll pick him up?”
“You might as well be there to see what New York’s warrants get us,” said Miars. “It could help your side of the case.” Miars studied him. “You’re not at all the way some people say.”
“I know,” Service said. There were times when he didn’t know himself.
8
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
TRAVERSE CITY, GRAND TRAVERSE COUNTY
It was very early morning; Service got to the Cherry Capital Airport an hour and a half before the New York environmental CO’s flight was due and stationed himself just outside the baggage-claim area where he could smoke unmolested by Traverse City’s infamous antismoking zealots.
Miars was in Bellaire picking up search warrants filed jointly by the states of Michigan and New York. New York had probable cause from interviews with several of Piscova’s employees at their New York plant, and Service had a statement from Baranov and had witnessed Vandeal buying eggs from Benny. Federal warrants were also being issued in Grand Rapids, but they would not get to them in time and were largely redundant to his way of thinking. It was complicated enough to work with another state’s agency. Bringing in the feds usually turned the simplest cases into quagmires. Not having to mess with the feds could make this case easier to flesh out.
The flight’s arrival was announced and passengers soon began flowing into the baggage-claim area, milling around and waiting for the carousels to spit out their bags.
A man and a woman came toward him with carry-on bags over their shoulders. The man was six foot, stoc
ky, head shaven clean as a genie, a goatee that was more shadow than hair. The woman was thin, dressed in government black—a jacket over a knee-length black skirt, scuffed low black heels.
“The Roy Rogers?” Service greeted the pair.
The man grimaced. “Call me Trip. Detective Service, meet Special Agent Zhenya Leukonovich of the Internal Revenue Service.”
The woman nodded blankly, didn’t offer a hand. She had a long face with prominent cheekbones, brown eyes, acne scars barely covered with makeup, gold post earrings, and a haircut Nantz used to refer to as a feminist buzzsaw, or a Lez-be-on-our-way ’do. The memory made him smile. The Nantz view of life and the world was no-holds-barred. She could crack him up with no more than a slightly elevated eyebrow.
“You alone?” Rogers asked.
“Miars is picking up the warrants. He’ll meet us at the plant.”
“You are alone?” the IRS agent asked.
Was she not listening?
“Aren’t we all?” Service said, watching her for a reaction. Nothing. No visible personality.
Rogers asked, “You think your informant is legit?”
“It got you here quick enough,” Service said. “How’d you get onto this?”
“Pure serendipity. A pickup truck schmucked a PT Cruiser with a woman and three young kids almost at the Pennsylvania border. Nobody hurt, but the pickup driver bailed, and bugged out. There were four seventy-five-pound containers of salmon eggs in the back of the truck, which we traced through the license plate and VIN to Piscova. When we called them, they claimed the vehicle had been stolen, and they had a police report to back it up. The hatchery deal I told you about? That happened a year before the truck incident.”
“Was the vehicle reported stolen before or after the crash?”
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