Death Roe

by Joseph Heywood

“Piscova.”

  “You’d better have a subpoena,” she said in a tone that was more businesslike than obstructive.

  “I just want to talk.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Get a subpoena,” she said.

  Service immediately called Anniejo Couch and explained the situation. She said, “We’ve got a sitting grand jury in GR. You’re probably moving a little too fast for the process. We’ll need a list of the subpoenas you want and thorough, precise affidavits of how they relate to the case. I need two days to take care of this request, and I’ll need a list to get the rest of what you want. Day after tomorrow for this subpoena okay by you?”

  “Have to be,” he said. He was jacked on the adrenaline that always came with a pursuit, and suddenly it felt wrong. In his world he rarely had to rely on others, and most of the time could move at his own pace. This was bureaucracy at its worst and he hated it.

  He looked over at Denninger. “We’ve got to slow down and think more about this whole process. We need to create a list of people we need subpoenas for, and why.”

  They spent the remainder of the day getting better organized. Denninger was easy to work with, but he noticed she constantly looked to him for direction and showed little initiative in substance, only in pushing their organization forward.

  They had stopped in Grand Rapids to fetch their subpoenas that morning, and then continued on to the bank on East Front Street in Traverse City. It seemed the prototypical modern bank; that is, low on amenities, designed to demonstrate frugality. Aline Bergey was a distinguished, conservatively dressed woman in her late forties. Service and Denninger were shown into her office, where they introduced themselves and handed the bank president the subpoena. Bergey immediately summoned a lawyer to scrutinize the document, and Service took the opportunity to study the office, which was relatively free of any personal mementos other than a single photograph of a distinguished-looking man in a silver frame behind her desk.

  “We could have just talked,” Service said.

  “I have a board and this business is heavily regulated,” Bergey said. “We’re happy to cooperate with law enforcement, but it has to be done legally and properly.”

  The lawyer was a young male, with gelled hair in short spikes. He flipped through the subpoena, nodded to Bergey, and departed.

  A secretary brought a dozen or so files and handed them to Bergey, who opened the top one. “Ah, yes,” she said. “Ten small loans going back as many years. The loans were a little larger over the past three years, but nothing I would characterize as substantial. The company is in good financial standing—a good and loyal customer.”

  “They do all their banking with you?” Service asked.

  “Just loans,” Bergey said.

  “Did you deal with Quintan Fagan?”

  Bergey smiled. “No. I know him, of course, but the loans were all with Mr. Vandeal, for minor construction for a processing operation.”

  “Do you know anything about Piscova’s business?”

  “Fish,” the banker said. “They’ve been in business since the late 1970s.”

  Service heard a commotion. The office door opened and a silver-­haired man barged in, his face bright red. “Who the hell do you think you are?” the man shouted.

  “Beg your pardon, sir. You would be . . . ?” Service said.

  “Judge Leo Bergey. If you’da come to my court, there would be no subpoenas. We don’t support government fishing expeditions into local business.”

  “Your Honor,” Service said, exchanging glances with Denninger, “these are federal warrants. Nobody’s accused anyone of anything. We are simply serving papers, trying to gather information, doing our job, Your Honor. That’s all there is to this, nothing personal.”

  The judge glared at him. “My wife’s done nothing wrong.”

  The man was the one in the picture behind the banker’s desk. “Nobody has accused your wife of anything. We’re collecting information for a federal investigation.”

  “Of whom?” the man demanded.

  “I’m sure you know we’re not at liberty to say, Your Honor.”

  “I’m not the unwashed public,” Leo Bergey said. “I’m a judge.”

  “Sorry, Your Honor,” Denninger said.

  Service kept wondering: why such an overreaction? His wife was the bank officer, not him. Had to be more than wanting to protect his wife. And how had he learned about their visit so quickly? Had the bank’s lawyer called the judge?

  “Your Honor,” Service said, “with all due respect, this is none of your affair, and I think it would be best if you left us alone to do our jobs.”

  The judge blinked at Service. “What agency are you with, son?”

  “DNR,” Service said.

  “What the hell do you people have to do with a federal probe?”

  “Your Honor, you really need to leave . . . now,” Service said forcefully, “or I will be forced to arrest you for interfering with police officers in the performance of their duty.”

  “Arrest me?” The man began to laugh.

  “Yessir. We’re here to meet with Ms. Bergey, and you’re interfering. I suggest you leave now.”

  “Leo,” the banker said, and the judge turned and went through the door.

  She made no apology, and Service wondered if this had been a planned show, something meant to intimidate them—and if so, why?

  The judge came back through the door. “I am a personal friend of your director, Officer. I want your badge number.”

  “It’s Detective, Your Honor, but I don’t work for the DNR. I work for the Assistant U.S. Attorney for the Western District of Michigan out of Grand Rapids.”

  “You work for Riley Endicott?”

  “Anniejo Couch.”

  The judge looked Service over and departed again.

  “Your husband?” Service asked Aline Bergey.

  “Thirty years.”

  “He’s way off the reservation.”

  “Leo tends to be a bit overprotective.”

  “You don’t look like a person who needs protection.”

  “I’m not,” she said with quiet self-assurance.

  Service picked up the file folders, signed for them, and they left the bank.

  “What the hell happened in there?” Denninger asked when they were out on the sidewalk.

  “I don’t know. It’s starting to look like everywhere we go in this thing we’re touching raw nerves, but how the hell do we tell if it’s related to what we’re doing, or to something else?”

  Denninger had no answer.

  Leaving the city they drove up the Old Mission Peninsula to look at Roxy Lafleur’s house. There was a for sale sign by the driveway. It had not been there the last time he’d visited. The realty firm was called Mission Mansions, and the realtor’s name was listed as L. Sparks. There was a phone number.

  Service picked up his recorder and left himself a voice note. “Lafleur’s house.” He dialed the realtor on his cell phone. “Is there an L. Sparks there?”

  “That would be Lulu,” the woman at the realtor’s office said.

  “Is Ms. Sparks available?”

  “No sir, she’s out of town until next week.”

  Service left his cell-phone number, name, affiliation, and asked for a return call when she got back.

  “You’re wondering who the client is,” Denninger said.

  “Lafleur says the house is in her name, but Fagan owns it, and I’m wondering if she signed it back to him or somebody else. This guy never seems to do anything in a straight line.”

  Driving south past Cadillac he got a call from Captain Ware Grant, his boss in Marquette. “The chief told me what you’re doing. There’s a big Fisheries meeting at the RAM Center tomorrow. The chief wants you to
go talk to them, let them know an investigation is under way, and suggest that they should probably seek some separation from Piscova.”

  Service felt his temper flare. “Dammit, Cap’n, that’s like sending a message to the enemy before you mount a surprise attack.”

  The captain’s voice was measured and calm, as it always was. “They are our colleagues, Grady—not the enemy.”

  Service closed his cell phone, looked over at Denninger, and shook his head.

  By the time they reached Big Rapids, Anniejo Couch was on the phone. “Did you rattle the cage of Judge Leo Bergey today?”

  “No, we served the subpoena to his wife, who is the president of a bank that does business with Piscova. We collected the records we wanted and the judge showed up, making all sorts of threats.”

  “He called my boss and raised hell with him.”

  “What did your boss say?”

  “He said he’d look into it.”

  “Ergo, you’re calling me.”

  “Shit flows downhill,” Couch said. “Any idea why the judge wants to get into this?”

  “Absolutely none. His wife was fine. He just showed up.”

  “Our ears only,” Couch said. “Bergey is a lush and he’s had IRS problems in the past that almost cost him his job. He’s a little thin-skinned when it comes to his reputation.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with us,” Service said.

  “You’ve not been the tip of the spear for a federal investigation before. People get pissed and make threats. Did you threaten to arrest the judge?”

  “Yes, ma’am—for interfering with police officers trying to do their duty.”

  “My advice, and this isn’t a criticism, but let them beat on you, make their threats, whatever. Be polite and keep focused on what you have to do. Every case is tough, and you don’t need any sideshows to pull you away from the main event.”

  “I’ll take your advice under advisement,” he said, earning a laugh.

  “I like you, Service. You would have made a good fed.”

  “I’d rather have a sister in a whorehouse than be a fed.”

  “Yikes,” Anniejo Couch said with a chuckle. “That one cut deep. Keep digging, and if you need anything more, call. The grand jury is processing your other subpoena requests now. Keep reviewing what you want and forwarding your list to me, and stay ahead of the curve. Are we cool?”

  “Most Kelvin,” he said, wondering why she was so specific about keeping on top of things.

  29

  Tuesday, November 9, 2004

  RAM CENTER, NORTH HIGGINS LAKE, ROSCOMMON COUNTY

  Grady Service wasn’t sure he should bring Denninger with him to the Fisheries meeting and expose her to whatever might result from it, but he eventually decided she needed to see what they might be up against.

  They met Clay Flinders, head of the Fisheries division, outside the meeting room. The recently elevated Fisheries chief had sandy hair, ruddy skin, and a walrus mustache.

  “I had a call from Ware Grant who said you wanted to talk to my people about something important,” said Flinders. “You’re on first. Please make it brief. Our agenda’s full, and with budgets the way they are these days, I rarely get to gather my people in the same place at one time.”

  The Law Enforcement Division had the same problem. Flinders had come up through the ranks and Service had met him many times, though he’d never worked directly with him. So far he had the rep of a good leader, but having been in the job only a year, the jury was still out, which made the stuff going on under him seem odd. Flinders was not the one many guessed would get the top fish job. He had always been quiet and seemed more comfortable in the field, not an office.

  There were perhaps three dozen people in the room, many of whom Service recognized and had worked with during his career. In back he also saw Captain Grant’s counterpart, Captain Edwin “Fast Track Eddie” Black, a former Troop who had transferred to the DNR at the same time as Service and Luticious Treebone. From the beginning Black had made no secret of his ambition to one day be chief of DNR law enforcement. Inexplicably, he had risen quickly, spending two years as a CO in Detroit, jumping to sergeant within five, making lieutenant in less than ten years, and captain at sixteen, his career advancement the inspiration for his nickname. Grady Service thought Black was a complete and utter asshole. He had been known in the Troops as a worthless road patrol officer and a blowhard.

  Flinders waved his arms to quiet the room. “This is Detective Service from Wildlife Resource Protection. He needs a few minutes of our time.”

  Service stepped to the lectern that sat on a table in front of the room. “If you haven’t already heard, we are looking at Piscova and we are finding some . . . irregularities,” he said. “I can’t go into the details other than to say it looks like an iceberg, and we’ve just started on the visible part. I know Piscova’s been a longtime contractor for the state, but I would strongly recommend that you do nothing with them other than what is required by contract.”

  His words were met with dead silence. Jeff Choate, who had called during the first visit to Piscova and handled salmon contracts for the state, jumped to his feet. He was a small man with thick glasses and a loud voice. “If you’re accusing Piscova, you’re accusing me—hell, you’re accusing all of us.”

  “I haven’t accused anyone of anything,” Service offered.

  “It’s bogus,” Choate sputtered. “The state’s in shit shape fiscally and you’re wasting taxpayer money with your witch hunt. You’ll never get Piscova. Quint Fagan’s too well connected and he’s got too much dough and too many lawyers. He’ll bury you.”

  Service tried to maintain a neutral face and nodded like a bobblehead. Choate was a jerk. “The frustrating thing about looking for witches is you mostly find assholes,” he relied.

  Choate started to stand up, but he began laughing. “You’re not worth it,” he said with a dismissive wave of a hand. “Piscova and Fagan will bury you, and that will be that.”

  We’ll see, Service thought, and turned to Flinders. “Thanks for the time. That’s all I have.”

  Fast Track was waiting outside the meeting room, grinning. “Past as prologue,” the southern zone captain said. “You’ve been unprofessional and overrated throughout your career. That performance in there was a disgrace to LED. This one will put you away for good.”

  Service had never feared Black. “Thank you, Captain. Your support is greatly appreciated.”

  Black leaned in close. “Lorne put you over the fence with the U.S. Attorney. You may find it hard to get back.”

  “Thank you for your advice.”

  “I piss you off, don’t I?”

  “Not at all, Captain. When I see you, I feel only shame for all the competent people who have to depend on you to get their jobs done.”

  “This is the end for you,” Black hissed as Service headed out of the building with Denninger beside him.

  “I thought we were one team, all dedicated to protecting the state’s resources,” she said as they walked toward his Tahoe.

  “We are, but even on a good team, people end up in the wrong positions, burn out, fall over the edge, and can’t or won’t do their jobs. The thing is that good teams eventually analyze their problems and fix them.”

  “You mean that, or are you whistling in the graveyard?”

  He only smiled and she whined, “My career is going to be short.”

  Service grabbed her arm and spun her around. “Stop worrying about your career and keep your damn mind on the job you’re doing. The career will take care of itself if you do the job right.”

  She was sullen on the three-hour drive back to Saranac. It snowed the whole way and neither of them said anything as he fought the wind and icy highways.

  30

 
Tuesday, November 9, 2004

  SARANAC, IONIA COUNTY

  Grady Service got the woodstove going and pan-fried chicken breasts with Thai hot chili and lime sauce, assembled a huge salad, and uncapped two bottles of beer. Denninger had changed into sweatpants and a gray DNR sweatshirt before sitting down with him.

  He held up the beer and looked at her. She nodded, accepted the bottle, and touched a finger to her head. “I feel like I just went through a tank fight with a slingshot,” she said.

  “Either of us dead or wounded?”

  She shook her head.

  “We kill anybody?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then it wasn’t a gunfight,” he said. “The chief wanted me to put them on warning to see what kind of reactions we got.”

  “You did that,” she said, sipping the beer. “I’m not sure I’m up to this,” she confessed.

  “You want out?”

  “I just don’t want to let you down.”

  “Forget me. Keep your mind on the case; that’s all that matters right now.”

  “How long do you think we’re gonna be at this?”

  “Until it’s done,” he said.

  “Not everyone can bull their way ahead like you. Most of us have fears and insecurities.”

  “You don’t think I’m afraid? My legs were like Jell-O in that room today.”

  “It didn’t look or sound that way.”

  “It was,” he said.

  “I know you’re trying to reassure me, but if you’re afraid, I’m not so sure that makes me feel better.”

  He held out a pack of cigarettes but she shook her head. He lit one and sat back. “Everybody has to face fear, and it’s never the same fear. We’re all different, but the only way to handle fear is the same for all of us. You put your face into it and keep pushing.”

  “Sounds like a platitude.”

  “Simple truth, but damn hard to put into practice.”

  They ate their meal without talking, and he wondered what Denninger was thinking. She had withdrawn again, and after waiting for her to talk, he let his mind drift back to the day’s events.