Chasing a Blond Moon (5 page)

“Not my idea of cozy,” Service said, the barren interior reminding him vaguely of how he had lived in his own place before he had fallen in love with Maridly Nantz and moved in with her. Nantz had brought a distinctly positive change to his life. What effect his son would have remained up for grabs.

There was a bedroom that was barren except for a wide low bed with nightstands and bulbous brown lamps on them. The bed was centered on a mat that looked to Service like varnished paper. Behind the bed there was a large, stark painting of a creature that had a lion's mane and a longish snout, like a combination of a lion and wolf, but it was not so much a wolf as something else, which Service couldn't place. He studied the painting for a few moments and gave up. As in the main room, there were cumbersome wooden chests along one wall.

“Homey,” Pyykkonen said, wrinkling her nose.

Service was disturbed by the place. He'd always prided himself on not accumulating stuff when he lived in his cabin on Slippery Creek, but this looked barren and sterile, and he wondered if this was what people had seen when they came to his cabin. It was not a reassuring thought. There was nothing here but bare necessities—no personality, no decorations, no joy—just that peculiar painting.

The kitchen was small and equipped with all the conveniences, but it was so clean that it looked hardly used. Like the rest of the house it was virtually empty save a package of chocolate-covered figs and an untouched six-pack of OB Lager Beer in the fridge. Service looked at the bottles with the blue labels: Bottled by Oriental Brewery Co. Ltd. Seoul, Korea. “Never seen this brand before,” he said.

The figs were in separate compartments like chocolates, and three compartments were empty. The fruits were each wrapped in gold foil.

She said, “Tough to be overweight when there's no food.”

“Maybe he ate out a lot,” Service said. The idea of a steady diet of restaurant food turned his stomach. He might not be adept at much, he told himself, but he knew good food and put a high value on it. Cooking was a way to lose himself in something that didn't involve work and carried an immediate payoff.

The other two ground-floor rooms were empty, though one of them had some scrapes on the floor, suggesting recent use; perhaps the son moving out? But hadn't the dead man's son lived in the dorm? Not your business, he reminded himself.

“See anything interesting?” Pyykkonen asked.

“One thing bugs me,” Service said. “He's supposed to be an avid hunter and fisherman. Where's his gear?” Outdoor enthusiasts were rarely far from their equipment.

The homicide detective shrugged.

Macofome came up from the basement, shaking his head. “Better take a look.”

Service and Pyykkonen followed him down the steep steps and found the basement empty except for a large cement statue. It was the same ugly animal as depicted in the bedroom painting.

“Lion built by committee,” Pyykkonen joked.

Service nodded, but he had lost interest in the statue and painting as he pondered why there were no guns or fishing tackle in the house.

Pyykkonen looked over his shoulder. “If he had a bear in here at least it didn't shit,” she said. Then she sniffed the air. “Ammonia. Somebody did some heavy duty cleaning down here.”

“The whole place looks too clean,” Macofome said. “Sterile.”

“Well,” Pyykkonen said, “We've had our walk-through. It's time to go over the place inch by inch and get photos.”

“Nothing more here for me,” Service said. “If you don't mind I think I'll shove off.”

“Good idea,” Macofome said, breaking a smile. “Thanks for the help.”

“Gus will give you a call when the lab results are back,” Service told Pyykkonen, who followed him upstairs.

“Thanks,” Pyykkonen said at the front door.

Gus Turnage was one of Grady Service's best friends. An elf of a man with the shoulders and arms of a blacksmith, Turnage had once been voted CO of the Year in Michigan and nationally in the same year, but had shrugged off the honors. He was also the longtime scoutmaster of a troop that won national recognition every year, but you would never hear this from him. Gus's wife, Pracie, had died in a head-on collision with a logging truck almost ten years ago, and he had raised three sons on his own. All of them were away at college now and Gus was alone. He and Service had become COs the same year, and over the past twenty years their paths had crossed continuously. They'd had a lot of fun together, and both knew they could rely entirely on the other in a tough spot.

Gus lived east of Houghton, not far from their friend Yalmer “Shark” Wetelainen, who managed the Yooper Court Motel and spent the bulk of his time tying flies and reloading shotgun shells for his two passions in life. Shark was forty, short and thin, and partial to beer and any and all food. Despite copious drinking, neither Gus nor Grady had ever seen their friend drunk, and once, in disbelief, they had administered a Breathalyzer only to find that he barely registered a blood-alcohol level. They decided there and then that he had the metabolic system of a shark and the name stuck.

Since Pracie Turnage's death, Shark was at the house as often as at his own place in the motel, and this morning was no different. His beat-up pickup was parked at the end of the driveway and one of his scrawny bird dogs was stretched out on the porch working over a bone.

“Just in time for breakfast, babe,” Maridly Nantz said when Service walked into the kitchen. Shark had a leaning tower of flapjacks on a plate and a stack of toast in front of him. Gus was sitting at the table looking pale, but grinning. Walter was at the counter, manning the toaster. He did not acknowledge his father's arrival.

“Big night?” Nantz asked, giving Service a lingering hug.

“Found some shit,” Service said.

“Normal night,” Gus said, grinning.

“Bear shit in a Saturn,” Service said.

“
In
the car?” Shark asked.

“Backseat.”

“There's a story begging to get told,” Gus said wryly.

“You get to tell it,” Service said sarcastically, putting the plastic bag with the bear scat in the refrigerator. “I'll send the bag to Rose Lake for you. When the report comes back, it's all yours.”

“The work of a game warden,” Gus said. “Pracie would've hit the roof if I dumped shit in the fridge.”

“She'd have had a right to,” Nantz said.

“You sleep all right?” Service asked his friend.

“Your woman was at my bedside all night,” Gus said with a mock frown.

“Easy boys,” Nantz said, setting down a cup of black coffee for Service.

“Lorelei called early this morning,” she said.

State Senator Lorelei Timms was running for governor against Sam Bozian's handpicked toady and surprising everyone by suddenly jumping up in the polls to pull even with the three-term governor's anointee. “She got a problem?”

“Of sorts. She wants me to fly for her,” Nantz said.

“Not sure that's a good idea,” Service said.

“Me either, but I'll make a good decision.” She kneaded the small of his back.

“Sounds cool to me,” Walter said, placing a dish stacked with toast on the table and sitting down.

“Thanks for the support,” Nantz said.

“This isn't your business,” Service said, immediately sorry that the words had slipped out.

Walter rolled his eyes, took a piece of toast, and grabbed for the butter.

Nantz shot a surreptitious scowl at Grady.

Service had met the aspiring governor last fall during a particularly nasty sequence of events in which two men and a bear died on a highway near Seney. Lorelei Timms had been taken by his actions at the accident scene and had been singing his praises publicly every since, a situation that made him grind his teeth every time another CO teased him about it. She had also become a constant phone pal, calling to ask him about the ­minutiae of fish and game management and trying to get him to act as her inside informer in the DNR. So far he had refused to help her, but this hadn't stopped her from calling, or dropping by every time she was in the U.P. on her way to her place at the exclusive Huron Mountain Club north of Marquette. He didn't dislike the senator. In fact, he liked her, but he didn't have time to hold her hand and get himself sucked into a political vortex. He had experienced two run-ins with Sam Bozian, both of which had nearly cost him his job and career. In fact, just before his unexpected and unwanted promotion to detective last summer, he had been suspended without pay for two months—on direct orders from Governor Bozian. As far as he was concerned, he never wanted to be close to anyone whose job rested on the gullibility of a bunch of uninformed fools.

“Lorne called and said he thought it might be a good idea,” Nantz said.

Lorne O'Driscoll was the DNR's chief of law enforcement, the state's top woods cop. Last fall Nantz had begun training as a conservation officer and was at the top of her class when she was pulled out and thrown into a post-September 11 task force in Lansing that never materialized. While living at a motel she had been viciously attacked by a man, and the chief and his wife had taken her into their home to help her convalesce. She was scheduled to restart the DNR academy again in November, and since healing from her injuries had been a part-time contract pilot for the department in the Upper Peninsula.

“You mean the
chief
called,” Service said. O'Driscoll had backed him up in some important ways over the past two years and had proven to be the best chief in Service's twenty years, but like most COs he didn't care for Lansing and felt the further away he stayed, the better it was for everyone. Nantz loved to call the chief by his first name, knowing that Service found it grating.

“Lorne said to say hi. He thinks it won't hurt to have one of us with the senator.”

“That's political espionage.”

Nantz laughed. “Don't be paranoid. It's not healthy.”

Service sampled his coffee. “Paranoia I can handle. It's help from Lansing that creeps me out.”

Nantz shook her head. “The great Grady Service, afraid?”

Gus and Shark laughed as he turned red and changed the subject, relating what he had seen during the night and what promises he had made in Gus's behalf.

“Macofome show up?” Gus asked. “He's always around Pyykkonen.”

Shark grinned and held up a forearm. “Boom-boom,” he said. “It's all over town.”

“She seems to know her job,” Service said, noticing that Walter was listening carefully, taking it all in.

“No question, but you know how things can be up here, eh. The local cop house don't see a lot of serious shit, so gossip falls like January snow.”

Just before Service, Walter, and Nantz got ready to leave, Gus got a phone call. He nodded at the phone and handed it to Service.

“Bearclaw.” Betty “Bearclaw” Very was the CO stationed in Ontonagon.

“Hey,” Sevice said.

“Think you could make a run down this way?”

“I really need to make a stop at Tech and get back to Marquette tonight.”

“I think you'll want to see this,” Very said. “Last night I was out by the West Branch of the Firesteel River and I found an old guy wandering around. He's blind, got only one leg, and insists he knows you. He calls himself Trapper Jet.”

“He smell like fermented skunk?”

“That would be him.”

“I know him,” Service said. “How the hell did the old coot get way up there? His place is a hundred and twenty miles away.”

“Not much of a talker,” Very said. “Announced he wants to see you, end of conversation. I've got him at my place.”

“What the hell was he doing?”

“He acted lost. I was out checking bear movement, fruit crops, old baiting sites, and such, and there he was. He seemed pissed that I showed up. I brought him to my place, but he clammed up on me.”

“Nantz and I are rolling. It'll take us about ninety minutes, give or take.” Trapper Jet might be blind, but it was not possible he was lost. The old bastard was in his late seventies, and had lived alone in a shack in northern Iron County since the mid-1950s. He looked and smelled like he was at death's door, but the old trapper could be the poster boy for self-reliance.

When they got to McInnes Arena, Walter announced that Coach Blanck wanted to see Service.

“
Blanck?
”

“He's one of the assistants.”

The name jarred Service.

Following his son, they made their way to the coaching offices and there he saw the man who had been the reason for his decision to not pursue professional hockey. Toby Blanck was older, but looked fit. The last time he had seen Blanck he was being carried off the ice bleeding profusely, his skull fractured. Blanck had been critical for a week before pulling through.

When Blanck looked, up a huge smile spread across his face as he stood up and extended his hand. “Geez, Banger himself.”

Service had no idea what to say. He had once nearly killed the man.

Blanck's voice was warm and inviting. “Hey, that stuff way back when? No hard feelings, Grady. It was just hockey, eh?”

Service nodded dumbly.

“So
you're
Walter's dad?”

Another dumb nod.

“You and Walter have a chance to talk?”

“I was out on a call all night,” Service said.

“Yeah, woods cop; good for you, but I wouldn't want your job. You were a cop on the ice and you're still one, eh? I admire that. Listen, Walter and I had a candid talk about his future here.”

Grady Service had no idea where this was going.

“You want me to leave?” the boy asked the coach.

“No, I'm not gonna say anything to your dad I haven't already said to you.”

Service felt trapped and not sure why he was feeling so.