Death Roe (13 page)

26

Thursday, November 4, 2004

HASTINGS, BARRY COUNTY

He called Barry County assistant prosecuting attorney Gary Hosk an hour after leaving Houghton and made an appointment to see him. Hosk asked him to come to his house on Algonquin Lake near Hastings and gave him directions.

Service pulled up to the house at 6 p.m. and went to the door. A man with a florid face greeted him at the door with a martini glass in hand. He wore an expensive blue cardigan, a button-down shirt, and a loose tie. “Service? What can I do for the DNR?”

The man led him into his den, which was filled with shelves of books and a giant television. “Want a drink?”

“Diet Pepsi.”

The two men sat down. Service said, “You used to work for Crimea.”

“Who told you that?” the man asked with a start.

“It's part of an investigation.”

Hosk began to shake. “God,” he whispered. “Oh . . . my . . . God.” The man obviously had been imbibing for a while.

“I'm just looking for some information,” said Service.

The man's head dropped. “I swear I didn't do anything illegal.”

Serious overreaction. “Nobody said you did.”

The man tried to pull himself together and looked up.

“You used to deliver bags of cash for your employer to Piscova plants in New York and Michigan.”

“I delivered bags. I never knew what was in them.”

Service was skeptical. “What if it was coke?”

“It wasn't,” Hosk insisted, shaking his head repeatedly.

“Approximately nine grand in cash, per bag. No law against that,” Service said. “Is there?”

“No.”

“You ever meet Semyon Krapahkin?”

“He was the boss.”

“You met him?”

“Once in a while.”

“Who gave you the packages?”

“Krapahkin's assistant, Oleg Bauman.”

“Not the boss?”

“No, never.”

“And you had no idea what was in the packages?”

“I never looked. A lawyer is well schooled in learned ignorance.”

“Did you handle the contract with Piscova for salmon caviar?”

“No, my job was to provide legal services, especially where immigration and visas were concerned. Not contracts.”

“But you knew there
was
a contract.”

“Absolutely not. All I knew was that Crimea did business of some kind with Piscova. I never knew the details.”

“All you knew was your own narrow little world.”

“Good lawyers learn to focus,” Hosk said, trying to make a joke.

“You're probably going to get a subpoena,” Service said. He wasn't sure this was true, but he wanted to see the man's reaction.

Hosk abruptly stood up and left the room. When he came back, his hair was wet and he looked pale. “Okay, here's how it was. I thought Crimea was legitimate. When I found out they were on the shady side, I resigned the account and left the firm.”

“Shady in what way?”

“I'm not saying anything more without my lawyer,” Hosk said.

“If you haven't done anything wrong, you don't have to worry,” Service said. “We're interested in you only for what you know about Piscova and Crimea.”

“Not without my lawyer.”

The man was sweating and trembling. Service took out a business card. “If you think of anything, give me a call on my cell phone.” He used a pen to circle the number and placed the card on a coffee table. “I'm sorry to interrupt your cocktail hour. I'm just doing my job. It's not personal.”

He drove down the street and parked to take some time to think. Hosk was badly shaken, but admitted to carrying bags. Good chance he knew they contained money, but that probably didn't matter. Roxy would testify to receiving the bags from Hosk and that they contained money. But Hosk's reaction made him wonder if the man was hiding something more serious, or if he was just badly embarrassed by a past that had caught up to him.

He called Denninger. “I'm just pulling out of Hastings; be there in a half-hour. How's the resort?”

She laughed. “Trashed. You eat yet?”

“Not yet.”

“I bought some steaks today, and a bottle of wine. See you when you get here, boss.”

Boss?
The word jarred him; it was a title for others, not him. He didn't like it at all.

27

Thursday, November 4, 2004

SARANAC, IONIA COUNTY

The temperature outside was in the mid-thirties and there was a light sleet starting as he pulled up to the resort. The room was filled with cardboard boxes and gear. Denninger had a fire going in the woodstove and had set up four huge erasable boards, labeling them: people, events, confirmed facts, tasks to complete: process / case-specific.

“Impressive,” he said. “You get hold of the Canadian?”

“Talked to her twice. She's part of a task force looking at Americans who may be laundering money in Canadian operations.”

“Money laundering?”

Denninger nodded. “She said she's been on Fagan's trail for two years and she knows he's doing something, but she can't figure out exactly what. A lot of his money crosses the border into weird schemes and then disappears. Fagan does everything by word of mouth, no paper trail.”

“Huh. She interested in what we have?”

“Very. Everything go okay with you?”

“Roxy doesn't look well at all. I stopped and visited Hosk on the way back.”

She looked at the board labeled people. “The guy in Hastings?”

“He was not at all happy to see me. He was real hinky but admits to delivering bags for Crimea to Piscova. He claims he only handled immigration issues for the company.”

Service walked over to the board labeled confirmed facts and wrote, “Roxy claims money from Hosk; Hosk confirms delivering, but not knowing contents of packages.” On the next line he wrote: “RCMP confirms 2-yr. investigation of Fagan's money-laundering activities.”

Denninger said, “Looks like a good start.”

“Why do I get the feeling we don't have enough boards to record what's ahead?”

“Let's eat,” she said. “We both need a break.”

She poured from a bottle of 1999 Amarone and Service looked at the bottle. “You found a bottle of
this
in Saranac?”

“I brought some from my own supplies.”

“Good choice,” he said.

“Didn't need your approval,” she said, taking a sip and saluting him with the glass. “We gonna run in the morning?”

Her mind was erratic. On the phone she'd sounded needy. Now she was copping a weird attitude. He nodded, knowing that crawling out of bed in the dark would be difficult at best.

“I may be headed up to Traverse City tomorrow. You want to go?”

“You need me?”

“I think it's good for us to spend time bouncing stuff off each other.”

“You're the boss,” she said, obviously pleased to not be left behind again.

She's young, Service told himself.
Very, very young
. Remember that. Damn feelings anyway.

He grilled two steaks and did two baked potatoes in the microwave. They ate in silence.

It was 2 a.m. and Denninger was kneeling beside his bed, shaking his shoulder and whispering in his ear. “Somebody's outside—I saw a light.”

He was out of bed, pulling on trousers and boots and following her downstairs, both of them carrying their gear belts.

“Where?”

“East of the house,” she said.

They got flashlights and radios, pulled on their gear belts, and slid quietly out the back door, her going east, and him circling to the west. He had managed to get on a shirt, but no coat, and the wind and sleet were cutting.

“Where are you?” he heard her whisper over the 800 MHz.

“Front.”

“Keep coming east,” she said.

The sky was overcast, the sleet pummeling them, no light, but he could make out her silhouette toward the woods. When he got to her, she whispered. “Voices.”

He listened and thought he heard at least one voice, but he couldn't make out the words. The tone sounded irritated. They went through the woods side by side until they reached a clearing and saw a dim light ahead, and two vehicles. One of them was a CO's truck.

“You dumb punks—I let you off with a warning last time.”

A teenage voice challenged, “Big whoop. We were headlighting. We ain't got no gun, dude.”

Denninger nudged Service with her elbow, whispered, “I'll look around,” and was gone.

“Six of us, man, one of you. What're you gonna do, shoot all our asses?”

Service didn't give the CO a chance to respond. He stepped toward the group and when he got close, switched on his light and shone it in the faces of the teens. “DNR, Conservation Officer. He won't shoot your asses, but I will. Get on the ground,
now!
”

The boys hit the ground in unison. The other CO said, “Who is that?”

“Grady Service. Who're you?”

“Cullen.”

Service stepped over to the officer, who looked to be about Denninger's age.

“What have you got?”

“They had a light, and it's after eleven. I'm sure there was a weapon.”

“You see them toss it?”

“No. I was running black and the ground was rough.
The
Grady Service? What're
you
doing here?”

Service cringed. “Keep your mind in the moment, Officer.”

“Yessir.”

“Don't call me sir.”

“Nossir, I won't, sir.”

Denninger suddenly appeared carrying a shotgun. “Hullo, Joe. Somebody musta dropped this.”

“Dani?”

Denninger laughed. “Boo.”

“Jesus,” Cullen said with a huge grin.

Service went over to the boys. “Get on your feet.”

When they were up, Service asked, “Who belongs to this?”

“Never saw it before,” one of the boys said quickly.

“Good,” Service said. “The state gets a new shotgun.” He turned to Cullen. “Stroke the little wiseasses for shining after curfew and trespass, and add on the ticket there was a shotgun found and that they
insist
it doesn't belong to them.”

Service and Denninger watched while the officer wrote the tickets and sent them on their way.

“C'mon,” Service said to Cullen. “We're in the place just west of here. Drive over and we'll make some fresh coffee.”

“I thought we were going to remain incognito,” Denninger said as they walked through the woods.

“You know him?”

“He graduated from the academy class ahead of mine.”

When Cullen got there, he looked around the room like he had stumbled into the twilight zone, and raised his hands. “I see nothing, right?”

“Dead on,” Service said.

“Am I supposed to know you two are here?”

“Know who's where?” Service said in response.

“Ahhh,” Joe Cullen said, nodding solemnly. “Ahhh.”

28

Monday, November 8, 2004

TRAVERSE CITY, GRAND TRAVERSE COUNTY

Two days earlier Service had hit a wall. He had the name “Aline Bergey” off the Rolodex files and after a few phone calls had discovered she was president of Farmer's Bank of Michigan. She had been the bank's commercial loan officer when the bank made loans to Piscova. Having discovered who she was, he managed to get a call through to her, explaining that he was with the DNR and investigating one of the bank's customers.

“Which customer?” she challenged him.

“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.