Killing a Cold One (4 page)

6

Saturday, October 18

NEGAUNEE, MARQUETTE COUNTY

Yint's Eat Healthy Eh-Café was poorly named, the emporium's fare so fattening you could clog arteries just by reading the menu. Service ordered a cinnamon roll and Friday curled a lip in revulsion.

“At my age sugar goes straight to my hips,” she complained.

The waitress, a part-time college student at Northern, and a granddaughter of the owner, Helmi Yint, said, “Try the
pan kaka.
They're, like, Swedish, hey? You put your maple syrup on top of her.”

Service and Friday both laughed. “Just coffee,” Friday said.

Service loved his fellow Yoopers. “Put your syrup on top of
her?
” he mimicked.

“Good plan. File that for future consideration,” Friday said in a low voice.

There had not been much closeness lately, and it sometimes felt like they were slowly drifting apart, largely because they were both so busy—Service reestablishing his presence in the Mosquito, and Friday with the two-gork case. COs were reporting an influx of road hunters, and there was a major jump in tickets for loaded weapons in vehicles, but most of the dopes so far were locals. Dogman-related? He hoped not.

The two Marine sniper weapons had landed back on his desk after being turned down by the FBI, ATF, and the US Marine Corps, all of whom said they had more important things to deal with. With no serial numbers, there wasn't much he could do, although he had called an old Marine buddy by the name of Prince.

Prince had been his platoon sergeant in Vietnam, a straight-backed, foul-mouthed, born leader out of the Blue Ridge Mountains in northeast Georgia. Prince was calm and patient, a born teacher with unerring judgment of men and situations. The Gunny had given Service's black platoon mate, Treebone, the nickname “Chocolate Bunny,” and the first time Service heard this, he had expected a fight, but Tree had only laughed. Service respected and trusted Prince, the kind of NCO who was the bedrock of the Marine Corps, and all uniformed services.

Service and Treebone left Vietnam and the Corps, but Prince had stayed in and retired at an exalted super-senior gunnery sergeant rank. He now lived in southern California, not far from Camp Pendleton.

“Gunny Prince,” said Service.

“Bet you never thought you'd be addressing me that way,” Prince shot back.

“Standards slide; Semper fi.”

“Semper fi. What the hell do
you
want?”

Service explained the situation—the rifles and scopes, ammo, all of it, along with the lack of leads.

“Well,” Prince said after listening, “them's some real primo weps y'all's got, and in the long-gun market, you might could trade a brace for a heap of pussy, money, or both.”

“There's a market for such?”

“There's a market for everything, Service. What the hell kind of a cop
are
you?”

“The serial numbers are gone. How do you trace something like this?”

“Rumor mill, old jarhead under-radar bullshit streams, and such, and like that, and so forth, and like that.You know the Suck.”

“Pig in a poke?”

“The polar opposite of the odds of contracting the black clap in Saigon. You want me to make some inquiries?”

“Affirmative. I'm sort of at a dead end here.”

“No promises.”

“Anything might help.”

He had already related this to Friday, and she had just shaken her head and said, “I think you invented networking, Service.” She had asked for the meeting at Yint's this afternoon, and he had no idea why. Tomorrow he intended to drive to Houghton to see his granddaughter and her mom, whom he considered his daughter-in-law, even though she and his son Walter had never married. It had been sleeting for three days and this morning had turned to a heavy, slippery wet snow. He hoped roads would be drivable the next day.

Friday seemed pensive.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes and no,” she said, lost in thought. “Almost three months, Grady, and we have bupkis for evidence, nothing on the vicks. The DNA finally came back: maybe Indians, maybe not. Tork's taking another look, new samples. There's not a damn thing we can use to point us now or later, assuming there is a later.”

“There's always a later,” he told her.

“My boss told me with state budgets as they are, MSP may be cutting some detective positions, and I'm low dick on the totem pole. I talked to my union rep, who said I should just suck it up and be glad I have a job. Let's hear it for moral support and brotherly love,” she said bitterly.

“You're too good to chop.”

“Seniority isn't about performance,” she said. “There's no semen in the vaginas and stomachs of the vicks. That's not good for down-the-road use. No evidence of a struggle, no traces of intoxicants or drugs. Makes me wonder if they weren't willingly tied together. This one is weird.”

She's venting, rhetorical mutterings.
Service knew to keep his mouth shut while Tuesday tried to shape her thoughts. She liked to think out loud. He didn't.

“Outrage is waning,” she went on. “Newspapers are folding left and right, and nobody gives enough of a shit to track something like this and keep the anger alive.” Service knew that an intense emotional response often kept public interest high in certain crimes, and sometimes brought leads that led to case breaks, but the same so-called outrage could also interfere with cases, depending on how circumstances manifested themselves.

“Maybe details should be released to renew public interest?” she asked.

“It's only been three months,” he said, trying to reassure her.

“It feels like three years,” Friday grumbled, rubbing her eyes with the back of her right hand.

“Ask me, releasing details is a mistake,” Service said. “Details can make people flip out. It's a small miracle we've held all this so tight this long.”

Helmi Yint stood before them, interrupting their conversation. “Sixty-seven was the worst,” she said. “My brother drove snowplow for the county. Snow up to the bloody eaves by mid-December. We had to tunnel out to the bloody roads just to put the kiddies on the school bus. Stayed like that 'til well after April Fool's. Sixty-seven, she was a beast, eh.”

Service looked up. Yint was sixty, a stout matron who had buried three husbands, all loggers, and, through it all, had somehow kept the small restaurant alive and raised seven children, all good kids.

“You hear 'bout Martine Lecair?” Helmi Yint casually asked Friday.

Friday shook her head.

“She just packed it in last week, took her twins out of school and skedaddled. Nobody knows where she went off to, or why. Good job like that—in the U.P.'s best school system, too. Makes no bloody sense. Why would she call her principal and tell him she was resigning for personal reasons? Just like that, done deal. I can't even imagine it. Had it too good, maybe, too easy—state insurance, union protecting your butt, summers off, all that good guv'mint candy. Not hard living like the rest of us up here, that's for sure.”

White prejudice against tribals was a given, and Service knew there also was a certain degree of envy and jealousy for teachers in parts of the U.P., and statewide. The same held true for state employees, who some citizens considered overpaid, underworked, and unduly pampered.
Citizen assholes.

Service vaguely knew Martine Lecair—a pretty, vivacious woman about Friday's age.

“Guess that's how Indians are,” Yint said. “State paid for her education with our tax money, and this is how she repays us?”

“I doubt it's personal,” Friday said, her voice edged.

“Well, I
take
it personal,” the restaurant owner said.

When they got up to leave the owner added, “Better put youse's chains on. When she gets this deep and wet early, youse'll need chains to move around. That's how it was in '67. Youse could hear chains on the roads in the middle of the day—like bloody ghosts in some cheap movie. It got spooky, I can tell youse. And here it is snowing again, and it ain't yet Halloween.”

In the entryway they bumped into Trooper Harry Yawkey, a longtime road patrol officer.

“Road conditions?” Friday asked him.

“Salt and sand down, and not too bad yet, but getting there, eh. She's been pretty quiet. Last night there was a helluva fight at Tooley's, no permanent damage, human or property, but Kline had to taze
and
gas some jerkbait from Traverse City.”

Felton Kline was a Negaunee city cop in his early sixties, an amiable man who could usually small-talk troublemakers out of bad intentions.

“Guy was playing grab-ass with one of the local ladies and her old man took exception and the scrap was on. I backed him up,” Yawkey said with a laugh. “Hey, who knew the human head could hold
that
much snot.”

“Sunny days and cloudy days,” Friday said, “and they've each got their points.”

“True that.You hearing they might cut some Troop detective positions?” Yawkey asked bluntly.

“Nah, they'll go for road cops first, especially in low-crime areas, Harry. Like here.”

It was sometimes argued privately in Lansing and around Michigan that state troopers in the U.P. had much smaller workloads than their counterparts below the bridge in major population areas.

The Troop started to say something, but Friday stopped him. “Go home, Harry. You old road toads need all the sleep you can get.”

“You develop anything yet on them girls you found skinned?” he asked.

“
Nobody
got skinned,” Friday said forcefully.

“You know how rumor runs,” the Troop said, unsympathetically. “Hell, given that Halloween's coming, I figured you'd do something to try to preempt the annual shitstorm.”

Outside in the snow Friday looked at Grady Service. “Annual shitstorm? Do you know what he's alluding to?”

“Probably nothing,” Service said. So far the dogman thing had not crept into the public light, and Denninger had gotten nowhere in her investigation of the bounty rumor. He still had not mentioned any of that stuff to Friday, or anything except the large wolf tracks near the crime scene.

“The transverse of ‘probably nothing' is, inferentially, ‘possibly
something,
' ” she said. “You want to spill?”

“Nothing to share.”

“Do I detect an implied
yet?
”

“If and when there's something of substance, you'll know right away.”

“You promise?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Snow's bad. You want to bunk with Shigun and me tonight?”

“Nobody to take care of Newf and Cat,” he said.

“Dog, cat, kid, us—we need to tie us a damn knot of some kind and stop living like a coupla half-ass Hipsy-Gyps. You love me or not?”

“You know I do.”

“Say it out loud like a big boy.”

“When you're forced to say it, it doesn't mean as much.”

“Humor me and say it anyway.”

“I love you.”

“And you want to jump my bones.”

“
That's
a fact.”

She patted his face. “Another time. It's not safe to fool around and drive when it's snowing.”

“I never heard that before.”

“Well, you can't say that anymore. How about we get together this weekend?”

“Another meeting?”

“Not the kind we just had,” she said. “I suggest you rest up, Bucko. We are
way
overdue.”

He started to ask her about Martine Lecair, but she'd shown no real interest. By contrast, he heard alarm bells in his head, though he had no idea why.

Knot. She means damn marriage?
He suddenly felt light-headed, wondered why his legs felt shaky.

7

Tuesday, October 21

MANITU RIDGE, BARAGA COUNTY

The Lanse Indian Reservation was near L'Anse, the Baraga County seat. Some tribal members lived near Zeba on the east side of the bay, but most were on the west side, near Assinins, north of Baraga. A small, largely unknown concentration lived southwest of Baraga near a place called Manitu Ridge, which some locals called Old Indiantown, though, as Service understood it, the name lacked any current official (or historical) standing. Ramshackle houses were spread out along the rim of a steep canyon with the Blood River meandering below toward Lake Superior. Little or no Keweenaw Bay tribal casino money reached Ridge residents, and from what Service had heard, this was a bone of contention among some.

Sergeant Willie Celt had called that morning. “You know that thing Denninger's been trying to run down for you?” the sergeant asked Grady Service.

“Yeah.”

“Word is you might want to talk to Kelly Johnstone up to Manitu Ridge.”

“That can't be good,” Service said.

“Is what it is, man. Denninger says she'll go with you, if you want.”

“I'll give her a bump. Thanks.”

“Who pinpointed Johnstone?” he asked Denninger when he reached her cell phone.

“Willie heard it from his cousin in Ontonagon County.”

“The bounty thing is spreading?”

“Until Willie called me, I hadn't heard anything but the talk back in August and September, which I couldn't pin down. Willie said he heard Johnstone knows something about Martine Lecair cutting out.”

Service had been troubled by Helmi Yint's odd news about the teacher, Martine Lecair, and had let all Upper Peninsula COs know they should listen for any information on the Indian woman, or the dogman bounty.

“I hate rumors up here,” he said. “They either turn into a goddamn crown fire, or smolder underground for months, waiting to blow up.”

“Don't whine,” Denninger said. “Rumor is an integral part of the human condition.”

“You sound like a bluehair know-it-all,” he said.

“Whatever,” she said.

“You know Johnstone?”

“Yeah. I don't think our souls meshed.”

“Welcome to a big club,” Service replied. “She's not overly friendly. I've sort of known her for a long time, but last time I dealt with her was five or six years back, and she was downright nasty.” Kelly Johnstone served as the unofficial leader of the descendants of an alleged band who insisted their ancestors had lived since eternity on the Manitu Ridge property, separate from the Keweenaw Bay people, therefore constituting their own separate and distinct tribe, culturally, historically, and genetically. As far as Service knew, history didn't support such a claim, but Johnstone and her followers resolutely continued to press their right to separate federal recognition, presumably to make way for their own casino and its dedicated profit stream. Assuming there would be profit. From what Service had heard from various feds, only about one in twelve Indian casinos made money.

“What's the Lecair woman got to do with the gork case?” Service asked.

“Dunno,” Denninger said.

One look at the Ridge made most people shake their heads. Why anyone
ever
gathered to live up here made no sense. How they eked out a living was even more difficult to discern. The Ridge, as it was known, was a distinctly depressing place, as bad in some ways as the Cass Corridor in Detroit.

Johnstone lived in two house trailers joined together by a jury-rigged communal room with a huge woodstove.

Ridge people heated with wood they cut for themselves, which is why huge forest areas near the community were long gone, which led to bank erosion and an inordinate number of fires in dwellings. Fresh snow covering the abundant flotsam and jetsam made the area look almost pristine and pure, which was an illusion.

Service knocked on the door and waited with Denninger. There was a small leather bag on the door knocker, the bag decorated with dyed porcupine quills and some black feathers.
What the hell is that about,
he wondered;
some kind of weird symbol?

Although Johnstone lacked any formal education, she always struck Service as wise, practical, tough, and street-smart. She definitely seemed to have the respect of the people she led. Her age was impossible to guess.

This high on the rim of the Ridge, the snow was heavier than it was two hundred feet lower; window and door screens were still up, and snow and wind had combined to create odd-shaped sculptures on them.

“We've got our
own
tribal game wardens,” Johnstone greeted him when she pulled open the door. “You got no jurisdiction here.”

Great start,
Service thought.
Why does she come out swinging?

“Dial it down, Johnstone. You don't have federal recognition, and this area isn't even part of the Keweenaw Bay property that does, so you're subject to state law and peace officers here.”

“You'll address me as Chairman.”

“Okay,
Chairman
Johnstone,” Service said, “we'll play it your way.”
For now.

“What the hell do you want?” the woman asked, ignoring Denninger.

“Mind if we come in?”

“No, I got the flu,” she countered.

“You want us to call a doctor?” Denninger asked in a saccharine voice.

“I want you to mind your own damn business, girlie. I can take care of myself.” Johnstone started to close the door, but Service boot-blocked her.

“The air out there is cold,” Johnstone complained.

“This won't take long,” Service said. “We heard Martine Lecair packed up her kids, quit her job in Negaunee, and left the area. Any idea why, or where she went?” Later he would be asking himself why he had thrown Lecair into the mix right away. He would never find a satisfactory answer other than some weird instinctive thing that pushed the words past his inner filter before he could think them through.

“That ain't the business of no white woods cop.”

Still in my face.
“We're curious—and a little concerned.”

“I guess you heard what curiosity killed.”

He could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Are you threatening us, Chairman Johnstone?”

“Just stating facts,” she said. “Private people's business is private. This ain't your business.”

“Her job and all . . . I just wondered about the suddenness, you know—if she's all right? She's not in some kind of trouble, is she?”

“No more'n anybody else,” Johnstone said, flashing a crooked eye.

Fear? Anger?
He couldn't read her with any precision. “We're not butting in. Just wondering if we can help.”

“Can't help you,” the woman said.

Can't or won't?
No idea where she went?”

“She don't live here,” Johnstone said. “People are free to choose, run their own lives how they see fit.”

More attitude.
When disaster struck, Indian survivors sometimes claimed that events had “overwhelmed” them, a Native American version of “Shit happens.” The inference seemed clear: So much in life was beyond one's control; why even think about the future? Live for now, not tomorrow. It was an alien way of thinking for some whites, and a reminder that dealing with tribals was often complicated, and almost always frustrating. Hell, he could even sympathize with them.

“Heard rumors the tribal council's wanting to hire you when you retire from the state,” Johnstone said.

“I heard that, too. But you know how rumors are.”

“Rumors that stay around usually have some truth to them,” Johnstone said. “Good you keep that in mind.”

“What about the rumor of a bounty on a dogman? You hear that one?”

“Go away,” the woman said, and stepped back.

Getting nowhere, being stonewalled, and she just tried to bribe me in a very subtle way.
“All right, we'll be getting along. Thanks for your time. Hope you feel better.”

“Will or won't,” Johnstone said. “Have to deal with what is, not how we want things to be. Hope don't help nobody.”

He sensed that perhaps she was trying to tell him something without saying it, and this seemed out of character for the uber self-contained Kelly Johnstone.
Or did I imagine it?

As they walked toward their trucks, Service asked Denninger for her impressions.

“A prickly, rude bitch.”

“You get the sense she was trying to tell us something?”

“You mean, like, we should go fuck a rolling donut? That sort of thing?”

“Not quite,” he said. “When we pull out, I'm going just beyond the county road. I'll pull down a two-track and walk back so I can see her trailer. You want to pull off further east and wait for me to bump you?”

“You think something's up?”

“Not sure.” His gut was churning. He thought of the old cop joke about how much you could learn about paranoia by following people around.

Having walked back to the woods near the street with Johnstone's trailer, he watched the house, wiggling his toes in his boots to keep his circulation flowing, making a mental note to switch to heavier insulation tomorrow.

Suddenly, Johnstone was outside her trailer. She got into an old Jeep, started it, and hurtled down the street. He called Denninger on the 800-megahertz. “Rusty brown Jeep rolling your way. It's her.”

“You want me to follow?”

“Keep it soft.” Too closely, and Johnstone would get spooked.

“On it, Twenty Five Fourteen. You heading for Houghton?”

“Right now,” he said. He could hardly wait to see his granddaughter, Maridly.

He telephoned his late son's girlfriend, Karylanne Pengelly. “I'm leaving L'Anse. You need grocks or anything?”

“No, thanks, we're all set. Want to talk at your granddaughter?”

“Put her on.”

He heard the phone fumbled, then an exuberant shout, “MY BAMPY!!” He hated the moniker, but Little Maridly refused to change it, being every bit as stubborn as her namesake, Maridly Nantz.

“Hey, rugrat.”

“You
gut
anything today, Bampy?”

He had taught the little girl to fish, and she loved watching him clean out the guts. He had no idea why. “Just a dragon,” he said. “But he was just a little sucker.”

“Ain't no dragons,” Maridly said resolutely.

“That's right.”

“But they's dogmen,” she added.

“What did you just say?”

“Dogmen—but they ain't bad, just scary. Dogs are nice, Bampy.”

“
Aren't,
not ain't.”

“I like
ain't
better.”

“Who told you about dogmen?”

“Dunno,” she said. “I just know,
okay?
Mum, Bampy's being a
cranky
-pants.”

“Are you being cranky?” Pengelly asked, coming back on the line.

“What the hell is that baloney about a dogman?”

“Somebody reported something up in Keweenaw County. Everybody around here is talking about it. It's just talk,” she said with a dismissive laugh. “You know how it is in these parts.”

She was too green and positive in her outlook to understand what “just talk” could signal, and lead to, in the Upper Peninsula.

Denninger called as he drove into Houghton. “Johnstone drove to Baraga, went into the hardware, was there twenty-seven minutes, came out with several packages, and drove directly back to her house. I'm taking my horsie to her barn,” she added.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You want me on her regularly?”

“Just a drive-by now and then, see how much time she's away or there.”

“Clear.”