Death Roe (14 page)

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.

One thing was certain: His old nemesis, “Fast Track” Black, was after his scalp. He also knew this was personal, not part of the case, except that Black was seeing this case as an opportunity. He had not butted heads with Black in years, but he knew the man had had it in for him for a long time. He could ignore Black. Fisheries chief Flinders seemed unaffected by all the emotion in the room. The salmon guy, Jeff Choate, had lost it, and seemed convinced that Fagan and Piscova were untouchable. Choate had more or less declared his loyalty to the contractor, but Flinders had said nothing, and Service wondered where he stood on the potential scandal.

So far Service had done nothing but piss people off—most of the Fisheries group, a county prosecuting attorney, and a judge. He guessed there would be a lot more angry people and wondered if there was a way to avoid hard feelings and negative reactions. After a moment he decided there wasn't. If he couldn't avoid it, was there a way to increase fear and disunity among the opposition, whoever they might be?

“I'm going to see this through,” Denninger declared forcefully, breaking into his thoughts.

“Dinner?”

She laughed. “This case, you, the job—everything I signed on for.”

“That's good,” he said, and tried to return to his thoughts, but she wasn't going to allow it.

“The thing is,” she said, “I want to actually play a meaningful role, not just be your personal gofer.”

“I took you with me to Traverse City and the RAM Center.”

“Exactly. You took me with you—your exact words. To do what? Bottom line: I was just there.”

“Are you proposing something?”

“We've got our list for the subpoenas. Let's talk our way through it and divide them up. You do some and I'll do some. We can cover more ground if we're both moving.”

“Serving subpoenas isn't exactly brain work.”

“It's movement. If I have to sit here endlessly at our resort, I'm liable to lose it. Don't get me wrong. I don't mind being alone, but there's alone and there's hermit. Understand?”

“There's a difference between
alone
and
hermit
?” he said with wide eyes.

“Only you wouldn't notice,” she said.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I cooked. You get the dishes.”

“What're you going to do?”

“Visit the edge.” He had decided to find a reporter he could use to plant stories. The idea had popped into his mind as he was talking to Denninger.

“Define
edge
,” she said.

31

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

EAST LANSING, INGHAM COUNTY

After doing their run in the morning dark and wet snow, Service showered and called veterinarian, Summer Rose “SuRo” Genova, founder and operator of the Vegan Animal Rescue and Reclamation Sanctuary near Brevort. Now sixty, Genova was well respected among COs and animal rehab personnel, despite her alleged affinity for radical environmental causes and organizations. Service had met her years before, and though their relationship had started off rocky, it was fairly solid now, based on mutual respect and even a degree of amusement with each other.

“Grady Service,” he said when she answered.

“How
are
you?” she asked quietly.

“Not Rockhead?” She almost always called him Rockhead.

“People should cut you some slack when you lose people dear to you.”

“Sympathy . . . from you?”

“That's over, Rockhead. You're exempt. What the hell do you want?”

“I'm looking for the name of a reporter, someone who covers environmental issues who might be interested in a potential story, and capable of doing something with it.”

Silence on the other end. “Beaker Salant,” she said after a thoughtful pause. “Knight Center for Environmental Journalism at Michigan State.”

“I'm not looking for a student. I'm looking for a real pencil, somebody who actually
works
in the business.”

She laughed. “Always the rockhead. Beaker is the director for special investigations. He's only twenty-five and already has the sort of reputation in his field that you do in yours. You try to push bullshit at him and he'll shove it back up your ass.”

“I was actually thinking more along the lines of somebody who can actually publish things.”

Genova laughed. “This kid started getting published nationally when he was fifteen. Two years ago he was named a MacArthur Fellow.”

“A genius award?” He'd heard of the MacArthurs, but didn't know details.

“One of the youngest ever named. Got him half a million over the next five years, no strings. If Beaker decides to pursue something, anybody and everybody will want to publish it. The trick is convincing him to do anything.”

“Sounds like a prima donna.”

“Be like looking in a mirror for you,” she shot back.

Service wrote down the man's name and his office and cell-phone numbers, and thanked Genova for her help.

“You're probably gonna really piss each other off to start with,” she said. “Wish I could be there.”

He called Salant's office and got an answering machine that instructed callers to use his cell number.

“Asshole,” Service thought, dialing the cell-phone number. Over the years he had not had a lot of contact with environmentalists, but what he'd seen mostly were arrogant, often naive zealots who growled and gloated when they thought they had the upper hand and whined when the tide turned against them.

“I haven't got all day, dude,” a voice said on the other end of the cell phone.

“Beaker Salant?”

“That's the number you dialed, dude, unless you're one of those who can't figure out how to correctly key in a simple seven-number sequence.”

“My name's Service.”

“Like the poet,” the voice said. “That's cool.”

“I'm a detective with the Wildlife Resource Protection Unit in the Michigan DNR.”

“I don't hunt, fish, trap, gather, or do anything else in your purview, dude.”

“Maybe I have something that would interest you.”

“Dubious.”

Service didn't care for the man's attitude. “Maybe you're right. I was told I'd be talking to somebody who knows how to jump on a good story.”

“Told by whom?”

“Summer Rose Genova.”

“SuRo sent you to me?”

“She recommended you.”

“Okay, that helps my interest. What do you have?”

“Not over the phone. Can we meet?”

“I'm busy, dude.”

“Fine,” Service said. “I can find someone else.”

“Wait, wait, okay. I'm tied up with a hearing at the Capitol until three. How about we meet at Paul Revere's at four?”

“The bar on East Grand River toward Okemos?”

“Only Paul Revere's I know of.”

Service was surprised to hear it was still around. It had been a landmark at one time, but landmarks had a way of disappearing. “Four—I'll be there.”

Service arrived fifteen minutes early and ordered a draft beer. The bar was dark and relatively empty. The bartender brought the draft. “Menu?”

“Libations only,” Service said.

The bartender rolled his eyes.

A gaunt young man came into the bar one minute before four and looked around, trying to accustom his eyes to the low light. He wore hiking boots, blue jeans, a black toque, and a ratty, old-fashioned red-and-black-plaid hunting coat. Service waved at him.

The boy sat down without taking off his coat or wool hat. “How'd you recognize me?”

“Your uniform,” Service said.

“Witticism from a game warden?”

“I never met anyone in your line of work who doesn't dress similarly. Simple deduction.”

“So, whatchu got?”

“You want a beer?”

“I don't consume much alcohol.”

Apparently he didn't eat much either. “SuRo highly recommended you.”

“You don't have to butter me up. I called her after I talked to you. She said you're Attila the Hun for the Good Guys. She doesn't say that about many cops. You are a
real
cop, right?”

“As much as you're a real journalist.”

The young man laughed. “I also used my BlackBerry to do some quick research. You've been credited with solving some very high-profile cases, but I get the feeling you like stepping on toes.”

“Got the same feeling about you—without the BlackBerry.”

Salant actually smiled and signaled the bartender. “Virgin Mary.”

He looked at Service. “I was raised Catholic and I love the name of the drink.”

“It's not a real drink without booze,” Service said. “Congratulations on the Genius Award.”

“Fellowship, not award.”

“Whatever. The money change you?”

“Never had money, never really wanted it. Mostly it just sits there in a green mutual fund, accumulating interest. The only thing I bought was the BlackBerry—and some CDs. Man's gotta have his tunes.” Service's son had felt the same way about music.

The bartender delivered the drink and left them alone.

“Why did you want to talk to me?” Salant asked.

“What would you say if I told you that there's an investigation of a Michigan company who is allegedly importing contaminated salmon eggs from Lake Ontario, mixing them with Lake Michigan eggs, and selling them as red caviar to an outfit on the East Coast, which provides them to cruise lines?”

“Interesting, but hardly compelling. Contamination in the Lake Ontario eggs is a generalization. Want to be more specific and precise?”

“Mirex.”

Salant nodded. “Mirex is some totally bad shit. My interest level riseth.”

“There are unsubstantiated allegations of favoritism and maybe some graft among state employees.”

The young man grinned. “Getting warmer. What allegations?”

“Not until we get the ground rules straight.”

“I don't bargain.”

“Sure you do,” Service said. “You accepted my invitation, checked my bona fides with SuRo, and researched me. That shows interest and a willingness to hear what I have to say. Willingness to hear requires a degree of cooperation, and cooperation is just another word for trading.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“Northern.”

“Majoring in?”

“It was a long time ago. Nothing significant.”

“What ground rules?”

“See how easy it is to bargain?”

“I'm just asking.”

“That's the first step.”

“You're not what I expected,” the young man said.

“I'll give you some information with some detail. If you're interested, we'll see what else I can do for you. But if we go the next step, my name and all details have to stay out of it,” said Service.

“That's called ‘on background.' If I publish, that means I can say ‘a source close to the investigation.' ”

“Too close. I
am
the investigation. It's possible there's an organized crime connection in this, too. Did I mention that?”

“Okay, ‘on background' won't work. The other choice is ‘off the record.' ”

“Which means?”

“It means you tell me, and I can't write about it unless I can get it from another source.”

“How do you do that?”

Salant sucked in a breath. “I call someone up and I say, ‘I've heard yada yada.' ”

“And they respond, ‘So what?' ”

“Most people will say, ‘Where did you hear that?'—which usually means they know something about what you want to talk about. So then you say, ‘It's going around Lansing.' ”

“You lie to them?”

“Not exactly.”

“Sounds like a car rental ad.”

“Trust me—if you go off the record, I won't do anything to jeopardize your investigation,” said Salant. “Most journalists and writers are interested almost exclusively in the story as it benefits them personally and professionally, not the final outcome. I'm different. If someone is fucking with the environment, I'd rather subjugate the story in the interests of the justice process.”

“Okay,” Service said. “What if I'm just fucking with you and there's no substance to any of this, and I'm just looking for personal aggrandizement.”

Salant said with absolute conviction, “First, SuRo would never send such a person to me. Second, if you're bullshitting me, it won't take long for me to find out.”

“Piscova,” Service said.

“Quintan Fagan,” Salant said.

“You know who he is?”

“Plays marbles with a bowling ball.”

“That's him.”

“This is about Fagan and Piscova?”

Service nodded. The young man pulled out a small recorder and set it on the bar. He took off his hat and coat, stacked them on top of the barstool beside him, and said, “Feed me, big dude.”