Death Roe (5 page)

8

Tuesday, October 19, 2004

TRAVERSE CITY, GRAND TRAVERSE COUNTY

It was very early morning; Service got to the Cherry Capital Airport an hour and a half before the New York environmental CO's flight was due and stationed himself just outside the baggage-claim area where he could smoke unmolested by Traverse City's infamous antismoking zealots.

Miars was in Bellaire picking up search warrants filed jointly by the states of Michigan and New York. New York had probable cause from interviews with several of Piscova's employees at their New York plant, and Service had a statement from Baranov and had witnessed Vandeal buying eggs from Benny. Federal warrants were also being issued in Grand Rapids, but they would not get to them in time and were largely redundant to his way of thinking. It was complicated enough to work with another state's agency. Bringing in the feds usually turned the simplest cases into quagmires. Not having to mess with the feds could make this case easier to flesh out.

The flight's arrival was announced and passengers soon began flowing into the baggage-claim area, milling around and waiting for the carousels to spit out their bags.

A man and a woman came toward him with carry-on bags over their shoulders. The man was six foot, stocky, head shaven clean as a genie, a goatee that was more shadow than hair. The woman was thin, dressed in government black—a jacket over a knee-length black skirt, scuffed low black heels.

“
The
Roy Rogers?” Service greeted the pair.

The man grimaced. “Call me Trip. Detective Service, meet Special Agent Zhenya Leukonovich of the Internal Revenue Service.”

The woman nodded blankly, didn't offer a hand. She had a long face with prominent cheekbones, brown eyes, acne scars barely covered with makeup, gold post earrings, and a haircut Nantz used to refer to as a feminist buzzsaw, or a Lez-be-on-our-way 'do. The memory made him smile. The Nantz view of life and the world was no-holds-barred. She could crack him up with no more than a slightly elevated eyebrow.

“You alone?” Rogers asked.

“Miars is picking up the warrants. He'll meet us at the plant.”

“You are alone?” the IRS agent asked.

Was she not listening
?

“Aren't we all?” Service said, watching her for a reaction. Nothing. No visible personality.

Rogers asked, “You think your informant is legit?”

“It got you here quick enough,” Service said. “How'd you get onto this?”

“Pure serendipity. A pickup truck schmucked a PT Cruiser with a woman and three young kids almost at the Pennsylvania border. Nobody hurt, but the pickup driver bailed, and bugged out. There were four seventy-five-pound containers of salmon eggs in the back of the truck, which we traced through the license plate and VIN to Piscova. When we called them, they claimed the vehicle had been stolen, and they had a police report to back it up. The hatchery deal I told you about? That happened a year before the truck incident.”

“Was the vehicle reported stolen before or after the crash?”

“After, but not long enough after to make it obvious they were covering their asses.”

“But suggesting it,” Service said.

“That's affirm.”

“And?” Service added, suspecting the New Yorker had more to tell.

“The state troopers who responded to the wreck found twenty grand in cash in the truck.”

“Ergo the IRS,” Service said. “That's it?”

“So far.”

“Is the New York plant shipping eggs to Michigan?”

“We've interviewed a couple of Piscova employees since we last talked, but we haven't been into the plant yet. It's possible it could be legit—that they're sending contaminated Lake Ontario eggs to bait shops or bait processors here—but when we see the two plants, maybe the evidence and records will tell us something else. It
could
be legit; we need to keep that in mind before we go stepping on somebody's foreskin.”

“Michigan eggs are also contaminated,” Service said.

“In fact that's true, but it's a question of degree and official scientific evaluation. Your eggs are still legal for human consumption,” Rogers said. “Our eggs will turn you into a glow stick.”

Service's gut told him there was something the other two were holding back, but decided this wasn't the time to press.

9

Tuesday, October 19, 2004

ELK RAPIDS, ANTRIM COUNTY

They were just leaving the airport when Miars called on the 800-megahertz radio. “Twenty Five Fourteen, Twenty Five One Oh One.”

“Go, One Oh One.”

“I just did a drive-by, counted six vehicles in the lot. The plant's on Meguzee Point at the end of the peninsula south of town. Only one road in and out, a long private driveway, and an open gate. We'll wait out on US Thirty-One. I've got help with me.”

“We'll follow you in,” Service said. “Twenty Five Fourteen clear.”

“Miars,” Service explained. “He's got two of our officers with him. We can use the extra eyes, arms, and legs. That makes six of us.” He and Miars had discussed whom to bring along and the sergeant had called COs Venus Wire from Grand Traverse County and Bruce “Earthquake” Polonich from Antrim County. Wire and Polonich often worked together and were known as thorough, aggressive officers who could keep their mouths shut. According to Miars, both had cooperated with the Wildlife Resource Protection Unit on numerous occasions, and both wanted to be detectives.

“Does the company know we're coming?” Leukonovich asked from the backseat.

“Nope. We're gonna swoop in and go through the door.”

“They may refuse to open,” Rogers said.

“The door
will
open,” Service said. “One way or another.”

Service slowed as he passed Miars, who was parked in front of a boarded-up café on US 31. Miars pulled out, passed, and turned east down a narrow road that veered south.

The plant looked new, the grounds well maintained. “Look anything like their New York plant?” Service asked Rogers as they roared into the parking lot.

“This one's bigger,” the officer said.

Polonich, Miars, and Wire were already at the door by the time Service and his passengers caught up.

The door was locked and Polonich pounded on it with the side of his fist. A woman came to the window beside the door, cracked open Venetian blinds, and mouthed, “We're closed.”

Miars took out his cell phone and called the office on the other side of the door.

A woman answered, “Piscova.”

“This is Sergeant Miars, Department of Natural Resources. We have warrants to search the premises. We're not standing out here to suck up UV rays. Open the door.”

They could hear things bumping against the metal door. Miars shouted into the cell phone, “If you barricade the entrance, everyone in there is going to jail. Now open the damn door!”

It took a few moments, but the door swung open and a twenty-something young woman stared at them. She was wearing blue jeans and a baggy gray sweatshirt with electric-colored sequins that said hotty! There were three office chairs beside the door. Miars handed her the warrants. “We're here to search.”

“I have to call the boss,” the woman said.

“Do what you have to do,” Service said calmly. “How many people are here today?”

“Eight,” she said, “counting me. I'm trying to catch up on my filing.” The others took off through the plant to round up workers and make sure no one ran off.

Service looked around the office and saw a six-foot-tall green safe pushed against a pale yellow cinder-block wall. “We'll need that safe opened,” Service said.

“It doesn't open. It's old, and I guess they haven't gotten around to getting rid of it.”

“Where's the combination?” Interesting use of pronouns, he noted.
They
haven't gotten around to getting rid of the safe, not
we
. He guessed she was new.

“What's your name?” Service asked.

“Alma . . . Alma DeKoening.”

“How long have you worked here, Alma?”

“Three months.”

“And the safe never opens?”

“Not that I seen. The combination got lost years ago. The safe belongs to Mr. Fagan.”

“The owner?”

“Yes, the chief executive officer. My boss is Mr. Vandeal. He's the plant manager.”

“Tell your boss when you get hold of him that the safe has to be opened.”

“He's gonna be kinda sore,” she said. “Mr. Vandeal's grandson is playing peewee football in Petoskey today.”

Service said, “We don't get that safe open, he's gonna be in jail for resisting, and you'll be there with him.” He could see that she was shaking, and added, “Relax, Alma. We're just trying to do our job, just like you. There's nothing personal in this. Call your boss and help us out, and we'll make this as easy as we can, okay?”

“Yessir.”

“Good,” he said.

Rogers came into the office from the warehouse area. “Nothing back there. They're cleaning equipment and waiting for a weir shipment. What do we have up here?”

“This is Alma,” Service said. “She's been here three months and she's trying to be helpful. She's gonna call the boss and get the combination to the safe over there.”

Rogers glanced at the safe and said, “We could blow it up.”

The woman's eyes widened as she snatched up the phone.

“Any New York containers out back?” Service whispered.

“Not so far.”

“How many people?”

Miars said, “Seven. They said they're waiting for weir shipments today—part of the contract with the state. They'll ship the eggs on to your hatcheries.”

Alma put down the phone. “Mr. Vandeal and the company lawyer will be here in an hour. He said I should give you whatever you need.”

Service and Rogers exchanged glances.

Rogers joined Leukonovich, who was already beginning to open file drawers.

Service plopped down at the desk closest to the safe and began going through it. In a large side drawer he found an old, dusty Rolodex. There was another on Alma's desk. Why two of them? One that didn't get chucked? The office was immaculate and organized, not the sort of place where things wouldn't get pitched when they'd outlived their usefulness. Something overlooked, maybe? Time would tell. Service went out to the Tahoe, brought back a dozen cardboard boxes, and assembled some of them. The first thing he packed was the old Rolodex.

Just before Willem Vandeal arrived, Service found a small, yellowed piece of paper with some numbers scrawled on it, stuck inside the main drawer of the desk. He peeled it off and looked at it. A lock combination?

Vandeal was wearing a bright orange jacket with the words
head coach, elk rapids junior fighting elk
in black-and-white script over the breast. The man was short and trim, fiftyish, with short white hair, the same man he had seen with Benny Baranov in Moran. Trailing behind Vandeal was a woman in an orange-and-black tracksuit and Nike running shoes. Her hair was matted and she looked like a good sweat had been interrupted.

“What's going on here?” Vandeal asked. Calm demeanor, voice even, no sign of stress—like they got search warrants every day.

Alma handed him the papers and he passed them to the young woman without looking at them. “Who are you people?” he asked.

Grady Service made introductions.

“We have DNR people in and out of here all the time,” Vandeal said. “Why're New York and the IRS here?”

Roy Rogers said, “By law, all we have to do is give you the warrants.”

“I understand that,” Vandeal said, “but what about common courtesy?”

“We
are
being courteous,” Rogers said.

Vandeal was beginning to redden. “Look, we're trying to rebuild a football program in this town and today's game is a big one. I'm the head coach and I had to leave my kids on the sidelines.”

The woman with Vandeal looked at him, nodded, and handed the paperwork back to Service.

“How old are the kids?” Service asked.

“Fifth and sixth graders,” Vandeal said.

“They have a lifetime to get over one game.”

“Well, it's beyond me what the heck this is all about. I don't like being called away like this.”

“So sue us,” Service said, making a play on the name of the bar where he'd seen Vandeal buy the salmon eggs from Baranov. Vandeal didn't react. “We need for you to open your safe,” Service added.

“Sorry, but the combination to that thing got lost years ago, and only Quint can open it. It's his, from the old days.”

“Can you call him?” Rogers asked.

“I can try. He's not easy to reach.”

“Do what you can. Meanwhile, do you mind if I take a crack at it?”

Vandeal gave him an amused look. “Suit yourself.”

He opened the safe on the third try and Vandeal's mouth hung open and Alma said, “Wow, I've never seen the inside before.”

The girl's astonishment aside, the safe looked relatively empty. There were two pale blue metal boxes on the bottom, both about eighteen inches long and six inches wide. Service bent down to pick one up and found it to be inordinately heavy.

Vandeal was on the phone. Service heard him say, “They're here right now and they just opened your safe.”

It took some effort, but he got one of the metal boxes onto a desk. There was no dust on it. It had a key lock. Service looked at Vandeal. “Key?”

“No idea what that is,” he said. “Must be Quint's.”

“You talked to him. Where is he?”

“Lansing, on business.”

“He's always in Lansing,” Alma added, earning a disapproving look from her boss.

Service got a paper clip from Alma, straightened it, and began trying to solve the lock. Miars came in, saw what was going on, and asked if he could try. Service offered him the clip, but Miars brushed it aside, borrowed a pencil from Alma's desk, and began gently poking at the lock. After several minutes, he turned to Service and held out his hand. “Scalpel, please.”

Service gave him the paper clip.

The lock opened immediately.

Vandeal said, “I don't know anything.”

“You haven't seen anything yet,” Service said.

“I don't know anything,” Vandeal repeated.

Miars looked at the box, picked up something, and held it up. “Silver dollar,” he said. He counted, his lips moving. “I count forty of them, and these.” He held up a shiny gold coin.

Zhenya Leukonovich stepped over to Miars. “May I?” She took the coins, studied them, looked back at the men, and held up the silver dollar. “This is an 1895 P in what one might call fine condition. It's worth approximately ten thousand dollars.” She put down the dollar and held up a gold coin. “And this is a 1967 Krugerrand, an original. Each contains one full troy ounce of gold, which yesterday was selling at four hundred and thirty dollars an ounce on the international market. A lot of people hoard these things as a hedge against bad times.”

Service hoisted the second box out of the safe and Miars opened it. It was filled with Krugerrands. Leukonovich counted all the coins and looked at the men. “The approximate value is five hundred thousand dollars, and there are two hundred and fifty Krugers, for another hundred K.”

Service turned to Vandeal. “Six hundred grand in rare coins, and you
don't
know anything about it
?”

“I told you, the safe and everything in it belongs to the boss, Quintan Fagan.”

“I'm, like . . . totally blown away,” Alma muttered.

Vandeal's lawyer had been reading the search warrants and had said nothing until now. “You can take anything that has to do with plant operations,” she said, “but the coins are not covered by the writ. They stay.”

Service looked at Leukonovich, who nodded.

“And they'll be right here if we look again?” Service said.

“They're the personal property of Mr. Fagan,” Vandeal said.

Venus Wire came into the office from the warehouse. “The weir shipment is here. What should we do?”

“If you don't let my people process them, the eggs will go bad,” Vandeal said. “They're for the state.”

Miars said to CO Wire, “Watch what they do, talk to the people about the process, take notes.”

Wire disappeared as Service's cell phone buzzed. He popped it open. “Service here.”

“Service, this is Jeff Choate from Fisheries. I coordinate the Piscova contract. What's this bullshit I'm hearing about search warrants?”

Interesting,
Service thought. Wagons being circled so fast? And why such a blatant attempt at interference now? Was Choate part of it? “This isn't part of the hatchery business,” he told the Fisheries man.

“If you disrupt our egg shipment, I'm going to make life miserable for you,” the man said.

“You got a problem, call Chief O'Driscoll,” Service said.

He was trying to sort out the connection and overreaction when his cell phone rang again. “Detective Service, this is Director Teeny, and I want to know what you think you're doing, harassing a valued state contractor?”