Shadow of the Wolf Tree (24 page)

The last words did it.
Weighing his options.
“Get a haircut, you pussy,” Service added.

Wagenschultz exhaled loudly and stiffened. “Sir, you are cut off and you are leaving the premises.
Now!
”

Service drained his beer. “Says who,
girly-boy
?”

Wagenschultz came around the end of the bar and pointed. “That way, sir.”

Service grinned and presented his fist and the bartender grabbed it and started pulling him toward the exit. “Sorry, lady,” he said over his shoulder. Going through the door, Service bent his knees, grabbed the bartender's hand with both of his, bent over, and pulled the man over his back, flipping him down the handicapped-access ramp. Friday was immediately on Wagenschultz, twisting an arm behind his back and snapping cuffs in place.

Service jerked the man to his feet and showed him his badge. “Let's, like, take a walk, Jericho.”

“My name's Necho.”

“Whatever,” Friday said.

“Man, you wanted to talk, all you had to do was say so. What the fuck's up with the Batman SWAT shit?”

The man didn't resist, but kept talking. “I was just doing my job; your profanity was disturbing other customers.”

Service jerked the man to a halt. “This is not about your bartending job, asswipe. A little bird told us you like to cook.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“A witness says different.”

“You . . . ,” Wagenschultz said, and stopped.

“Here's the deal, Necho,” Friday said. “You cook, that's your business. But what we hear is you also like to make stuff blow up.”

“I don't think so,” the man said, his eyes darting between Service and Friday.

“You're a tick on a mangy dog's ass,” Service said. “We've got two murders, and if we have to fillet your ass in court, that's how she's gonna go down, and I shit you not.”

The man's shoulders slouched.

“Where's your lab . . . at your house?”

“Too dangerous.”

“Where?”

“Camp off 510.”

“You cook white there?”

Wagenschultz nodded.

They put him in the passenger seat and strapped him in. Friday sat behind him.

The hunting camp was fairly remote, just east on Alder Creek Truck Trail, off County Road 510, with Big Pup Creek running alongside the property. The lab was located in a shed in a clearing, separate from the cabin by fifty yards, a wall of cedars between the buildings.
Private, and if it blows, well away.

The shed door was secured by two padlocks mated with a quarter-inch steel cable. Key-lock, not a combination, more secure. Master brand with thermoplastic covering, designed for use in extreme temperatures, the same kind his own agency used.

“Open it,” Friday said.

The man held up his cuffs. “Key's in my pocket.”

She slid her hand into his pocket and he grinned and tried to rub against her. She thwacked him on the side of his head with a finger snap and he winced. “Behave, asshole,” she said.

Service opened the door and stepped inside. This was not your typical Beavis and Butt-Head operation, which was naturally a disaster. This was organized and clean. A freezer with a lock. “Anhydrous ammonia?” he asked Wagenschultz, who nodded. Service took it all in: metal box for dry ice, packages of lithium batteries, un-iodized salt, mason jars, several expensive coolers, a roll of linen for filtering, triple-neck flasks and other glassware, a stainless-steel container on a counter attached to an electric generator humming just below threshold.
This asshole is big-time.

“The white?” Service asked.

The man motioned in the direction of the stainless-steel container with his cuffed hands.

Service said incredulously, “In
that,
not underwater?”

“Chill, dude. It's a vacuum, but even the liquid's not so volatile.”

“Liquid's no good for explosives.”

“I never said I had crystals. What I said was that I made some white, and there it is, man.”

Think—remember Anyboner.
“Maybe you like to make people
think
you make crystal.”

“Could be.”

“Women?”

Another nod and a leer. “Just talking about blowing shit up gets them wet, man.”

“Then why make it if all you gotta do is talk your way into their pants? What's the point?” Friday asked.

“I think I want a lawyer.”

“That's your right.”

“There's no meth here,” Wagenschultz said.

“Got all the makings in one place; that's against the law and enough for us.”

Shaking his head. “Okay, I'm, like, at this Kennecott Eagle Rock dealy, an' like, I stood up and spouted some, man. First amendment shit, right? Afterwards in the parking lot, this chick comes up to me? She says, ‘How'd you like to make that mine disappear,
man
?' She tells me if they start to build and dig, they can be stopped. She's heard I'm a chemist, and offers me significant cash for white, but won't pay until I produce, and demonstrate that it works.”

The man looked at the far wall of the shed. “Making the conversion was no big deal chemically speaking, but I didn't have the know-how or the equipment to make the crystals. I gotta tell you the truth: The whole thing scared the shit out of me, man.”

“You see her again?”

“I got off work one night and she shows up at my truck, wants product. I tell her no deal, she says ‘Okay, dude,' and splits—end of story.”

“That's not a story—it's a fairy tale,” Service said.

“It happened
just
like that.”

“No threats, no anger, she just said ‘Okay, dude' and walked away?”

“Man, it's the truth.”

“What did she look like?”

“Five-ten, big-boned, dark hair and complexion.”

Service rolled his eyes. “Lies will fuck you, son. You got a favorite lawyer?”

“No way, man. I can't afford a lawyer.”

“With all this? You could hock the damn glassware alone for a small fortune.”

“Man, I got no money. I quit the business. I've got to tend bar or I'm fucked.”

“This place tells a different story about money, Necho.”

“Okay, I did some cooking. I made some money, okay? But
man,
there's, like, cops crawling all over this county. It's not worth it anymore, man. I told myself, get out of this shit.”

“A magic reformation.”

“Truth.”

“Read him his rights,” Friday said.

“Wait,” Wagenschultz said. “This won't stick.”

“You never know,” Friday said. “You sure of that description? We're dealing with capital cases, Necho, and if you fuck us around, it just gets worse for you, man.”

“Okay, okay—she's five-five, dark hair, wiry.”

Service took out a photo of Penny Provo. “Wiry like that?”

Wagenschultz looked at the photo and nodded once. “That's her. Hard-core, calm, soft voice, in charge. Nearly pissed my pants whenever she come around.”

“And when you said you couldn't do it, she just walked away?”

“That was the weirdest part, man. She said, ‘Lucky for you,' and split.”

“Lucky for you?” Friday repeated.

“Three words.”

Friday undid the handcuffs and Service said, “Okay, beat it.”

The man rubbed his wrists. “Man, it's like fifteen miles.”

“Right—git.”

“You're not busting me? But
you
brought me here.”

“Bring yourself home.”

“It's fifteen miles.”

“Be glad it's not February.”

The man skulked away. Service called Linsenman. “We've got a meth lab off Alder Creek Truck Trail.” Service gave him the fire number. “Not Beavis and Butt-Head. This is a significant operation. Call UPSET. We'll need HAZMAT out here. Make sure they know there's liquid white phosphorus in the inventory.”

“Holy shit. Prisoners to transport?”

“No, but we know the suspect. UPSET or your people can snatch him later. We'll hang ten until the cavalry shows.”

“On it, man.”

Service walked Friday out to the Alder Creek Truck Trail to light a cigarette. “What did you hear?” he asked.

She recounted his conversation with the bartender, what she had gleaned from it.

He said, “Kennecott wants to blast a tunnel about a thousand feet into the ground under the river and bring up the ore from there. If someone blows up their shit, they risk causing the exact problem they supposedly want to avoid. What's that all about?”

“What's your point, Grady?”

It was past midnight, now into Wednesday and he was tired. “Not sure yet.
Maybe Provo didn't really want
Willie Pete. If not, why was she dealing with Jericho? What the hell is going on? I hate this case.

36

Crystal Falls, Iron County

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 7, 2006

It was early Wednesday morning by the time the hazardous materials technicians and county drug people cleared them to go. Service gave the cops Wagenschultz's address in Big Bay and promised to send a written report within forty-eight hours, doubting he'd get to it in that time. Of all his duties, writing reports was the most wearisome for him. Besides, he was pretty sure the man would do a runner, but sooner or later he'd be snagged somewhere by someone for something. The important thing was that the lab was neutralized and they could get on with their own work.

“Food?” he asked Friday as they headed south on CR 510.
She's quiet. Not like her to not tell me she's hungry.
“What?”

“I've got the organizational chart for the Van Dalen Foundation.”

News.
“I thought your pal Jinger was going west next week.”

“Don't be sarcastic. He went early. UPS brought the package yesterday—I mean Saturday. I was up all night with it, which worked out fine because Shigun was up all night.”

“Coming down with something?”

“I think he just wanted mommy time. Work and mommyhood don't dovetail so smoothly. Did I mention the chart's not three years old, but current and marked confidential?” She put her head back. “Art Lake's in there. It isn't easy to find, but it's there. Want to see?”

• • •

“Gimme the org chart.” While she drank coffee, he leafed through the thirty-page document. “I thought the purpose of an org chart was to quickly show how an outfit fits together.”

“Probably why we're not in the business world,” she said.

It took a while to plow through everything, but he was able to see that the trust was organized in some general areas, and looked to him like a treehouse built on three support trunks: Education, Health, and Aggregated Properties. Boxes under the latter cited Future Space, Future Time, and Future Earth.

“I don't see anything about Art Lake,” he said, grabbing a piece of pizza.

“It's there.”

“Are you enjoying this?”

“I might be.”

“I give up,” he said, dropping the document on the console between the front bucket seats.

She leafed through the pages and gave it back to him. “Top page. See it now?”

“No.”

“You like puzzles?”

“Just the ones I can solve.”

“You're destined to a life of disappointment,” she said. “Aren't you the one always preaching to me about thinking outside the box? Try thinking
inside
the box.”

She's a lulu, this one.

“You know what an anagram is?” she asked.

“Jumbled letters?”
Like my brain.

“Look at the entry, ‘Last Carde.' ”

“No way that's an anagram for Art Lake.”

“
Inside
the box, remember?”

He passed the document back to her and started the engine.

“People tell me Grady Service never quits.”

“Shows you how much people know.”

“If you don't try, you'll never know the answer,” she said.

“I don't need to. We're a team.”

“You're trying to guilt me.”

“Is it working?” he asked.

“You're a difficult man at times.”

“I've heard.”

As they got between Channing and Sagola, she said, “Okay.”

“Question or answer?”

“Okay is sometimes a word of agreement, sometimes one of submission.”

“This time?”

“Do you want the answer or not? The entry, Last Carde, is Art Lake.”

“Excuse me, nine letters versus seven. I counted. It doesn't fit.”

“In English. If you try
French
it reduces to Lac des Arts, ten letters, which can be scrambled to—”

“Eight letters, which is still too many,” he said.

“Not lac
de
Art, but lac d'art,”she said.

How the hell had she figured this out? Was she right?
“You deciphered this?”

“It's a gift,” she said.

“What is?”

“Puzzles, anagrams, mind-benders. I could do thousand-piece jigsaws alone when I was six.”

Between Sagola and Crystal Falls she said, “Your place is closer than mine.”

No doubting what she's implying. Am I ready for this? Are we?
He looked over at her. “Okay.”

“It's Wednesday morning. Is this a workday . . . technically?”

“Are you concerned about that Jell-O mode thing?” he asked her.

“I'm not, but you may be in the morning.”

Can't read her, and sometimes I've got no idea what she's talking about, much less what she's thinking.
“Maybe we should put this off.”
Assuming we both know what “this” is,
he reminded himself.

At the light below the courthouse he needed to turn right to go toward Iron River, or left to go to Simon and Elza's place near Alpha.
Off the dime, he told himself.
He turned left and looked over at her. “This doesn't mean we're joined at the hip.”

“No, but you'll be in the ballpark,” Friday said with a lecherous grin.