Strike Dog (31 page)

“Any of them have trouble with the law?”

The old man chuckled. “Hell, they all had troubles with the law, when the law had nerve enough to bring it up, which mostly they didn't.”

“What kind of troubles?”

“You name it. Anybody pissed one of 'em off, the whole clan would be on 'em.”

“Any of them disappear?”

“Lots of 'em. They'd beat it out of town until the heat let up some.”

“You think they're still there?”

“They ain't the kind to do much movin' around. I expect there's still plenty of Peys down there, but I ain't been back since I left, and I ain't had no interest in doin' so.”

“You ever sell any of your booger flies to the Peys?”

“Had one steal some from me once, but they weren't the sporting folk the Mains was. The Peys was strictly out for meat.”

“Thanks for your help,” Service said. “Tell your son we appreciate his cooperation.”

“My son don't know sunshine from a shoe shine,” the old man said ­disgustedly.

“What was that all about?” Denninger asked when he got out to the truck.

“The old man told me about growing up in Indiana.”

She rolled her eyes as she turned the key and started the engine.

As she dropped him off at his truck, she offered, “You want, you can bunk at my place tonight,” she offered. “I live near Glennie.”

“I'll sleep here, but thanks.”

“You sure?” Denninger asked Service.

“I've got to get an early start.”

The young woman shrugged. “You want me to type up what we have?” During the night they had realized it was too difficult to look for CO names and had instead written down all Michigan customers. Service had seen Shark's name, but that was the only one he recognized.

“Yep, that would be good, and thanks again.”

He took two blankets out of the truck and spread them on the grass. He had a hard time getting to sleep. Indiana, Pey, Ney. Maybe he finally had something to grab onto. In the morning he would head south.

40

MONGO, INDIANA
JULY 27, 2004

Service dug around in his emergency food pack but all he could find was a crumbled Moon Pie of indeterminate age. Normally he took pride in eating good food, but since the loss of Nantz and Walter, he found little pleasure in food. He ate only for sustenance, mainly junk food, and after a determined start, he was not getting the workouts he needed. He could feel a little paunch forming.
You're falling apart,
he told himself.

Just north of St. Johns he looked up the Woodpecker's cell phone number and wrote it down. Murphy Shanahan, aka the Woodpecker, was a longtime officer with bright red hair that came to a dramatic point over his forehead, and a prominent, thin nose. He had once served in the U.P. in Keweenaw County but had married a woman from Below The Bridge, and had transferred to St. Joseph County on the Indiana border. Murph was also a federal deputy, and he'd know his Indiana counterpart.

He called Shanahan on the cell but got no answer, and switched to Channel 12 on his 800 megahertz as he approached Marshall. “Twelve, Three Ten, you got TX? This is Twenty Five Fourteen.”

“Affirmative TX. I had it off.”

“I'm in Marshall and headed your way. I need your help with something.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

“You pick.”

“Sturgis at the cop house. See you when you get here.”

“I need to go down to Mongo to meet the CO down there.”

“I'll set it up,” the Woodpecker said.

 

Murphy Shanahan was in top shape. He grinned when he shook hands. “What's going down?”

“You get briefed on the game warden murders?”

“Creeped us all out. This about that?”

“I'm helping the Feebs with some background interviews.”

“I bumped Westy Karkowski down in LaGrange County. He'll meet us there. Indiana hasn't told their people about the killings, but I passed it on to Westy. He's a good warden, been around twenty-five years and still charging.”

Westy Karkowski looked like he'd have a hard time getting off a couch, much less charging forward in his job, but he was interested, and had a quick mind. He wore the dark green short-sleeved shirt and dark green pants of an Indiana game warden, the shirt covered with gaudy state patches. The three trucks were snugged into a turnoff, next to the Pigeon River, just west of the village of Mongo.

“Indeed, there's a heap of Peys in the county, and I've had contact with more than a few of them, but the guy who knows 'em best is Arlo Danielson. He spent forty years as the warden here, and retired after I took over. Getting on now, but he's still sharp and in pretty good shape. He lives about five miles east of here on the river and spends most of his time fishing.”

It seemed to Service that being a detective was more about patience and stamina than anything else. He seemed to spend all of his time trying to find somebody who knew somebody, who had heard something about somebody, and sometimes persistence paid off. It could also be a waste of time, but he knew that every lead not followed could be the one that would have paid off. As an old hockey player, he knew the essence of that game was to keep your feet moving, finish your checks, push the puck up to the guy in a better position, take every shot chance you got, and always, always follow the puck until there was a whistle. Being a detective was similar.

They found Danielson sitting on a patio, under a striped awning on a wooden deck, overlooking the river. He was a small man with a flat face and scars near his left ear that left a gap in his hair.

Karkowski made the introductions and the retired game warden said, “So many badges in one place, I thought mebbe you all thought I was pinching state fish.”

Service asked about the Pey family, and Danielson made a sour face. “Pips, that bunch. Worst was Big Ben. He's ninety-two now and still got his hair, his hearing, and his eyesight. I arrested him so many times that even when he was behaving, which he did from time to time, he'd drop by and tell me about some other family member who was running afoul of the law. ­Wasn't that Ben got a shot of righteousness from doing it; he just didn't like the others out on the harvest when he couldn't be.”

Grady Service wasn't sure how much to reveal, but it seemed to him there was a whole lot of history on hand here, and if he failed to take advantage, he might be sorry later. He laid out the killings of the game wardens, the Mexican incident, booger flies, the whole thing.

“The man arrested in Mexico had a woman and a boy with him. The local police cut them loose and they disappeared. The man gave his name as Ney, but the FBI couldn't find any Neys in Pigeon River, or even in Indiana.”

“Big Ben might could know something,” Danielson said. “Let's walk over and talk to him.”

“He lives nearby?”

“Right smack across the river. We got to be friends and our kids built us a footbridge so we could visit back and forth. He's bit as hard for trout as me, and he isn't the wild thing he once was.” Danielson chuckled and added, “None of us are.”

Big Ben Pey was no more than five feet tall, with a full head of only slightly gray hair, mottled skin, and black moles all over his hands. He was wearing overalls, no shirt, and workboots that looked to be as old as him.

Danielson said, “Ben, this is Grady Service. He's a game warden up in the Upper Peninsula, down here trying to get some information.”

The old man stared at Service. “Used ta hunt up that way with my boys some, but game wardens up there didn't seem too partial to outsiders. Had an old chum up there, name of Allerdyce.”

“Limpy,” Service said. It figured. The big poachers all seemed to know each other.

I heard he took bad-sick a while back.”

“He recovered.” The thought of the Indiana poacher and retired warden being buddy-buddy stuck in his craw. It would not happen with Limpy and him.

“Never met a man knew the woods like Allerdyce,” Big Ben Pey said.

“Or game wardens,” Service added.

Pey laughed. “Sure enough. He used ta tell me only one of you boys ever got the best of him, but he died a long time ago.”

Service was sure that this had been his father, but said nothing.

“So what's this question you're burnin' ta ask?” the old man said.

He told the story again and concluded, “I just learned that Pigeon River is Mongo, and that there are a lot of your kin around here. Did you know a Frankie Ney or Pey?”

“Prob'ly Francois Ney Pey. His people come down from Québec a long time back, and they was always hung up over that French stuff. Name was François, but he went by Frankie.”

“He had a son?”

“Not that I heard. Unlike the rest of the family, Frankie went off to college, got him a dandy job. Lived in Detroit a spell, I think, but he was all over tarnation and made good dough.”

“He come back here often?”

“Used to be sweet on a woman named Greenleaf, lived on the river in town. Folks used to say he slipped back in to town from time to time to slip it to her, if you know what I mean, but I never seen him. I don't think he cared much for his kin.”

“This woman still around?”

“Name's Esther, but ev'body called her Essie. She was peculiar, that's for sure. She lives with her daughter up in Sturgis now, in one of them Polack neighborhoods. She's got to be in her seventies now, maybe even eighty. My mind ain't so good anymore.”

“What's her daughter's name?”

The old man thought for a minute. “Let me call my son.” He went back into the house and came back five minutes later. “Daughter's name is Ruth Zalinske, with an “e,” not an “i.” Zalinskes claim to be Ukrainians, but Ukes're just another flavor of Polack.”

Service asked, “Do you remember who Frankie worked for?”

Big Ben lifted his eyes toward the sky. “I think it was Sears Roebuck, or maybe Monkey Ward, one a' them big outfits. His job was to go into stores and check their bookkeeping or some such numbers thing. Frankie was real smart.”

“What did Frankie look like?”

“I think I got a pitcher somewhere in the house. You want me to look?”

“If you wouldn't mind.”

“Exercise do me good.” Big Ben looked over at Danielson. “Got two dandy trout after you went in last night.”

“I hope they were legal,” the retired game warden said.

The old man laughed and disappeared into the house again. He came out carrying a faded photograph in small square format, like something from an old Brownie Hawkeye. There were marks on the corner of the photo where it had obviously been affixed to an album.

Service studied the photo. There was a vague resemblance to the Mexican photo, but he couldn't be sure if it was real or wishful thinking. “How old was he in this?”

“Oh, he woulda been eighteen or nineteen, just before he went off ta college.”

“Where was that?”

“Up your way in Marquette.”

Northern? “When?”

“I'd say 1932. Moved to Detroit after college and signed up for the navy after Pearl Harbor, spent the war out in the Pacific somewheres, and never come back to Pigeon River.”

Eighteen or nineteen in 1932 would have made Pey thirty-eight years older when the Mexicans arrested him. Service made a mental note.

“What kind of a boy was he?”

“Just a boy, I guess, 'cept he liked school, which most Peys didn't. Hunted and fished a lot, and he run a trapline in winter. Sold furs to buy him a Chevy. That boy liked to move around.”

“Liked to move around?”

“Used to drive over to Montreal every summer. Relatives there, I guess.”

“What relation to you is he?”

Big Ben stared at the ceiling. “They all sort of run together. I guess I'd be a nephew. His mother was Pauline, who was my half sister.”

“Is Pauline still alive?”

“Died the year Frankie went off to college.”

“Died how?”

“Got murdered.”

“Did they catch the killer?”

“Nossir. Somebody cut her throat. She was married, but she and her husband, Jacques, both run around on each other. Some say it was one of her boyfriends did her in, but it never got solved.”

“Can I borrow this photo?” Service asked.

“If it'll help, sure,” said Big Ben.

Service thanked the man and was silent as he followed Shanahan back to Sturgis. Frankie Pey was a trapper and a hunter, which meant he knew how to skin animals. And his mother had been found with her throat cut, the murder never solved. He went to college and never came back. Up in Marquette? Was this possible? This was beginning to have the feel of something almost solid, but there remained plenty of holes and gaps.

41

STURGIS, MICHIGAN
JULY 27, 2004

By late afternoon they were in Sturgis in a neighborhood of small houses well past their prime and only marginally kept up. Someone had put a hand-painted sign in a yard that read
polish acres
. Service knocked on the door and a woman answered. “I'm looking for Esther Greenleaf.”

“I'm her daughter,” the woman said.

Service explained who he was and showed his badge. “Is she here?”

“She's not well,” the woman said.

“It's important that we talk,” Service said.

“Can you keep it brief?” the woman asked. She opened the door tentatively and let him in.

The old woman was watching television. “I always watch
Jeopardy,
” she announced. “This one's a rerun, but tonight the reg'lar show's on.”

The daughter said, “Mom, this police officer would like to talk to you.”

“There's no category for police on
Jeopardy,
” the woman said. “There was, I'd know. I seen every show ever made.”

Service sat down on a couch beside the recliner where the old woman sat. The daughter stood beside her mother. “Mrs. Greenleaf, I'd like to ask you some questions about Frankie Pey.”

The old woman looked up at her daughter and dismissed her with a wave of the hand. “Ruthie, you just scoot on out of here now.”

The daughter obeyed without protest.

“I don't want to bring up any bad things from your past,” Service began. “But you knew Frankie Pey.”

The woman looked at him for the first time and scowled. “What is the definition of ‘knew'?”

Service said, “You know—a friend or something like that?”

“No, it's the game! You must put it in question form, ‘What was the name of the man who used to be sweet on Essie Greenleaf?'”

Oh boy,
Service thought. The circuits in the old lady's brain were a ­little frayed and she was seeing the world through the prism of
Jeopardy
. “What was the name of the man who used to be sweet on Essie Greenleaf?”

“Who is Frankie Pey?” the old woman said, pressing her hands together.

Service had only taken a cursory glance at
Jeopardy
over the years, in fact, rarely watched television, and had to rack his brain for the right words.

“Okay,” he said. “The category is Frankie Pey.”

“I never seen that on the show,” she said.

“It's coming up on a future one,” he said.

“Oh good, I'll be ready.”

“First answer,” Service said. “Mexico.”

“What is Frankie's final resting place?”

“Right,” Service said. “Essie.”

“What is his last lover's name?” the woman said.

“Their son's name?” Service asked.

The woman looked agitated. “Can't answer no trick question. They ­didn't have no son.”

“The name of the boy who traveled with them?”

“Who is Marcel?” she said.

“Where is Marcel now?” he asked.

The woman lurched in her chair. “Improper question. I have to confer with the judges.” She looked at the wall, whispered animatedly, and turned back to him.

“What Frankie was doing in Mexico when he was arrested?” Service said.

“What is completing his life's work?” she said, clapping her hands together. “Did I get the Daily Double?”

What the fuck was a daily double? “Sure,” he said.

“No,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “You're not Alex and this isn't
Jeopardy
. You don't even know the rules. I won't play with nobody who don't know the rules. It ruins everything. Ruthie!” she screamed. “Ruthie!
Ruthie!
”

The daughter rushed into the room.

“He's a fake. I need my medicine. I don't play with no fakes.”

The daughter walked outside with Service, her lips quivering.

“Look,” he said. “I had no intention of upsetting your mother. She's difficult to talk to, but it's clear that she may possess some information that will be important to the authorities. I'm leaving, but you can expect the FBI to come to see her.”

“Oh my God. The FBI! She doesn't know what she's talking about,” the daughter said. “She's trapped inside the television.”

“Maybe so,” Service said, but he suspected she wasn't in there alone.