Force of Blood Read online

  “Allegan County,” Sedge said.

  “We’ll let Father Nickle and his bishop sweat. Call the Allegan sheriff and ask if his deps can make contact for us, question the boys about what happened up here.”

  “Can we get back to the museum?” Grinda asked.

  “You meet your contact in front of the old building next to B.J.’s Rock Shop, just west of the IGA. Your contact will lead you to where the collection is housed.”

  “Museum?” Grinda said.

  “Play it straight. You heard from a friend in Epoufette about the place, and you are married to a collector and wanted to see for yourself in case there might be something your hubby would like.”

  “Jesus,” Sedge said. “When did you think that up?”

  “Right now. Want to change the story?” he asked Grinda.

  “No, that seems pretty straightforward to me. In a twisted way,” she added.

  “Don’t pretend to know anything about artifacts, but probe for values, prices, and so forth.”

  “I won’t have to fake that part,” Grinda said.

  “Make sure you have your remote panic button in your pocket and if anything difficult goes down, push it and we’ll come running.”

  “This should be pretty routine.”

  “Should be isn’t a guarantee of anything.”

  “How will I know the guy?” Grinda asked.

  Service looked down at her shapely legs sticking out of extremely short shorts and said, “With wheels like that, he’ll find you.”

  She rolled her eyes in protest.

  “He’s male. Don’t worry, he’ll find you.”

  “You men can be such pigs,” Sedge said.

  Service grimaced. “Be glad for that. It makes us playable.”

  “Afterwards, meet back here?” Grinda asked.

  “No,” Sedge said. “We want to take you north to see the site. Head north out of town on M-123 and take Wilwin Truck Trail west about a half-mile into a big clearing. We’ll wait for you there.”

  “Any notion how long this thing will take?” Grinda asked.

  “Nope, but as long as the guy’s not hinky and he’s liking your legs and smells potential sales, I’m guessing he’ll be downright garrulous.”

  “Nice word,” Sedge said.

  “I’m not just a pretty face,” Grady Service said.

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  USFS Highway 6633, Chippewa County

  MONDAY, JUNE 11, 2007

  Noon and no sign of Grinda. He’d called Sergeant Quinn and arranged to meet him in Rudyard later that afternoon. Then thirteen hundred rolled up and Grady Service was starting to get nervous when Grinda came on the radio. “Three One Twenty is turning down Wilwin.”

  Service sighed and tried to hide it, but he realized Sedge was watching his every reaction and keying off him. Shit, is this what the future will be like—everyone watching me?

  Elza Grinda got out of her truck and shook her head of giant hair. “God,” she said. “Is there something wet to drink?”

  “Water,” Sedge said, handing her a bottle from her truck cooler.

  “I’ll write a report,” Grinda said after taking a drink. “You cannot believe this place. Three stories and a basement, an old farmhouse three miles from town, packed with artifacts and antiques of every description. I still can’t believe what I saw.”

  “What about Clatchety?” Service asked.

  “I doubt he even saw my legs. My gaydar says he’s of another pesuasion. This guy is all about money. He drives a ten-year-old Ford pickup, but I saw a photo in the house with him beside a silver Mercedes SL550, and I was able to get the plate number.” She handed the note to Service.

  “He in business?”

  “He was cagey. The museum is obviously someone’s write-off. Prearranged, escorted visits only, and only people Clatchety knows or are vouched for get invites.”

  “But he’ll deal?”

  “He’s nimble on his feet. He made me almost beg him before he’d even speculate on letting things go.”

  “Let me guess: He has to check with the owner?” Service said.

  “Bingo—the owner, who is or is not local.”

  “Where?”

  “Refused to say. He’s just buying time, trying to figure out what to do and how to play me. Let’s see what that plate gives us.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I made a mental list of all the Native American stuff. There are five or six rooms filled with it: arrowheads, spear points, tools, copper stuff, you name it.”

  “Breakheads or hatchets?” Service asked.

  “Five or six. One of them seems carved out of bone with a large agate laced into the end. Scary-looking thing. Not hatchets or tomahawks.”

  Agate? “Where’d you leave the buy?”

  “He has to confer with the owner, and I am to call him back on Friday. He gave me a number. I’m guessing it feeds into a call forwarder which probably goes to a pay-as-you-go phone he can use once and dump.”

  “You sense he’s that careful?”

  “He seems cautious and professional,” Grinda said. “Measured, not eager.”

  “He carry?”

  “Nothing obvious if he is.”

  “Weapons in the collection?”

  “Three or four flintlocks in primo condition. I’ll write everything down and put it in my report. I wish I’d had a camera.”

  “Too dangerous.”

  “Anything else?”

  Service looked at Sedge. “Nope, you did great.”

  “Good. Now I’m getting out of these shorts and sandals and into my uniform and boots. Service looked and saw Sedge bringing Grinda’s uniform from her truck.

  “I guess that means I should take off,” Service said. “I have a quick meeting in Rudyard.”

  “Meet us where we dropped trucks the first time we went to the site,” Sedge said. “You remember where that is?”

  “I dropped an AVL marker.”

  Grinda laughed. “Jesus, Grady; you barely know how to use the computer and we’ve had it how many years?”

  “Only ten,” he said, walking toward his truck, trying to block out their laughter.

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  Rudyard, Chippewa County

  MONDAY, JUNE 11, 2007

  Sergeant Bearnard Quinn’s truck was in the parking lot of the town’s library, which was attached to the school. Service got out and lit a cigarette.

  “Gonna have to knock off the coffin nails,” Quinn said through his open window.

  “Mind your own business.”

  “Yo! My boss’s business is my business.”

  Service handed his colleague several sets of embroidered chevrons. “You earned ’em, Bernie.”

  “Word’s going ’round you worked with the new chief.”

  “On one case. He’s top-notch, leads from the front.”

  “Lorne was a good chief,” Quinn said.

  “He was, and a friend, and now it’s time for him to take a rest and let others carry the ball,” Service said. “You headed to Toronto?”

  “We moved it to Friday. The wife’s gonna take personal business days Friday and Monday. We’ll make a four-dayer out of it.”

  “Good town.”

  Quinn stared past him. “Grady, you been looking at the grass? It’s dry below the bridge but it looks downright scary up here.”

  “Part of the cycle,” Service said philosophically.

  “We get fires, it fucks up everything,” Quinn said.

  “Beat it, ya big Mick.”

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  North Rudyard, Chippewa County

  MONDAY, JUNE 11, 2007

  The cell phone was sounding as Service sped north toward M-28. “Grady, this is Eddie.”

  “Chief.”

  “The state archaeologist resigned this morning, apparently came into the building over the weekend and cleaned out his office. He sent his resignation by e-mail, and nobody knows where he is.”

  “Sounds like you hit a raw nerve,�
� Service said.

  “My thought too. So much so in fact that I’ve talked to our lawyers, and I’m asking them to go to the AG and get a search warrant. Something stinks in this deal.”

  “You want me down there?”

  “No point right now. I’ll keep you up-to-date. What’s going on up there?”

  “I got a tip about a private museum, and I asked Officer Grinda to go plainclothes. She said the guy has an old farmhouse west of Trout Lake, loaded with artifacts and antiques. The guy is eager to sell. She’s to call him back Friday.”

  “That’s good. Any breaks with the CR case?”

  CR case? “We can’t even say that’s what it is yet, Chief.”

  “I can smell it,” Eddie Waco said. “Shake some trees, see what falls out.”

  “I have an informant who tells me it’s pretty rare, but it has happened in the state.”

  “Don’t doubt your source. One thing you ought to know is that this deal is almost always in isolated places. Rounding up deer in populated areas isn’t practical. Too much chance of discovery. If you’re way out in the boons and find evidence, you can make book on what’s happening.”

  “We’ll keep that in mind.” Made sense, even though the southern part of the state had most of the deer—and almost all of the big ones.

  “Bearnard Quinn is the new state master sergeant.”

  “District nine?”

  “That’s him.”

  “I was pretty sure you’d pick him.”

  Service didn’t understand.

  Waco told him, “A lot of leaders don’t want strong people near them. They’re insecure. Good leaders pick top people and let them push them around to try and make changes. I was right about you, Grady.”

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  “You tell Miars about your plainclothes deal?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Brief him so he can be ready to take it over.”

  “Sir, I don’t mind briefing him, but this is Sedge’s case, and she deserves to take it all the way. She’s young, and big wins early count for a lot.”

  Eddie Waco laughed. “They sure do. Thank you, Chief Master Sergeant. By the way, your new call is Twenty Four Fourteen.”

  • • •

  As he turned west on M-28 the 800 crackled to life. “Twenty Four Fourteen, this is Three One Twenty.”

  “Twenty Four Fourteen.”

  “We’re at that place. Where are you?”

  “Eighty miles south, roughly.”

  “You’d better get over here.”

  “Make my way, or expedite?”

  “You got warp speed in that jalopy?”

  39

  Coast of Death, Luce County

  MONDAY, JUNE 11, 2007

  He drove his truck far beyond where Sedge had parked hers and jogged cross-country the rest of the way, becoming winded—a reminder that he was letting his fitness slide, a dangerous oversight for a dirt-boot officer in the field.

  Service found the two women had stripped down to their T-shirts, their gun belts and vests draped over on a nearby log. There was a huge hole in front of them, and sticking out of it was a hoof.

  “I needed warp speed to see that?”

  Sedge exhaled. “Horses, Sergeant, not deer. What the hell are horses doing buried here? I mean, really?”

  “How many horses?” Service asked.

  “Nine,” Sedge said. “So far.”

  He looked down. “Whole carcasses?”

  “Not that we’ve seen yet. They look like they were quartered and brought out here.”

  Service sniffed the air. “Still ripe.”

  “That’s what got us to looking,” Grinda explained. “But it’s not for them we were in a yank for you to get here.”

  Service looked around the area. “They look like they’re away from the artifact field.”

  Sedge looked up at him and sighed. “Check that hole over there,” she said, pointing.

  Service looked down and saw a human skull.

  Sedge said, “The horses may not be in the artifact field, but I think they’re right in the middle of the Iroquois remains.”

  Katsu’s right. It happened here. “How do we know they’re Iroquois?”

  “Buried in flex position, wrapped in birch and other barks,” Sedge said. “It’s got to be them.”

  “The chief called me today. The state archaeologist cleaned out his office over the weekend and resigned by e-mail this morning.”

  Sedge raised an eyebrow. “Something we did?”

  “Something someone did,” Service said. Sedge and Grinda didn’t need to know that Eddie Waco had gone to the man’s house, which no doubt had helped precipitate the hasty departure.

  “We should tell Katsu,” Sedge suggested.

  “Let’s think this through first,” Service reasoned. “The SA is gone. It will take time for a replacement to be named, perhaps a real long time. DEQ can green-light Toliver’s dig. We can ask him to put together a hasty plan for this and let DEQ look at it. If necessary, we can pull in the AG’s office and let them ride herd on the whole thing legally. We’re looking at crimes here, as well as a new historical discovery. We want both lines of inquiry to lead us somewhere.”

  “God,” Grinda said. “That’s pure Machiavellian thinking.” Her voice suggested admiration.

  “The Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act will apply,” Sedge said. “Human bodies, yes?”

  Service thought about it. “Even on state land? I’m not so sure. Let’s let the AG coordinate NAGPRA in the absence of a state archaeology official.”

  “Who calls the attorney general?” Grinda asked.

  “We’ll ask the chief to do that for us. Meanwhile, Jingo, you may want to touch base with Toliver.”

  “What about my idea with Wingel?”

  “Let’s hold on that. I might have more information coming.”

  “And Kermit the frog?” Sedge asked.

  “He’s on the run for the moment. I guess we just let him keep running for now.”

  “I’ll run the plate number I picked up off the photo at the museum,” Grinda said. “You want me to head home or stick around?”

  “She’ll bunk with me,” Sedge said. “We already talked about it.”

  “Sort of a loner?” Grinda said to Service, who cringed. “I don’t think Simon thinks that,” she said.

  Service rolled his eyes. Had Sedge told Grinda? Damn. Dealing with this pair was a lot more work than he had anticipated. Two sharp minds and tongues to match. “We’ll let the church camp stew until Friday, but we need to talk to the family down in Pullman, see what they have to say and, if necessary, we need to talk to their boys.

  “Ya know,” Grinda said, “the meat’s been taken off these carcasses. What do you suppose that means?”

  “I don’t know. Dog food? More important, how the hell did they get them out here? And why?” Service asked. “Too damn big to haul on four-wheelers, and with all this weight, there must be tracks somewhere.”

  “You’re the tracking dude,” Sedge said. “So track.”

  • • •

  Service looked around the area, but found nothing of immediate interest. He began circling, looking to cut sign on something that might suggest what had happened. To the west there was a sandy enfilade leading north, and it looked to him like someone had brushed it with evergreen branches, or something similar. A little handwork in the sand showed faint evidence of a groove, possibly an old drag mark.

  He moved down the sandy draw until it opened into a low dune area. From where he stood he looked for the easiest route north and took that, which led him to a spot not more than four feet above the beach. The wind was blasting from the north and the water was up, but he could see in the gravel areas that it had been disturbed by some weight, and that someone had tried to smoother it over, to make it look undisturbed.

  Not from hikers. He let his legs hang over the edge of the sandy spit and lit a cigarette. When h
e dropped an ash, the dry brown grass immediately began to smolder. He jammed the cigarette deep into the sand and slapped some more sand on top of the smoldering area until the smoke stopped.

  Holy shit. It’s a tinderbox out here. He took his radio off his belt and clicked in the frequency for District Two. “Two One Hundred, Twenty Four Fourteen.”

  If McKower was there, she would be in her cubicle with her radio on.

  “Two One Hundred.”

  “Has anyone talked about how dry it is north of town? I’ve never seen it this bad before.”

  “Fire has warnings at max red,” she said. “The rest is up to nature.”

  “That’s not reassuring,” Service said. “Twenty Four Fourteen clear.”

  He played with his cell phone. No bars. Shit.

  When he got back he discovered that his partners had uncovered another Native American burial. “Maybe you two should leave that stuff alone until the experts get out here,” he suggested.

  Grinda looked up at the sky. “If we get lightning, the woods out here are gonna blow up.”

  “Shall we cover up what we’ve found and mark them?” Grinda asked Sedge, who nodded.

  “Good idea,” Service said, suspecting he was being tuned out.

  “We weren’t talking to you,” Sedge said with an edge to her voice.

  “You want me to wait for you two?”

  Neither answered. Both were too busy moving sand.

  Time to get out of here, he told himself.

  “You going to be around town or back at your place?” Grinda called after him.

  “Here somewhere. I’ll see if I can bunk in with Sergeant Bryan.”

  “His new girlfriend may not like that,” Sedge said.

  “I’ll let you know how it works out,” Service said, eager to get back to the solace of his truck. Maybe this sergeant thing was wrong; too much face time with too damn many people.

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