No Man's Dog (23 page)

Yes, she thought, that was probably it. He was with that woman, that Dinah Schwind. This had nothing to do with the Colonel at all.

This was no help. She had no way of finding Dinah Schwind. She felt like driving to Mulheisen’s house and demanding to know where Mulheisen was—an absurd notion. Very likely, Mulheisen knew nothing at all about Joe, and could care less. Besides, if the old lady was ill . . . She couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Resigned, she went in to talk to her mother, who was herself getting ready for bed. Her mother, of course, had seen immediately that her daughter was distraught, but she’d tried to ignore it, in case it was not serious. Now the old lady drew her out. When she learned what the matter was, she commiserated, but in a deprecating way. Helen’s father had been a notorious philanderer. Soke Sedlacek had suffered mightily. But in the end she had resigned herself.

“It’s how men are,” Soke told her daughter. “They see some pretty girl, always someone younger, and they can’t help themselves. A stiff prick has no conscience.”

Helen was not having that. She wasn’t old, and she didn’t think Dinah Schwind, the Lucani agent, was any younger, and certainly not more good-looking. She’d merely thrown that notion out
as a possibility; she didn’t really believe it . . . not really. Did she? No, she thought there must be some other reason. “I even called Mulheisen,” she said. “You remember him, Mama, the police detective . . . he was in charge of the investigation when Papa . . . died. I thought he might know something. But he’s gone off somewhere too.

Mrs. Sedlacek remembered Mulheisen. “The poor man,” she said. “His mother was almost killed in that bombing, out in some awful suburb. I don’t know where it was—Ann Arbor?”

Soke knew nothing much about it, only what she’d read in the newspaper. But Helen felt it might be important. She went off to call an old friend of hers from school, Christi Rose. Christi’s mother had worked for Humphrey at one time. Christi was a very bright young woman who had married a bright young man when they were both in law school. Christi did the family law in the firm and Ron did criminal and personal injury law. If anyone had any useful knowledge about this bombing, Christi would.

She did. After they got past the greetings and “let’s have lunch, soon,” Christi told Helen what she knew about Cora Mulheisen, the investigation, Homeland Security. Yes, a Vernon Tucker was part of the investigation. Christi had lots of information, including the scuttlebutt in the legal world. Insiders speculated that the bombing was all about the case of a young drug dealer, named Calona, who was at the Wards Cove Municipal Building for a preliminary hearing. Presumably, the bombing was intended to provide cover for springing Calona. Unfortunately, Calona had died in the bombing; the hearing had been held in a judge’s chambers that was located all too close to the point where the bomb-laden truck had crashed.

This information wasn’t very enlightening to Helen, but she was a thorough person. She listened to the other theories, the ones that presumably had interested the Homeland Security people,
about rival Arab factions. There were a few Arabs in that county, but nothing like the thousands of expatriate Syrians, Lebanese, Chaldeans, Iraqis, and others in nearby Wayne County (where Detroit was located). There were no hearings or any other activities involving them going on, although there were some citizenship processes in train. The Arab angle was a no-go. The only other activity scheduled, besides the hearing on the environmental issues that had attracted Cora Mulheisen’s group, was a routine matter concerning the disposition of the property of a deceased woman named Constance Malachi.

“My ears perked up when I heard that,” Christi said. “You remember Jerry Malachi, don’t you?”

“Oh, sure,” Helen said. “Jerry was at Michigan State when we were. Tall, good-looking . . . a golfer, wasn’t he?”

“Tennis,” Christi said. “He was a psych major. I dated him pretty seriously, when we were seniors, don’t you remember? For a while, he thought I’d marry him, but no way. Then I went off to law school and met Ron.”

That wasn’t exactly how Helen remembered Christi’s brief fling with Jerry, but she didn’t say anything. “Was he involved in this . . . what was it, a hearing?” she asked.

“Oh, no. It was just the name. No connection,” Christi said. “Jerry turned out to be gay, you know.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I’m not sure he even knew he was gay, at the time. But I had my suspicions. Not that he and I ever, uh, did anything. Which made the switch to Ron a lot easier, believe me.”

Helen had known Jerry Malachi rather more intimately. One thing she knew for sure; he wasn’t gay. No point in mentioning it now, of course. They went on to discuss a number of things about school, about Ron, the kids, Detroit. After a few more “Let’s have lunch” suggestions, that was it.

Helen was still frustrated, still seething. She went downstairs to the elaborate workout area her father had installed in the basement. She took a swim, and then a sauna. She’d had some adventures with Joe in this room. The thought of it vanquished the momentary feeling of relaxation. She went upstairs and called the number for Jerry Malachi. He still lived in Grosse Pointe, not far away.

“I ran into a friend of yours,” she said when he came to the phone. “Christi Rose. Your name came up.”

Jerry was delighted to hear it. “How’s Chrissy doing these days?”

They chatted for a bit and then Helen mentioned the Malachi connection, the hearing in Wards Cove. “Christi said it caught her eye, but it turned out that it was a different Malachi.”

“I wonder where Christi gets her gossip?” Malachi said. “Actually, there is a connection, but it’s pretty distant.”

“That’s Christi,” Helen said. “Always jumping to conclusions on insufficient evidence. She told me you were gay. I guess you weren’t lying when you swore to me you never touched her.”

Malachi laughed. “I never lied to you, sweetie. Now you know.”

“So what is the connection?”

Malachi explained that Constance was a cousin, somewhat distant. Her father was an uncle of Jerry’s father. “I met her, once or twice, a long time ago,” he said. “They weren’t from Detroit. Most of that side of the family are in Indianapolis.”

“What was the hearing about?” Helen asked.

“A dispute about property,” Jerry said. “I wouldn’t have noticed, except there was a hideous bombing the same day, some kind of terrorist thing. Connie had married a guy from up north somewhere. Then she died. There was some kind of disagreement about her inheritance. So . . . what are you doing these days?”

Helen wasn’t sure if Christi had been aware that Helen had also dated Jerry, although she was pretty sure it was one of the reasons Jerry had broken off with Christi. She wasn’t in the least surprised, in fact, when Malachi said, “What are you doing tonight?”

“Tonight? It’s kind of late, isn’t it?” Helen said.

“Gee, what time do you usually go to bed?” Jerry asked. “I mean, to sleep? It’s only ten o’clock.”

Helen was amused. She was also restless. She agreed to meet in an hour, at a bar they knew on Kercheval, Pierre’s.

Jerry was as handsome as ever, she was glad to see. It turned out he was divorced. He was in marketing now, obviously doing fairly well. He knew about her late father; perhaps it added some glamour, another attraction. Helen felt hard-pressed to keep the conversation in the direction she preferred. The Jerry she had known in college was still a wolf.

Malachi wasn’t interested in his remote cousin, but as it seemed that Helen was, he was happy to tell her what he knew. Constance Malachi was a little older than them, probably in her late thirties when she died. He remembered seeing her when he was a kid and she was a rather sexy teenager. She’d gone into the law, he said, working for the government.

“I think she was doing pretty well, actually,” Malachi said. “A prosecutor or something. Worked for the U.S. Attorney’s office. Then, I guess she married this Luckenbach guy, who was some kind of big farmer, or developer—I don’t know what the deal was. She dropped out of sight. They had some kind of property settlement deal, part of the marriage, or maybe his business. Then—
boom!
—she dropped dead. Heart attack. Amazing, isn’t it? She was so young. I have this image of her, the bold, vivacious older girl. Very bright, too.”

It was sad, Helen said. Too young. “But what was the issue? Why the hearing?”

“The family was upset, I heard,” Malachi said, “because some property that belonged to the family, her dad, I guess, was claimed by the husband, this Luckenbach guy. Pretty nice chunk of property, too. Upstate, somewhere, I heard. Probably lake property. There might have been some development scheme.”

“So what happened?”

“What happened? To the property, you mean? Well, nothing. The hearing was disrupted, of course. It was a thing with lawyers. Nobody was injured. I think it’s still in contention. These things can go on for ages, you know.”

Jerry really wanted to talk about Helen. She, however, had heard enough. And she was tired, a little hungover, from the champagne on the plane, or a bit of jet lag. It ended with a brief tussle in the parking lot. Jerry insisted on a kiss, for old time’s sake. Helen finally gave in to the kiss, and then solemnly agreed to meet him the next night for dinner.

Helen drove home thinking the whole thing had been a bore, a waste of time. Talking to Jerry had reminded her of why she preferred Joe. The kiss had awakened no passion. But she had gotten from Malachi the name of the town where Luckenbach lived. He had dredged it up from his memory, only because of the oddity of the name: Queensleap.

Was it anything? she wondered as she drove. She looked up the town on a map when she got home. It was way up north, probably a four-hour drive. Well; she thought, she didn’t have anything else. Maybe that was the connection. But to what? How could it involve Joe? Mulheisen, maybe . . . but it did seem to concern Colonel Tucker. By now, of course, she had half-convinced herself that Joe’s meeting with Tucker was just a cover for a renewal of his affair with Dinah Schwind. Oh, she was reaching for straws. She went to bed, exhausted.

14

Mutt and Joe

M
ulheisen woke up. The rain had slowed a bit but it was still coming down steadily. It was almost midnight. The phone rang. Had it rung before? He wasn’t sure.

It was Jimmy Marshall, calling from home. “Your mother was fine,” he said, “sleeping peacefully. I didn’t disturb her. I talked to the nurse. She said no one had come by, although she’d had a call from some woman, looking for you. There was no message and she didn’t identify herself. Your mother had been out bird-watching in the afternoon, according to the day nurse. She’s fine, Mul. I looked around, didn’t see any sign of the Homeland people or anyone else.”

Mulheisen thanked him. “Did you leave a message, how to contact me?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “I wasn’t quite sure what to do. What if the nurse gives it to this Tucker guy? I put it in a sealed envelope. Maybe that’ll keep her from opening it. In the message I said call the cabin in an emergency only.”

“Great, thanks, Jimmy,” Mulheisen said. “What about Constance Malachi?”

“She’s not buried in Indianapolis, looks like,” Jimmy said.
“I don’t know what to tell you, man. I didn’t do too well for you. Sorry.”

Mulheisen assured him he’d done fine. The nurse, he explained, was hired by him. He was sure she’d simply pass the message to his mother.

“You all right, man?” Jimmy asked. “If you need anything, give me a call. There’s a lotta guys around here who’d help out, too, you know.”

Mulheisen thanked him. “What about Wunney? Do you know him? What’s his home number?”

It took Jimmy a little while to find it, but he delivered it without comment. Mulheisen pondered for a moment whether it was too late to call Wunney, but he quickly decided that it was not a time for social niceties, and it ought to be safe enough to call a man on the task force from this number.

Wunney answered on the first ring. It was that same old flat voice. “Yeah?”

“Sorry to call so late—” Mulheisen began, before Wunney cut him off.

“You’re in Queensleap.” It was spoken flatly, without any recrimination.

“You’ve got caller ID,” Mulheisen said.

“Doesn’t everybody? Charles McVey a friend of yours?”

“Something like that,” Mulheisen said.

“Some people want to talk to you,” Wunney said.

Mulheisen heard the sound of a match, an intake of breath.

“What’s your suggestion?” Mulheisen asked.

Wunney said, “Never hurts to talk.”

“That’s what you tell a suspect, or used to, before Miranda,” Mulheisen said. “Anymore, we tell ‘em to save it for the witness stand.”

He sat in the darkness, listening to the rain and Wunney’s periodic inhalation on a cigarette. He thought about lighting up a
cigar himself, then decided against it. He still felt like a target in this windowed room.

“So don’t talk,” Wunney said. “Good night.”

But he didn’t hang up. Mulheisen explained briefly what had happened.

Wunney said, “I see what you mean about talking. It’s touchy. Still . . .”

After a bit, Mulheisen said, “Who’s Tucker’s boss?”

“You don’t want to talk to him,” Wunney said. “He’s some kind of idiot, a chair-warmer. Let me think . . .”

They sat in silence.

“Raining there?” Wunney said.

“Not quite Niagara. You can hear it?”

“Sounds nice,” Wunney said.

“A tin roof,” Mulheisen said. “You think it’s important to talk to Tucker?”

“Yeah. But I see your concern, you’d want a secure situation. I don’t know how these guys think, but there could be a good reason for him being at Luck’s. You can’t just sit there and hope that the whole thing goes away.”

“How do I get hold of him?”

“I’m thinking. Okay, how ‘bout if I come up there? He asked me to anyway. I said I would if he absolutely needed it, but I had stuff to do.”

“You think I need backup?” Mulheisen asked.

“We all need backup,” Wunney said, “but I was thinking more of an intermediary. I could get hold of him up there . . . kind of suss out the situation.”

“Have you talked to him? What does he think happened?”

“He didn’t lay it out, but my impression is that he thinks you’re a loose cannon. You’re in over your head in something you don’t know anything about. He wants you . . .”—Wunney hesitated—“to
shut up. I think he’d be happy if you came into the circle.”

“Get with the program?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not sure what his program is,” Mulheisen said. “I can’t very well join up until I do.”

“I didn’t think so. Should I come up? Or is there something you want me to do down here?”

“Can you come without telling him you’re coming?”

“Sure. We can always contact him from there—if you want to. How long will it take me?”

“Four hours.”

“I’ll be there. Any hurry?”

“No,” Mulheisen said. “Get here in the morning. Ten, all right? I’ll meet you in Cadillac. I’m within an hour of there. As I recall, there’s a little park by the lake, right in town.”

“See you,” Wunney said.

“Wait. What do you know about Constance Malachi?”

There was a long silence, then Wunney said, “Luck’s wife? She died a couple of years ago.”

“They’ve put her on some kind of security list,” Mulheisen said. “No outside inquiries. Why?”

“Where’d you hear that?” Wunney asked.

“Marshall told me. He was trying to look up some leads for me. Says it’s blocked. Homeland Security.”

Wunney digested that, then said, “I didn’t know that. Probably something to do with Luck. You know how these guys are—everything about a suspect is a matter of national security. Is it important? I could check it out.”

“That’d be useful maybe,” Mulheisen said. “Tell me: how did Luck become a suspect anyway?”

“I’m not sure,” Wunney said. “It was before I came on board.
I just assumed it was a matter of ‘the usual suspects.’ He had a connection with patriot groups, questioned in the Oklahoma City bombing, that sort of thing. Kind of a shady history. He knew some of the principals.”

“And that was the connection to Luck?”

“It’s enough.”

“Okay.” Mulheisen sighed. “See you in Cadillac. Oh, one more thing. While you’re checking out Malachi, see what you can dig up on a character named al-Huq. He’s supposed to be al-Qaeda.”

“What’s this all about?” Wunney asked.

“There’s a foreigner here working for Luck, it seems. They call him ‘Hook.’ Probably no connection, but. . . . A description, maybe a picture, would be good. I think he’s supposed to be a Saudi.”

“I’ll check it out,” Wunney said.

J
oe Service wasn’t listening to the rain. He’d checked into the fanciest hotel in Traverse City, the old Park Place, a huge, square edifice close to the main drag. He had taken one of the most, if not
the
most luxurious room. Very spacious. He’d spent some time in the spa, exercising, and then a swim, a sauna. Now he was cleaning guns and idly watching television. There was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” Joe called. He’d gone to the door in a hotel dressing gown, embroidered with a crest on the terry-cloth. He had a snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38 in the large pocket.

“It’s me,” the Colonel said.

Joe peered through the peephole. He saw a somewhat forlorn-looking Tucker in a wet raincoat, slapping his khaki bucket hat against his leg.

“You alone?” Joe called.

“I’ve got some guys downstairs,” the Colonel said, looking at the peephole.

“Just a minute,” Joe said.

He went to the window and opened the drapes. The lights of the city below were obscured by the rain. Joe thought about the foolishness of taking a room on the sixth floor. He supposed he could get out, but he’d have to get dressed. He’d want to take his weapons, but he couldn’t climb down the face of a hotel with a bag of guns, even going down from his balcony to the one below, then the next one. It was stupid. He supposed it was the mistake of using the “Joe Humann” credit card. Lax. He was still in his stupid “straight life” mode. He sighed and went back to the door. The Colonel stood there, hat in hand.

“Back across the hall,” Joe said. “I’ll unlock the door.”

He unlatched the chain and went to stand next to the table, where an Uzi lay close to hand. He called, “Come in,” and the Colonel entered.

“Hello, Joe,” he said.

“It was the credit card,” Joe said.

“Yeah, I spotted it. Or, actually, Dinah did.”

“Is she with you?”

“Downstairs. Shall I ask her up?”

“No,” Joe said. “Well, what’s up?”

The Colonel looked around. “Mind if I sit?” He took a chair. “I missed you out in Dakota,” he said.

“I saw you,” Joe said.

“I figured you had. Ah, well. So, Joe, what’s the problem? Why so . . . so aloof?”

Joe shrugged. “What can I do for you?”

“Where’s Mulheisen?”

“How would I know?”

“C’mon, Joe. I had a look at that room. Mulheisen didn’t get out of there by himself. I thought of you immediately. Although I wouldn’t have thought you and Mulheisen were such good buddies.”

Joe shrugged. “He’s an old acquaintance. As for strange partners, what’s with you and Luck?”

The Colonel looked around again. “You haven’t offered me a drink. Got any scotch?”

There was a mini-bar. Joe nodded at it and said, “Help yourself.” He stood next to the table. He felt dumb in the dressing gown.

The Colonel went over and rummaged in the mini-bar. He found a couple of small bottles of Johnny Walker. He wrinkled his nose, but he located a glass and poured one of the bottles into it. “Join me?” he asked, half-turning.

“No, I don’t drink much,” Joe said. “Help yourself.”

The Colonel drank down the scotch, shuddered, then poured the other bottle into the glass. He brought it back to the easy chair and sat down, holding it.

“You aren’t really up to speed on the intelligence community, are you, Joe? It’s a strange world.”

“Tell me about it,” Joe said.

“People think—. There’s the FBI, the CIA. They’re official agencies, they have a director, a chain of command. They think that’s what the intelligence system is. But you used to work for the mob, Joe. The FBI used to occasionally put out little reports, maybe it’d be in a national magazine—J. Edgar Hoover, talking to some reporter. They had a chart of the ‘families,’ who was the capo di capo, who was an ‘enforcer,’ who ran this or that. It looked very organized, interlocking functions, just like a big business. But it wasn’t like that, was it?”

“You tell me,” Joe said.

“Well, you knew them. Didn’t you?”

“I knew a lot of them. I worked for quite a few, when they had a problem.” Joe was seemingly relaxed, but he was thinking about who was downstairs. He strolled over to the door, carrying
the Uzi, and relatched it. He came back to the table. “What are you driving at?”

“The families were actually factions, working against one another. Cooperating when they had to, but mostly with their own agendas, their own goals,” the Colonel said. “Am I right?” He sipped at the whisky, made a face, but went on. “The world of intelligence is rather like that,” he said. “It looks like a well-ordered organization, but it’s riddled with factions. You know about the Lucani. Let me tell you,” he leaned forward, elbows on knees, both hands on the whisky glass, “there are dozens of groups like the Lucani, with different objectives, different loyalties. I’m into a lot of them. They aren’t recognized, mostly the organization doesn’t know about them, or tolerate them when they find out, if they become too . . . too ‘known.’ But that’s how intelligence is done. Small groups of people, working with and against one another. It’s like any other large organization. The mob knew this about themselves. It’s why they needed you, to be a kind of all-purpose in-house cop.”

“And Luck?”

“Luck is something of an ‘informer,’” the Colonel said. “He’s not an employee of any government agency, not technically. But he’s involved in some intelligence activities. He’s also on his own, has his own program. He’s sometimes employed, as a contractor. Sort of like you. I don’t think anyone in the community really approves of his other activities, but they’re tolerated, because he’s useful. He’s a conduit, a contact within. We have to work with guys like him. Otherwise, we’d never know anything about what’s going on. That’s all.”

He sat back.

Joe could see it. “So how do you know him?” he asked.

“I knew him in Vietnam,” the Colonel said. “He had a contract, flying helicopters for the CIA. They operated out of places like Burma, or other peripheral locations. He was a useful guy. He’s
still useful. We keep an eye on him, and he’s our eyes and ears in the patriot movement.”

“All right, but who watches you?”

“Who watches the watchers?” The Colonel smiled. “We all watch each other. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? You should see what it’s like in Russia, what it was like in the old Soviet Union. Talk about factions. Everybody
had
to belong to some group, had to have some allegiance to those who would protect them when they screwed up, who would further their career, or some project they might have, save them from a purge when a superior got canned. We’re not that bad. Most of our informal groups, the ones I know about, have relatively limited objectives. The Lucani are very secret, Joe. Not many know about them. You know our objective: we want to see justice done. We don’t want to see criminals being allowed to function even after they’ve been caught, because of corruption, or political maneuvering, or just plain bureaucratic fumbling. I have a hand in some other groups. I’m not disposed to say too much about them. But they have objectives too.”

“Like what?”

“Well, let me put it this way,” the Colonel said. “There is a political shift going on in the country. Not everybody is thrilled about it. Some people feel it’s a significant threat to what we have traditionally thought of as our American freedoms, our democracy. I’m being very simplistic, of course. It’s more complex than that. But it’s real. It’ll pass, I think. American political life is always in flux. One administration comes in, with its particular agenda, then it’s soon replaced by another with a different ‘vision.’ Mostly, though, they aren’t so different. They’re just variations on the basic, familiar American system or style. But some folks, lately, think that a real sea change has occurred. Some folks are very, very pissed off. They think this new mob needs to be . . . regulated, let’s say. Slowed down a bit, even diverted.”