Chasing a Blond Moon(139)

Service stirred the stew halfheartedly and thought. Ironhead had basically told him what he already knew—that Honeypat had fled in December—but Ironhead didn’t know that he had stimulated the split by telling her that Limpy had been hitting on his grandson’s girlfriend. Outi Ranta blamed Honeypat for what she had gotten involved in, and made the point that Honeypat would never change. These words felt indelible. Outi needed money and she was looking for some fun. Honeypat had come up with a scheme. Outi had dealt with Charley Fahrenheit while Colliver dealt with Skunk Kelo. What was Honeypat’s angle?

The more he thought about it, the tougher it was to imagine Limpy going off the wall because Honeypat had hooked up with another man. It had never bothered him before, and Limpy’s alleged reaction didn’t fit. Where was the greed in this, wanting to keep something that was exclusively his? Possible. Honeypat had sex with the ease that most people took a drink of water, and with about as much meaning. The flow of men and women in Limpy’s clan had always been hard to pin down, and by and large, who was with whom never seemed to matter to Allerdyce, who had always been about money and the power that came to him through his poaching enterprises. In many ways he was a feudal lord operating on values that dated back centuries to a world he defined as black and white, with little gray. He took care of his clan; they did what he ordered, like some sort of lowlife, plaid-and-Carhart-mafia. Was the break with Honeypat real and permanent, or something else? No matter how hard he tried to think it through, there was no reasonable conclusion. Limpy had actively tried to undermine his grandson’s interest in the DNR. This certainly amounted to some form of greed: keeping what he had. The salient point was probably that Limpy thought he was losing Aldo and had moved to prevent this. Did the same apply to Honeypat? Had Allerdyce tried to find her and bring her back? Had he been involved in Outi Ranta’s death?

Service scooped the finished stew into a one-gallon plastic container, made sure the lid was tight, and called Les Reynolds. “I’ll fax you a photo first thing in the morning. Show it to Colliver, see what he has to say.”

“Do we have a suspect?”

“Maybe.”

“No problem. I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve had the talk with him.”

Service took the container and drove to the Marquette office. He went through the files to find a photograph of Skunk Kelo, and faxed it to Reynolds at his office.

Why would Honeypat go after Kitella? What was the old Arab proverb, the enemy of my enemy is my friend? He wasn’t sure if it was from the Koran, or who for certain used the saying—only that it was some group with a beef, of which there were plenty in the world. By this logic, Kitella was a potential ally for Honeypat, but her actions made no sense, lacked context. Service called the sheriff’s department and learned that Linsenman was off duty.

He called the deputy at home.

“How about we take a nice hike in the autumn woods?”

“It’s night, Service.”

“The best time to see animals in their native habitats.”

“Nature?” Linsenman said. “I have squirrels in my yard. I don’t need anything more. You scraping the barrel for help?”

Something like that. He had seen Linsenman hold his ground and his cool in a shootout a few days before. Such nerve was uncommon. “Meet me at Da Yoopers Tourist Trap and we’ll take my truck.”

“In uniform?” Linsenman asked.

“No need for that. This is a social call.”

Linsenman exhaled and said, “I bet.”

Service said, “You might want to bring your sidearm.”

“Oh, boy,” Linsenman said.

The deputy got to the Trap on US 41 a few minutes after Service, got into the Yukon with a thermos, and looked over his shoulder into the backseat.

“What?” Service asked.

“Wanted to see if you had a rocket launcher back there.”

“We’re just going visiting.”

Linsenman didn’t ask who or where, but as they made their way south into the western part of the county, Service saw the deputy’s uneasiness growing.

“I don’t much care for this direction,” Linsenman complained.

“I thought we’d pop down to Limpy’s, see how he’s doing.”

They were moving at fifty mph when Linsenman opened his door.

Service looked at him.

“I’m thinking of jumping.”

“You’ll get hurt.”

“What difference does it make when or how we get fucked over?” He pushed the door open and slammed it. “We can’t make social calls in daylight?”

“Limpy likes the night,” Service said.