The Hanging Tree

twenty-two

Hey there, did you try to call me?”

“Call you? You hung up on me and I’m supposed to call you?”

I had called Nova Patterson from the parking lot behind the pizzeria that only the day before had been called Riccardo’s. A red, white, and green banner that said “ ROSELLI’S-UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT ” now covered the Riccardo’s sign stuck in the ground. A corner had come loose and was snapping in the noon breeze.

“I’m sorry. Got myself in a little trouble. I’m OK now.”

“I was worried,” she said. “But you didn’t give me your number. And I’m not allowed to make long-distance calls anyway.”

“That’s OK. Got anything for me?”

“Hang on.”

From my pickup I could see down the hill and over the river to Main Street. A snowplow rumbled down the south side of the street, steering around Mrs. B’s Mercury in front of the Pilot. Had she been ordered to call the cops if I walked in the door? Soupy leaned out of Enright’s and flung a bag of trash at his Dumpster.

A teenaged boy wearing a River Rats jacket came out of the dentist’s office, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and hunched his shoulders against the cold. It was Dougie Baker, the Rats’ backup goalie. Decent with his gloves, still figuring out how to use his feet. Taylor Haskell’s teammate would not be playing in the NHL or anything remotely close. He went to the dentist, not balance training.

My gaze drifted toward the lake. A blue Suburban with tinted windows emerged from behind the marina and turned onto Main.

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“Something wrong?” Nova was back.

“No,” I said, keeping my eyes on the Suburban as it moved slowly down Main then turned up Estelle Street into the neighborhoods behind. “What do you have?”

“All right,” Nova said. “Where were we? I told you the one house, the one on Harman owned by that one guy.”

“Mr. Vend,” I said. I reached into a jacket pocket for a pen and notebook and felt something else there: the brush. I kept forgetting I had it. “And the taxes were paid by?”

“Something-I’ll spell it out: KNB LLC.”

“KNB?” I said, writing it on the notebook cover. “‘K’ as in kitten?”

“‘N’ Nancy, ‘B’ boy, yeah.”

Short for Knob. Or Knobbo.

“Brother.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. What about the other house-the one in foreclosure?”

“Got that right here. The old owner was a company called… not sure how to say this… fee-liss…?”

“Felicity?”

“Tuss.”

“Felicitous,” I said.

“Felicitous Holdings.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“You’ve heard of them?”

“I think so.”

“Good, because I did a little extra checking for you.”

Nova told me that over the past few months, Felicitous-it had to be Laird Haskell-had sold thirteen properties in Melvindale, Dearborn, and River Rouge. KNB had bought each of them for a dollar. Except the one where Gracie had lived.

I added it up in my head: Whenever his money problems had started, Haskell must have tried to avail himself of some of the cash in that lush niche business he and Vend ran, the one Gracie had been so good at. Now he was trying to get square with Jarek Vend. I had my doubts that cheap bungalows in downriver Detroit were going to do it.

No wonder that blue Suburban was trolling Starvation Lake.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “The house in foreclosure? I was in-I mean, the person living there still has the house. Doesn’t the bank padlock it or something?”

“Not always,” Nova said. “This one’s going up for a sheriff’s sale. But the owner gets to try to pay back the money. You know, to redeem themselves.”

Redemption and Haskell didn’t quite go together. But apparently he had held Gracie’s house back from Vend. I wondered why. For some reason, he must have hoped Gracie would go back downstate.

“One more thing, Nova Marie?”

“Please?”

“Please.”

Out of the mess of old newspapers and fast-food rubbish on the passenger seat floor, I dredged up a foam coffee cup.

“Does your list have an address on Prospect?”

“It does indeed.” She read it to me. It matched the one for Trixie’s women’s center I’d scribbled on the coffee cup.

Trixie might never have known it, but her landlord had once been Laird Haskell. Now, whether she knew it or not, her landlord was Jerek Vend. Of course she was having trouble. Had Haskell discounted her rent because he felt such pity for unfortunate women? Had Vend raised it beyond her means?

It made sense in the twisted, incestuous way that the last few days made sense.

Philo came walking up the hill. He waved and went inside the pizzeria.

“Thank you, Nova,” I said. “I owe you one.”

“How about two-like two tickets to a Lions game?”

I saw Soupy come back out of Enrights, let the door close, and just stand there in the cold, head bowed, arms wrapped around himself.

“You there?”

“Yes, yes,” I told Nova. “I’m on it.”

Soupy went back inside. I thought of the calendar hanging in his kitchen. I looked down the street for Dougie Baker; he was gone. I remembered the piano music spilling over me in the Haskell kitchen. Something about it bothered me.

“And don’t be hanging up on me no more.”

“Shall I spread these out in grease or marinara?” Philo said.

We were sitting in the corner booth at the pizzeria. The only other person in the place was the owner, Belly, who was in the kitchen. Philo held a file folder against his blue-and-black argyle sweater and surveyed the table with a look of utter disgust. Belly hadn’t yet changed the old Pilot covering the table.

“Who cares? They’re just photocopies, right?”

“I would prefer not to wallow around in some stranger’s lunch.” Philo came halfway out of his seat. “Waiter?” he shouted. “Can you bus this table?”

“Hold your fucking horses,” Belly yelled from somewhere behind the counter. “I’m a one-man show here.”

“Well, excuse me,” Philo said, sitting back down.

“Here,” I said, peeling one edge of the newspaper away and folding it in half to expose the bare plastic tabletop. “Let’s see what you know that I couldn’t possibly figure out for myself.”

Philo laid the folder flat on the table and flipped it open to reveal a two-inch-high stack of photocopied documents. Most of them had come from the Michigan Department of Treasury, although I’d sent my freedom-of-information requests to every agency I thought Haskell might have had to file with. Sticky tabs in red, orange, green, and yellow jutted from the edges of the pile.

“I’m impressed,” I said. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Do what?”

“Show me all this stuff, given that I’m persona non grata at the Pilot?”

Philo gave me a hard look through his horn-rims. Then he said, “Do you plan to go to the town council meeting today?”

“Why do you care?”

“I might need your advice when I write my story.”

Philo was serious. “I’m flattered,” I said, “even if you won’t be publishing for three days. Anyway, if Haskell’s going to apologize, I want to be there. Who knows? Maybe he’ll apologize to me.”

“Good.” Philo placed one hand flat on the stack of pages. “They didn’t give us everything you asked for.”

“They never do.”

“And this stuff doesn’t tell you very much.”

“Nope.”

“A lot of it’s just routine. Some is blacked out. But there are a couple of things that might be helpful. You were obviously trying to figure out where Laird Haskell was getting his money, or where things might have gone awry for him.” He fingered the pages back to the green tab he had marked “dt.” He slipped out a few stapled pages and handed them to me. “This could be informative.”

I scanned the cover page quickly. It was a state registration for a business called ExpertWitness Trading LLC. I found the description on line 6A: “Trading of securities and related assets.”

“No way,” I said. “He was trading stocks? Himself?”

“Looks like it. You can’t tell for sure.”

“Good way to piss away a fortune in a hurry.”

I flipped through the other pages. Haskell was not required to report how much he’d made or lost on the business. The last page listed the principal owners of ExpertWitness Trading as Laird Haskell and Felicia Quarles Haskell. I wondered if she knew she was co-owner of a one-man day-trading firm. I thought of Vend showing me the TV screens in his office, the comely young women furrowing their brows over the latest market news, the stock charts pointing infinitely up. Vend knew just how Haskell had been seduced.

“Yes,” Philo said. “And from reading your stories about him, he strikes me as a man who would believe he could master anything.”

“You read my stories? My Times stories?”

“Just a few. Found them online.”

“Yeah, well, if you can kick the auto industry’s ass, why not Wall Street?”

“Exactly.”

“Plus, it’s a fun way to fill up a lonely winter day up north.”

“Though I don’t really understand why he’d bother filing the paperwork.”

“Easier to write off the losses on your income tax,” I said. “Or to have a legal cover for laundering money.”

“Why would Haskell need to launder money?”

“Did you read this morning’s Free Press?”

“Yes. Of course.”

I handed the pages back. Philo fitted them back in the original stack. I had never seen him so focused on something other than a budget.

“What else you got?”

“The rest of the stuff really just indicates how many different businesses Haskell was trying to run in addition to whatever legal work he might have had. Real estate, a little retail, the new rink, a bunch of residential downstate. But there was one thing, in particular-”

“Nothing about kinky sex?”

Philo stopped arranging the pages and looked at me. “Kinky-oh, the waiter.”

Belly stood at the table glowering at Philo. “I am the proprietor, sir,” he said.

I grinned. “Hey, Bell. Meet Philo Beech of the Pilot.”

Neither of them offered a hand. Belly grunted. “What the hell kind of name is that? Philo? Sounds like something you use to wash a pot.”

“I was named for my great-grandfather.”

“BFD,” Belly said. He looked at me. “You guys going to order today?”

We ordered Italian subs to go, mine with peppers, Philo’s without. “Here, let me grab this,” Belly said, tearing the newspaper away from the table and balling it up in his hands. “I’ll bring you another.”

“Did you say kinky sex?” Philo whispered.

“Just a joke. Let’s see some more.”

“Well.” He took a deep breath. “There’s this one thing.”

“The thing I couldn’t have figured out.”

He ignored me and pulled out another stack of pages. “This particular collection of documents seems to show that Mr. Haskell, along with some other individuals, owns a great deal more property than we thought, right next to the property where the new hockey rink is being built.”

“Really?” It immediately made me think that Vend might like to get his hands on that too. Which may have been why he seemed so interested in the town council meeting.

“Yes. Much of it is owned by a company called-”

“Felicitous Holdings,” I said.

“How did you know?”

“Lucky guess. Does it say what they plan to use the land for?”

“No, just ‘future development.’ But you can imagine, if the rink is a success, that land could become valuable.”

“Big if, but yes.”

“If it doesn’t, they have problems.”

He had no idea. “Correct,” I said.

“What most interested me, though, was this.” He turned the first few pages back to one listing the company’s board of directors. There were nine directors, including Haskell and his wife; Haskell’s local attorney, Parmelee Gilbert; and other names I didn’t recognize. Philo placed a forefinger on one.

“Here,” he said.

The name he pointed to was Linda Biegeleisen. Her address was given as Suttons Bay, Michigan, a village on the Leelanau Peninsula jutting north from Traverse City. Jim Kerasopoulos, I knew, lived in Suttons Bay.

“Who’s she?” I said.

“She’s listed by her maiden name. I suppose that’s legal, if that’s the name you have on your driver’s license.”

“So what?”

Philo took another breath. He seemed, to my surprise, angry. “A few years after my great-grandfather came to this country, his wife made him shorten the family name. Some of his nine children adopted the altered form. But some chose to revert to the old one, out of respect for their ancestors. My father did not. His sister did.”

“Get to the point, Philo.”

He tapped the name twice. “This is my aunt.”

“Your aunt as in-holy shit. No.”

“Yes.”

I almost jumped out of the booth. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Kerasopoulos has a piece of Haskell’s business?”

“His wife certainly does.”

“Same thing, man. Same thing. So your uncle has a direct interest in that rink. Direct. Man, I’m dumb. Here I thought he was just shilling for ads. Jesus. How the hell did he think he could get away with this?”

Philo took off his horn-rims and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He put his glasses back on and stared at the table. “Believe me,” he said. “My uncle thinks he’s smarter than everyone. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

He looked up at me. “For being a little bitch.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. I thought of saying I always knew his uncle was a fat ass, but that wouldn’t have helped.

“Never mind,” I said. “Your uncle could be in a lot of trouble.” I was thinking now of Vend. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to cover the story.”

“Right. Kerasopoulos will want to banner that baby across the front: ‘Publisher of This Newspaper Linked to Slime-Ball’-oops.”

Belly showed up with our sandwiches in one hand and a wrinkled piece of newspaper in the other. “Two subs, one peppers, to go. That’ll be six dollars and thirty-five cents.”

“Thanks, Bell.” I set a five and three ones on the table, took the sandwiches, and stood up.

“Hey,” Belly said. “Remember that broad you were asking me about?”

“Who? When?”

“The broad was with your cousin in here.” I had totally forgotten about that. Belly shoved the piece of newspaper at me. “Didn’t know her name, but I never forget a face.”

The date at the top of the clipping was November 8, 1998. The headline on the story said, couple renews wedding vows. There was a black-and-white picture of the couple: Laird and Felicia Haskell.

“Her?” I said, pointing at Felicia. I didn’t remember the story; it was probably written by one of our blue-haired freelancers. Philo leaned in to see. “She was here with”-I hesitated-“with Gracie?”

“Yep. Didn’t look like she wanted to be here. No wonder because your cousin, she got pretty worked up there for a while.”

“About what?”

“Fuck do I know. Girl stuff. This broad”-he pointed at the paper again-“she wore sunglasses the whole time, like she’s a movie star or something.”

“You’re absolutely certain?”

Belly dropped his arms to his sides. “Are you deaf?”

Outside, Philo followed me to my truck.

“Aren’t you walking?” I said.

“Wait,” he said. “Kinky sex. That wasn’t a joke.”

“Not really.”

“Gus,” he said. “As I said, I’m sorry I wasn’t much help to you before. But frankly, I’m not in much better shape than you.”

“No.”

“And if I’m going to do what I have to do-what we have to do-I’m going to need to know what you know.”

I looked down Estelle Street. The blue Suburban sat on the opposite end of the Estelle Street Bridge, peering up the slope and across the Hungry River at Philo and me. I could feel the stare of that cratered face.

I turned to Philo. “So,” I said, “is now the time to stand on principle?”

Philo didn’t flinch. “I think so.”

I opened my truck door. “Hop in. We got a little time before the council meets. I think it’s going to be interesting.”

Town hall sat on Elm Street just up from Main, in sight of the preserved remains of the dam the Civil Conservation Corps built in the 1930s to create the lake they christened Starvation.

A fire in the 1970s destroyed the grand four-story edifice of brick and granite that had once towered over the spot. Before the fire, the council had been deadlocked over the budget, and Pilot headlines screamed of lawsuits and countersuits and citizens demanding recalls. Amid the uproar, the council neglected to appropriate enough money to pay the insurance premiums on the building. Today, town hall was a low-slung rectangle of beige brick that could have passed for a post office. Two willows flanking the walkway to the glass double-door entrance were all that remained from the old days.

Now a long line of locals, most of them retirees, waited beneath the willows for seats at this afternoon’s town council meeting. The snow had stopped but the wind had not and many of the women had wrapped their faces in scarves. I watched from the open window of my truck on the street, keeping an eye out for the blue Suburban. I had dropped Philo at the Pilot after telling him some but not all of what I knew about Gracie’s doings downstate. I was taking a chance that he wouldn’t squeal to Dingus or his uncle. I didn’t think he would. Betrayal can change a person.

I stood near the street watching the queue waiting to get into town hall. I’d been checking my voice mail all day for something from Darlene. Now I checked again, and again there was nothing. With so many people, I thought, maybe she’d be working the council meeting.

The milling crowd at the head of the line parted and I saw Gracie’s mother, Shirley McBride, with her back to the double doors, her blond head wrapped in a white wool headband, a cigarette in one hand and a sign in the other. She had duct-taped a poster board to a metal clothes hanger bent into a crude handle. On the poster she had written in black felt-tip pen, UNFORGIVEN: MY DAUGTER OR HASKEL’S HOCKEY? Sheriff’s Deputy Frank D’Alessio stood a few steps away, his eyes fixed on the ground, looking like he wanted to scream, or at least haul Shirley off to jail.

“We’ve got lots of police for a town hall meeting,” she was yelling. “But not enough to find out who killed my daughter.”

“Not enough to shut you up either, Shirley,” shouted someone from the waiting line. “Get her out of here, Frank.”

D’Alessio turned his head to Shirley and said something I couldn’t hear. She continued her yelling.

I looked down the street and saw the Channel Eight van rolling up from Main. Walking along the sidewalk next to it was my mother. She didn’t go to many town council meetings, so the rumors about a Haskell apology must have reached her. Mom took her place at the end of the line, craning her neck to see what was going on at the entrance. Then she slung her purse over a shoulder and started to jostle her way around and past the waiting throng, meeting their annoyed stares with smiling hellos and good afternoons until she came face-to-face with Shirley McBride.

What are you doing, Mom? I thought. I jumped out of my truck and started walking, then trotting, toward the hall. Mom tried to take Shirley by the hand, but Shirley shook her off and thrust the sign into Mom’s face, saying something I couldn’t hear amid the voices rising around them. Now Mom disappeared in the mob. I heard Shirley telling her, Go to hell, I’m not your charity case, and Mom saying, Shirley, please listen to reason, for once just listen.

I made my way through the line just as D’Alessio stepped between my mother and Shirley. Shirley was yelling louder and Mom didn’t like it but she wasn’t backing off. I grabbed her by a shoulder. “Mom,” I said. “What are you doing?” She shrugged me off without a glance and put her hands up to Gracie’s mother in supplication. “We can work this out, Shirley,” she said. “We can work this out like adults.”

“OK, ma’am, that’s enough now,” D’Alessio said. But Shirley lunged toward Mom, almost knocking D’Alessio over. He grabbed her by her down-filled vest and forced her back against the wall. Her sign fell to the sidewalk. “Take her to jail where she belongs,” some old guy shouted. D’Alessio struggled with Shirley, who was just as short as Gracie but twice as wide. “Settle down, Mrs. McBride, or I will take you in.”

She turned and shouted in his face. “Why don’t you go do your job and find my daughter’s killer instead of picking on me? Oh, I’m sorry-we need every penny we can find for a goddamn hockey rink.”

“Please calm down, Shirley,” my mother said.

“Mom,” I said, pulling at her again. She took a step back, still without acknowledging me, as the others closed in around us, shouting things about the rink and Haskell and Gracie and Shirley. D’Alessio had one hand on the cuffs dangling from his police belt and the other palm up in front of Shirley’s face, warning her back. Her headband had come off and her hair flew around her pickled beet face as she screamed and pointed at my mother. “She wants my money. She got my Gracie, now she wants my goddamn money.”

“No, Shirley,” Mom said. “Please.”

Once more Shirley tried to force her way past D’Alessio. The cuffs came out. She kept yelling as he dragged her away. “You can’t have it. You bitch. You got what you wanted. You got what you wanted. Now you don’t get a penny. Not a fucking penny. Do you hear me? Not a goddamn penny.”

Mrs. B stepped between me and my mother and embraced her. “Bea, are you all right? Never mind her, sweetheart.”

Mom pressed her face into Mrs. B’s parka. “My God,” she said.

I stepped around Mrs. B and took my mother by an elbow. “Mom?” Behind me I heard the town hall doors being opened. The line began to move past us. I saw Philo beneath one of the trees, snapping photographs. “Come on. It’s all right. Let’s go over here.”

She yanked her elbow away. The look on her face was defiant.

“Mom, what is going on?”

“I came for the meeting, Son. Come on, Phyllis.”

She and Mrs. B locked arms and pushed past me. I watched the rest of the people pass, heard them mutter, “Some people should just avoid each other” and “Like a couple of damn cats.”

I entered last. Just before I turned to go in, the Suburban pulled up to the curb across Elm and parked. The driver must not have seen the fire hydrant half buried in snow.

Laird Haskell turned his back on the seven members of the Starvation Lake town council and faced the rest of the room.

“This,” he said.

Next to his head he held up a copy of that morning’s Free Press. He pointed to Mich’s story. He turned slowly to his left then to his right so that everyone in the room could see.

He read the headline aloud to the people filling all the seats to his left, standing along the wall beneath photographs of former council members, most of them dead. “‘Feds Investigating Car Makers’ Nemesis,’ ” Haskell said. He swiveled toward his right, where I was standing, but he avoided my eyes just as I was avoiding those of Jim Kerasopoulos, sitting at the opposite end of the front row, eight seats down from Haskell. On the wall beyond Kerasopoulos stood Jason Esper, his neck wrapped in gauze. Philo sat in the back row on my side of the room, scribbling in his notebook.

“‘Feds Investigating,’ ” Haskell repeated. He let the paper fall to his side. He was wearing his denim shirt and a tan corduroy jacket with cocoa-brown patches on the elbows. Denim and corduroy went over fine in Starvation Lake, but usually not with starch and elbow patches. At the moment, it didn’t matter. Laird Haskell was going to bring a new hockey rink to Starvation Lake, a new attitude, new championship banners to hang in the rafters. We just had to help him a little more than he’d told us before.

The council had dispensed quickly with the early items on its agenda, referring one concerning potholes back to the roads commission and approving the Girl Scouts’ request to set up cookie tables at hockey games. All that remained was the executive session that folks had been hearing would get the new rink back on track to open for the start of the next season.

Before the council went behind closed doors, though, Haskell wanted to say a few words.

“Forget the rest of the headline,” he said. “All I could see this morning, as I was sitting down to breakfast with my wife, Felicia, and our beautiful son, Taylor, was ‘Feds Investigating.’ ” He bowed his head. I took note of Taylor Haskell, in his blue-and-gold River Rats jacket, and Felicia, her hands enfolding her son’s, sitting in the front row next to Haskell’s attorney, Parmelee Gilbert. Haskell looked at his wife and son.

“I’m so sorry that I’ve brought this on our family,” he said. Felicia nodded. Taylor just sat there, probably not knowing what to do. I felt uncomfortable watching him. Haskell turned back to the room.

“And I’m sorry-deeply sorry-that I have brought this opprobrium on you, the good people of Starvation Lake. You’ve been so good to me and my family.” He set the Free Press down on his chair and brought his hands together gently in front of his chest. I’d seen the moves before, in front of a jury. “But you won’t see Laird Haskell issuing any blanket denials. Those might go over well down in the big city. But not here. You deserve better. You deserve an explanation. No more hiding. I want to come clean with all of you.”

Two or three people clapped. Then a few more, until the council chair, Elvis Bontrager, lightly rapped his gavel.

Then Haskell explained. It took a while. In fact he had gotten over his head financially on “certain unrelated projects” downstate. He’d had to follow through on some charity commitments he’d made when things were better. He hadn’t expected some of the rink construction permits to take so long to obtain, not that he was blaming anybody here.

He’d shifted money around among his businesses to make sure the new rink was taken care of before anything else. In doing so, he may have neglected to cross some T’s and dot some I’s, tax-wise. The IRS had noticed. Now he was “cooperating fully” with the IRS to ensure that he paid his fair share of taxes. It was an “unrelated matter” that would have “zero effect” on his ability to complete the rink “so long as I have the support of your elected officials today.”

It was as simple as that. No mention of his forays into day-trading or his other businesses downstate. Not that I expected any.

“I had hoped, and I was truly confident, that I could handle this quietly, without burdening my family or anyone else,” he said. “This morning, of course, part of it found its way into the public eye. But I want you to know-and I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t believe this-but even before that article appeared, I was thinking about what I needed to do. Because there’s something else, too, that has weighed on my mind, something more flesh and blood, more life and death, than taxes and permits and construction projects.”

A low murmur slid through the room. Haskell pursed his lips and shook his head, as if to reprimand himself. “A young woman,” he said. “A young woman with a long life to live, and who-knows-what good things to bring to this world, chose to end her life last week.” I heard my mother gasp. Then a few others.

“It is terrible,” Haskell said. “A terrible thing indeed that happened to Miss McBride. I have to tell you, good townspeople, that I hold myself at least partly responsible.”

The room grew so quiet then that I could hear the wind rustling the willows outside. I looked Philo’s way. He was writing as fast as he could. Over his shoulder now I noticed my enormous friend with the bad complexion standing along the back wall, a hard-shell briefcase under an arm. He was smiling. I looked at Haskell. His cheeks had flushed red. He’d seen Crater Face too.

“People hear a lot of things in a town like Starvation Lake,” Haskell continued. “I know some of you have heard that I sent Miss McBride a rejection letter regarding her application for employment at the new rink. Small detail: I personally did not send a letter, nor would I have. But I nevertheless accept full responsibility.”

No you don’t, I thought.

“And I ask, in all humility, for your forgiveness and the forgiveness of Miss McBride’s family and friends.” I looked at my mother. She closed her eyes. “It was, in fact, a tragic mistake,” Haskell said. “Her application was mishandled. She shouldn’t have gotten any letter, acceptance or rejection, until thirty days before the rink was to open. But with the uncertainties over financing, and some degree of uncertainty as to the local commitment to the rink”-now he glanced my way-“somebody took it upon himself or herself to send her a rejection. And for that, I am profoundly, profoundly sorry.”

He paused again. “Some of you will, of course, be rightfully skeptical of my version of things, and of my motivations. I don’t blame you. But you should keep this in mind.” He moved to where Taylor Haskell sat. “My son-my only child-was in the rink the other night when that explosion went off. I cannot tell you how terribly that frightened my wife and me.” He stopped, swallowed hard. “We’re confident the police are doing everything they can to determine what happened.” He chanced a look at Crater Face. “But all I can think is that somebody out there is trying to scare us. Somebody out there doesn’t want Starvation Lake to move forward with its plans and dreams. I will tell you now, that they might have momentarily, and understandably, given us pause. But they will not stop us. They will not stop us.”

Applause broke out again. Haskell sat and took his wife’s hand. Crater Face, who did not applaud, set the briefcase on the floor behind his legs. He folded his arms. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

Chairman Bontrager banged his gavel once. “Well put, sir,” he said. “I know exactly how you feel. My nephew was on the ice that night when that whatever it was happened. And I’ll be damned if it’s going to scare me from doing what’s right for this great town.”

“Hear, hear,” someone called from the back.

“Mr. Haskell,” Elvis continued, “I’d like to thank you on behalf of the entire council and my fellow townspeople for that heartfelt apology and explanation, sir.”

Haskell nodded.

“And now, in the interest of time and of moving forward from things we can’t do a darn thing about, I would entertain a motion to take this meeting into executive session. Of course, the council will vote in full view of the taxpayers of Starvation Lake, but some matters, as we all know, are best discussed in private.”

Now the council had the cover to give Haskell his $100,000. What was he going to do with it, though? Did he have to choose between the feds and Vend? Who scared him more? Some pear-shaped guy in a suit in downtown Detroit? Or the hulk at the back of the room who would be pleased to mangle his limbs?

“Do I have a motion?”

“So moved,” said Councilman Ted Huesing.

I spied a flash of brown and mustard through the windows in the twin doors to the meeting room. Then Dingus’s handlebar appeared briefly in one, Darlene’s face in the other. Others cops were milling around out there too, wearing the blue of the Michigan State Police.

“Do I have a second?” Elvis said.

“Second,” Floyd Kepsel said.

“Excuse me, Mr. Chairman.”

It was councilman Clayton Perlmutter, who had tipped me off to the loan the council was preparing to give Haskell. He glared at Elvis. “Mr. Chairman, are you suggesting that this council might be doing something under wraps because if we did it in full public view, the public might not like what it sees?”

Elvis stared straight ahead. “We have a second. All in favor?”

“Point of order, Mr. Chairman,” Perlmutter said. “Wasn’t the request we’re supposed to discuss amended just a few hours ago? Are we not therefore required to postpone the executive session until our next meeting?”

So Haskell had asked for even more than $100,000, as Vend had suggested. Or demanded.

“Oh, get over it, Clayton,” Kepsel said. “This isn’t the CIA. We’re just trying to build a skating rink for our kids, for Pete’s sake.”

“Sometimes it feels like the CIA, Floyd.”

“The only spy in this room is you, Clayton, and you know it. And you’re not going to get with the program until you get your little cut of the action, and you know that, too.”

“Enough,” Elvis said. “Mr. Haskell has been nothing but forthright and honest in his dealings with this council.” He turned and stared at Perlmutter. “Which is more than I can say for you, sir.”

“A man can have both a public and private life, Mr. Chairman.”

Elvis ignored him. “We have a motion and a second to move to executive session to consider a matter regarding the new hockey arena. All in favor?”

“Aye,” came six voices.

“Opposed?”

“Abstain,” Perlmutter said.

“The council will now adjourn briefly. Folks, you may wait or-I’m sorry. Sheriff? Is there a problem?”

Dingus now stood at the back of the room near Crater Face. Darlene moved into the room behind him. She had her handcuffs out.

“Afraid so,” Dingus said. “Mr. Haskell?”

Haskell stood and faced Dingus. “Yes?”

“Laird Kenneth Haskell, you have the right to remain silent.”

“What?” Felicia shrieked, jumping up from her chair.

“No,” Haskell said. “Sheriff, there’s been a misunderstanding. This is strictly a federal matter. Please, my attorney.”

Parmelee Gilbert stepped between Dingus and Haskell. “Sheriff, is this really necessary? My client isn’t going anywhere.”

Elvis was slamming his gavel again. “Sheriff! Sheriff, please forbear!” Most of the audience was now standing to see better. D’Alessio and Deputy Skip Catledge strode into the room and flanked Dingus. Four state police officers took up positions at the entrance. Across the room, Jason was sidestepping his way to the emergency exit behind the council bench. I looked the other way for Crater Face, saw his wide back exiting the room.

His briefcase remained.

“Step away, counsel,” Dingus said to Gilbert, “or you’ll be joining your client.” Gilbert moved aside. Dingus addressed Haskell. “This has nothing to do with your financial matters, sir, but with something more flesh and blood.”

Haskell’s face went as white as the frozen lake. For a second I thought he might collapse. Felicia Haskell jumped up and put her arms around him from behind, screaming, “No, no, no!”

Their son stood, alone and looking around.

“Dad,” he said.

Darlene moved behind Haskell with the cuffs. A TV camera lit the circle of cops and citizens pressing around Haskell. Tawny Jane Reese pushed a microphone in Haskell’s face as Catledge peeled Felicia away from him.

“Mr. Haskell,” Tawny Jane said. “How are you feeling?”

Darlene cuffed him. Harder than she needed to, I thought.

“You have the wrong man,” Haskell said. “He’s getting away.”

Dingus used his big body to ease Tawny Jane aside, and she angled the mike over the back of his shoulder.

“Anything you say,” he told Haskell, “can and will be used against you-”

“No, Sheriff, listen to me, you have the wrong man. My God, he was standing right there.” He tried to point with his shoulder. Darlene started to push him through the crowd.

I slipped down the side wall and around to the back as Darlene shoved Haskell through the door. I tried to catch her eye, to no avail. I squeezed out and trotted down the corridor to the main entrance. Across the street, the man with the cratered face was frantically circling the Suburban, illegally parked and blocked in by the Channel Eight van.

I ran back to the meeting room. The cops were bringing Haskell out. Darlene pushed him past me, trailed by Catledge and Dingus. I grabbed Dingus by the elbow. “Sheriff, look,” I said. He yanked himself away.

“What are you doing?”

“You want another Zamboni bomb?”

He stopped and followed me back into the room. I pointed at the briefcase still sitting on the floor against the wall.

“The guy who left that behind just bolted out of here in a big hurry.”

Dingus stared at the briefcase for a hard second. “Oh, Jesus,” he said. He yelled into the corridor, “Frank!” and D’Alessio hurried over. “Stay here,” Dingus told him. “I’ve got to call the damn bomb squad again.”