EQMM, Jan. 2003, page 3
And risky it was. The blacktopped lane wound upward into the forest, threading between century-old pines, slippery as a ski slope. A tense, white-knuckled drive. And for nothing.
The lane ended at the cottage driveway, atop a bluff that overlooked Lake Michigan. The view was spectacular and the home wasn't half bad either, a rambling split-level log cottage with a two-car garage and a back deck hanging in space at the bluff's edge. A seventy-foot drop to the stony beach below, a magnificent view of the far shore.
And nobody home.
No tire tracks, no smoke from the chimney, no lights on. The drapes were open, so I climbed out and circled the house, peering in through the windows like a Peeping Tom.
Definitely empty. But not necessarily unoccupied. No dust covers were draped over the furniture, and there was an open newspaper on a coffee table. Couldn't make out the date. Damn. Maybe the place had been unoccupied since the summer. Or maybe Monica was staying here and just happened to be away at the moment.
One quick way to find out. The date on that newspaper should tell me one way or the other. And I hadn't driven all the way up here to walk away wondering.
The cabin locks were top of the line Schlages. It took me all of fifteen seconds to pick the front door mechanism. Easing in, I listened to the utter silence for a moment, then yelled hello. Didn't expect an answer. Didn't get one.
Inside, the cottage wasn't quite as pricey as the Sorenson home in Grosse Pointe, but it was still top drawer. Danish modern furniture in loden green leather, with carpeting to match. Unfortunately, the newspaper on the coffee table was from mid August. Which meant Monica probably wasn't here and hadn't been. Double damn.
I did a quick case of the place anyway. No sign of anyone in residence, but the cottage didn't feel truly empty, either. For one thing, it was too immaculate. No dust, not a cobweb in sight. I guessed it had been cleaned recently. Nothing suspicious about that. The Sorensons could obviously afford maid service. Still, something didn't feel quite right about it.
To me, the house looked more like a department-store display than a home. And maybe it was. Maybe this is how the rich relax, artfully arranging their expensive paintings and pottery just so. A bit fussy for me, but then I collect Lonnie Mack LPs and drive a ‘69 Camaro.
I may not be artsy, but I'm thorough. I checked the garage. Which was as clean as the house and just as empty. No Mercedes roadster, no machinery, period. Not even a lawn mower. But as I turned to go, something registered.
An oil spot. In the middle of the floor. It would have been perfectly normal in most garages, but this one was practically antiseptic. And the spot looked fresh.
Kneeling, I touched it, rubbing the residue between my fingertips. Definitely motor oil. Definitely recent. Motor oil usually dries after a few days. In a cold, closed garage it might stay moist a little longer, but not more than a week or two.
Which meant ... what? That someone had been here? A cleaning lady or a caretaker? Or Monica. I decided to give the house a closer look, toss the bedrooms and baths for openers.
Didn't get the chance. As soon as I stepped in the house, I knew something was wrong. Big time. A black and white prowl car was parked across the driveway, blocking my Camaro in.
A big cop was leaning casually against the passenger door. Blond guy, blue uniform, no hat. Just relaxing, enjoying the day. With a Winchester Defender twelve-gauge shotgun cradled in his left arm.
I stepped out the front door, keeping both hands in plain sight. He looked me over curiously but with no particular hostility.
“Good morning. I'm Sheriff Lofgren. Swede, to my friends. You can call me Sheriff Lofgren. Who might you be?”
“My name's Axton. I'm a licensed private investigator from Detroit. I'm going to show you my license and ID. Okay?”
“Good idea, why don't you do that.” He had an easy, apple-pie grin. His face was weathered, roughened by the wind. He was probably forty-something, but that smile erased the years, made him seem almost boyish. Still, it never quite reached his eyes. Deep blue and as chilly as the big lake.
The shotgun was pointed away from me and he didn't shift it as I reached inside my coat. But I had the distinct impression that if I brought out anything bigger than a wallet, the coroner would have to scrape up my carcass with a spatula.
I carefully eased out my identification and handed it to Lofgren. He scanned it, then scanned me. That cheerful smile never wavered. Nor did the shotgun. Mr. Welcome Wagon with a twelve-gauge.
“According to this, you're a licensed P.I. all right. We don't get many up here. So what kind of a case are you working?”
“I'm looking for the girl who lives here, Monica Sorenson. Has she been around?”
“Nope, not that I'm aware of. I keep a list of who's in town, who's away, and we check every empty cottage almost every day. Extended surveillance, we call it.”
“It sounds efficient.”
“Mostly it just passes the time. Burns Cove isn't exactly a crime hot spot. But every once in a while we get a live one. Some guy comes up here from Detroit, sees a quiet little burg with ritzy summer getaways and a hometown cop. Looks like easy pickings, doesn't it?”
“I wouldn't know.”
“Well, it's not. I was on the Detroit force eighteen years. Detective for the last six. Frank Murphy Hall of Justice. You know that building, Axton?”
“I've been there a time or two. On business. We might even know people in common. Do you know a lieutenant named Lupe Garcia? Metro Homicide?”
“Loop was still a sergeant when I left. Made lieutenant, eh? Good for him. So what?”
“So if you call him, he can identify me.”
“Why would I want to do that? You just showed me your license and up here folks pretty much take a man at his word. You've been in the city too long, Mr. Axton.”
“I thought you might have some doubts. Since you're still holding that shotgun.”
“Maybe that's because you're kind of a scary-lookin’ fella. What happened to your face, if you don't mind my askin'?”
“Motorcycle accident. Lost an argument with the freeway.”
“Looks like it hurt a whole lot. Are you about finished here?”
“Pretty much.”
“Then I won't keep ya. It's a beautiful day for a drive, you can probably make Motown by dark.”
“Are you running me off, Sheriff?”
“Me? Of course not. You said you were looking for Monica Sorenson. Since she's not here I figured you'd be headin’ south. Not much to do up here in the winter but ice fish, and the lake's not frozen yet. Are you a fisherman, Mr. Axton?”
“Not really, but I thought I might ask around about Monica, see if anyone's seen her.”
“It'd be a waste of time. The Sorensons are summer people, they don't mix much with the locals. Come here, let me show you something.”
I followed him around the side of the house to the edge of the bluff. The wind off the lake had a real bite, dropping the temperature ten degrees. I hugged myself, trying to keep my hands warm. Lofgren didn't seem to notice, and he wasn't even wearing a coat.
“Beautiful, isn't it?” he said quietly.
I managed a nod.
“If you look down the west shore there, you can see the house where I was born. I mean born right in the house. No hospital, no doctor for forty miles. Most local families had their kids at home in those days. Hardy folks, the locals. The town was settled by Swedes and Norwegians, mostly. Vikings. Like me. Only it wasn't Burns Cove then. Know what they called it?”
“No, what?”
“Valhalla. It means Viking heaven. They say this coast looks a lot like Norway. Cliffs, blue water, icebergs, and all. A developer bought up these hills in the sixties, built fancy chalets for city folks. Petitioned the state to change the name of the village to something more American. Said Valhalla sounded too foreign.”
“Let me guess. The developer's name was Burns, right?”
“You oughta be a detective.” Lofgren grinned. “Anyway, the locals went along with it. Fishing was played out by then and they needed the work. Some guys had to commute two hours one way, five days a week to work in Midland, Saginaw, Bay City. Drove home every night. Because they wanted to be here, you know? Raise their families here. But most of the young people moved south to find work. Like I did.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Just trying to save you some trouble. I was born here, Axton, grew up here, played in these hills when I was a raggedy-ass kid. Not cowboys and Indians. Viking raiders and Englishmen. I was always a Viking. Eric the Red, Leif the Lucky.” He shook his head, smiling.
He waited for me to comment. I didn't.
“So maybe that makes me a hick in your book. But I was a big-city cop for most of twenty years and I know what I'm doing. Monica Sorenson's a pretty girl and she's summer people. If she came up to the cottage I would have heard about it before she got unpacked. She didn't. So there's no point in you goin’ around bothering a lot of people. No offense, but some of these folks moved up here to get away from guys who look like you.”
“You've got no right to shut me down, Lofgren.”
“Rights?” His grin widened but his eyes went as icy as the floes floating below. “I could bust you right now for unlawful entry, Axton. Unless you can show me one of these.” He held up a key ring. “See the label on this one? It's a key to the Sorenson place. Got one?”
I didn't answer. Which was answer enough.
“I didn't think so. You should be more careful when you pick a lock. You left a little scratch mark by the keyhole.”
“I'll try to remember that.”
“Good. And just so we understand each other, sport, if I wanted to lean on you, you'd know it. If you want to pad your bill by asking local folks a lot of dumb-ass questions, be my guest. But this is my territory, my people. If I hear one complaint, you'll find out how nasty an old-time Viking can be. Understand?”
“I read you loud and clear.”
“Thought you would. You seem like a smart fella. Enjoy your stay in Valhalla, Axton. Or Burns Cove, if you prefer. Either way, keep it short.”
Lofgren climbed back in his prowlie, flipped me a mock salute, then rumbled off to continue his extended-surveillance rounds.
Leaving me alone with my one crummy oil spot. Which was probably about nothing. Still, I'd made a very long drive.
Assuming Lofgren was right, Monica wasn't here. But somebody had been. Somebody who parked in the garage. If it was Monica, she hadn't stayed long or Lofgren would have heard about it. So maybe kicking her speed habit was more than she'd been able to handle. She came, laid low a few days, got the jitters, and split. To where?
To see the doctor, most likely. Doctor Feelgood. Since she came to get straight, she probably didn't bring any dope along. But if her cleanup program crashed, she'd need a hit in a hurry.
Which meant she'd have to buy locally. Right here in Viking heaven. Lofgren claimed he knew his job. I wondered how tough it would be to find a speed dealer in his quiet little town?
At least I knew where to ask. To get hard drugs, heroin, cocaine, even high-grade reefer, you need a contact. Speed's cheaper and a whole lot easier to find.
As easy as a quick lunch at the BP truck stop outside Burns Cove. Not many truckers use serious speed, but most will pop a hit now and again to make one more town, one more leg of a three-day run. And they all know where to find it. I chatted up a few long-haul drivers, came up with a name in ten minutes.
In Burns Cove, hit a tavern called Finn's Waterfront. See a skinny kid named Gunnar.
* * *
The village reminded me of a movie Christmas. The main drag running downhill to the harbor. Brick streets and sidewalks, old-fashioned globular streetlamps. Most of the buildings were nineteenth-century, beautifully restored to their original Victorian splendor: cast-iron facades, shop windows sparkling with holiday displays while carols swirled in the wintry air.
Christmas in Valhalla.
Even Finn's Waterfront was cheerier than a harbor bar had a right to be. The back wall was one long picture window, offering a marvelous view of the lakescape: dark water and drifting icebergs as far as the eye could see. I could have gawked at it for hours. None of the locals gave it a glance.
There were roughly a dozen customers in the place, rough being the key word. Unshaven laborers in plaid coats, baseball caps. A few stone alkies at the bar drinking lunch. Three hard-eyed types at a back table were playing dominoes. Which isn't a game you see much outside of Warsaw Heights. One was smoking, held his cigarette cupped in his palm. Russians? If so, they were a long way from home, no matter how you measured it.
My guy was at a corner table, facing the front door. Mid twenties, Detroit Lions jacket and cap, his left hand encased in a dirty plaster cast. Narrow-faced, with razor-cut sideburns and goatee. And the jittery eyes and papery skin of a true believer. A speed dealer wired up on his own product.
I didn't approach him immediately. Ordered a draft beer and watched him work from the end of the bar. Gunnar made two sales in the first half-hour, first to a young roughneck trucker, second to an older guy, almost certainly a foreigner from the way he held his cigarette.
I caught an odd vibe, and realized the domino players were checking me out. One of them met my stare with a cold, thousand-yard glare of his own before returning to his game. Nothing subtle about that look. A mind-your-own-business warning a stranger gets in any hard-case bar from Maine to Mississippi.
Gunnar wasn't subtle either, taking care of business right at the table. Kept a pitcher of beer in front of him; his customers joined him, had a glass, chatted, shook hands as they left, making the exchange. Strictly minor league.
After his third buyer left, I carried my beer over to his table.
“Mind if I sit?” I eased down opposite him without waiting for an answer. “You'd be Gunnar, right? My name's Axton. People call me Ax.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“Nope. If we'd met, you'd remember.”
“Face like yours, you got that right. What do you want?”
“A trucker named Mikey told me where to find you.”
“Don't know any Mikey. And I definitely don't know you. Take off.”
“For a guy in your line, being rude is a mistake that can cost you. I'm not lookin’ to cause you problems. I'm looking for a girl. This girl.” I slid Monica's photograph across the table to him. He glanced at it, didn't react.
“Never saw her before.”
“Sure you have. Her name's Monica. Speed's a small world, Gunnar, so I figure you've done business with her. Tell me about her and it's worth fifty to me. Jack me around and you'll need a cast for your other hand.”
“Hey, no need to cop an attitude.” He jerked his injured paw off the table, dropping it to his lap. “Fifty for what I know, right?”
“If I like it.”
“Her name's Monica Sorenson. Family has a cottage up the shore someplace. Strictly summer people. Last I heard she was running with some rock star.”
“Tell me something I don't know. When did you see her last?”
“Monica?” He chewed on his lip, thinking. “Early in the summer. June, maybe July. She was here for a week with her folks.”
“Not since?”
“No.”
“Does she have any friends around here? Anyone she might be staying with?”
“Nah, like I said, summer people. Rich pricks. Fancy cars, fancy boats. They don't mix with the local riffraff.”
“Unless they want to buy something. Like speeders, for instance. Monica's got a habit.”
“She used to cop a pop now and again but she was never a regular and I haven't seen her lately. That's all I got for you. That worth fifty?”
“Not hardly.”
“Then take a hike, Axton. You're bad for business.”
I eyed him, trying to get a read on him. He was young and wired up. And spooked. I'm used to that, my face tends to make people uneasy. Not this time. Gunnar was way too pushy. He might be afraid of something, but it wasn't me. Maybe I'm slipping.
“Here's a twenty and my card,” I said, tossing them on the table. “Ask around about Monica, then call me. It's worth another C-note.”
“Yeah, right. Go home, wait by your phone.”
“I've got a cell,” I said, leaning across the table, my battered nose an inch from his. “You can reach me anytime. But don't make me wait too long. You're real easy to find.”
“Okay, okay, I've got the message. I'll call you. Now take off, eh?”
* * *
Leaving Finn's Waterfront was a relief. Afternoon sunshine, fresh air, no secondhand smoke.... I hesitated. Déjà vu. I'd had this feeling earlier. When I stepped out of the Sorenson cottage to face that cop. Only I'd been too distracted at the time to notice. Shotguns have that effect on me.
Fresh air. That's why the cottage felt lived in. There was a taint of secondhand smoke. I'm so used to it in clubs and concerts I didn't give it a thought. But I should have. Because it was out of place.
There were no ashtrays at the cottage, nor had I noticed any at the Sorenson home. They didn't smoke. But someone at that cottage did.
Maybe a girl trying to take her mind off a bad case of amphetamine-withdrawal jitters?
One of the best /worst things about cell phones is that they work almost everywhere. Which means a moron teenybopper chick two rows behind you in a movie can tell her friends how the flick's going. But it also means I could stroll down to the lake, find a bench on the pier, park, and make a few calls.
But I didn't. Not at first. It would have been blasphemy. Strolling along the pier with the lake swells lifting floating bergs, white as refrigerators, I was awestruck by the sheer beauty of the view. The biggest freshwater sea in the world. Steep cliffs on the far shore wreathed in silvery mist. The foothills of the Porcupine Mountains? Or maybe a rocky fjord somewhere in Norway. What had Lofgren called it? Valhalla.
Viking heaven. I could see why the first settlers chose the name.
