walk on me.”
The two old detectives chewed on this one for a while, decrying the laxity of hospital security, sheriff’s deputies. Finally Mulheisen said, “Tucker mentioned Service to me when he visited. In connection with the bombing. Joe Service the mad bomber? I don’t think so, even if some kind of connection could be made out. Maybe it goes back to the deal in Salt Lake. Tucker and his guys were about to grab Helen. Service waltzed in and sprang her. He left Tucker handcuffed to a water pipe in the kitchen. A guy like Tucker isn’t going to forget that insult to his dignity. Somewhere down the line he’s going to find a jacket for Joe Service, don’t you know?”
Wunney grunted, his version of a laugh. “Oh, yeah. Well, we were passed a thing about Service. An intercept, a phone call to some guy in Florida. This guy talked to Service about some Muslim group. It didn’t make much sense to me. I didn’t see a connection, except that someone else said the group might have a tie-in with the bombing, possibly.”
“Might have a tie-in? That’s the level you’re working on?” Mulheisen shook his head. “Tucker kind of waved the Muslim angle off. He hinted at some local militia-type group.”
“Well, if there’s no Muslim angle,” Wunney pointed out, “what’s the connection with Service?” He almost managed to convey an expression of derisory disbelief, but he wasn’t capable of that kind of facial mobility.
Mulheisen managed a complementary expression, suggesting that it was all nonsense. But he asked, “Isn’t that the way theydo it? One Muslim is the same as any other, any connection becomes a universal coupling—it’ll work in any context. So who was the guy in Florida?”
“Ah, I don’t know . . .” Wunney gazed at Mulheisen for a long moment through slightly narrowed eyes. Then he said, “You know him. Big Sid’s old hench, the Yak.”
“Yakovich?” Mulheisen smiled, his long teeth bared in the expression that had given rise to his street nickname, Fang. “One thing I know about the Yak, he’s no Muslim.”
“No, he’s no Muslim, but he was in conversation with Service and Helen Sid, the daughter, about some Muslim group in Brooklyn. The conversation was so vague, it was hard to get a take on it. It sounded like the Muslims had something that Helen Sid wanted. Maybe it was just info. I couldn’t get anywhere with it. The FBI was in on it. They thought it was a dope deal, but evidently that didn’t turn out.”
“Who are these Muslims?” Mulheisen asked.
Wunney offered a nominal grin. “Albanians. They seemed to have some connection with Kosovar refugees.”
Mulheisen was baffled. The idea of Helen Sedlacek, Joe Service, and Roman Yakovich involved in a dope deal with Muslims was too much for him.
“Where does the bombing come in?” he asked.
Wunney shrugged. “Muslims, Detroit mobsters. That’s about it. Like you say, it’s a universal joint, turns in any direction.”
“Makes my head spin,” Mulheisen said. “So, what about this militia group?”
“Mul? You in or out?”
“I don’t know,” Mulheisen said. “I have an interest, that’s all. Don’t tell me anything that’ll get you in trouble. Not that I’d say anything, of course.”
Wunney sighed. “Okay. All’s it is’s a joker named Luck, livesupstate, he’s got visions of black helicopters, New World Order, ZOG—that’s the Zionist Occupational Government—hates environmentalists, liberals, cops, any kind of government it looks like, dog-catchers, game wardens, you name it. Rumored to have been in Wards Cove at the wrong time. Access to explosives. Blah, blah, blah.”
Mulheisen nodded. “You talk to him?”
“Oh, yeah. Nothing. He was off fishing, he says. He’s got alibis . . . from guys who need alibis.”
“What about the vehicle that was used? The explosive?”
“Vehicle was stolen in Detroit, no connection with Luck. Explosive was military, U.S., stolen. No Luck.” He
The two old detectives chewed on this one for a while, decrying the laxity of hospital security, sheriff’s deputies. Finally Mulheisen said, “Tucker mentioned Service to me when he visited. In connection with the bombing. Joe Service the mad bomber? I don’t think so, even if some kind of connection could be made out. Maybe it goes back to the deal in Salt Lake. Tucker and his guys were about to grab Helen. Service waltzed in and sprang her. He left Tucker handcuffed to a water pipe in the kitchen. A guy like Tucker isn’t going to forget that insult to his dignity. Somewhere down the line he’s going to find a jacket for Joe Service, don’t you know?”
Wunney grunted, his version of a laugh. “Oh, yeah. Well, we were passed a thing about Service. An intercept, a phone call to some guy in Florida. This guy talked to Service about some Muslim group. It didn’t make much sense to me. I didn’t see a connection, except that someone else said the group might have a tie-in with the bombing, possibly.”
“Might have a tie-in? That’s the level you’re working on?” Mulheisen shook his head. “Tucker kind of waved the Muslim angle off. He hinted at some local militia-type group.”
“Well, if there’s no Muslim angle,” Wunney pointed out, “what’s the connection with Service?” He almost managed to convey an expression of derisory disbelief, but he wasn’t capable of that kind of facial mobility.
Mulheisen managed a complementary expression, suggesting that it was all nonsense. But he asked, “Isn’t that the way theydo it? One Muslim is the same as any other, any connection becomes a universal coupling—it’ll work in any context. So who was the guy in Florida?”
“Ah, I don’t know . . .” Wunney gazed at Mulheisen for a long moment through slightly narrowed eyes. Then he said, “You know him. Big Sid’s old hench, the Yak.”
“Yakovich?” Mulheisen smiled, his long teeth bared in the expression that had given rise to his street nickname, Fang. “One thing I know about the Yak, he’s no Muslim.”
“No, he’s no Muslim, but he was in conversation with Service and Helen Sid, the daughter, about some Muslim group in Brooklyn. The conversation was so vague, it was hard to get a take on it. It sounded like the Muslims had something that Helen Sid wanted. Maybe it was just info. I couldn’t get anywhere with it. The FBI was in on it. They thought it was a dope deal, but evidently that didn’t turn out.”
“Who are these Muslims?” Mulheisen asked.
Wunney offered a nominal grin. “Albanians. They seemed to have some connection with Kosovar refugees.”
Mulheisen was baffled. The idea of Helen Sedlacek, Joe Service, and Roman Yakovich involved in a dope deal with Muslims was too much for him.
“Where does the bombing come in?” he asked.
Wunney shrugged. “Muslims, Detroit mobsters. That’s about it. Like you say, it’s a universal joint, turns in any direction.”
“Makes my head spin,” Mulheisen said. “So, what about this militia group?”
“Mul? You in or out?”
“I don’t know,” Mulheisen said. “I have an interest, that’s all. Don’t tell me anything that’ll get you in trouble. Not that I’d say anything, of course.”
Wunney sighed. “Okay. All’s it is’s a joker named Luck, livesupstate, he’s got visions of black helicopters, New World Order, ZOG—that’s the Zionist Occupational Government—hates environmentalists, liberals, cops, any kind of government it looks like, dog-catchers, game wardens, you name it. Rumored to have been in Wards Cove at the wrong time. Access to explosives. Blah, blah, blah.”
Mulheisen nodded. “You talk to him?”
“Oh, yeah. Nothing. He was off fishing, he says. He’s got alibis . . . from guys who need alibis.”
“What about the vehicle that was used? The explosive?”
“Vehicle was stolen in Detroit, no connection with Luck. Explosive was military, U.S., stolen. No Luck.” He
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