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was at breakfast with Captain Grant. They’ve got the Whitetail Room for the morning.”
    The Whitetail Room was small, with a fireplace and a conference table. Usually the chief worked in a larger space with larger groups.
    Service got to the building and looked through the frosted window. Chief Lorne O’Driscoll and Captain Grant were sitting on one side of the conference table, and Sergeant Milo Miars and Lieutenant Zins were sitting opposite them. Zins was in civvies, the others in uniform. What the fuck was Zins doing here? He’d retired two weeks ago. Service immediately regretted not having a change of clothes or a uniform with him. At least he had his teeth in. He had gotten injured last Easter, had all his teeth pulled, and was still not used to his dentures.
    He tapped his knuckles on the window and the chief waved him in. “Sorry to intrude,” he greeted the chief.
    â€œIs it important?”
    â€œPossibly.”
    â€œTake a seat. There’s coffee.”
    Service poured a cup and sat down, wishing he could smoke. The other four men stared at him and said nothing.
    Service looked at Miars. “You tell them this was about Piscova?”
    The sergeant nodded. Zins immediately glared.
    Service asked, “Does the company pay the DNR to run the weirs and collect eggs?”
    Chief O’Driscoll said, “They provide all the services our hatchery people and biologists need, and they pay for the eggs they collect to use for themselves. Why?”
    Service walked them through what had happened, including witnessing Vandeal collecting and paying the Ukrainian immigrant for his eggs.
    â€œWhy didn’t you confront Vandeal right there?” Zins asked imperiously.
    â€œI think there’s something bigger going on,” Grady Service said. “How many eggs does the Fisheries division need? It seems to me that the company’s collecting a helluva lot more than we need, so what’re they doing with the surplus? The eggs belong to the people of the state, right?”
    â€œHow big a harvest?” the chief asked.
    â€œI don’t know yet, but if my informant is correct, they’re collecting all over the state every year. My guy’s been doing it for at least three years. Sergeant Miars said Piscova was off limits to me,” he added.
    Zins glared at Service. “Loose cannon. Piscova pays the state for the eggs and meat it sells.”
    Service glanced at the retired lieutenant. He was tall and distinguished-looking, too damn slick for a game warden. He thought about pushing some buttons to see how Zins would react, but the chief said, “Could you use a smoke?”
    Service nodded.
    â€œLet’s step outside.”
    The two men walked onto the wet grass. Dead leaves were already stacked up and crisping, turning the lawn to gold and red. The chief said, “The Wildlife Resource Protection Unit has been quietly investigating Piscova. There are rumors that perhaps some Fisheries employees are a little too cozy with them. It’s strictly an internal matter. We’re not aware of any law or contract violations, only potential ethical concerns.”
    â€œMeaning I should leave this alone?”
    â€œNo,” the chief said. “Every investigator can choose to take a case in any number of different directions. Miars and Zins chose to look internally. What do you propose to do with what you’ve got?”
    â€œI thought I’d call New York, see what they know, if anything, and decide the next step from there.”
    â€œAll right—but no action beyond inquiries with New York unless I give you the green light.”
    â€œWhat about Miars?”
    â€œHe has his own work. With Zins gone, he’s running the unit now.”
    â€œDid he and Zins get anywhere with their investigtion?”
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œHow long were they at it?”
    â€œEighteen months.”
    â€œWhat if my work leads me back