CHAPTER NINE

Ray reached over and turned up the heat. He huddled in the passenger seat of the Riv, trying to warm his mittened hands with a steaming cup of coffee without spilling it on himself or the upholstery. He was dressed in his warmest clothes, including the ridiculously bright ski jacket he had bought for his first trip to the Yukon. His nose dripped, his eyes watered, his cheeks stung, and he was still shivering despite the fact that they had been off that damned boat for twenty minutes.

Fraser had both hands on the wheel at the 10 and 2 o'clock positions. He was fastidiously keeping the vehicle at the posted speed limit. His cheeks were ruddy, his eyes sparkled, his hair was charmingly windblown. He positively glowed.

Ray hated him.

They were heading down I-94, back to Chicago, being passed by every car and truck on the road, including right now, another old man in a hat.

"W-will you s-step on it, B-benny!" Ray chattered.

"I'm at the speed limit," he replied, checking the dash. "Whoops." He was over by a couple of miles. He eased up on the accelerator. A horn blared as a semi barreled past.

"It's mph, not kph," Ray said, sourly.

"But, I am –" he began, then realized Ray was being sarcastic. He let it go without further comment. He did look truly miserable. Fraser reached to crank up the heater again, even though the temperature in the car was stifling.

"I want to thank you for today, Ray," he began.

Ray grunted.

There was a yip from the back seat. Fraser met Dief's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Both of us do." He smiled. "That was great. Truly. It felt like ... " he paused, looking for the right word, then found it. "Home." Dief woofed in agreement.

Earlier, Ray had picked him up outside his apartment promptly at eight in the morning. Though it was a sunny day, it was cold. Eighteen degrees, according to the radio. In keeping with the off-the-record investigation, Fraser was dressed casually, in jeans, turtleneck and his buffalo plaid jacket. Dief, of course, wore nothing but a smile. The driving was slow-going until they got away from the city rush hour. Then, it had been a smooth hour up the interstate to the US Coast Guard Station at Waukegan, on the southwestern shore of the Lake.

Policing Lake Michigan was complex. Every city cop knew that the Coast Guard was the primary law enforcement agency on the Lake, though, of course, there was spillover with the feds, staties and various locals. Since the Lake was bordered by Michigan, Wisconsin and Indiana as well as Illinois, four state police forces were in play. Ray knew, in the abstract, that the Coast Guard also policed the other Great Lakes. But since Lake Michigan was unique in that it was wholly contained in the US, he had never thought about the international implications of the greater Great Lakes Region. But, Fraser had.

"Oh, yes, Ray," he explained, enthusiastically. "The border between our two countries runs right through the other four Great Lakes and the St. Laurence Seaway."

"So ... what?" he asked. "You guys have your own Coast Guard policing your side of the water?"

"Well, yes and no. We have a Coast Guard, but its law enforcement responsibilities are limited. Mostly, they deal with vessel registry, search and rescue and environmental issues, not traditional law enforcement."

Ray knew that Canadian bureaucracy was as complicated or more so than its US counterpart. Or maybe it just seemed that way to him. He never quite got what the First Nations was about. "Who does, then?"

"We do," he replied, patting his chest. "The Mounties."

"I didn't know horses could swim," Ray quipped.

"Actually, they're quite good swimmers," Fraser said. "But, we use boats."

"You ever been stationed on the Lakes?"

"No." He thought a moment. "When I was in Moosejaw, I had a case that intersected with the RCMP post at Thunder Bay." He cast his mind back. "Drug smugglers bringing in PCP across the Lake they call Superior, then over the Trans-Canadian Highway."

"Lake Superior," Ray corrected automatically.

"Right, the Lake they call Superior," he repeated.

"You mean, Lake –" he waved his hand. "Never mind. Did you get your man?"

"Women, actually." At Ray's questioning look, he explained, "They were an all-female band, playing bars and clubs as a front, but distributing the drugs as their primary enterprise."

"Were they any good?"

"Well, no one is beyond redemption, Ray."

He shook his head, impatiently. "I meant their music."

He thought about it. "Yes."

"For Moosejaw," he sniffed.

"Actually, Ray, the quality of the arts in Canada, being supported in large part, by the government ..."

Ray tuned out and didn't tune back in until –

"... the Tuktoyaktuk Opera and Canning Company's performance of 'The Snow Queen' on the actual tundra. It was breathtak –"

"Here we are," Ray sang out. "North Harbor Place." As they approached the waterfront, he added, "You'll like Billy. He's a real stand-up guy. Just don't mention the All-City Championship game. That always sets him off."

"I won't," Fraser promised.

They parked the car. Though still sunny, it was even colder here than in Chicago, with a stiff breeze coming off the water. Flags arrayed around the grounds snapped loudly in the wind. Fraser and Dief stood at the edge of the parking lot, inhaling deeply, as they looked out over the sparkling water of the Lake.

The Coast Guard station consisted of a low-slung brick building containing the administration offices, several outbuildings, the docks with boats of varying sizes, and a small hangar housing a helicopter. The facilities had a shuttered look. Ray had explained that the station was most active from March to October, when recreational use of the Lake was at its peak. In the winter months, the Coast Guard primarily patrolled commercial shipping and policed the year-round threat of drug smuggling, illegal immigration, and toxic dumping.

Ray hustled Fraser and Dief ahead of him to the entrance and the promise of warmth inside. They checked in at the front desk, and were immediately escorted by a young woman in uniform to the office of Lieutenant Commander William Pulaski.

A tall, hearty man in a crisp uniform sat behind a large cluttered desk. He moved to greet them. "Ray!" he exclaimed, "Ray Vecchio!" enfolding him in a bear hug. "Damn glad to see you, buddy!" They pounded each other on the back for a few minutes.

Ray said, "Bill, this is my partner, Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP. Benny, Lieutenant Commander Bill Pulaski, USCG."

He extended his hand, "Lieutenant Commander."

"Call me Bill," Pulaski said, engulfing Fraser's hand in his large one.

"Ben," he offered. "And this is Diefenbaker." Dief woofed politely.

"What a fine animal!" he proclaimed. He reached down and petted Dief's head. "Part wolf there, I think?"

Dief basked in his admiration and grinned up at him.

"Yes," Fraser acknowledged. "I've never been sure which part."

They sat in Bill's office, enjoying coffee and donuts, while he and Ray caught up on old times. Fraser made a mental note to run Dief twice around the usual circuit tomorrow morning in light of the three donuts slipped to him by the commander.

"Well, it's great to see you, Ray," Bill began, "but I'm sure you didn't come all the way up here just to catch up." He looked shrewdly at Fraser. "And I'm sure there's a story about how a Chicago cop and a Mountie are partners." He checked his watch. "But, I'm on a tight schedule." He looked expectantly at Ray.

"It's your show, Benny."

Fraser reached into an inner pocket. He unfolded his handkerchief revealing the ripped patch from Dave's dad's jacket. He passed it to Pulaski.

"Bill, can you tell me anything about this?"

He raised an eyebrow, "Where did you get it?"

"In Chicago."

He rolled his eyes. "What I mean, Ben, was it in connection with criminal activity?"

Fraser looked earnestly at him. "At this point, I have no evidence that a crime was committed by the individual who was wearing that patch. I am not at liberty to say more. Except, that the circumstances were ... dubious."

Pulaski laughed. "Dubious?! I love that. It means nothing, but says a lot." He looked at Ray. "He talk like that all the time?"

"Actually, he's loosened up," Ray said.

Pulaski gave Fraser a piercing look. "I hate to see one of our own involved in 'dubious circumstances.'"

"I understand, Bill," he said. "I have no reason to believe that a member of your service has any involvement; it may be a family connection. Or no connection at all."

"Grasping at straws there, are ya, Ben?"

"As you say."

He studied Fraser's face for a long moment, glanced at Ray. He stood, handing the patch back. "Come with me." He led them to a large conference room, furnished with a long table and a dozen chairs. The American and Coast Guard flags stood in the two front corners of the room. Each wall was decorated with large glass-fronted frames. Bill went to the far wall. As Ray approached, he saw it was a display of patches, mounted on a white background. Each patch had a hand-lettered description under it.

Bill pointed to the patches. "Courtesy of our local Boy Scout troop. Some young man's Eagle Scout project. These patches are not part of the official uniform," he explained. "But most detachments have their own unique design. You can collect them, you see. Sew 'em on jackets or shirts or hats, or display them like this."

Ray nodded. "Yeah, we do the same. Some guys I know collect patches from law enforcement all over the country."

Bill continued. "I don't recognize Ben's patch specifically, but it could be one of ours." Ray peered up at the display. He spotted several Semper Paratus mottos in a variety of colors, shapes and designs, along with many other emblems, symbols and phrases. There were a helluva lot of patches in just this one frame.

Bill noticed his surprise and said, "There are over 50 main Coast Guard Stations on the Great Lakes. Sector Lake Michigan has 22 subordinate field units alone."

Ray exchanged glances with Fraser. "I'll start with this one," he said, pointing at the display. "Lemme see that patch again." He studied it carefully, then started a methodical search, his eyes moving left to right. Fraser did the same on another display, as Bill took a third. Ray did not find a match. As he turned to report his failure, Diefenbaker woofed. He turned, to see the wolf staring at the display on the fourth wall. He sat on his haunches, his nose pointing upwards with unmistakable meaning. Fraser hurried to him.

"Find something, boy?" He spotted the patch. "Ray, Bill," he called. They joined him, Bill looking skeptically at Dief. Fraser pointed to a patch on the right near the top. "This one has the motto, same style of script, the same colors in the background and in the stitching of the letters, the same oval shape," he began. "But, my patch does not have the lighthouse in the center."

Ray squinted up at it. "That's the Calumet Light," he said. "I recognize it." He read the placard beneath the patch. "Station Calumet Harbor."

Fraser looked at the patch in his hand. "Everything is the same, except for the lighthouse motif." He looked at the other men. "Did you find anything on the other displays?" They answered in the negative.

Bill gestured to the frayed torn patch in Fraser's hand. "That might be an older version. They get redesigned from time to time."

"Is there a compendium of the various patches and the detachments they represent?" Fraser asked.

"Not to my knowledge. These are strictly unofficial." Bill looked thoughtful. "My former commander was stationed at Calumet Harbor for years. He passed away a few years back. But his wife ran the social end of his command. You know the type - organized everything – the dinners, the clambakes, the pancake breakfasts, did the newsletter, and so on." He shook his head in admiration. "Incredible woman. She might be able to tell you if that was a Calumet patch."

"She still around?" Ray asked.

"Got a card from her last Christmas." He shepherded them back to his office and flipped through a giant Rolodex. "Here she is. Helen Barrowman." He looked up. "You know, I was transferred out of Calumet years ago, but I still get a card every Christmas. Everybody does." He jotted down the contact information and handed it to Fraser.

"Thank you, kindly."

"You're welcome, uh, kindly," he replied. "Gentlemen, this has been a pleasure. But I have duties." He paused, looking at Fraser. "Unless, you would care to see how things are done south of the border, Constable? You boys wanna go on an RLP?"

"Say, what?" Ray asked. Every service loved its anagrams.

"Random Lake Patrol. Takes us about three hours to cover our grid."

Fraser hesitated. "I don't wish to take up any more of your valuable time, Bill."

"You wouldn't be. Frankly, I'm proud of our work here. Wouldn't mind showing it off." He grinned. "Especially, to a Canuck."

Fraser turned to Ray, looking a question. He looked back at him, about to decline. He was not fond of boats in warm weather. And there were things he should do back in the city. Then, he discerned the eagerness carefully concealed behind Fraser's neutral expression.

"If you want to freeze your ass off, Benny, be my guest," he said, magnanimously. What the hell, he'd have another coffee and read a magazine till they got back.

"You can wait in my office where it's nice and toasty, Ray-mond," Bill said, drawing out the name.

Instantly, Ray was transported back in time to junior year. The teenage rivalry that had been at the core of their friendship rose to the fore. "Hey, I'm coming along, if only to back you up, Billy-boy. Just like I did when you missed that shot in the All-City game."

Bill poked a finger at his chest. "I'd have made that shot if you only ..."

The argument continued in this vein until Ray found himself strapped into a bright orange flotation vest on the forty-five foot speedboat named "Lady of the Lake." Bill introduced them to his crew of five, two women and three men. The men were quite taken with Diefenbaker; the women with Fraser.

Ray was impressed with the armaments on the boat. Machine guns were mounted on the bow and each crewman was equipped with a Sig Sauer sidearm. Once they were in the channel, Bill opened her up. The vessel had twin diesel turbo engines. Her speed was impressive, 40 knots according to the young crewman standing next to Ray. Within ten minutes, he was huddled on the bridge, surreptitiously trying to shelter behind the windscreen from the relentless buffeting of the wind. He looked up with streaming eyes to see Fraser and Dief standing straight and tall on the foredeck. The wind whipped through Fraser's hair and his coattail flapped like a flag. He didn't look cold at all. Despite the bulky orange life vest, he looked ... majestic, like a masthead on the prow of a ship. He reached down occasionally to rub Dief's ears.

It was bitter. The crew took turns on deck, alternating with warm-up time in the tiny wardroom below. Bill resolutely stood his post at the helm, even though his anxious second officer offered to relieve him several times. Other than a trip to the head that Ray extended as long as he credibly could, he endured the wind and the cold on deck. Even though he recognized that they had slipped back into the juvenile one-upmanship of their high school years, Ray couldn't stop himself. He'd freeze his balls off before he'd admit defeat and slink belowdecks. He realized, after the second hour, that the prospect was a literal possibility. He gritted his teeth, hunkered down, and thought of Miami.

There was little traffic on that sector of the Lake, all of it commercial ore shipping. They checked a couple of vessel registries by radio and boarded one small freighter, without incident. Ray equated these activities to that of a traffic cop. At one point, he heard a crewman call "Iceberg, port bow." He looked left and there was, indeed, a small mountain of ice. In fact, there was a lot of floating ice out here. Bill slowed down which helped with the windchill. A crewman brought up hot cups of coffee. Ray's teeth were chattering. He succeeded in spilling just as much of the drink as he was able to get down. He had a small measure of satisfaction when he saw Bill doing the same.

Finally, blessedly, they returned to the dock at the Station. Ray was pleased to see that Bill's red cheeks, dripping nose and chattering teeth matched his own. Their eyes met and they laughed good-naturedly at their own stupidity. Ray promised to come again, but next time, in summer. Fraser had been effusive (for Fraser) in his thanks to Bill. And they were on their way back to the car. Once they were out of sight, Ray tossed Fraser the keys. He was too cold to drive and too miserable to fret about Fraser's driving. He grabbed the blanket he kept in the trunk and wrapped it around his shoulders.

It was forty minutes later and Ray was finally warm. He was thinking that this Joint Task Force business was not all it was cracked up to be when a little old lady in a faded Chevy pulled past them, laid on the horn, and gave them the finger.

"That's it! Pull over!"

"I can't, Ray."

"Yes, you can. Up there," he pointed. "Pull over."

"That's for emergency stopping only," Fraser said, pointing out the sign as he passed the pull-off.

"This is an emergency!"

"What is?"

"Trust me, an octogenarian flipping us the bird constitutes a roadside emergency! Now, pull over!"

"I will, Ray," he said, "there's a rest stop just ahead." He continued to drive over Ray's continued objections, assuring him calmly that yes, he would indeed stop; in just a moment, Ray; the rest stop is just over the hill, Ray; and so on. Finally, just as he was about to burst a blood vessel, Fraser pulled off, parked, and handed him the keys. "See, it was only a few miles ahead."

Ray took the keys, without a word.

Fraser looked uncertain. "I need to use the facilities, Ray." A woof from the back. "So does Dief," he added. "We'll be back in two shakes of a lamb's tail." He opened the car door, then looked back at Ray, who hadn't moved. "O-kay then. Dief?" He let the wolf out of the car and walked with him to the grassy area in the trees set aside for pets.

Ray got out of the passenger side, slammed the door, walked around and got behind the wheel. There was a long silence then Fraser heard the engine turn over. He looked up when he heard the squeal of tires. The Riviera sped toward the exit. Dief, under a tree, looked at the disappearing car, then back at Fraser. He whimpered.

"He'll be back," Fraser assured him.

The wolf whined.

"Oh, don't be a baby! It's only thirty miles to Chicago." He looked down at the wolf. "Gives you a chance to work off those donuts." Once Dief had finished his business, Fraser went into the mens room. As he was washing up at the sink, Ray came in. He went into a stall and slammed the door.

Fraser and Dief waited outside. When Ray came out, he pointed at Fraser. "Not a word."

"Understood."

Dief grumble-growled.

"You too!"

Dief shut up.

They piled into the car. Ray started the engine, put it in gear, and sped away. He cranked up the radio and put the pedal to the metal all the way home. Fraser never said a word. Somewhere outside Northbrook, the Mamas and the Papas were California dreaming. Ray cast a sidewise look at Fraser, then launched in. As they passed the little old lady in the Chevy, they were singing the chorus, Dief hitting the high notes.