Chasing a Blond Moon (45 page)

Gishron said, “Twinkie man,” and smiled, nodding like a bobble head.

The dining room was massive with a head table on a raised dais and in front of it a sea of round tables covered with white linen cloths. Candles burned at each table beside small arrangements of red and orange fall flowers in shiny brass vases.

They found their place-cards at a table in the center of the white sea and sat down as others filed in and took their seats.

A string quartet and a piano were making music in the corner. The music was white noise to Service.

Nantz said, “Dutilleux, ‘Ainsi la Nuit.'” She closed her eyes, seemed to let her mind flow with the music.

Nantz smiled and greeted everyone who came to their table, making small talk. Service grunted politely and watched the room, looking for Soong.

The younger men in the room wore their hair cut short on the sides, longer on top, shiny with gel and prickling with little spikes, like their bodies gave off electrical charges. Many of them wore Lenin goatees.

“Hair,” he whispered.

“It's called ‘faux hawk,'” she said.

“More like punks-with-money,” he said.

She tapped his arm and took his hand in hers. “Be nice. Having money doesn't make people assholes.”

“Younger crowd than I expected,” he said. “Where does the money come from?”

“Professionals, dot-com survivors, and trust-fund babies,” she said. “Most of them are so leveraged their finances would collapse under a fart.” She squeezed his hand for emphasis and dragged a fingernail along his palm. He felt a spark and saw her blue eyes gleaming.

A relatively tall and muscular Asian man helped Buzz Gishron to his place at the head table. After he was seated, the others joined him, five couples in all, including Lorelei and Whit Timms. The Asian had the same gleaming spiked hair and wore a black suit, not a tux. His suit said he didn't belong; his attitude said something different. Service could feel the arrogance.

Service thought they looked like ravens on a power line scoping the world for food or mischief, whichever opportunity came along first.

One of the men on the dais stood up and held up his hands for silence. He made introductions without fanfare. Senator Timms got a standing ovation that went on for five minutes, but she did not rise to speak.

“Okay, team,” Service whispered, “let's all haul out our bank books and buy us a candidate.”

Nantz kicked him under the table. “It's a
party
fund-raiser, dummy,” she whispered.

Siquin Soong studied the audience with a practiced smile and intense eyes. Service looked back and saw that she was looking at him, but she showed no emotions and moved her eyes on.

“She's gorgeous,” Nantz said.

“Like those neon-colored frogs that draw in their victims to poison them.”

“She's Lori's supporter.”

“How do you separate support from ownership?” he asked sarcastically.

“Pish,” she said.

He ignored Nantz and watched Soong. She was attractive and he could still feel her hand—not just cold, but frigid, like she had no blood flow at all.

The menus were delivered to the table. They were printed in gold on linen paper that felt like pressed cloth. It said, “A Tribute to Michigan's Bounty.” Five courses were listed. “Walleye Pie with Sautéed Dickinson County Morels; Asian-style Medallions of Free-Range, Farm-Raised Venison with Chartreuse Medley of Vegetables from ‘The Mitt' (baked in a fresh pastry shell); Puree of Kalamazoo Small Roots; Central Michigan Sour Cream Drop Biscuits; Toffee Pudding (a thick nutmeat roll with caramel sauce); Demitasse Café and Tea (Chocolate-Dipped Ginger, South Haven Blueberries Florentine, Truffles).”

“They got baloney?” Service asked, loud enough for others at the table to hear. Several of them snickered.

Dinner was brought one course at a time with long pauses between.

After the fourth course Soong left the head table. Service excused himself, and followed her onto the back patio.

He stood outside the fringe of light from the dining room.

“I am pleased to find you alone,” Siquin Soong said from the darkness. She stepped forward, her face obscured in shadows. Light bathed her shoulders and lit the angles of her breasts, which were barely contained in the strapless black gown. He saw a red ember.

“A dreadful weakness,” she said. “I tried any number of times to quit, but frustration alone guarantees failure.” She made a
tsk
ing sound. “There are things we cannot change about ourselves, do you agree?”

“I'm sorry,” he said to bait her. “You are—?” She had no accent, spoke English like she had been raised in the States.

Soong laughed without mirth. “Don't play games, Detective, especially when you don't know the rules. You came here specifically to meet me and I have made it possible. A little gratitude might be in order. I have nothing to hide.”

“At the moment?” he said.

“I was warned you could be abrasive.”

Warned by whom? he wondered. “I wanted to ask you about your son. Your lawyers aren't playing nice.”

“My dear Detective, you're misinformed. Fate and biology have decreed I have no children, a burden no woman should have to bear.”

“Your ex-husband's son,” he said.

“My former husband had no son. In fact, he lacked the wherewithal, if you understand.”

“There is a man posing as his son,” he said.

“Ah,” she said. “You have evidence of this?”

“Not yet.”

She sighed dismissively. “An alleged imposter, then. I admire our country, but the culture encourages outrageous behaviors.”

“Eventually we will find the man and then we'll find out.”

She straightened up, pushed her head back and her breasts forward. “Are you a Mountie, Detective, one of those policemen who always get their man?”

“Not a Mountie, ma'am, but I tend to get who I am after.”

“Well,” she said, “I have no doubt that you have no trouble getting any woman you choose,” she said, pressing her breast against his arm and maintaining the pressure. “You must be proud of our mutual friend. She is certain to be elected and that will be a great day for our state.”

Our country, our state—she played the immigrant citizen role well. “I think the people will have to vote before that happens.”

She pulled away from him. “I expected more sophistication,” she whispered.

“What are we talking about?” he asked.

“We always hope to meet interesting people,” she said. “Thank you for allowing me to monopolize a few moments of your time.” She stepped into the light, looked back at him, and lowered her eyes. “I should attend to my guests now.”

“You'll be at Harry's funeral, right?”

Siquin Soong's eyes widened momentarily, then narrowed. “Pardon?”

“You heard me,” he said as he slid past her and through the door.

He found Nantz with Lorelei Timms. “Where were you?” Nantz asked. Dessert had been served.

“Grabbing a smoke,” he said.

Lorelei Timms was holding her shoes, standing on the carpeted floor in her stocking feet.

“I wish I could wear
my
boots,” she said. “
And
have a smoke.”

Service checked the room. Most people were standing around tables, talking and laughing.

Buzz Gishron was still seated at the head table and Whit Timms was talking to him.

Service touched Nantz's arm to let her know he was slipping away again, went out to the patio, and circled the building.

There was a guard at the side entrance, a Lenawee County deputy. He showed the man his badge.

“Some soiree,” the deputy said. “You on duty?”

“Just hoping to get laid.”

The deputy laughed. “Not a problem in this crowd. They've been going back and forth to the vehicles all through dinner. You can smell weed in the air over in the lot. We're in the don't-ask, don't-tell mode.”

“Have you seen the senator?”

“No, but I seen that big-shot Asian bimbo who came in with her and the old guy.”

“Where?”

“She's out in that white Mercedes stretch.”

Service crossed the lawn, making sure to keep a good distance from the vehicle. He came up in its blind spot, saw two heads in back, no driver. He immediately stepped into the shadow of another vehicle and waited. Siquin Soong got out of the limo and made her way quickly into the building. A man got out of the rear door opposite the building and started to open the driver's door, but Service bumped him hard to get his attention. The man froze and tensed. Service leaned over and looked directly into his eyes.

“Sorry,” Service said. “Guess I had a coupla suds too many, hey?”

He felt the man's eyes on him as he crossed in front of the limo and went back into the lodge.

Timms and Nantz were still talking. Some of the crowd was beginning to drift out of the building.

Service said, “Senator, who was the young Asian man that helped Soong's husband to the dais?”

Lorelei Timms looked at him suspiciously. “The man is her driver and her pilot. I once heard someone call him her brother, but I doubt that. I think he serves other purposes. Do I need to be more specific?”

“Aren't you worried about a scandal?”

“She's a political supporter, not my friend. What she does is her business and she is an extremely independent woman.”

“Do you know the man's name?”

“No, why are you interested?”

“He's plagued by curiosity,” Nantz said, tugging him away.

“Are Soong and her husband staying nearby?”

“I assume they're returning to their home in Detroit,” Timms said.

“I'm not comfortable with these questions, Grady.”

“I get paid to ask questions.”

“You're not on duty tonight.”

“A cop and a governor are always on duty,” he said.

Lorelei Timms glared at him. Nantz grabbed another glass of champagne and pulled him away.

Service said. “I think I screwed up. Let's split.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

They got into the Yukon and he saw that the white limo was still there. Service punched a number into his cell phone. “Sterling?”

“You got 'im.”

“Where are you?”

“Entry road, only way in and out. What's going down?”

“White Mercedes stretch limo, driver and two passengers.” Service gave the man the license plate number. “You stay with the driver, no matter what.”

“Give you a bump when he lights?”

“Yeah, good luck,” Service said.

“Don't need it,” Sterling said.

39

Nantz got out of the vehicle and walked unsteadily up the walk into the B&B, waving at him to let him know she was okay. Service turned on the 800 MHz, clicked to Channel 3, called, “Thirty-One Eighteen, Twenty-Five Fourteen,” repeating the call twice, then waiting.

He tried again five minutes later and still no response.

Five minutes after that Jake Mecosta radioed, “Thirty-One Eighteen is up.”

“What's your status?”

“We may have something. We found that place our guide told us about. It looks like somebody's been there.”

The “guide” was Santinaw. “Any critters?”

“No sign of that, but somebody's done some sprucing up.”

“Kids?”

“Possible, but our guide picked up a trail at the north end of that body of water we discussed. We followed it up to a tote road, about half a click. Somebody ran a four-wheeler down to the river. Old tracks, in and out. Just one trip.”

“How far from that trail to the hole we talked about?” Service asked. The body of water was Laughing Whitefish Lake. The river flowed into the top of it and out the bottom. The hole was the grotto Santinaw had told them about.

“Two clicks maybe.”

“Isn't much.”

“Wasn't, but last night somebody left a voice mail for me and urged me to take a look at a cabin on a small lake east of the chute, above that body of water. We're there now. Lots of activity, five males, three four-wheelers, and a canoe with a motor. Lots of crates and gear, but we haven't gone in close to find out what. I sent Dort to the county clerk, see if we can find out who owns the place now. She'll TX me soon as she knows one way or the other. These people here are most definitely not from Kansas—all from way east of our Far West, copy?”

Dort was Mecosta's wife. “Copy.” Service understood.

“Anonymous caller, male or female?”

“Female, no name, and I didn't recognize the voice. You know how it goes.”

He did. Most Yoopers didn't abide law-breaking, but also didn't want to get involved because they feared testifying or getting crossways with neighbors. It had always been so above the bridge.

Mecosta was being extremely circumspect in telling him what was going on, but it boiled down to the fact that an anonymous tip had pointed him at a cabin where they had seen five men and a lot of gear, five men east of west, meaning across the Pacific—Asians. An anonymous call could mean somebody had a beef with them, or was worked up over what appeared to be so many foreigners in one place, one of the legacies of September 11.

“How's your guide holding up?”

Mecosta said. “Ought better ask how I'm doing. I've never seen a walker like him, uphill, downhill, same pace, hours on end.”

“I'm going to alert backup in case we need them. See any weapons in the group?”

“Long guns in cases.”

“Got a meet-site in mind?” Service asked.

“You know the next little burg west of where our guide has his lady friend?”

“I remember.” Mecosta meant a place called Rumely.

“There's a road runs north out of there, same name as the place. It T's three miles north.”

Rumely Road, Service thought. “Hides?”

“Some fields with some hardwoods right before the T. Right or left is fine, rocky ground.”

“Okay, I'll make calls. Let me know what you find out about ownership.”

“TX or 800?”

“800 is best, but either will work.”

“You coming back?”

“Let's see what we have in the morning.”

“Thirty-One Eighteen clear.”

Maybe this was something, Service thought, then decided it rated a probably. Five Asian men in the same area. A definite probably.

He called Captain Grant at home. “Service.” He laid out the situation and what he needed.

“The T north of Rumely on Rumely Road?”

“Right.” The captain sounded wide awake.

“Four more people do it?”

“Should.”

“Count me in. I'll be there. Any feel for what's in the offing?”

“Nossir, just something.”

“Soong's copilot?”

“That's what I was told.”

“This would be Pung?”

“I don't know,” he said. He had seen the man, but had no photo.

“But you don't know.”

“It's gut and circumstance at this point, Cap'n.”

“Keep me informed.”

He locked the truck and went up to the room. Nantz had dumped her gown on the carpet and was asleep, breathing steadily.

He put his handheld and cell phone on the nightstand, undressed and eased in beside her, not wanting to wake her, but suddenly he heard a buzz and groped for his cell phone.

“Service?”

“Yeah.” He glanced at his watch: 4:30 a.m.

“The driver dropped the couple at a house near White Lake, spent fifteen minutes inside, brought out some boxes and drove the limo over to Oakland County International where he met four Asian males at the Horizon Lounge. They had several drinks, he dropped them at a Holiday Inn Express, and drove out to the airfield to the transient parking area. He moved the boxes from the limo into an aircraft, a Cessna Citation Ten. Got something to write with?”

Service reached down to the floor, fumbled for a pen from his pants.

“Okay.”

Sterling gave him the tail number.

“Where's the guy now?”

“He went to operations, was in there twenty minutes. I watched him back to the bird, went into ops and flashed my shield. He filed a flight plan for Sawyer International, open departure for tomorrow morning.”

Sawyer was the old air force base twenty miles south of Marquette and about the same distance west of Mecosta and Santinaw. This couldn't be coincidence. “How big is this bird?”

“Twin-engine jet, looks to me like it can handle six to eight pax, and crew.”

“Where's your man now?”

“On the bird, lights out, either napping or choking the chicken,” Sterling said. “You want me to stick here?”

“Call me as soon as he moves.”

“You got it.”

Nantz was awake when he closed the cell phone. “What's going on?” she asked sleepily.

“Jake got an anonymous tip. He and Santinaw are sitting on a camp right now.”

“Will this happen today?” Nantz asked as she got out of bed and went into the bathroom.

“Maybe,” he said.

Service called Grant, gave him the report and the aircraft tail number so he could alert the authorities at Sawyer and try to run down the bird's owner.

The captain said, “Our people are set: McCants, Moody, Ebony, and Mecosta. I haven't talked to the Troops or Alger County yet.”

“Let's hold on them,” Service said. “We don't want a false alarm. This thing is iffy enough.”

Nantz came out of the bathroom holding a glass of water, picked up her purse, sat on the edge of the bed, dug around for a bottle of ibuprofen tablets, took three, and washed them down with the water.

“Did we overtrain?” he asked.

“I'm fine. I was counting on having all day to recover.”

“Change in plans. I need for you to fly me to Munising.”

“Today?”

“Now,” he said.

“What about your truck?”

“Leave it. We'll handle details when we're done.”

She put her head back and said, “God,” stood up, got her clothes, and started dressing.

“What's the flight time to Munising?” he asked her.

“Depends on weather. It's not like driving a car, babe.” She pulled on a sock, added, “Two and a half hours if I firewall it and the wind and weather cooperate. That's from gear-up here to over Hanley,” she said.

Service called Treebone at home while Nantz finished dressing.

“Raincheck on tonight. We have to fly back to the U.P.”

“Fly? Man, you must be onto something big. I keep trying Eugenie's number, but all I get is her machine.”

Service had always been uncomfortable in aircraft. “Tell Kalina we're sorry.”

Nantz stopped to see Lorelei Timms.

Service was waiting in the Yukon. “What did she say?”

“Wanted to ask questions, but I told her there's no time and that I'd get back to her. She and Whit were planning to stay until Sunday. Campaigning starts again Monday morning. I'll come back Sunday. Soong's chauffeur's name is Irvin Terry.”

Service thought, Irvin Wan, Terry Pung: One and same?

They were at the plane in twenty minutes.

Nantz got out. “I'll do the preflight, make sure it's fueled and ready.”

Service sat in the Yukon, waiting.

Mecosta called on the 800. “These people are getting ready to move stuff down to the river on their four-wheelers.”

“How will they get the stuff upriver?”

“Slate ledges and low water. They can run it like a highway.”

“Get down to the river and monitor.”

“What about the camp?”

“Only one radio, I don't want Santinaw on his own. We're coming north.”

“Now?”

“Soon.”

Service hung up and the phone rang. Mecosta again: “You didn't let me finish. Dort called. The cabin is owned by White Star Properties, a subsidiary of White Moon Trading Company of Southfield. Mean anything to you?”

“Thanks, man,” Service said.

Nantz came back.

“I need one more callback,” he said.

“I need coffee,” she said. “I'm going to find a vending machine.”

“Don't dawdle.”

She laughed. “I thought that's what we'd be doing in bed about now.” She gave him an exaggerated wiggle and strode away.

The field was silent and there were only a few lights. He got out of the truck and began piling the gear and clothing he needed on the tarmac.

Nantz brought two coffees and looked at the pile.

“Let's get all that stuff out to the bird,” she said. “We can wait in the plane as comfortably as here.”

He agreed.

He sat in the copilot's seat, half-seeing the bewildering array of instruments and gauges.

The cell phone buzzed. “Service.”

“They just filed for an 0745 takeoff,” Sterling said. “Same destination.”

“Stay with them until they're off the ground and call this number when you see them lift off.” He gave Sterling Captain Grant's cell phone number.

“Thanks,” Service said, checking his watch. It was 5:23 a.m. If the other plane took off on time, he and Nantz would have more than a two-hour lead. He opened his cell phone and called the captain.

“Treebone loaned me a bird dog and he's going to call when the plane leaves Oakland for Sawyer. His name is Sterling. He's stuck in some sort of bogus IA mess and Tree thinks he'd make a good man for us. He's done the job for me. He's a pro.”

The captain thanked him, said they would talk about Sterling later.

Nantz said, “I checked weather when I got coffee. There's a cold front coming down off Lake Superior. Should make landfall midday. We should be fine if the advance winds aren't too stiff.”

Service buckled his lap harness and nodded. “Let's roll.”

The phone rang again as they paused at the end of the runway. Nantz nodded for him to answer it as she adjusted the throttles.

“This is Eugenie Cuckanaw. I'm sorry to take so long. Wan doesn't own a camp in the U.P., but he uses one in—”

“Alger County,” Service said interrupting her. “Thanks.” He hung up.

Service held up his 800. “Can I use this?”

She nodded. “Be quick.”

“Jake, we're on the runway, ready to go. Cap'n Grant is arranging backup. Give him a bump and have somebody meet us at Hadley. You've definitely got the place. ETA . . .” He looked over at Nantz who held up three fingers. “We'll be there zero eight forty-five. See you later.”

“Copy,” Mecosta said.

Nantz said into her headset, “Roger, Four Niner Mike Juliet Mike is rolling.”

She pushed the throttles up and Service felt vibrations in his ass as she taxied onto the runway, went to full power, and took off into the wind, pulling the nose up steeply and leveling at eighteen hundred feet.

When they finished climbing to their assigned cruising level, she put the bird on autopilot and dug through her flight bag for let-down charts.

“Hadley's a grass field,” she said. “Its field closes tonight until May 15.”

She looked at a calendar on her leg-board and said, “Boo!”

“What?” he said.

“Today's Halloween, big boy.”