Chasing a Blond Moon

by Joseph Heywood

  A woman named Hazel Slack owned the B&B. She was dressed in tight slacks and a red cowl-necked sweater.

  “Got a shoeshine box I can use?” Service asked her.

  “Sure,” she said, scampering away.

  The voice of Lorelei Timms said, “Out here, Detective.” Service stepped onto a glassed-in porch holding his boots. She had a cup of coffee, a cigarette in an ashtray.

  “You have your woman all to yourself in a beautiful room and you’re going to shine your work boots?”

  Service didn’t respond.

  “She’s missed you,” the senator said. “Have you been following the campaign?”

  “Not really.”

  “You don’t care who wins?”

  “I care, but I’m just one vote.”

  “Do you think I have a chance?”

  “I usually don’t follow politics,” he said.

  She smiled. “You’re priceless. Did Maridly give you her special tour of the plane?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

  Hazel Slack intervened with a shoeshine kit in a wooden box. “This is all we have.”

  Service went outside and did the best he could to bring the leather back to life, using old military spit-shine tricks, and carried the polished boots up to the room.

  “You forgot black shoes,” Nantz said groggily from the bed.

  He shook his head. “I told you my brain isn’t working and you said the boots are fine.”

  “They are,” she said. “C’mon, we have an hour to rest and I want to spoon.”

  She patted his hip and sighed. “Don’t let us oversleep, hon.”

  After the nap and a long bath, she dressed slowly, finally dropping a gold georgette gown over her head and adjusting the spaghetti straps. The dress dragged on the floor until she put on her shoes. “New,” she said, holding up pointy-toed shoes by their tiny straps. “This is one of my weaknesses.”

  She added two strands of pearls and pearl drop earrings.

  He dressed beside her and when he sat down to put on his boots, she rolled her eyes and smiled. “Are you going to tuck them or wear the pants over them?”

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Over,” she said. “Unless you want to look like G.I. Joe.”

  Out in the Yukon she said, “Turn on the overhead light.”

  “We’re gonna be late,” Service said.

  He watched her apply lipstick and examine her work.

  “I can do what I gotta do while you drive,” she said. “Thin lips,” she added. “Collagen can fix them.”

  “Your lips don’t need fixing.” He couldn’t understand why when she looked in the mirror she didn’t see what everybody else saw.

  “We’re not going to be late,” she said. “Stop worrying.”

  “Late’s not an option for fifteen hundred a plate,” he said. “Thank God we’re not paying guests.”

  She looked over at him. “That’s not exactly accurate.”

  He looked back at her.

  “I made a little donation?” she said hesitatingly.

  “How little?”

  “Twenty K to Lori’s campaign, and fifteen hundred each for us tonight.”

  “Good God, Mar, you can’t be doing things like this! You’re going to be a CO and we’re not political.”

  “When I’m a CO I promise not to make any more political donations,” she said. “Cross my heart.”

  She had money, but he had no idea how much and rarely thought about it. She was not ostentatious. She owned a nice home and a private plane and spent generously on food and wine, but she rarely bought clothes or jewelry, and she never talked about money. Yet, she had coughed up twenty-three thousand for the senator and her dinner, and done it with as much thought as he would in leaving a tip for a bartender. “You didn’t make the sign,” he said.

  She made a sour face, halfheartedly waved her hand over the center of her chest, said, “Okiiy?”

  “It better be a great meal,” he griped.

  She laughed and shook her head. “Just go with the flow, baby.”

  Betty Very called when they were stopped in the line of vehicles at the security checkpoint, a half-mile from the Stagecoach Lodge. The area was lit by portable floodlights and blocked by a zigzag maze of Troop cruisers and trucks.

  “The bank president looked at the photo,” Bearclaw said. “It’s Kelo.”

  “Did he talk to Toogood when he made the request for the withdrawal?”

  “For better than an hour. He tried to talk him out of it, but the old man wouldn’t hear of it. His mind was made up and he insisted on a cashier’s check to be picked up by somebody else and he left a photo of the pickup man.”

  “Kelo.”

  “Yes, the president said the photo that Toogood left with him matched the man, but he wasn’t about to give it away without some security. They had quite an argument and, in the end, Kelo grudgingly agreed to a fingerprint as a receipt.”

  “Did he use his name?”

  “No. He said the photo was enough and he refused to give a name.”

  “You have the fingerprint?”

  “And the photo. The fingerprints have been transmitted to AFIS already.”

  “Great job,” Service said. “Thanks, Betty.”

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” she said.

  Service turned to Nantz and told her about Trapper Jet and Kelo and all that he had learned and gone through. “I think Kelo’s a dead man,” he concluded. He didn’t know for sure, but almost everyone in this case was turning up dead.

  “Why would he agree to give a fingerprint?” Nantz asked.

  “The bank president boxed him in. He probably figured he was there to get the check and there was no way to run a single print through the system and, in any event, the bank president didn’t have his name. Kelo’s never been known as a bright bulb.”

  Two state troopers stood on either side of the vehicle. Nantz showed her ID and invitation; Service flashed his badge. They got the nod to move on.

  The Stagecoach Lodge was a low, sprawling, red brick building that looked like it had undergone a lot of additions. The parking lot was in front of the building and full of expensive vehicles. Service parked along the driveway and locked the Yukon.

  They walked under a canopied portico to the main entrance, presented their invitations and IDs, and gave up their coats. Nantz wrapped a gold and scarlet georgette wrap around her bare shoulders. The main area was filled with women in shimmering gowns and pointy high heels.

  A young woman in a short black skirt and white blouse offered a tray of champagne flutes. Nantz took one; Service refused.

  “What’s with you?” she asked.

  “Later,” he said.

  She took a swig and grinned. “That’s a ten-four, big boy. I might get a little drunk tonight.”

  There was a reception line leading down a corridor to the dining room. It moved too slowly for Service, who said “Baah,” just under his breath and got a poke from Nantz. They moved through, shaking hands with various politicians Service didn’t recognize until they got to Lorelei and Whit.

  The senator looked down at his boots, but her expression remained even. “Siquin, these are my friends, Grady Service and Maridly Nantz.”

  Whit Timms leaned toward Service. “Great kicks, man.”

  They had not had a chance to talk at any length, but Service instinctively liked the senator’s husband.

  “Yes,” Soong said. “Detective.” She held out her hand, gripped his momentarily, and used it to guide him to face an old man standing with the assistance of two metal canes hooked to his wrists by metal bands. “My husband, Buzz Gishron.”

  Soong looked barely forty, her husband at least twice that and not likely to last much longer.

  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 tsking 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.