Chasing a Blond Moon(103)

He called Grinda on the cell phone as he turned northwest out of Iron River to Watersmeet.

“Where are you now?” she asked.

“Leaving IR, should be over there in about thirty minutes. Meet at the casino?”

“We’ll be there.”

“We?”

“Simon and I are working together.”

Simon, not del Olmo. Elza, not Grinda. Service grinned as he raced up US 2.

Duck Creek and the Ontonagon River joined near Watersmeet, which had been so named because of this by the Chippewa of the Lac Vieux Desert band. The Chippewa had once lived on South Island in the lake, now known as Lac Vieux Desert, but called Ka-ti-ki-te-go-ning by the Indians. Over time much of the band had migrated sixty miles northwest to L’Anse, on Keeweenaw Bay. There had been so much traffic back and forth that the route was called the L’Anse-Lac Vieux Desert Trail; Service remembered that nearly three hundred and fifty years ago a Jesuit priest was thought to have disappeared coming south from L’Anse. There were few Europeans in the area then, and it was unlikely much of a search ensued. Back then, if you were lost, you were lost, and life went on. It was not that life mattered more now—sometimes it seemed less valuable—but society, the value of life aside, was intent on being orderly. Disappearing was not acceptable.

The Lac Vieux Desert Casino Resort was two miles north of Watersmeet. The blinking neon complex featured a block building with a long portico, and the tribe’s emblem in bright colors over the walkway. Like most tribal casinos in the state, it was open around the clock. There was a bar lounge, a restaurant, a motel with whirlpool suites, a golf course, and RV hookups for summer visitors. The parking was expansive, and as he pulled into the lot he counted three dozen tour buses. It was interesting to read constantly about the woes of the elderly on fixed incomes and then come to a casino to find busloads of bluehairs balancing themselves on walkers, working one-armed bandits with the intensity of John Henry bashing a vein of coal.

He smoked a cigarette, waiting for del Olmo and Grinda.

Grinda pulled into a space next to him and parked, and del Olmo got out of the other side and came around.

Sheena looked at his face and said, “Oh, my God.”

Simon just shook his head. “You need to learn to duck.”

He explained the reason for his visit and had another smoke.

“Pretty vague,” Grinda said. “A woman who might or might not have worked here, no time frame known.”

“She gets her rooms comped.” Maybe, he reminded himself. From Fahrenheit he had scant information.

“Could be a player,” Simon said.

Service grinned. She was a player for sure. The question was what game.

“We should call in a tribal,” Grinda said. This was her territory, and the tribal police and game wardens, county, DNR, and Troops all worked hard to coordinate and help each other. Lansing often praised Gogebic County police agencies for their cooperation, as if they had chosen to get along. The truth was that there were few bodies, lots of tourists year-round, and without cooperation, there would be chaos.

“Who do we call?”

“Monica Ucumtwi is on duty tonight,” Grinda said. “She just came over from St. Ignace. Young, but smart, and you can count on her.”

The highest compliment one cop could pay another, an astounding comment coming from Grinda, who in the past had tended to trust only herself.

“Okay, give her a bump and let’s get this going. I’ll ask for the night manager, see if we can get a personnel weenie in.”

Grinda smiled. “I think it’s called Human Resources now. They have a complete night shift,” she added. “People get hired and fired around the clock while the money cycles through.”

The night manager’s name was Laura Liksabong. She was in her late forties, smartly if a little too gaudily dressed for Service’s taste, with silver and jade loop earrings. She greeted them as they stood in the lobby overlooking hundreds of clanging, clinking, wailing slot machines, and suggested they move to her office in back. Service saw video cameras at the entrance and assumed there were more above the gambling pit and at the exits.

Liksabong raised her eyes when she heard what Service wanted.

“Wild goose,” she said. Her office was sterile, void of any personal items.

“Do you comp rooms?” he asked. There was a camera in her office, in the corner behind her desk. It would take in the whole room.

“Occasionally, not as a policy.”

“For former employees?”

“It’s possible, but being a former employee is not exactly endearing, is it?”

“We’re just asking that you check your records,” Service said. “I assume you have photographs of high rollers and troublemakers, and anybody who might warrant a comp room.”