“Never heard of Shinto.”
“You too far up in Bammaland. Serious money outta Tokyo opened it up on Lakeshore.”
“In the Pointes?”
Tree chuckled. “Bought one of the old Windmill Pointe mansions, did it up, brought in one of those chefs you see on TV. Kalina’s been dyin’ to go before the locals shut it down. Some of the bluebloods got pissed, filed suit. We don’t go now, we might never, sayin’?”
“Call you from Jackson.”
“Word on the street here your senator gonna get the job. Kwami came out for her.”
Timms. “We’ll see.” The opinion of the mayor of Detroit had the weight of a popcorn fart outside the city, Service thought.
“I hear ya. Sorry I couldn’t get more for you. Gotta skate, dawg. Semper Fi.”
Luticious Treebone, an original.
Service left water and food for the animals, put Newf in her run, and headed for Marquette. Fern LeBlanc ignored him as he headed directly to the captain’s office.
Ware Grant looked the way he always looked, back straight, freshly pressed, hair combed, white Van Gogh trimmed.
“Close the door,” the captain said.
Service closed it and sat down. The captain remained behind his desk, which was unusual. “It was not one of our people stirring the Federals,” he said. “It was someone from the DPD.”
DPD was the Detroit Police Department. Service waited for the captain to finish. He always spoke deliberately, letting his words loose only after they had been thoroughly processed, each one carefully considered for its impact. “Chief O’Driscoll is relieved. I believe if it were one of our people, that person would be in serious trouble.”
“Feebs are always getting bent out of shape,” Service said. Did the captain guess it was Treebone? Probably. He didn’t miss much.
“Sometimes with justification,” the captain said.
“Good thing we’re not part of it,” Service said.
“This is for your ears only,” the captain went on. “If Senator Timms is elected there is going to be massive and profound change in the department.”
“New party in Lansing.”
“It’s more all-encompassing. DNR and DEQ will be reunited under a single head. No more rubber-stamping on the environmental side. It will be back to the old values. There will be separate budgets, but the director will rationalize goals and priorities. Two budgets will allow lawmakers to track the costs of both parts.”
“A total merger would be more effective,” Service said.
“After all the budget cuts we’ve been through, improvement and stability are more important. But if the Senator doesn’t win—”
“It will be Clearcut Redux,” Service said.
“Yes, which means that the chief does not want anything to happen that might hurt the senator’s campaign.”
The captain’s steely eyes drilled into Service.
“Are we becoming politicized?” he asked his boss. Was this meant to warn him off Soong?
“We always have been politicized at the Lansing level, and the chief does not want to be the author of our downfall.”
“Does that mean we’re to back off investigations?”
“There is backing off and there is assuring that evidence is solid and in place, am I clear?”
Not at all, but this wasn’t unusual. “Make sure what we’re shooting at.”
The captain nodded once and looked down to the paperwork on his desk. Service had just gotten to his feet when he heard, “God has been reported on Spruce Street.”
Service said, “Beg pardon, Cap’n?”
Grant looked up at him. “I didn’t say anything.”
Jesus, Service thought.
When he passed Fern LeBlanc’s desk, she said, “Does he continue to insist it was a concussion?”
Service ignored her and continued on, but LeBlanc followed him and sailed a piece of paper on to his desk. “He gave this to me to type, just before you went in to see him.”
The scribbles were unintelligible. Normally the captain wrote small in perfect penmanship, but this. . . .
“Did he mention God?” she asked.
“I thought I heard him say something about God and Spruce Street.”
She nodded. “Yes, God has been reported on Spruce Street.”
It was Service’s turn to nod.
She said, “He told me the same thing, and when I questioned him he looked at me and said, “God can eat his desserts when he wants.” LeBlanc glared at Service and left. His gut said he should do something, but he had no idea what. Was the captain’s mind crashing?
A call from del Olmo interrupted his thinking.
“Kitella was released on bail the day before yesterday.”