Chasing a Blond Moon(5)

Pyykkonen went through the man’s wallet. There’s a Tech ID in here,” she said. Michigan Technological University had been founded to produce mining engineers but had since branched out to become one of the country’s premier engineering programs.

“Pung Juju Kang,” she said, examining a business card, “Professor, Department of Structural Engineering. Probably we ought to get over to his house, notify his next of kin. You want to come along?”

Nantz would be whipping up a breakfast for Gus and Walter around now. “Sure,” he said with a shrug, cursing himself for letting his curiosity have its head.

The house was made of cedar logs that glowed a flamboyant orange in the rising summer sun; it was more tall than wide and looked relatively new. There was a detached one-car garage. The severely pitched roof of the house had been built to ward off heavy winter snows and was lined with green ceramic tiles. The lawn was trimmed but there were few flowers or shrubs out front.

Pyykkonen knocked on the door several times and rang the bell, but got no response.

Service stood behind her, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, bored with the whole thing, wishing he had gone back to Gus’s.

“I’ve got a search warrant coming,” the homicide detective said not more than a minute before a beat-up Jeep Eagle clattered up the driveway. A towering man with white hair got out with a paper clenched in his beefy fist. He had a ruddy face and needed a shave.

“Judge Pavelich. I could have had somebody pick it up, your honor.”

The judge grunted dismissively. “On my way over to the Hurons to annoy some trout,” he said. “This is right on my way. No sense sending somebody else.”

“Judge, this is Grady Service,” Pyykkonen said.

“Otto,” the judge said, extending his hand. “Heard of you, Service. Twinkie Man, right?”

“Guilty,” he said with a nod, trying not to grimace. He had arrested a poacher a couple of years ago who tried to claim that sugar had made him temporarily insane, which then led to his violations. The man had lost in what was becoming a legendary court case that Service saw as just another bout with an asshole violet, his term for a violator.

“You found the guy dead?” the judge asked Pyykkonen.

“In his car down to the fish house in Hancock, eh,” she said. “The M.E. thinks it could be cyanide.”

“Poison,” Pavelich said. “The tool of chickenshits.” The judge ran his hand through his thick hair and rolled his shoulders. “Guess I’ll be getting on.”

He left without further comment.

Before Pyykkonen could open the door, a Houghton County patrol car pulled into the driveway. COMMAND was painted in gold script on the door by the driver’s side. A red Jeep Liberty pulled up behind the squad car.

“Sheriff Macofome,” the detective said to the approaching officer, who was short, squat, neckless, and hatless, his hair trimmed in a military whitewall.

“Thought I’d see if I could lend a hand,” Houghton’s new sheriff said. He had been appointed a couple of months before, replacing the chief who had held the job for nearly fifteen years before he died suddenly of a heart attack. The way Macofome looked at Pyykkonen made Service wonder if his helpfulness was something more than professional. Not his business, but she clearly had been rescued from school liaison to get the homicide job.

The man behind the sheriff looked antsy. “I’m Adams,” he said. He was of medium height and balding, with a shape that suggested he spent too much time behind a desk.

“Harry Pung works for me. I got a call that I might be needed here. Is something wrong?”

Service thought of correcting the tense, but kept his mouth shut.

“Is it doctor or professor?” Pyykkonen asked, impressing Service with her political savvy.

“This ain’t MIT. Call me Steve.”

“Steve,” Pyykkonen said tentatively, “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but Pung Juju Kang was found dead this morning.” Adams stared disbelieving at the detective. “Is he married?” she asked.

“Was,” Adams said. “The ex lives downstate somewhere—Detroit, I think.”

“You called him Harry Pung,” Service said, confused by the name. “His ID says Kang.”

“Standard Korean naming convention,” Adams said. “The family name is always listed first. He adopted the American name when he moved to this country. What happened to Harry?”

“We’re looking into that,” Pyykkonen said, offering nothing specific. “How was his health?”

“Harry? Fine; ya know, like the rest of us. We could all lose a little weight, eat better.”