Gus: “Thirty-two bucks to see a stiff? Sorry I missed that.”
Deputy Linsenman: “Thanks, man. You are everywhere.”
Walter: “Enrica’s okay. Thanks for the fly rod.”
Chief O’Driscoll: “Give me a bump, Detective. No rush.”
Service picked up and read the callbacks, shoved them into his in-basket, which was already full.
He called Pyykkonen, got a busy signal, and was switched over to her phone mail.
“It’s Service. I’m in my office.”
When the phone rang, he expected Pyykkonen, but it was Nathaniel Zuiderveen.
“You hear about Dowdy Kitella?” She-Guy began.
“Hear what?”
“Somebody beat hell out of him last night outside the Amasa Hotel.”
“You sound pleased,” Service said.
“Don’t try to mind-fuck a mind-fucker.”
Pyykkonen called after Zuiderveen. “We put the prints through AFIS and we got a hit. The prints are those of Tunhow Pung. They were in the immigration file.”
“But that’s not Terry Pung in the morgue.”
“It becomes curiouser and curiouser,” she said. “I’d say Pung had his stand-in fully covered with paper and that he actually came through immigration in Terry’s place.”
“When?”
“Most recent entry was July 2001.”
“Pung was a student at Tech ’01–’02, right?”
“Somebody was,” she said.
“You get the ex-wife’s name and address?”
He heard her shuffling papers. “Here,” she said. “Siquin Soong.” She spelled the first name, pronounced it again, “That’s She-quin. She’s remarried.”
He wrote down the name. “Address?”
“Nine One Two Two, Orchard Apple Circle, White Lake. It’s in Oakland County. She owns a business in Southfield, White Moon Trading Company. I talked to her lawyer in Ann Arbor. She is quote, unavailable, end quote. It’s the same firm as her late husband’s.”
“Did you ask about the son?”
“Ms. Soong is in seclusion,” one of her lawyers says. “End of quote.”
“I bet,” Service said. “Talk to you later.”
He dialed his friend, Luticious Treebone.
“Hey,” Tree said. “What up?”
“The usual,” Service said.
“Yeah, scut. I talked to Nantz. She told me about Wisconsin. Said you are a busted up old man.”
“She’d never say that.”
“That don’t mean it’s not true.”
“I need information.”
“You mean you need it again. You lived in civilization you wouldn’t need to call me all the time.”
“You’d be lonely.”
“I’d find a way to deal with it. What’s the name.”
“Siquin Soong,” Service said.
“White Moon Trading.”
“You know her?”
“Big donor to the Democrats, beaucoup money into the Timms campaign.”
“Never knew you to follow politics.”
“This is Dee-troit, dawg. We breathe that shit. Got to keep you pale-skinned barbarians outside the gate.”
“There’s no gate there,” Service said, “but that’s an idea worth thinking about.”
“Racist,” Tree said.
“Soong’s squeaky clean?”
“Ain’t nobody squeaky clean, brother. Not even us.”
“You gonna give me the Paul Harvey?”
Tree chuckled. “The rest of the story. . . . Feds think White Moon is a front, that the lady is into a lot of shady shit, but nothing sticks.”
“Her husband’s name is Soong?” Service said.
“Her old man’s Buzz Gishron.” The name meant nothing to Service . “He was a deputy ambassador to the UN under Carter. He teaches constitutional law at Wayne State, where he has also been a major donor. If anybody’s squeaky clean, it’s Gishron—patron saint of individual rights and lost causes.”
“Married to her?”
“It got people shaking their heads when it happened. He’s an old fart. She’s late forties, major bootie and high maintenance. Got all the moves and the looks and money to make the moves work. Local society queen and the rights king—a marriage made for People magazine.”
“They covered it?”
“Everybody covered it. You don’t get news up there? What do you want with Siquin Soong?”
“You got a cup of coffee close by?”
“Jolt Cola. Shoot.”
Service walked his friend through the case, starting with the finding of the body in the Saturn, through the discovery of the second body in the shower in the house in Houghton.