Dual clucking from Vecamamma and Klara.

“Will the Blackhawks make the playoffs this year?” I asked.

“Pass the potatoes?” Ludis said.

“I read about a biker war in Montreal.” Cukura Kundze looked like a Hobbit between Allie and Bea. “You here to kick some Hells Angels butt? Or you working the streets, busting corner boys?”

“Ryan and I are here on administrative business,” I said. “By the way, he’s a Canadiens fan.”

“Collaring pimps?”

“Nothing that exciting,” Ryan laughed. “Tempe and I spent the day at the morgue.”

“Potatoes?” Ludis repeated.

The spuds were passed, followed by the meat, et al. Then there was a lot of jockeying to find space for the bowls and platters.

Gordie poured Ryan more wine. Amazingly, he downed half the glass.

“Yep. Ryan is a Habs fan.” Again I tried hockey. “Owns a Saku Koivu jersey.”

“The Chicago morgue?” Cukura Kundze’s eyes were wide behind the thick lenses.

“Our visit involved paperwork on a closed investigation.”

“Like Cold Case,” Bea said. “I love that show.”

“You know people at the city morgue?” I recognized Cukura Kundze’s tone. And look.

“I do.” Wary.

“Do I ever ask favors, Tempe?”

The last request had been for an NYPD Crime Scene cap. Before that it was over-the-counter aspirin with codeine from Canada. I said nothing.

“Will you do something to make an old woman happy? Before I die?”

Vecamamma’s snort fluttered the perm-crimped curls on her forehead.

“I really-”

“It’s not for me, no, no. I wouldn’t ask for myself. It’s for poor Mr. Tot.”

At an observatory high up on Haleakala, an intergalactic monitoring device beeped softly, alerted by a black hole of silence that suddenly popped into being in a midwestern suburb.

“Mr. Tot?” Total stillness. I could feel twenty-four eyes fixed on my face.

“His grandson is missing and the navy says the kid’s gone AWOL. It’s horseshit. Lassie would never have abandoned his duties.”

“Lassie?” Klara’s volume level told me she was not wearing her hearing aid. “Did she say Lassie?”

“Mr. Tot says the kid’s gotta be dead.”

“He might have amnesia,” Allie said. “You know, be in some strange city and not know who he is. I saw that on TV.”

“Lassie’s a dog.” Klara was loud enough to be heard in Topeka. “Like Oskars. Where is Oskars?”

The collie had died in 1984.

“Cukura Kundze,” I said gently. “There’s really nothing I can do.”

“You could ask Richie Cunningham to check a few toe tags.” Ryan’s eyes had a jolly bad-bordeaux look.

“Wasn’t Richie Cunningham that dork on Happy Days?” Ted said.

“Before that he played Opie,” Connie said.

“Ron Howard,” Susan said. “He’s a filmmaker now.”

“There’s a guy at the morgue named Richie Cunningham?” Ludis.

“That’s not his real name,” I said, squint-staring at Ryan.

“Why’d he call him that?”

“Dr. Corcoran has red hair.”

“And freckles.” Ryan grinned a goofy grin.

Perfect. Detective Drinky Pants would not be driving tonight.

“Could this Richie friend look around, maybe see if the coroner’s got Lassie on ice?”

You had to hand it to her. The old gal was persistent as herpes.

“Did Mr. Tot file a missing persons report?” I asked unenthusiastically.

“Right away. And went out looking himself. Course he didn’t really know where to go. His bowling buddy, Mr. Azigian, went with him.”

“What makes Mr. Tot think his grandson is dead?” I asked.

“They had tickets to see the Sox play the Cubs. At Wrigley Field. You think Lassie would pass that up?”

I had no idea what Lassie would do. What I did know was that every year a lot of folks simply walked out on their lives. I didn’t share that knowledge.

“Can’t hurt to give Corcoran a call,” Ryan said.

A chorus of voices agreed.

“Fine.” I forced a smile. “I’ll phone tomorrow.”

Over cake, Cukura Kundze revealed the following.

Almost four years earlier, during the week of his twenty-first birthday, Laszlo Tot left his barracks at the Great Lakes Naval Station, approximately thirty-five miles up the Lake Michigan shore from Chicago, on a weekend pass. Seaman Apprentice Tot failed to report for duty the next Monday or on any subsequent day. Following protocol, a military inquiry was launched and the civil authorities were notified.

Search efforts ensued, came up empty, and, in time, were discontinued. The navy reclassified Seaman Apprentice Tot as UA. Unauthorized absence.

Two months after the close of the investigation, a 1992 Ford Focus was found in the parking lot of the northeast suburban Northbrook mall. Records indicated the car was registered to one Laszlo Tot. The lead went nowhere.

When I headed upstairs, Ryan, Ludis, and Gordie were uncorking their fourth bottle. Debate was focused on gun control.

Sayonara.

• • •

Normally I have coffee for breakfast, maybe yogurt or a bagel. If feeling really jiggy, I might throw in cream cheese or jam.

Not Vecamamma’s style.

After grapefruit, bacon, and pancakes with syrup and butter, I phoned the CCME. Corcoran picked up almost immediately.

He started out by apologizing for the previous day’s debacle. I assured him there were no hard feelings. Then I provided a condensed version of Lassie Come Home.

Corcoran said he’d run a computer check for unknowns fitting Lazslo Tot’s description. He promised to call back shortly.

I was disconnecting when Ryan entered the kitchen via the mudroom. His face was flushed and he was wearing Reeboks, gloves, a neck scarf, and sweats.

“My kind of town, Chicago is”-Ryan uncoiled and removed the muffler and finished with modified lyrics-“melting fast.”

“You’ve been running?”

“Just five kilometers.”

Given the tanker of wine consumed the previous evening, and I don’t mean tankard, Ryan appeared to be in reasonably good shape.

Vecamamma turned from the stove, spatula held high.

“Labrit. Ka tev iet?” Good morning. How are you?

“Labi, Paldies. Et vous, Vecamamma?”

“Très bien, monsieur. Merci.”

My eyeballs were rolling skyward when my mobile sounded.

Corcoran. I clicked on.

“The computer’s down. Listen, why don’t you stop by here? We’ll visit. Then, when the system’s back up, if there are remains that interest you, we’ll pull them.”

I’d planned to spend the day helping Vecamamma arrange snapshots in albums and bake Christmas cookies. But I knew my mother-in-law. She’d want me to help Cukura Kundze.

“Where’s Walczak?” I asked.

“Milwaukee.”

I glanced at Ryan, wondering if he’d need transport to O’Hare. Screw it. His best buddy Gordie could play chauffeur.

“I’ll be there around ten.”

CORCORAN AND I FOUND TWO POSSIBILITIES.

One was a heroin overdose victim, a white male with an estimated age of twenty to twenty-five. The naked body had been found sixteen months earlier on the city’s South Side, near Forty-fifth and Stewart, between the Chicago Western Indiana Railroad tracks and the edge of Fuller Park. No friend or family member had come forward. A records search had led nowhere. Ditto for dentals and prints. The man was still in the freezer.

The other was a skeleton. Descriptors had been entered as: white; male; eighteen to twenty-four years of age. The bones had been in storage for thirty-eight months.

We bombed on both fronts.

Though the information had yet to be entered into the system, Corcoran learned that Freezer Man had finally been IDed two days earlier. Turned out the body was that of a nineteen-year-old student from Ohio State, a schizophrenic who’d dropped out to hit the big city without calling home. What had happened on the mean streets was anyone’s guess. Mom and Dad were awaiting delivery of the body.