S THE OTHERS MIGRATED TOWARD THE FAMILY ROOM, I PULLED Ryan aside and gave him some ground rules.

“Don’t drink Gordie’s homemade wine. Don’t talk politics with Ludis or Juris. Don’t participate in competitive gaming of any kind. Don’t discuss the job or details of what I do.”

“Why?”

“Some of Pete’s relatives share an alarming enthusiasm for the macabre.”

Ryan knew what I meant.

We in the death business are often asked about our work, especially about cases flogged by the media. Ryan and I are both queried so regularly, our dinner invitations are often prefaced by hostess suggestions concerning appropriate table conversation. Never works. Though I don’t volunteer, and sidestep when questioned, inevitably some guest persists in probing the blood-and-guts skinny.

It seems the world divides into two camps: those who can’t get enough and those who prefer to hear nothing at all. Ryan and I called them Diggers and Dodgers.

“Diggers?” Ryan asked.

“Yes. Except for Vecamamma and Klara. Autopsy talk gives Veca-mamma gas.”

“Do they know about—” Ryan wagged a finger between his chest and mine. Us?

“No. But they have pack instincts.” I continued my list of directives. “And don’t even think of accepting an invitation to overnight.”

“Holiday Inn all the way.”

“And one other suggestion.”

“I’m listening.”

“Lose the John Boy routine.”

Things went better than I would have expected. Ryan accepted and praised Gordie’s rotgut bordeaux. He talked Big Moe and Bizzy Bone with Bea and Allie. He delighted Vecamamma, Emilija, and Connie by twisting the napkins into crook-necked swans.

No one asked about his marital status. No one queried our personal relationship. No one grilled him on current commerce in murder and mayhem.

Then, as we were gathering in the dining room, Cukura Kundze bustled in.

What to say about Mrs. Cukurs?

The Cukurs were pillars of the small church that welcomed the immigrant Petersons to the New World. More liberal than most ladies of her generation, over the years Laima Cukurs’s exploits had inspired considerable gossip among her more proper Lutheran peers. The explicit sculptures. The colorful lingo. The hippie period mentioned only in whispers. The unfortunate tattoo.

Eighty-four, and widowed for a decade, Cukura Kundze had recently begun dating an octogenarian Hungarian named Mr. Tot. No one had gotten the gentleman’s first name. Now, four months and many pot roasts and casseroles down the road, no one asked.

Or perhaps the more formal appellation just seemed more appropriate. Though Laima’s first name had been known to the Petersons for half a century, Cukura Kundze had always remained Cukura Kundze.

Tonight, Cukura Kundze arrived Totless but bearing a torte.

“It’s raspberry.” Cukura Kundze handed the cake to Vecamamma. “Who’s that?”

“A policeman friend of Tempe’s.”

“Good.” Cukura Kundze wore glasses with clear plastic frames probably designed for combat soldiers. She nodded so emphatically the things hopped the hump on her nose. “Husbands cheat. Women have needs.”

“Pete wasn’t cheating.” The cake smacked the table.

Cukura Kundze gave one of those harrumphs old ladies deliver so well.

“He and Tempe just decided it was time to skedaddle.” Turning to me. “Right?”

Mercifully, Emilija emerged from the kitchen balancing bowls of kraut, limp broccoli, and sour cream cucumbers. Connie followed with tomato slices, potatoes, and gravy. Aunt Klara brought rye bread and some odd species of little gray sausage. Juris carried a platter of pork the size of Nebraska.

We all took our places. Plates filled quickly, then, just as quickly, began to empty. I made a preemptive conversational strike.

“Are the Bears having a good season?”

Ten minutes of sports analysis followed. When interest waned, I veered toward hockey.

“The Blackhawks—”

Cukura Kundze made an end run at Ryan.

“You carry a Taser?” Jabbing the nose piece of her glasses with a red lacquered finger. “People are getting their asses capped with Tasers.”

“I’ve never used one.”

“You have a real gun, right?” Ted’s tone showed disdain for Cukura Kundze’s question. “A Glock? A SIG? A Smith and Wesson?”

“Ever kill anyone?” Cukura Kundze was cranking up.

“Montreal has very little violent crime.” Ryan nodded thanks as Gordie refilled his glass. I couldn’t believe he was going for more. Pete once described Gordie’s wine as a delicate Meritage hinting of goat piss and krill.

“But you must have sprayed some brains on a wall.”

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.

oOo

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.”