“Why?”
“You know.” He shrugged.
“I don’t know. Tell me about it.”
“We just broke up, that’s all.”
“Was it a mutual decision?”
“It was Charlotte’s idea.”
“Was she seeing somebody else?”
Solemn shot a dark look at her but said nothing.
“Who was she seeing?”
It was a few moments before he answered.
“I don’t know. Some married guy, I think.”
Jo and Cork exchanged a glance.
“Why do you think he was married?” Jo asked.
“She wouldn’t talk about him. Acted like it was some big secret thing nobody could know about. Married, I figured.”
“Okay. How did you feel about it when she broke up with you?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Motive, Solemn,” Cork said. “Jo’s trying to think like the sheriff so she can stay ahead of him. If he’s pegged you for Charlotte’s death, he has to have a motive. Scorned love is pretty classic.”
“I got over her. Long time ago.”
“Back then though,” Jo said. “How was it?”
“Hard. Okay? It was hard.”
“You loved her?” Jo asked.
“I was into her pretty heavy.”
“Charlotte’s death occurred following a New Year’s Eve party at Valhalla. Were you there?”
“Yeah.”
“Invited?”
“No. I heard about it. I showed up, had a few beers.”
“Did you see Charlotte?”
“Sure.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Yeah.”
“About what?”
“This. That. You know.”
“About the breakup?”
“Yeah. A little.”
“Was it a civil conversation?”
“What’s civil?”
“Like we’re having right now.”
“She didn’t ask me so many questions.”
“Did you raise your voice?”
“It was a loud party.”
“Did you threaten her?”
“I might have called her a bitch. Something like that.”
“Did you touch her?”
“I may have bumped into her. It was crowded.”
“You didn’t touch her in any other way?”
“I took hold of her arm. She pulled away. But that was it, swear to God. Why are you asking all this?”
“When Charlotte disappeared, did the sheriff’s people talk to you?”
“Yeah. They talked to everyone who was at the party.”
“Did you tell them what you told me?”
“Maybe I didn’t say anything about touching her.”
“My guess is that they’re talking with everyone again, this time a little more thoroughly, and I’ll bet if they didn’t know before about your interaction with Charlotte, they know now. I’m just making sure I know what they know. What happened after you argued?”
“I left.”
“What time was that?”
“Around eleven.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Benoit’s Bar. I had a couple more beers there, then took off.”
“They served you?” Cork said. “You’re underage.”
“Like they care.”
“Did anybody see you at the bar?” Jo said.
“Yeah, I could rustle up a few.”
“What time did you leave Benoit’s?”
“Few minutes before midnight. That stupid ball in Times Square hadn’t dropped yet.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Home.”
“Straight home?”
“Straight home.”
“You got there what time?”
“Twelve-fifteen maybe.”
“And then what?”
“Nothing. I crashed. Woke up around noon the next day.”
“Was Dot home with you?”
“No. It was New Year’s Eve. She was out partying with some guys on her crew. Then it snowed and she had a plow to drive. She poked her head in my room when she got home. Six, maybe seven A.M. ”
Jo glanced at Cork.
“What?” Solemn asked.
“Six hours when you were alone,” Cork said. “And nobody to vouch for your actions during that time.”
Solemn took a moment to put it together, then said, “Oh, shit.”
“Motive and opportunity,” Cork said. “But Arne’s got to have something more, something that connects you directly with Charlotte’s death.”
Jo said, “Let’s go find out what.”
10
Randy Gooding was working late. He seated Jo, Cork, and Solemn at one of the desks in the common area that the deputies used for interviews and for doing paperwork, then asked them to wait while he called the sheriff.
It was going on nine o’clock, and there wasn’t much action in the department. Marsha Dross was on the front desk. She’d smiled cordially and said hello, but she studiously avoided looking at them after that. Pender came in from patrol, saw them, smiled in a knowing way and whispered something to Gooding. Gooding scowled in return. Pender sauntered on by, whistling off-key, and headed toward the locker room.
Despite what Lyla Soderberg had said about her husband being done for the day, Arne showed up fifteen minutes later dressed in a charcoal three-piece, looking like a real estate broker prepared to close a million-dollar deal.
“Let’s do this in my office,” he said. Then to Gooding, “Go get the stuff.”
Gooding left and walked toward the back of the department, toward what Cork knew was the evidence room.
Cork got up and started into the sheriff’s office with Jo and Solemn. Soderberg put a hand on his chest and stopped him. “Not you. The kid’s got counsel. You have no business in there. You wait out here.”
Jo nodded to Cork, and gave him a don’t start anything look. She went into Soderberg’s office with Solemn, and the sheriff followed. Cork watched the door close. He caught Marsha Dross eyeing him. She turned quickly away.
“What’s up, Marsha?” He’d hired the deputy, the first woman to work as a law officer in Tamarack County. He crossed the room and stood near her.
“Not much, Cork. Quiet night, all things considered.” She tapped the front of a manila folder with the sharp tip of her pencil, making a constellation of dots.
“I mean in there.” He nodded toward the sheriff’s closed door.
“That’s department business, Cork. You know I can’t talk about it. Why don’t you get yourself a cup of coffee and relax.”
Cork wandered to the coffeemaker, a big Hamilton Beach. There was barely a cup left in the pot. He poured himself the last of it, strong-smelling stuff that had probably been on the burner for hours. Because he knew where all the supplies were, he set about making a fresh pot.
He was spooning Folgers into the filter when Randy Gooding returned carrying a brown cardboard box marked CHARLOTTE KANE #2731. Gooding glanced his way, then went into Soderberg’s office and closed the door behind him. Cork turned on the coffeemaker, picked up his disposable cup, and sipped from the bitter swill he’d poured earlier.
A few minutes later, a loud thump came from the wall of the sheriff’s office, knocking a framed photograph of Iron Lake off the wall. When the frame hit, glass shattered across the floor. The door to Soderberg’s office flew open, and Solemn burst out, his eyes gone wild. He slammed into the side of the nearest desk and sent papers flying. He turned in a frantic circle, looking like a scared young buffalo surrounded by hunters. Then he shot toward the security door.
“Stop him,” Soderberg shouted.
By then it was too late. Solemn was already beyond the waiting room and headed toward the sanctuary of the night outside.
Marsha Dross gave pursuit immediately. Randy Gooding stumbled out of Soderberg’s office, a trickle of blood running from the corn
er of his mouth. He followed Dross. Duane Pender rushed from the rear of the department, clearing his weapon from its holster as he ran.
Jo was out now, too, and when she saw the gun in Pender’s hand, she yelled, “Jesus, don’t shoot him.”
It was impossible to tell if Pender heard. He was out the door and hot on Winter Moon’s trail.
Cork doubted they would catch him. Solemn had a decent head start and was in good shape. He was also a man who knew the dark, and Cork counted on the dark to welcome him and keep him safe.
The office was suddenly very quiet. Cork walked to Jo, who stood looking a little dazed.
“So,” he said. “How’d it go?”
They sat together in Soderberg’s office, waiting to see if the sheriff’s people would be able to take Solemn into custody immediately. Arne Soderberg was hovering over Dispatch, personally coordinating the movements of his deputies as they searched. Cork and Jo had the office to themselves.
On the wall behind the sheriff’s desk hung an enlarged, framed photograph of Arne Soderberg with his father, Big Mike. As his moniker implied, the elder Soderberg was a continent of muscle and bone with a huge, self-satisfied smile. Big Mike was a legend on the Iron Range, having taken over his own father’s small trucking operation and turned it into the biggest transport company north of the Twin Cities. Big Mike wanted a son who would storm the north country in the way he had, but his wife delivered to him a boy who, everyone agreed, never quite made the grade. Although Arne talked like a winner, his performance never equaled his promise. He had played second string quarterback for Hibbing High School, graduated in the middle of his class from Concordia College in Moorhead, dropped out of the MBA program at St. Thomas University in St. Paul, and had gone instead to a second-rate law school. It had taken him three attempts to pass the bar. Big Mike’s connections got him a job with a prestigious Twin Cities law firm, but Arne was never partner material. After five unremarkable years, he left the firm and returned to Tamarack County to work in his father’s company.
There was one small family photo on his desk, a posed thing with a background that suggested spring. Arne with a grin like he had a couple of fishhooks stretching the corners of his lips, Lyla looking ingenue perfect, and Tiffany vaguely bored.
Cork sat in a chair positioned where he could look out the window at the bell tower of Zion Lutheran a block away. During his own tenure as sheriff, he’d often sat that way, staring out the window as he wrestled with a problem. The view was one thing that never changed, and it made him feel comfortable. The tower was a spectral presence against the empty night.
“It was my fault,” Jo said. “Arne was waiting to ambush Solemn and I walked the kid right into it.”
“What’s Arne got?”
“First of all, the autopsy. X rays showed an elongated skull fracture, more consistent with a blow from something like a club or a bar than from hitting her head on a rock in the accident. Also, there were signs of sexual activity, from the bruises it looks like some pretty rough play, so rape isn’t out of the question. After that, Randy Gooding began taking a good look at the evidence he gathered at Widow’s Creek. Some food wrappers-”
“Junk food. And the autopsy showed that none of it was in her stomach, right?”
“That’s right. There was a beer bottle, too.”
“A Corona.”
“I don’t know. But Solemn’s fingerprints were all over it.”
“Damn.”
“Once they had that, they went out to Valhalla and did a thorough search. In the wood box of the guesthouse, they found a big, open-end wrench with dried blood on it. S.W.M. was etched on the shaft. Guess whose fingerprints were all over that.”
“And the blood was Charlotte’s?”
“Bingo. So they already had motive and a physical connection. All they needed to establish was opportunity. After we’d given them that in spades, they brought out the evidence box and sprung the trap.”
“A lot of drama, but what the hell was Arne thinking?” Cork said. “He gave you information he should never have let you have at this point.”
Jo shook her head. “I think he really believed he could get a spontaneous confession out of Solemn, a la Perry Mason.”
“No wonder Solemn took off.” Cork stood up and walked to the window. There was a playground in the park between the sheriff’s department and the Lutheran church. A wind had risen, and in the light from streetlamps, Cork could just make out the swings moving slowly back and forth, as if the ghosts of children were at play. “How did Solemn react?”
“You saw for yourself.”
“I mean before he split.”
Jo thought a moment. “Surprised.”
“Surprised by the evidence or surprised that they had it?”
“I wish I could say.”
Soderberg came in, looking grim and determined. “We just impounded his truck from in front of your place. Wherever he’s going, he’s going on foot.”
“You need us for anything, Sheriff?”
“Go on home.” He turned and left.
Jo got up from her chair. “I guess it’s time I called Dot.”
They didn’t say much as they drove home. It was late, and many of the houses on the streets were already dark. Aurora was usually a quiet place, something Cork valued, and at night especially, the silence could be deep as death itself. Jo stared out her window. As they passed under streetlights, her white-blonde hair flashed with a startling, neon brilliance. Her face, in profile, appeared troubled. Finally she said, “Pretty damning.”
“Also pretty convenient,” Cork said. “Everything laid out for Arne. A-B-C.”
“How many times have you told me that people who commit crimes, especially crimes of passion, don’t think very clearly. It’s entirely possible that Solemn left all that evidence behind.”
“You sound like the prosecutor. You think he did it?”
“He ran.”
“He’s scared.”
“He has reason to be. They’ve already got a lot against him.” She repositioned herself so that she faced Cork more directly. She put a hand lightly on his leg. “I know that Solemn is important to you because of Sam Winter Moon. But we both know he’s impulsive, sometimes violently so.”
“He’s been in his share of fights, but he’s never come close to killing anyone.”
“Cork, he never told us he didn’t kill her.”
“We never asked.” Cork laid his hand over hers. “Will you defend him?”
She laughed with surprise and drew away. “You’ve got to be kidding. This is going to be a murder charge. I’ve never defended someone accused of murder.”
Cork slowed a moment and looked steadily at her. Even in the dark, he could see how ice blue her eyes were, and how intense. “He trusts you.”
“There’s a lot more to winning in a courtroom than trust.” She looked away. “The best person in Tamarack County for something like this is Oliver Bledsoe.”
They turned onto Gooseberry Lane and Cork saw immediately that Solemn’s truck was gone. When they got inside the house, Jenny and Annie both greeted them with anxious faces.
Before either of his daughters could say a word, Cork asked, “Stevie?”
“We put him to bed hours ago,” Annie said. “He’s sound asleep. Randy Gooding was here. He was looking for Solemn Winter Moon. He said there’s a warrant for his arrest.”
“Because they think he killed Charlotte Kane,” Jenny jumped in.
“And then a tow truck came and took his truck away,” Annie added, a bit breathlessly.
“Did he kill Charlotte?” Jenny asked. There was disbelief, and maybe a little fear, in her voice.
Jo took off her jacket, opened the entryway closet, and reached for a hanger. “The sheriff has evidence that points in that direction.”
Jenny leaned back against the wall and stared down at the rug. “When they first started going out, it seemed like it was Solemn just playing her. By the end, I remember
wondering who was playing who.” She shook her head. “But, Jesus, killing her?”
“He’s innocent until proven guilty, Jen,” Cork said.
She looked at him with those crystal blue eyes that were her mother’s. “Not Solemn Winter Moon, Dad. Not in this town.”
11
Sam Winter Moon used to say white people were just like puppies. If one peed on a tree, all the others had to pee on it, too. The morning after Solemn vanished into the night, Cork found out just how true Sam’s words were.
Jo had a court case first thing, and she left in the gray light before sunrise to prepare. Cork made sure the kids got up, had breakfast, and were off to school on time. They drank Minute Maid orange juice, ate Cocoa Puffs and Kix, and complained because Rose always had a hot breakfast for them. When they were finally out the door and on their way, Cork thought a hot breakfast did sound like a good idea, and he hopped in his Bronco and headed for the Broiler.
Johnny Papp’s Pinewood Broiler was an institution in Aurora, a gathering place for locals as far back as Cork could remember. His father, during his tenure as sheriff, often started his day there, rubbing elbows with the loggers and construction crews and merchants and resort owners of Tamarack County. Most of them were descended from the early Voyageurs and the immigrants-Finns, Germans, Slavs, Irish, and a dozen other nationalities who’d come in the old days, lured by the promise of a good life built on the wealth of the great white pines and the rich iron ore deposits of the Mesabi and Vermilion Ranges. Only a very few ended up rich, but most immigrants were able to build good lives, create homes, and establish history. The problem was that as they moved in, they shoved aside an entire group of people who had occupied that land for generations. The white men called them the Chippewa, which was a bastardization of one of the names by which they were known, Ojibwe. They were part of the Anishinaabe Nation whose territory, by the time the white settlers arrived, stretched from the eastern shores of the Great Lakes to the middle of the Great Plains. The Anishinaabeg saw themselves as stewards of the land with no more right or need to possess the earth than the hawks did the air currents that held them aloft. Land ownership was a white man’s concept, and it was accomplished through a series of treaties and underhanded business dealings that robbed the Anishinaabeg blind.
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