“Couldn’t he have used a different pilot?”
“He prefers me. And I told him I could get him here.”
“When Eddie Jacoby came out, did you fly him?”
“Not usually. That was for his business, so his company took care of that.”
“Commercial flights?”
He shrugged. “I guess so.”
“What about this last time?”
“I flew him. He asked me as a favor. I don’t know why this time was different. But I told him he was on his own coming home. I would be sailing.”
That probably answered the question of how Edward Jacoby had come by the drugs in his SUV. He’d brought them with him.
“Look, Sheriff, if I don’t start running again, I’ll pull something. Okay?”
“ ’Preciate your time.”
“By the way,” he said as he stretched down, grabbed his calves, and put his forehead against his shins, “when you get to the lodge, you’re in for a surprise.” He came up smiling enigmatically and took off at a run.
Cork parked in the lot and went into the main lodge. The Quetico Inn was on the national register of historic buildings. It had been constructed in 1928 by a consortium of celebrities that included, among others, Babe Ruth, and was intended to be a getaway for the rich and famous. The Depression pretty much quashed that idea, but the beauty and integrity of the lodge had been maintained, and during the crazy economic boom of the 1990s, the resort had been expanded into a conference center that included tennis courts, the golf course, an Olympic-size indoor pool, a marina, and a restaurant with the best wood roast in all the north country.
The restaurant, a large, sunny room with a million-dollar view of Iron Lake, had few diners. It was Friday morning; on Saturday, however, and again on Sunday, the place would be packed. The Jacobys sat at a table near one of the windows overlooking the lake. They weren’t alone. A woman sat with them, listening intently to Lou Jacoby as he talked. When Cork approached, Jacoby looked up, and the talking ceased. A moment of cold silence, then Ben Jacoby spoke up.
“Sheriff, won’t you join us?”
From the residue on the elder Jacoby’s plate, Cork guessed he’d had the renowned eggs Benedict. Ben Jacoby had a bowl, nearly empty now, of fresh fruit and yogurt. The woman had eaten oatmeal. They all were drinking coffee.
Cork took the chair on the empty side of the table. The sun was at his back, and his upper body cast a shadow over the white tablecloth.
“Dina, this is Sheriff Cork O’Connor,” Ben Jacoby said to the woman. “Sheriff, Dina Willner.”
The woman, who was seated to the right of Cork, extended her hand. “How do you do?”
Her eyes were green and smart in a face that was easy to look at. She had brown hair with highlights, cut sensibly short. She was slender and probably stood no more than five feet three or four, but Cork felt an undeniable power in her the moment he shook her hand.
“Fine, thanks,” Cork said.
“Would you like something to eat?” Ben Jacoby said.
“I’ve had breakfast, thanks.”
“How about coffee?”
The woman said, “You look like you could use some.”
“You look only half-awake yourself,” Cork replied.
“Red-eye from Chicago last night. I drove up from the Twin Cities this morning. Just got here. I’m a little shy on sleep.”
“Dina is a consultant on security issues. I’ve asked her here to give you a hand with your investigation of Eddie’s death.”
“A hand?”
The waiter returned. He was young and blond, with a healthy blush to his cheeks. He wore a name tag that read Jan and below that Finland . For years, the Quetico Inn had hired staff from all over the world to help during high season. He asked, in English that sounded very British, if everything was to their liking and whether Cork would care to order something.
“Coffee,” Cork said.
“Try the blintzes,” Ben Jacoby said. “They’re marvelous.”
“Just coffee,” Cork said.
When Jan from Finland had gone, Dina said, “Sheriff, I headed the Organized Crime Section for the FBI’s Chicago office for seven years. Before that, I was with the Money Laundering Unit out of DC. And before that, I spent several years as an investigator for the Cook County prosecutor’s office.”
“Impressive,” Cork said. “But we don’t need another hand.”
“My experience with rural law enforcement is that resources are always scarce. It’s my understanding that at the moment you’re conducting two major investigations.”
“The BCA is helping.”
“Let me ask you something. When you send evidence to the BCA, how long before they process it?”
“Depends.”
“A week? Three? I have access to private laboratories that guarantee results within twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
“We can’t afford-”
“I can,” Lou Jacoby broke in.
“With all due respect, sir-”
“I’m going to cut through the crap.” The old man pointed his fork at Cork. “I want to know who killed my son, and I want to be sure that no hayseed with a badge fucks things up.”
“Dad,” Ben Jacoby said.
“Am I clear, Sheriff?”
Cork felt heat rising, his face flushing, his stomach drawing taut. His anger must have been apparent because the younger Jacoby said quickly, “We’re all a little tired and upset, Sheriff. I hope you can understand.”
It took a moment, but Cork finally swallowed the words that had been ready to leap from his throat. Ben was right. They’d lost a member of their family. That kind of loss was confusing, and people often responded in ways that were, in the end, understandable and forgivable.
“I’m not here to interfere with your investigation, Sheriff,” Dina said. “I’m here to offer resources that might not otherwise be available. Honestly, wouldn’t you appreciate getting answers faster than they’ve been coming?”
“I’ll consider it,” Cork finally said.
The patriarch looked as if he were about to speak again, perhaps to shove something more down Cork’s throat, but his son said, “Dad, why don’t we give Dina and Sheriff O’Connor a few minutes alone to talk.”
Lou Jacoby cast a look toward Dina that was clear in its message: don’t fuck up. He stood up.
“Ben,” Cork said. “Would you stay for just a moment?”
Lou Jacoby glanced at his son, seemed to weigh the request, and nodded. He turned and walked from the room.
Cork folded his hands on the table. “I won’t tolerate any interference. Your father might have influence in Chicago, but here he’s just another guest at the Quetico Inn.”
“I understand,” Jacoby replied. “And please accept my apology. As I said, he’s upset. That’s part of the reason I asked Dina here. Dad was insistent that he was going to stay through the end of your investigation. Believe me, he would make life hell. Dina not only has the background to be of service, but she’s also infinitely easier to work with. If you decline her help, you’ll find yourself dealing directly with my father. Do you really want that?”
“Like I said, I’ll consider it.”
Dina Willner listened impassively but smiled pleasantly whenever Cork looked her way.
“I’m wondering if you could clarify something for me, Ben. Eddie’s your half brother, correct?”
“Yes. After my mother died, my father married Eddie’s mother, Gwen. She passed away two years ago.”
“Were they married long?”
“Nineteen years.”
“Nineteen years? Eddie was what, thirty-five?”
“If you’re wondering about the math, Sheriff, Eddie was a bastard child. Lou and Gwen didn’t get married until he was fourteen.”
“How did you feel about him?”
“What do you mean?”
“He was a half brother, born to what, your father’s mistress? Was there any resentment?”<
br />
“For better or worse, he was part of the family. My father loved him. I love my father. So I tried to be a brother to Eddie. I admit that wasn’t always easy.”
“Why?”
“We saw the world in different ways.”
“What was his way?”
“He saw everything in terms of Eddie. A rather limited view.”
“So, he was a difficult sibling. How was he as a husband?”
“You should probably ask his wife.”
“She’s not here. And I’m sure you have an opinion.”
“I thought the police dealt in facts.”
“Here’s a fact. Eddie was a womanizer. More than that, he liked to hurt women.”
Jacoby didn’t appear at all surprised. “Is that why he’s dead?”
“It’s certainly one of the possibilities. You say your father loved him. Did they talk about things?”
“What things?”
“Eddie’s work, his life, his hobbies, his treatment of women.”
“I don’t know. I’ll be happy to ask him.”
“How about if I ask him?”
“You’ve seen him, Sheriff. You’d get nothing helpful from him right now.”
“Mind if I ask you where you were the night Edward was killed?”
“You think I resented Eddie enough to kill him?”
“I’m just asking where you were.”
“I was working on a business deal until very late, with several associates. I can give you their names.”
“Not necessary at the moment.”
Jan from Finland finally arrived with the coffee Cork had ordered. Cork ignored it and turned his attention to Dina, who’d been listening patiently to the conversation. “We have evidence taken from the SUV in which Eddie Jacoby was murdered. A couple of cigarette butts with lipstick prints. If we came up with other samples that we’d like to compare against, DNA or the lip prints, how long would that take?”
“Depending on the kind of samples, if we shipped them overnight express, we could have results within forty-eight hours of their arrival.”
“Results that would stand up in court?”
“Absolutely.”
“Meet me at the Sheriff’s Department at noon. I’ll introduce you to the other investigators. Remember, you’re with us only so long as you’re useful and stay out of the way.”
Dina Willner gave a serious nod. “Understood.”
17
His meeting with the psychologist was scheduled for 10:00 A.M. and he was already five minutes late.
He said, “Thanks, Margaret,” into the phone and hung up.
Cork had worked with Special Agent Margaret Kay of the FBI’s Minneapolis field office on an important case over a year ago, one that had put both Jo and Stevie in mortal jeopardy. He’d called to ask a favor of her: would she be willing to check on Dina to verify the woman’s claim about her background with the Bureau, and to supply any other background information to which she might have access? Kay had agreed to help.
Cork left his office and headed to the converted Old Firehouse where Dr. Faith Gray had her practice. The psychologist smiled pleasantly when Cork hurried in, and she offered him herbal tea. They sat in green stuffed chairs in a room with a big dieffenbachia in a corner and a lush Swedish ivy in a brown jute macrame hanger at the window. Filled bookshelves lined the walls, a garden of knowledge. Faith Gray’s long hair flowed white like fast water down the middle of her back. Her eyes were bright blue and kind. She wore a long denim skirt, a white turtleneck, and an oval of turquoise on a long silver chain around her neck.
“How’s that ear?” she asked.
“Itchy. I’ll be glad when the stitches come out.”
They chatted awhile, then she lifted her cup to her lips. “How have you been sleeping?”
“I sleep.”
“Not well, I’d wager, from the look of you. Trouble going to sleep? Staying asleep?”
“Both,” Cork said.
“Do you dream?”
“Yes.”
“Any disturbing dreams?”
He related the recurring dream in which his father transformed into a wounded Marsha Dross and he couldn’t save either of them.
She listened, nodded, then said, “Tell me about the shooting.”
Cork said, “You know about that. I had Pender drop off the incident report, as you asked.”
“Tell me about it anyway.”
Cork went through it from the time the call came in from the Tibodeau cabin to the moment the EMTs rushed Marsha Dross away in the ambulance.
“Look at your hands,” she said when he’d finished.
“What?”
The light changed as clouds passed across the sun and the room took on a gloomy cast.
“Look at your hands, Cork.”
Her eyes drifted gently to his fingers, which were dug into the padded arms of the easy chair so hard, his fingernails had turned red and his knuckles white. He loosened his grip.
Her eyes moved next to the pendulum clock on the wall behind Cork. “Our time’s up,” she said. “I’d like to see you again.”
“Faith, I’m pressed for time these days.”
“Let me rephrase that. If you want to continue performing your duties, you need to come until I tell you not to. It’s in the regulation, Cork, the one you and I wrote together.”
Cork, Larson, and Rutledge met before Dina Willner arrived. He told them what FBI Special Agent Margaret Kay had reported to him, confirming Willner’s background and excellent record. They discussed her involvement. Neither Rutledge nor Larson liked the idea of an outsider being a part of the team, but the speed with which she might be able to get evidence analyzed was very appealing. They’d dealt with law enforcement agencies at all levels, and working with a consultant, they decided, wouldn’t be significantly different. They wanted to meet her in person before they agreed.
Promptly at noon, Willner entered Cork’s office. After shaking hands all around, she said, “You have the look of probation officers. Honestly, I’m here to help in any way I can, to offer anything you need that might facilitate your investigation. I’m also here as an intermediary. Sheriff O’Connor’s already dealt with Lou Jacoby, so he knows that Lou prefers a cattle prod to diplomacy. He’d make your lives miserable, believe me.”
She looked refreshed, as if she’d managed a nap or taken a shower. She wore jeans, a yellow cable knit sweater, and hiking boots. Cork noted again that although she was modest in size, there was a surety in her manner that made her seem substantial, someone you could trust watching your back. That she was attractive didn’t hurt in the least.
“Questions, gentlemen?”
“My only concern is maintaining the integrity of the investigation,” Larson said. “I’d like you to agree not to pass along any information to Mr. Jacoby or anyone else without explicit permission from us.”
“Agreed,” Dina said.
“Anything else?” Cork waited a moment. “If not, then could you step outside for a minute, Dina?”
“Of course.” She left the room and closed the door behind her.
“Well?”
“Her credentials seem all right,” Rutledge said. “And the chance of getting faster lab results is attractive.”
“As long as she doesn’t interfere, I don’t see a problem,” Larson said.
“Simon?”
“Goes for me, too.”
When Dina returned, she took a chair to the left of Larson and Rutledge.
The day had warmed. A few minutes earlier Cork had opened a window, and the smell of fall drifted into the room. In the park across the street, children too young for school filled the playground, and their small high squeals provided an odd background music to the grim discussion taking place.
Larson reported that he’d talked to most of the women on the list of known prostitutes. They all knew about Eddie Jacoby’s penchant for cruelty and claimed they’d refused to have anything to do with him. They we
re all able to account for their whereabouts the night he was killed.
“I haven’t followed up on the alibis yet,” Larson said. “But if we get anything that points us in that direction, I’ll hop right on it.”
Dina gestured at the accordion folder Larson held. “Is that Eddie’s case file?”
“Yes.”
“May I see it?”
Larson looked to Cork, who nodded, then handed it over.
Rutledge had finally received the fax of the records for Jacoby’s cell phone. He’d made copies, which he supplied to everyone present. In the week Eddie had been in Aurora, he’d called a lot of folks on the rez, and had received calls from them. All the names listed with the phone numbers were members of the Reservation Business Committee. Some calls had also come from a pay phone located at the North Star Bar. Rutledge asked about it, and Cork told him it was an Indian bar in the middle of nowhere. Several calls had been made to the Chicago area, mostly to Starlight Enterprises, and one to Ben Jacoby’s cell phone the afternoon Eddie died.
Cork said, “Jacoby told me about his brother’s call. I’d like to know what they talked about, exactly what was said. Ed, you mind taking that one? I want to follow up on some of these calls to the rez.”
“Sure. You want to come?” Larson asked Dina.
“I’d rather work the rez.”
Cork said, “You go anywhere, it’s with Ed.”
She didn’t argue.
Cork turned to Rutledge. “Any word from the BCA lab?”
Simon looked a little chagrined. “I called. They’re backlogged. We probably won’t get anything for another week at least.”
“Do you have any of the cigarette butts left that you found in the SUV?”
“One.”
Dina said, “I’d be happy to send it to our lab in Chicago. We could have a DNA analysis by this time day after tomorrow, guaranteed.”
“I’ll consider it.”
She looked as if there was something more on her mind.
“Yes?” Cork said.
“I’m just wondering.” She’d taken the autopsy report from the file and she tapped it with a polished nail the color of pearl. “I’ve been looking at this. Death was the result of a stab wound directly to the heart.”
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