Low. Muffled, but precise. Male. Dispassionate.
Several manila folders lay open on the desk, all containing documents related to the investigation of the attempts on Cork’s life. They’d been gone over a dozen times and no one saw anything new there.
He got up and walked to the window, watched a man in the park let his small dog off a leash to run free. Ralph Grunke and his terrier, Sparks. Cork watched Sparks begin to sniff every tree.
“I’ve been thinking about this guy who called. He wasn’t angry. He didn’t seem emotional at all. I keep replaying what he said, how he said it. It was very calculated.”
“Calculated for what effect? Just to scare?” Rutledge said.
“No, I think he meant it. But it was as if the personal element was missing.”
“Like a hit?” Dina asked.
Cork thought a moment. “I don’t know what a hit’s like, but maybe.”
“It’s interesting,” Dina said. “If it is a hit, why let you know it’s coming? In my experience, that’s pretty unprofessional.”
Cork turned to her. “What exactly is your experience?”
She took the spoon from her coffee and tapped it clean against the side of her cup. She set it on Cork’s desk. “I dealt with a number of contract killings when I was with the Organized Crime Section. It’s seen as an expeditious way to cover tracks, silence a witness.”
“Cover what tracks here? And if Cork was a witness, a witness to what?” Rutledge said.
“Got me.” Cork headed back to his chair.
“Maybe it is a hit,” Larson said. “But not by a professional. Whoever it is sure bungled the first attempt.”
“And the bomb,” Rutledge said.
“And now this announcement of further intent,” Dina added. “I think Ed’s onto something.”
Cork sat down. A dull throb had begun in his head. Too little sleep. “Could it still be related to Lydell Cramer?”
“The connection with Moose LaRusse and the rez would sure point in that direction.” Larson hooked the wire-rims over his ears. “He certainly could have supplied the information needed for the location of the hit.”
“Was there someone we missed who was connected to the farmhouse?” Dina asked.
Rutledge shook his head. “Lydell’s sister, LaRusse, and Berger. Those were the only ones the Carlton County sheriff’s people observed out there.”
“Does Cramer have any other relatives?”
“I’ve already put someone on checking that out,” Rutledge said. “We’ll follow up on the phone records as soon as we have them. You never know what might turn up.”
“What about the Jacoby investigation?” Cork asked. “Anything new, Ed?”
“I’ve got the record of the calls Jacoby made and received on his cell phone. I’ll be looking those over.”
“I’d like a copy, too.”
“Sure. And we’re waiting to see if there’s a DNA match with Lizzie Fineday and the evidence we got from Jacoby’s SUV.” He glanced at Dina. “Any idea when we might hear?”
“I don’t expect anything until tomorrow.”
“If it’s a match, we go after Lizzie and I’ll bet something will break.” Larson sounded truly hopeful.
“All right. Let’s see what shakes,” Cork said.
As the others filed out, Dina stayed behind and closed the door. She crossed the room and sat on the edge of his desk. She smelled of herbal soap, a clean, fresh scent. “You get any sleep at all last night?”
“Barely.”
“It might be a good idea to stay somewhere else until this is over. Anywhere other than home.”
“I’ve thought about that.”
“You could stay at my hotel, take the room next to mine. Among other things, I’m an excellent bodyguard.” She waited, gauging his response, which was simply to stare at her. “The other alternative is I could stay at your place.”
To that he shook his head. “Small town. Big talk.”
“I’d sleep on the sofa.” She drilled him with her wonderful green eyes. “Unless you wanted otherwise.”
“I think I’ll put a cot in here.”
She gave a diffident shrug, slid off his desk, and headed toward the door. “Just keep it in mind.”
He watched her leave, but not without a little stab of regret.
30
Jenny wore a plaid wool skirt and a rust-colored turtleneck. Her blond hair was carefully brushed. She appeared, Jo thought, very collegiate, probably a look she would abandon once she was actually attending college. It was just fine for her meeting at Northwestern with Marty Goldman.
His office was on the second floor of a three-story brick building with white colonnades, a block off the main campus. He looked like he’d been an athlete in his youth, but over the years a lot of his muscle had gone to fat and spilled over his belt. He wore a light blue Oxford with a yellow tie, and he rose from his desk to greet them, the skin of his face pink and shiny.
“I understand we’re your first choice,” he said after they’d finished with the pleasantries. “We’re always glad to hear that. Have you taken your SATs or the ACTs yet?”
“SATs.”
“Do you recall your scores?”
Jenny told him.
“Very impressive,” he said, with a lift of his brow. “What kind of extracurricular activities have you been involved in?”
“I’m the editor of the school paper, The Beacon. I’ve been on the yearbook staff for the past two years. I’m a member of National Honor Society, president of the Debate Club. I can go on,” she said.
“That’s just fine,” he laughed. “What is it about Northwestern that attracts you?”
“The Medill School,” Jenny said.
“Journalism,” Goldman said with an approving nod.
“I want to be a writer.”
“Well, we certainly have some fine authors among our alumni. And we have several writing programs in conjunction with Medill that might interest you.”
The talk was interrupted by a knock at the open door. A wiry young man a little over six feet tall with neatly groomed dark hair and a brooding look in his eyes stood just inside the threshold. He wore pressed jeans, a navy sweater over a white shirt, penny loafers. He stood stiffly, as if waiting for an invitation.
“Phillip. Come on in,” Goldman said, rising.
Phillip came forward with a stiff, military stride.
“Jenny, Jo, this is Phillip. I’ve asked him to give you a tour of the campus this morning. He’s a senior. I’m sure he’ll be able to answer any questions you might have. I’ve scheduled you for about ninety minutes. That should be plenty of time to see almost everything of interest and for a Coke or cup of coffee in the bargain.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll see you back here at twelve-thirty and we can talk a bit more. Phillip?”
“This way.” The young man led them out.
Jo hung back as they headed toward campus, letting Jenny and Phillip walk side by side in front. She was proud of her daughter, of Jenny’s confidence and goals, proud of the woman her daughter was and proud of who she was becoming. She relaxed and listened as the two young people talked. Jenny had a million questions. Phillip answered them all. He was polite, informative, but there was something in his voice that hinted at irritation, as if this were a small ordeal.
The Northwestern campus was beautiful, deep in colorful fall. The collegiate structures, the flow of students along the sidewalks, the energy of freedom that was a part of college-Jo remembered the feel of it from her own undergraduate years long ago. For her, college had been an escape. It wouldn’t have mattered where she’d gone. Anywhere, just to get away. She’d ended up with a full scholarship to the University of Illinois in Champaign, a campus that rose out of cornfields. She’d come well prepared to stand on her own, having spent her life standing up to her mother. There’d been nothing about college that intimidated her. The academics had been routine. Sex, drugs, and books she juggled easily and grad
uated magna cum laude.
After that had come law school at the University of Chicago, her first great challenge. She’d put aside the drugs and she’d also put aside men. Then came Ben Jacoby. When he stepped into her life, she was ready for something permanent, and until he said good-bye, she’d thought he was offering it.
Watching Jenny ahead of her, she hoped her daughter would have a different experience. Someone who would care about her the way Cork cared about Jo. Not that a man was necessary, because she remembered only too well how alone she’d often felt even when she was with a man. Ben Jacoby had changed that. For the first time in her life, she wanted to be with someone forever. She’d never let a man hurt her before, but Jacoby had hurt her deeply.
Maybe everyone needed their heart broken once. Maybe it had been that kind of hurt that helped her appreciate Cork from the beginning. From their very first meeting in Chicago.
It was spring. She still lived on South Harper Avenue in Hyde Park in the apartment where several months before she’d shared her nights with Ben. She came home from working late in the D’Angelo Law Library to find that her place had been broken into and she’d been robbed of her stereo and television. She called the police. A uniformed patrolman responded. Officer Corcoran O’Connor.
He filled out an incident report, then he spent a while looking over her apartment inside and out. Finally he sat down with her.
“I’ve got to be honest with you. There’s very little chance of recovering your stolen property. No serial numbers, almost impossible to trace. But I’d like to make some recommendations for the future. First of all, I’d get a better lock on your front door.”
“He didn’t come in the front door. He came through the window.”
“I understand. But almost anybody could break in through the front door if they were so inclined, so I’d get a good dead bolt. Now, about the windows. I think you should put bars on them.”
“I don’t relish the idea of living in a jail,” she said.
“Ever been in jail?”
“No.”
“It won’t feel like a jail, I promise. I understand you object to having to barricade yourself, but that’s the reality of your situation. In a way, you’re lucky. This time, they only stole from you. Next time, they might be after something different.”
“As in rape.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I don’t know that I can afford bars on the windows,” she said.
“You don’t need them on all your windows. I’ve checked around back. You’re on the second floor, so you’re fine there. But in front, with the porch and that elm, you’re vulnerable. Really, your landlord ought to be the one who puts them on. If you get flack from him, I know where you can get them at a reasonable price.” He cleared his throat. “And I’d be glad to install them.”
“You?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Please stop calling me ma’am. And why would you do that?”
“I know you volunteer your time helping people who can’t afford a lawyer. I’ve seen you in the storefront office on Calumet.”
“Yes.”
“You do it, I’d guess, because you believe it’s the right thing to do. Considering your situation here, I just think it’s the right thing to do.”
She studied him. He looked a little older than she, maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven. His hair was red-brown, shorter than she preferred on a man, but that was probably a dictate of the job. He wasn’t handsome, not like Ben Jacoby or many of the others she’d been with, but there was a sincerity in his face, in his words, in the sound of his voice, that was attractive.
“That’s it?” she asked with a sharp edge of skepticism. “You’d do that without expecting something in return?”
He capped his pen and scratched his nose with it. “You cook?”
Halfway through the ninety minutes that Marty Goldman had allotted for the tour, Phillip took them out to a long, grassy point on which nothing had been built. Lake Michigan lay to the east, a stretch of blue that looked as enormous as an ocean. Several miles south, clear in the crisp air of late morning, rose the Chicago skyline, as beautiful as any city Jo had ever seen.
Jenny stared at it for a long time. “Now I know what Dorothy felt like when she saw Oz.”
“This is where I come when I need to get away,” Phillip said.
“You like it here?” Jenny asked.
“It’s my favorite spot.”
“No, I mean do you like Northwestern?”
There was a breeze off the lake with a slight chill to it. Jenny hugged herself, and Phillip, without making anything of it, moved to block the wind.
“I wanted to go to school in Boulder,” he said. “I love to ski.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“This was my father’s preference.”
“That’s the only reason? I’d never go somewhere just because my father wanted me to.”
“Lucky you,” he said coldly, and turned back toward campus. “We should be going.”
They stopped at the student union. Jo ordered a latte. Phillip did the same. Jenny didn’t usually drink coffee, but she ordered a latte as well. They sat at a table for a few minutes.
“What’s your major?” Jenny asked.
“Pre-law.”
“You want to be a lawyer?”
“My father wants me to be a lawyer.”
“What do you want to be?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Because you’re going to be a lawyer like your father wants.”
“He pays the bills.”
“I don’t know,” Jenny said. “To me, that sounds like a recipe for an unhappy life.”
“You’re a lawyer,” Phillip said to Jo. “Do you like it?”
She didn’t remember telling him that she was an attorney, but maybe it had come up in his conversation with Jenny and she’d just missed it.
“Yes, I do,” she replied.
“I’ve never known a happy lawyer,” he said. “We should be getting back.”
At the door to the admissions office, he stopped. “This is as far as I go. I have a class to get to.”
“Thank you, Phillip,” Jenny said. “We really appreciate your time.” She shook his hand.
“Look,” he said, “I apologize if I seemed rude. I’m a little stressed these days.”
“You were great,” Jenny said.
“Yeah, well, good luck. If Northwestern is really what you want, I hope you get it. Nice to meet you,” he said to Jo.
Inside, Marty Goldman’s secretary asked them to wait a few minutes. Mr. Goldman was still with someone.
“How did you like the campus?” she asked. She was a small black woman who spoke with a slight Jamaican accent.
“It’s beautiful,” Jenny said.
“Isn’t it? And your guide?”
“He was fine.”
“Good. He’s not one of our usual group. He was a special request, as I understand it. His father, I believe. You must be friends of the family.”
“And what family would that be?” Jo asked.
“Why, the Jacobys, of course.”
31
Cork passed much of the morning going over the record of the calls made to and from Eddie Jacoby’s cell phone in the days before his death, and also the record of his hotel phone. Jacoby spent a lot of time with a receiver pressed to his ear. It fit the image Cork had of the man, the kind who drove his SUV with one hand and constantly worked his cell phone with the other.
In the afternoon, he attacked the paperwork that had piled up. The budget was a huge concern. The investigations, which required an uncomfortable amount of overtime, were eating up officer hours and resources. He knew he was going to have to go to the Board of Commissioners, explain the deficit that was developing, and ask for additional money. Christ, he’d always hated that part of the job.
Shortly after the three o’clock shift change, Ed Larson came into his office. Like everyone these d
ays, he looked tired. Behind his wire-rims, his eyes rode puffy bags of skin and seemed to be sinking gradually deeper into his face. He still dressed neatly and held himself erect.
“Got a minute?” he asked.
Cork looked at his watch. “Not much more than that. I have a session with Faith Gray this afternoon. I’ve already missed one appointment. She’s threatened that if I miss another, she’ll require a temporary suspension. The regs, you know.”
“I was just wondering if you’ve had a chance to look over Jacoby’s phone records.”
“Yeah.” Cork picked up the document. “Several interesting items.”
“I thought so, too. Particularly that call from the pay phone at the North Star Bar on the night he was murdered.”
“You’re thinking Lizzie?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
Cork arched his spine and worked his fists into the tight muscles in his lower back. He wouldn’t have minded another session with Dina and her magic feet. “We need to be careful,” he said, grimacing. “We know Jacoby visited the North Star, but we don’t have anything that connects him solidly to the girl.”
“She was certainly looking for him.”
“We don’t know that she found him.”
“The bruises.”
“Fineday says she fell.”
“And he went charging out of the bar after she came home from that ‘fall.’ I’m betting he wasn’t headed to a movie. It had to do with Jacoby. We both know that.”
“We can speculate, but we don’t really know.” Cork settled back with a sigh. “They’re afraid of something, it’s clear. I’d love to know what she was running from when she ran to Stone.”
“From her father?”
“Maybe. But why? He’s a hard man, sure, but he’d never lay a finger on her.”
From beyond Cork’s door came the squawk of the radio in Dispatch and Patsy’s voice responding.
“Another thing about these phone records,” Cork said. “Not a single call to his wife or from her.”
“So?”
“If you were gone from Alice for a week, wouldn’t you call?”
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