Mercy Falls co-5

by William Kent Krueger

“Not entirely. I still think someone hired Stone to kill me, and I still don’t know who.”

  She was quiet. “So they may try again?”

  “It’s certainly a possibility.” He wanted to give her more, an absolute reassurance, but that wasn’t something he could offer. “How are the kids?”

  “Fine. Rose and Mal took them all to South Bend today to visit Notre Dame. I stayed. I didn’t want to miss this call.”

  “You mean if it came.”

  “I knew it would. Cork, when can we come home?”

  “Soon, I hope. We’ll be interviewing Lizzie shortly. Maybe we’ll know more after that. I have to go, sweetheart. Things still to do.”

  “I know. I love you, cowboy.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Lizzie Fineday had been fed a decent meal and coffee, and was coherent. Although she distrusted cops, she was grateful for what Cork and the others had done and was willing to talk. She waived her right to counsel but asked that her father stay with her during the questioning.

  Stone, she said, had enlisted her help to play a joke on the local cops, something she didn’t mind doing. He told her that afterward they’d do a little Ecstasy. The afternoon of the shooting, they’d parked his Land Rover at the bridge over Tick Creek. He got out and told her to wait five minutes, then follow him on foot to the Tibodeau cabin. She’d wondered about the rifle he took with him, but not much. On the Iron Range, everyone seemed to have a rifle. Just as she started for the cabin, she heard two shots. She didn’t know what that was about.

  “The dogs,” Cork said. “He shot the Tibodeau dogs.”

  She started crying, and they waited to go on until she’d calmed down.

  She made the call from the Tibodeaus’, imitating Lucy’s voice, not a difficult thing. Almost anyone could do a decent impersonation of Lucy. After that, Stone had her climb the hill with him and they waited. She’d asked about the Ecstasy. He told her to be patient, gave her some grass to smoke in the meantime. She lay down on the top of the hill. It was evening by then, and she remembered staring up and thinking how soft the sky looked, like a big bed with dark blue silk sheets. She was tired and was almost asleep, when she heard the car from the Sheriff’s Department coming down the road. She got up and saw that Stone had the rifle to his shoulder and was sighting. He started shooting. She freaked and ran. She barely remembered stumbling down the backside of the hill, and then she was standing in the dry bed of Tick Creek, crying uncontrollably, with no idea where to go. Stone came charging down the hill, grabbed her arm, yanked her after him, and they ran for the Land Rover. After they drove away, he told her if she said anything to anybody, she’d go to jail for sure. She was confused and scared.

  “Did he tell you why he shot at the sheriff and deputy?” Simon Rutledge asked.

  He’d said a guy paid him.

  “He didn’t tell you the guy’s name?”

  He hadn’t.

  “Did he say anything at all about him?”

  Nothing she could remember.

  Rutledge asked a few more questions about Stone, then Ed Larson said, “Tell us about your relationship with Eddie Jacoby.”

  She met him in her father’s bar when he went there to see Stone. Jacoby made passes at her, the usual kind, and she didn’t pay much attention. He gave her a business card, one with a Hollywood logo, and told her he could get her into movies. She still didn’t want to have anything to do with him. She got weird vibes from him, creepy.

  “But the night he was murdered, you went looking for him at his hotel. Why?”

  Because after the shooting at the Tibodeaus’, she was scared. She’d decided it was best to get out of town, and she thought maybe Jacoby was being straight with her and could get her to Hollywood. She left him a note saying if he was interested in partying to meet her at Mercy Falls.

  “Why Mercy Falls?”

  It was isolated and easy to find. She didn’t want anyone to know she was seeing Jacoby, didn’t want it to get back to Stone. When he showed up, she got into his SUV. They snorted a little coke. He gave her a beer. They drank, talked. He touched her. She didn’t like it, but she wanted to get out of Tamarack County and she thought he might be her ticket. She felt trapped in the SUV, so she got out and went to the overlook. She was feeling woozy, light-headed. Jacoby joined her, began going at her again with his hands. She got tired of it and tried to push him off. He seemed to like that and began getting rough. He hit her, then he hit her again. She tried to make him stop, begged him. He pushed her down, fumbled with her jeans, worked at pulling them down. She fought him, and then he really laid into her. She remembered the blows, but she didn’t remember any pain. Everything seemed to go kind of distant.

  She stopped talking, and Cork and the others waited. Will Fineday’s eyes were hard as agates, and deep hollows ran beneath his cheekbones. The scar on his face had turned bone white.

  “Did he assault you sexually?” Larson asked gently.

  She cried again, huge sobs that wracked her body, but she managed to say yes.

  They took a break from the questioning. Cork asked if she’d like something to drink, a Coke maybe. He got one from the machine in the waiting area. She drank a little, and when she seemed calmer, they continued.

  She didn’t remember him leaving, but she remembered being alone at the overlook, hearing the water of the falls, feeling the ground very cold under her. Then a strange thing happened. An angel spoke to her.

  “An angel?”

  That’s what it had seemed like because of her voice. Gentle, kind.

  “ Her voice? It was a woman?”

  Yes.

  “What did she look like?”

  She didn’t know. The night was dark, the moon gone, and she wasn’t thinking clearly.

  “But a woman, you’re sure?”

  She thought so.

  “What did she say?”

  It sounded like “Poor vaceeto.”

  “‘Poor vaceeto’? Vaceeto, is that a name?”

  She didn’t know.

  Larson looked at the others. “Vaceeto?”

  They shook their heads.

  “What happened after the angel spoke to you?”

  After a little while, she roused herself. Her pants were down and she pulled them up. She could see Jacoby’s SUV still parked in the lot. She was afraid, so she ran like crazy to her own car, locked the doors, and got out of there fast. She drove straight home.

  “Edward Jacoby was stabbed to death. Do you know anything about his murder?”

  She said she didn’t.

  “Did you see him again before you left the parking lot?”

  No.

  “When we tried to locate you for questioning, you’d gone to Stone’s place. Why did you run to him?”

  She’d gone to Stone because she didn’t want to talk to the police, and Stone promised he’d keep them away. He also promised to keep her high. That was something she very much wanted. To be high and to forget.

  She broke down again. This time she couldn’t stop crying.

  Cork said, “Let’s call it a day.”

  “An angel?” Rutledge said.

  They sat in Cork’s office. Larson, Rutledge, Willner, and Cork. It was almost noon. Cork had changed into his spare uniform, and he’d eaten a ham-and-cheese sandwich and had drunk some coffee. He was tired. The food and the coffee helped a little, but sleep was what he needed most. Days of uninterrupted sleep.

  “‘Poor vaceeto.’ Mean anything to anybody?” Larson asked.

  “A name? An endearment?” Rutledge said.

  “Not a personal endearment, apparently. It didn’t mean anything to Lizzie.”

  “It was a woman, yes?” Rutledge said.

  Larson cleaned his glasses with a small soft cloth he kept in his wallet for that purpose. “Between the beating and the drugs, Lizzie was pretty far gone, so who knows. Think Jacoby slipped a little Rohypnol into her beer?”

  “That would be my guess. It’s what you found
in the glove box of his SUV.”

  “A woman,” Larson said. “A passerby?”

  “Who just happened to be there at midnight, and who just sympathized and left her?” Rutledge shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “How about a prostitute, then? Maybe beating and raping Lizzie Fineday wasn’t enough and Jacoby brought in some extra entertainment.”

  “That’s a possibility. And maybe it was the prostitute who killed Jacoby, defended herself with a knife.”

  “There’s another possibility,” Dina Willner said quietly.

  The men waited for her to go on.

  “Stone.” She looked every bit as tired as Cork felt, but her brain still clicked along magnificently. “He’s the thread that ties together Lizzie Fineday and Edward Jacoby. We know he had a personal relationship with Lizzie, and Cork believes he had a business relationship with Jacoby. He was certainly a man capable of a brutal killing.”

  “Why would he kill Jacoby?”

  “He seemed like a man who didn’t need a lot of reason. It could be that his relationship with Jacoby had soured. Or maybe he didn’t like what Jacoby had done to Lizzie.”

  “She said the angel was a woman,” Rutledge pointed out.

  “She was drugged and beaten. I’m just saying it might be worth checking out.”

  Larson said, “I’ll have my people go over Jacoby’s SUV again, looking for any evidence that might link Stone to that vehicle.”

  “I think we should also have another talk with the working girls,” Rutledge suggested.

  Dina eyed Cork. “We still don’t know who asked Stone to do the hit. A favor for a friend, Lizzie said. Moose LaRusse?”

  “How’s Carl Berger doing?”

  “Alive, but not able to talk yet,” Rutledge said.

  For a lot of reasons, Cork was glad that the slug he’d fired into the man on the farm in Carlton County hadn’t killed him. “When he can talk, let’s squeeze him for answers.”

  Cork had listened to most of the discussion without comment. Partly because he wanted to take in carefully what was being said. Partly because he didn’t have anything to add. And partly because he was so tired, his brain felt like a chunk of cement.

  Larson said, “Cork, you need some sleep.”

  “I’m thinking about that. First, I’m going to take Meloux home. Then I’m going to take a bath. Then I’ll take a nap.”

  “Don’t forget, you’ve got a mandatory meeting with Faith Gray this afternoon at four. This one you can’t miss.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “What about Lizzie Fineday?” Rutledge asked.

  “Release her into her father’s custody,” Cork said.

  “You don’t think she’ll run?”

  “Look where it got her the first time. We should make it clear to Will that he’s responsible for her until the county attorney decides if he wants to charge her with anything.”

  They filed out of his office, but Dina stayed behind.

  “After that nap you say you’re going to take, I’d love to buy you a drink. Maybe even a steak,” she said.

  “I’ll do the buying. I owe you big-time.”

  “I won’t quibble with that.”

  “I think we should put the drink and steak on hold for today. You look like you could use a good rest, too.”

  “Me? I’m just getting my second wind.” She laughed lightly. “If you change your mind, just whistle.” She winked, turned, and sauntered from the room.

  Henry Meloux was waiting in the common area. His statement had been taken, he’d eaten, and now he was sitting in an office chair, his head lowered, his chin resting on his chest, sleeping. Cork touched his shoulder gently.

  “Henry, I’m taking you home.”

  Meloux blinked, then was wide awake and smiling. “Good,” he said. “I need to lay these old bones down for a while.” He got up from the chair.

  Cork said to Patsy, who was on Dispatch, “After I get Meloux back to his cabin, I’m going home. No calls unless it’s urgent, okay?”

  “Sure, Cork. Get some rest.”

  They’d managed to keep the media in the dark about the operation in the Boundary Waters. Larson and Rutledge were preparing an official statement that would be released that afternoon. There were still a lot of unanswered questions in Tamarack County, foremost among them who killed Eddie Jacoby, but for a little while Cork thought he could step back and take a rest. He was looking very much forward to closing his eyes for a few hours.

  Meloux nodded most of the way. When Cork pulled to the side of the road where the double-trunk birch marked the path to Crow Point, the old man roused himself and prepared to take his leave.

  “Let me walk with you a bit, Henry.”

  The woods were quiet that day, the air warm and full of the musty smell of fall. For a while, they walked without speaking, the only sound the dry rustle of fallen leaves under their feet. Meloux moved slowly and Cork couldn’t decide if it was weariness or simply that for Meloux there was almost never any need to hurry.

  “Stone,” Meloux finally said. “He was of the People in blood only. He did not understand the Anishinaabe spirit.” He shook his head. “He might have been a great warrior, but a warrior fights for honor and for others. Stone’s heart was too small. There was room only for him.”

  They reached Wine Creek, which was little more than a reddish iron-rich thread of water so late in the dry season. Meloux paused before crossing.

  “Stone is on the Path of Souls, but I think he still weighs on you, Corcoran O’Connor. Or is it something else?”

  “I can’t help thinking, Henry, that maybe if we’d all done something different, stepped in a long time ago, Stone might have ended up a different man.”

  “Probably. But better? He spent much time in Noopiming,” Meloux said. “This land can guide a man, young or old, to a peaceful place. Stone was like his name, blind, deaf, hard to the good he was offered here.” The old man took a long look at Cork. “I think there is something else.”

  “It’s not finished, Henry. Stone wasn’t at the heart of what’s been going on. There’s still so much I don’t know, don’t understand.”

  “I think you will,” the old man said. “You are like a snapping turtle that does not let go. It also helps that you have a thick shell.” He reached out and with his knuckles gave Cork a playful rap on his head.

  Cork smiled. “ Migwech, Henry,” he said in thanks.

  “No,” the old man responded. “Thank you. You have given me one last good hunt to remember.”

  Meloux turned away, crossed the creek, and headed toward his sanctuary on Crow Point; to Walleye, who would be patiently waiting and would greet him eagerly; to a meal of wild rice and wild mushrooms; and finally to bed. That last part sounded so good, Cork wished he were going with the old Mide.

  But he knew he still had miles to go before he slept.

  Fucking miles.

  43

  Marsha Dross lived on Lomax Street, in a little white house with flower boxes on the front porch and green shutters on the windows. There was a For Sale sign on the lawn. Marsha and Charlie were planning to buy a home when they married, to start their life together in a new place large enough for a family. As soon as he returned to Aurora, Cork stopped by Marsha’s house. She’d been released while he was in the Boundary Waters, and he wanted to tell her firsthand where the situation stood.

  Her father opened the door. He wore a plain white shirt with gray slacks and black suspenders. He had on black socks, no shoes. A pair of black-rimmed reading glasses were nestled on the bridge of his broad nose. A folded paper, the Duluth News Tribune, was in his left hand. With his big free right hand, he waved Cork inside.

  “Thanks, Frank,” Cork said. “They told me at the department that Marsha had been released from the hospital. Is she here?”

  “In her bedroom. Heard you had a little excitement.”

  “A little. All right if I talk to her?”

  �
�Just let me make sure she’s awake and decent.”

  Frank went down the hallway.

  To anyone who knew Marsha, her house was a pretty fair reflection of the woman. Neat, uncluttered. Needlework hung framed on the walls, an art form that had been a favorite of her mother. A few lush plants, just enough to make the rooms comfortable. Finished floors with hand-loomed rugs. It was a nice place, but given her upcoming marriage, Cork could understand why she’d sell.

  “Go on back,” Frank said when he returned. “She’d love to see you.”

  Marsha’s room was full of sunlight that made her face bright. Her hair was brushed, and she appeared to have put on a bit of makeup. She wore a clean white T-shirt and had the covers tucked around her below that. She was sitting up, her back propped against a pillow. She smiled when Cork walked in.

  “You’re looking better,” he said.

  “I wish I could say the same for you.”

  “Last couple of days have been a little rough.”

  A small white wicker chair had been placed next to the bed for visitors, and Cork sat down.

  “We got him,” he said.

  “I know. Patsy called. What she couldn’t tell me was why he did it.”

  “He died without saying directly, but I’m almost certain it began as a hit.”

  “Who hired him?”

  “We’re working on that.”

  She registered no emotion. She was in bed, recovering from a wound that had nearly killed her, that had jeopardized her hope of ever giving birth to a child; yet, here she was, accepting with a simple nod that Cork still had no idea who had ordered the attack or why. He wondered if it was because she understood that knowing wouldn’t change her situation, or because she believed that eventually what was hidden would be revealed, that Cork would find the answers. Maybe it was both, because Marsha was strong and she believed in her work and in her colleagues.

  “Doctor says in six weeks I can be back on duty.”

  “What’s Charlie think of that?”

  “Charlie’s decided that he’d rather have a wife who’s in a different profession. We’ve called off the wedding.”

  “I’m sorry, Marsha.”