She was living in a small apartment in a run-down building on South Harper in Hyde Park, an easy walk to the University of Chicago Law School. Ben worried that it was not a good neighborhood, but Jo, a military brat, assured him she knew how to take care of herself.
Although they often ate out, he had come to her place for dinner that evening. She was a horrible cook, but she knew how to make spaghetti and that’s what she’d prepared. He brought a good Chianti. He looked tired when he stepped in, and when she kissed him, he seemed to hold back.
She took his wet overcoat. Cashmere. He always dressed well, as if he had money, or his family did, although he never talked about it. In fact, he never talked about his family at all. He claimed he was a man of the moment. He didn’t discuss his past, never speculated on the future, his or theirs together. Jo had a brief glimpse into his life, however. Ben had a younger sister, Rae, a student at Bennington, an art major, a fine artist already from the things Jo was allowed to see. Rae worshipped her older brother. In the long summer of Jo’s affair with Ben, Rae, home from college, had joined them on some of their outings. She’d once taken them through the Art Institute and proved to be a knowledgeable guide. Jo liked her immensely. Rae was under strict orders not to talk about family, and although she tried to hold to that, once in a while she let something slip. Often it was something harsh about “Daddy.” In September, she returned to Bennington.
Jo wasn’t reluctant to talk to Ben about her own life, her own past. About the rootlessness that went with being raised by a single parent, an army nurse. About her teenage rebellions, her drive to excel in everything she did so she could escape the alcoholic mother whom she referred to as The Captain. She’d confessed her fear that, like her mother, she drank too much, was too harsh in her judgments of people. Ben Jacoby had been a marvelous listener, something new to her in a man, and although his intellect was towering, she never felt it was a shadow he cast over her or anyone else. He was, in her experience, a rare, good man. And she loved him powerfully.
“Are you all right?” she asked that rainy October night.
“Just a little tired,” he said.
On graduation from the U of C Law School, he’d taken a prestigious clerkship with a state supreme court justice, a demanding position, and he worked long hours.
“I have something for you.” He handed her a cardboard tube.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
She popped out the metal cap and from inside pulled a rolled canvas. She moved to good light under a standing lamp.
It was a portrait of her. She sat on the green grass of Grant Park, in a white dress, looking at something to her right that must have pleased her because she was smiling. Behind her, Michigan Avenue was an impressionistic mist of suggested buildings and pedestrians. It was a beautiful painting, and she fell in love with it immediately.
“Oh, Ben, where did you get this?”
“I asked Rae to do it. I gave her a photograph.”
“I love it. I absolutely love it.”
She kissed him passionately, but again felt his reserve.
Often they made love before dinner. That night they simply ate, seated at her small kitchen table in the glow of candlelight, with the sound of rain against the windows.
“You’re quiet,” she finally said. “And you keep looking at me like I’ve just left on a train out of town. What’s going on?”
He said, “Jo.” One word, but oh, it was like a funeral bell.
She sat back in her chair as if he’d hit her. “It’s over, isn’t it?”
In the candlelight, she saw that his eyes were filled with tears. Men never cried when they said good-bye. They found some way to make it not their fault, to feel justified. They left behind a foul sense that somehow it was all wrong from the beginning, a mistake everyone was better off forgetting.
But not Ben Jacoby.
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he said.
“Then why?”
He shook his head and looked truly bewildered. “I wish I could say the thing that would make it all clear, but it’s so complicated. It has nothing to do with you or with what I feel for you.”
“Right,” she said, not bothering to hide her bitterness.
He reached across the table and took her hands. “If I had a choice, I would stay with you forever.”
“You always have a choice. It’s clear you’ve made it.”
“Not being with you will just about kill me.” He gripped her hands so powerfully that he’d begun to hurt her a little.
“Just go,” she said. “And here. Take this with you.”
She gave him back the painting.
“That’s yours,” he said.
“I don’t want it. I don’t want anything to remind me of you. Take it. Take it, goddamn it.”
He didn’t argue, didn’t try to wheedle from her one last time in the sack, didn’t suggest a last glass of wine or a final kiss. But he didn’t hurry, either. He left with an air of profound sadness, and when she was able to think about it later through the filter of time, without anger or hurt, she realized that he’d left with a sense of dignity, his and hers, somehow intact. And for that she loved him, too.
They hadn’t made promises, but they’d been in love, and there had never been a clear reason for the ending. Time had helped put him behind her. Time and her marriage. She hadn’t thought of Ben Jacoby in years.
That something inside her still responded to him—his presence, his voice, even the scent of him, the same after all these years—surprised her. There was something going on with her emotions over which she seemed to have no control. She knew she would never act on what she felt, but it still frightened her.
She studied her husband, sleeping restlessly beside her. There had been rough periods in their marriage, but they were in the past. And the truth was, she loved Cork, as much for all he’d committed to working through with her and forgiving as for all that had been effortless and good between them.
He stirred, moaned softly. She lifted herself, leaned to him, and gently kissed his lips. Although she knew his sleep was troubled, for a moment in his dreaming he smiled.
16
FIRST THING IN the morning, before the day watch came on, Cork met with Ed Larson and Simon Rutledge so they would have time to alter duty assignments for the deputies if necessary. Cork related his conversation with Krisane Olsen and suggested it would be a good idea to interview the other women in Tamarack County who were known to take money, even occasionally, for sex. He and Larson came up with the list, and Larson said he’d see to it. Rutledge expected the records for Eddie Jacoby’s cell phone any moment. He hoped they might offer more leads. Cork wanted to talk with the Jacoby family, find out if Eddie might have said anything to them that would be enlightening about his activities in Aurora. Rutledge thought he would try again to interview Lydell Cramer’s sister. The possibility of Cramer being involved in the rez shooting was thin, but until they got more lab results there weren’t any other threads to follow. They agreed to stay in touch and to meet again around noon.
The overcast of the day before was gone, and the morning was bright and crisp as Cork drove to the Quetico Inn. For the last quarter mile, the road ran alongside the resort’s Jack Nicklaus–designed golf course, where the grass sparkled with dew. All the holes appeared to be empty, but Cork spotted a lone figure jogging in the green apron between the thirteenth fairway and the road. He recognized Tony, Lou Jacoby’s driver. He passed, slowed, pulled over, and stopped. As the man approached the Pathfinder, Cork got out to meet him.
“Good morning, Sheriff,” he said brightly. His face was flushed and his long black hair was damp with sweat, but he seemed barely winded. He wore tight black Lycra pants and a light-blue windbreaker. “Paying a call on the Jacoby family?” He glanced toward the lodge in the distance, then down at his sports watch. “You’ll find Lou eating breakfast. He has breakfast every day sharply at nine. Ben’s probably with him.
Or playing golf.” Now Cork could hear very definitely the Spanish accent he thought he’d caught the day before.
“Golf?” Cork said, thinking the man’s brother had just died.
Tony smiled. “It’s a strange family, Sheriff.”
“I didn’t get your full name.”
“Tony Salguero.”
“You do something for the Jacobys besides chauffeur?”
“I almost never chauffeur. Mostly I’m a pilot.”
“You flew the Jacobys out here?”
“Yes.” He rubbed his thighs vigorously. “My muscles are getting a little stiff, Sheriff. Do you mind if I return to my run?”
“Maybe you could help clear up a couple of things first. You got here awfully fast yesterday. Lou must’ve called you right away.”
“He did. I was sailing. I got the call on my boat.”
“Sailing where?”
“I was returning from an outing to Mackinac Island.”
“And you still made it back to Chicago to fly the Jacobys?”
“I had docked at a marina in Kenosha, Wisconsin, for the night. When Lou called, I arranged for a helicopter to O’Hare where we keep the jet.”
“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?”
“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.”