“Lots of ways to change someone’s thinking, you said. Was money one?” Cork asked.
“When you’re dealing with a weak person, sure. And there are people on the RBC who might bend pretty easy that way.”
“Did he try to bribe you?”
“I don’t bend easy, and everybody out here knows it.”
“Hear of any arm-twisting?”
“I heard he tried with Edgar Gillespie.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Edgar wouldn’t say. But with his past, hell, you wouldn’t have to dig too deep to find a little buried garbage.”
“Jacoby’s been working on this deal for six months. Why all the sudden pressure? Did he lose patience?”
“He was an impatient man to begin with. Doing things on Indian time really burned him. I was surprised he waited so long to get tough. Edgar probably wasn’t the only one he leaned on.”
“Where would he get the information he’d need for that kind of leverage? I’m thinking a white man, especially a white man like Jacoby, asking questions on the rez, that would get around.”
LeDuc’s face was unreadable, but the fact that he didn’t reply was an indication that it was an area he wasn’t willing to explore with Cork.
“Well someone talked to him.” Cork opened a jar of jerky that sat near the register, pulled out a piece, laid money on the counter, and began to chew. “Going with Starlight or not going with Starlight. You think someone would kill over that?”
LeDuc took the money, put it in the till. “I had me an uncle who was murdered during the Depression, stabbed to death by a man who wanted his shoes. That tell you anything?”
Cork had left the records for Jacoby’s cell phone calls in his vehicle. What LeDuc had just said made him want to look at them.
“Migwech, George,” he said as he turned to leave. Thanks. “Give my best to Francie.”
“Tell Jo hello.”
In the Pathfinder, Cork put his half-eaten jerky strip on the seat and checked the phone records. Several calls had been made to Eddie Jacoby from the North Star Bar. It was the kind of place where men who would kill for a pair of shoes did their drinking.
The bar stood at a crossroads just south of the rez, surrounded by thick woods and nothing else for miles. The regulars were mostly Shinnobs, although members of other tribal affiliations felt at home there. The common denominator was heritage and hard luck. Occasionally white folks stumbled in, hunters or snowmobilers who didn’t know the lay of the land, but they didn’t stay long. It was an old wood structure, the paint faded, walls spattered with mud churned up by tires spinning in the unpaved lot. The windows were small and crowded with signs advertising the booze inside. Not much light squeezed through, and the North Star was notoriously dark. When Cork opened the door, the smell of liquor greeted him. It wasn’t the kind of place that served food, except for pickled pig’s feet in a big glass jar and fried pork rinds and chips that hung on a rack. If it wasn’t beer or straight whiskey or at most a boilermaker you wanted, you were better off going somewhere else. Coming in from the sunny afternoon outside, Cork had to wait a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dark. It was deadly quiet, which surprised him because there were several pickups in the lot. When he could see again, he realized the silence wasn’t because the place was empty. All eyes were on him and all mouths were shut.
On the way to the North Star, he’d pulled over and taken a few minutes to change into his uniform, including his Kevlar vest. His .38 was holstered on his belt. He walked to the bar where Will Fineday, who owned the place, leaned a couple of beefy arms on a surface badly in need of refinishing.
Fineday had a face straight out of a nightmare. Twenty years earlier, an accident with a hockey stick had nearly cleaved it in half. Although doctors in Canada where the incident occurred repaired the bone and stitched the skin back together, the wound left a jagged scar like a huge fault line across his left cheek, nose, and right eye before it ended halfway up his forehead. He didn’t see at all out of the damaged eye. That was the part of the accident that ended a promising NHL career as a forward with the Maple Leafs. Fineday came back to the rez, used the money from the settlement to buy the bar, and for two decades his freakish face had added a certain timbre to the place. He’d managed to secure the stick that had done the deed, and it hung above the bottles at his back. He’d been known to snatch it down and use the threat of it to end a disturbance or roust an unruly customer.
“I don’t suppose you want a beer,” Fineday said. His voice was soft for such a hard-looking man.
“Got somebody to watch the bar, Will?”
“Why? Arresting me?”
“We’re going in back to talk for a while.”
The crack across Fineday’s face lightened as the skin around it grew an irritated red. After a moment, he straightened up and called, “Lizzie!”
A door in the corner behind him opened and his daughter stepped out.
Lizzie Fineday was twenty, pretty in a surly way, with long black hair and anger in her eyes. Growing up, she’d been a Walt Disney dream of Pocahontas, a pure beauty. She had a lovely voice, sang at school, at powwows. She’d always wanted to be an actress, but Lizzie had a problem, and the problem was drugs. Cork had begun picking her up when she was barely thirteen. At sixteen, she’d run away, headed for Hollywood. She got as far as Denver, where she was arrested in a raid on a crack house. Her father went to fetch her and he put her in rehab. In the four years since, her record had been better, but Cork knew from the things he heard on the rez that she wasn’t clean, just careful. She was still pretty, but in a damaged, brooding way. At the moment, a large bruise marred her face, a purple shadow along the high bone of her right cheek. Her upper lip was puffy, too. She moved behind her father, and she didn’t look directly at Cork.
Fineday started toward the open door, but Cork held back.
“What happened to your face, Lizzie?”
Her hand went automatically toward the bruise but stopped before she touched it. “Nothing.”
“Just woke up and there it was?”
“I fell,” she said, looking at the floor.
“You fall again, how about letting me know.”
She didn’t answer, just turned to the sink where beer glasses waited to be washed.
In the office, with the door closed, Will Fineday sat down at an old desk that was covered with the sports section of several newspapers. He didn’t bother to clear them away.
“What do you want?” Fineday said. “Someone complain I water down the whiskey?”
Cork hadn’t been invited to sit, and although there was an empty chair, he remained standing.
“The name Eddie Jacoby mean anything to you?”
“The guy who got himself killed at Mercy Falls, right?”
“You ever see him out here?”
“Can’t recall.”
“A pain-in-the-ass white man, Will. You’d recall.”
“Then I guess I never saw him.”
“Somebody called him from here several times, from your pay phone.”
“The pay phone’s outside. I don’t see who calls.”
“How’d Lizzie’s face get bruised?”
“Like she said, she fell.”
“Bullshit. You hit her?”
“I never hit Lizzie. And I’d kill anyone who did.”
Cork knew this was true. Will Fineday’s wife had died young, and the man had raised his daughter alone. He’d made mistakes, but hitting Lizzie hadn’t been one of them. Although Fineday had a harsh face, his heart, at least where his daughter was concerned, was something else. Cork had accused him only in the hope of jarring something loose.
“Stone hit her?”
Cork was referring to a man with whom Lizzie was known to keep company. They slept together—everyone knew it—but no one thought of it as love. Stone wasn’t that kind of man.
“Like I said, if he hit her, he’d be dead.”
Cork thought about
Lizzie’s weakness for getting high and about the drugs that had been found in Jacoby’s SUV. “Did Eddie Jacoby hit her?”
“I didn’t kill that man, if that’s where you’re headed. I didn’t even know him.”
“Mind if I talk to Lizzie?”
“Yeah. In fact,” Fineday said, pushing himself up, “you’ve done all the talking you’re gonna do here. I don’t want you bothering Lizzie or my customers. You got a warrant or something, fine. Otherwise, I want you out.”
“Bother your customers?” Cork laughed. “Hell, Will, nothing short of a bazooka’s going to bother them.”
Fineday went ahead of him out the office door and put himself between Cork and Lizzie. Cork thanked him for his time, gave Lizzie a nod, and started out.
Just as he reached the exit, someone gave a high squeal behind him and said, “The other white meat.”
Cork kept right on walking, glad for the feel of the Kevlar against his back.
19
CORK HAD CALLED early in the afternoon to tell Jo he’d be late and not to hold dinner for him. She didn’t feel up to making anything when she got home. When she suggested to the children that they all eat at Johnny’s Pinewood Broiler, she got no argument.
Jo was fond of the Broiler, of how it was the center of much that went on in the community. A big bulletin board hung near the entrance, crowded with notices of local events. Everyone knew everyone else and warm hellos were thrown across the dining room. The aroma always made her mouth water the moment she stepped in, the smell of grease on the griddle, of deep-fry.
They took a booth near a front window overlooking Center Street. After they ordered, Jo and Jenny talked about college applications while Annie helped Stevie with the maze and puzzles on the children’s place mat. Several people stopped by to tell Jo how awful it was, what had happened on the rez, and to ask did Cork have a clue who was responsible.
They were near the end of the meal. The waitress was clearing their dishes when Ben Jacoby appeared at the table looking tremendously pleased to see them.
“Hello, Jo. What a nice surprise.”
She wasn’t sure it was.
“I drove by with your husband yesterday. Smelled delicious. I wanted to stop in before I left. Is this your family?”
She introduced the children. “This is Mr. Jacoby.”
“How do you do?” he said, addressing them all at once with a charming smile. He studied Stevie’s place mat. “Looks like you solved everything. Good for you.”
“Annie helped.”
“That was nice of her.” He turned to Jenny. “I understand you’re interested in Northwestern. That’s my alma mater.”
“Really?” Jenny’s eyes danced.
“My son’s a senior there this year.”
“Sweet,” Jenny said.
“Sweet?”
“She means way cool,” Jo interpreted.
“I’d be happy to talk to you, tell you anything you want to know. The only problem is that I’m leaving first thing in the morning.”
“Oh.” Jenny’s disappointment showed. Then she brightened. “We’re having pie at home. Maybe you could join us?”
“I’m sure Mr. Jacoby has other pressing matters,” Jo said.
“Actually, no. I’d love some pie. That is, if it’s all right with you.”
She wasn’t pleased, but there didn’t seem an easy way out.
“All right,” she said, reaching for her purse.
“I’ll just follow in my car,” Ben suggested. “How’s that?”
He sat at the kitchen table with Jenny. Jo made coffee while Annie dished up the apple pie, which, she explained, she’d made herself from a recipe her aunt Rose had given her. Ben declared it delicious, the best he’d ever tasted. Annie blushed deeply under the compliment.
Stevie went out to play, and Ben told Jenny all about Northwestern. She asked about the writing program.
“I’m not familiar with it,” he said. “You want to be a writer?”
“Doesn’t everybody?” She laughed.
“Who are your favorite authors?”
“Anaïs Nin, Virginia Woolf, Louise Erdrich. And I absolutely love To Kill a Mockingbird.”
“Doesn’t everybody?” It was his turn to laugh. “Do you know Tillie Olsen?”
“Should I?”
“Read Tell Me a Riddle. I think you’ll find it to your liking. Have you ever visited Northwestern, toured the campus?”
“No, but Mom and I have been talking about it.”
“I’d be glad to show you around sometime. If you and your mom decide to come down.”
“Really? That would be terrific.”
Ben looked at Annie. “And you, I’ve heard, are an athlete. Softball, right?”
“That’s my favorite, but I like all sports.”
“Notre Dame fan?”
“Go Irish.”
“It’s not that far from Evanston to South Bend. You could probably talk your mom into visiting both campuses the same trip.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink.
The back door opened and Cork stepped into the kitchen. His surprise at finding Ben Jacoby at the table with his family was obvious.
“Good evening,” he said.
Jo rose to greet him, kissed his cheek. “We ran into Ben at the Broiler. When Jenny found out he graduated from Northwestern, she had to give him the third degree.”
“Informative?” he asked Jenny.
“I’ve learned tons, Dad.”
Jo said, “Have you eaten?”
“Grabbed a sandwich.”
“How about some pie, then?”
Cork shook his head. “Looks like everybody’s finished. Maybe later.”
“Dad,” Jenny said. “I’m going canoeing with Alexandra Cunningham tomorrow on Higman Lake. You said I could borrow the Bronco, remember?”
Cork said, “I’ll leave the keys on the counter for you.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s a beautiful evening out. Why don’t we have our coffee on the front porch?” Jo suggested.
“I’d like that,” Ben said.
“Can you stay, Cork? Or do you have to get back?”
“I’ll stay.”
The children cleared the table while the adults stepped out onto the porch.
“A porch swing.” Ben smiled. “I’ve never actually seen one except in movies. May I?”
“Be our guest,” Jo said.
He sat down and began swinging gently. Cork leaned against the porch railing. Jo joined him there.
“I hate to bring up an unpleasant topic, Cork, but did you make any headway on Eddie’s murder today?” Ben said.
“Maybe. I need to follow up a couple of things before I know for sure.”
“Promising leads?”
“Leads often look promising but end up nowhere.”
“You must have a lot of patience.”
“What he has,” Jo said, “is obsession. Once he starts on an investigation, he can’t stop until he’s solved it.”
“Bulldog Drummond, eh?” Ben laughed.
It was Friday evening, the sun had just set, and Gooseberry Lane was cradled in quiet and a soft amber light. In the O’Loughlin house across the street, someone played easy blues on a guitar. Stevie stood in the yard tossing a baseball into the air. It fell back into his glove with a little slap of leather.
“This is nice,” Ben said. “All so very nice.” He sipped his coffee. “I understand you were a cop in Chicago for a while, Cork. You ever miss the big city?”
“Never. This is my hometown.”
“Mine is Chicago. I love it, but this is pretty damn fine, I have to admit. What about you, Jo? Miss Chicago?”
“No, but I would love to get down there soon. My sister lives in Evanston.”
“Rose?”
“Yes. With her husband Mal.”
“Convenient. Especially if Jenny decides to attend Northwestern.” Ben scanned the street, the yards in late shadow, and gave a satisfied
sigh. “All the arrangements have been made to fly Eddie’s body home. We’ll be leaving first thing in the morning. Jo, it’s been a pleasure seeing you again. Cork, you’re a lucky man.”
The front door opened and Annie said, “Dad, there’s a phone call for you. She said it’s important.”
“I’ll be right there.” He glanced at Ben. “Excuse me.”
“Of course.”
When Cork left, they fell into silence, but Ben didn’t take his eyes off Jo. She wanted to say something but wasn’t sure what, and was relieved when Cork returned.
“I need to go,” he said.
“Business?” Ben asked.
“It was Dina.”
“Dina?” Jo hadn’t heard the name before.
“A consultant the Jacobys have brought in to help with the investigation.”
Ben drank the last of his coffee. “What did she want?”
“She was a little circumspect, but she seems to think it’s important.”
“Should I come?”
“You’re leaving tomorrow, Ben. I’ll be consulting with Dina when you’re not here, so I might as well start now. Anything important, she can fill you in.”
“Of course.”
Cork started toward the steps. “I might hit the office afterward, Jo. Don’t wait up. Ben, I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure, but this hasn’t been pleasant business.” He shook Jacoby’s hand. “We’re going to solve your brother’s murder.”
“I’m sure you will.”
On the way to his Bronco, Cork said something to Stevie, who giggled. A minute later he’d backed out of the drive and was gone.
Jo glanced at her watch, then at the sky, where the light was fading rapidly. “I should bring Stevie in. It’s time to begin winding down for bed.”
As if he knew what was coming, Stevie suddenly bolted across the street and disappeared behind the O’Loughlins’ garage. Jo guessed that he’d spotted Rochester, the O’Loughlins’ cat, for whom he had a great affection.
“Winding down?” Ben asked.
“He gets into his pajamas, we have a cookie and milk together, then I read to him—or sometimes these days he reads to me. The kind of bedtime stuff you probably did with your son.”