She hadn’t slept well, and not just because of Stevie’s restless jerking. She missed Cork. She was relieved when he’d called the evening before and told her about the raid on the farmhouse in Carlton County, relieved that it ended the danger to him. She wanted so much to be with him then, to hold him. But he was safe, and that was the important thing.
Her nose lifted at the smell of coffee brewing, and she pulled back the covers and slipped from the bed, careful not to wake her small son. She threw on her robe and left the guest room of her sister’s home. Rose lived with her husband, Mal, in the upper level of a duplex in a nice neighborhood at the north end of Evanston. The building was long and narrow, what Rose called a railroad car design. In front was the living room, connected by a long hallway to the kitchen in back. Off the hallway on either side were the bedrooms and the bath. Jo found Rose in the kitchen rolling dough on a cutting board while coffee trickled into a pot on the counter.
“Cinnamon rolls,” Jo said. “The kids will love you. They’ve missed your cooking.”
“And I miss their appetites. Mal appreciates my cooking, but eating’s never been that important to him. All those years of self-denial, I suppose. Coffee’s just about ready. Want some?”
“I’ll get it,” Jo said.
“Sit down, relax. This is my kitchen,” she said proudly. She wiped her hands on her apron and went to the cupboard.
Jo watched her sister with amazement and pleasure. There was so much different about Rose now. She’d been plain and heavy all her life, but in the past few months she’d dropped weight, and a lovely color flushed her cheeks. There was a lively snap to all her movements, a joyous energy. This, Jo suspected, was due to love.
“Mal likes his job?”
“It’s perfect. Basically the same thing he did before he came to Aurora, but he doesn’t have to be celibate now.” She laughed sweetly.
For seventeen years, Rose had lived with the O’Connors, most of that time in a cozy attic room, taking care of the household while Jo and Cork both worked the law from different angles. Near the end, Mal Thorne had come to Aurora. Father Mal Thorne, then. For nearly two years, he’d served the parish of St. Agnes. During that time, he began to question significantly his commitment to the Church, and in the fertile ground of that doubt, his love for Rose had grown until he could not deny it. She’d felt the same. Yet, it had taken the actions of a madman to put her into Mal’s willing arms and to convince him it was time to divest himself of his collar and cassock. They’d been married in a civil ceremony and had moved to Chicago, where Mal, as a priest, had once headed a homeless shelter run by the Chicago Archdiocese. He did the same now for a publicly funded shelter.
As Rose turned to bring the coffeepot to the table, Mal walked into the kitchen in his drawstring pajamas. He was medium height. His hair was light brown, thin, and cut close enough to see the tan of his scalp. In his youth, he’d been a champion boxer, middleweight—he still had scar tissue over his left eye and a nose that was crooked from having been broken several times—and carried himself in a way that suggested both power and grace. He smiled often and broadly and did so now.
“Good morning, ladies.” He swept Rose into his arms and kissed her lavishly.
Rose held the hot coffeepot at a safe distance. When Mal stepped back, she said, “I was going to offer you coffee to wake up, but I see you don’t need it.”
“A beautiful day,” he said, and opened his arms toward the window and the sunlight beyond. “Family here and Cork out of danger, blessings both. Where are the kids?”
“Sleeping,” Jo said. “Even Stevie. It’s been hard on them lately. They could use the rest.”
“I’m sure.” Mal sat down at the table, opposite Jo. “What’s the plan for today?”
Jo hid a yawn behind her hand. The coffee was good, but rest would have been better. “I’m thinking that Jenny and I will take a look at Northwestern, since that’s one of the reasons we’re here.”
“Good. Then tomorrow or maybe the next day we might drive to South Bend so Annie can have a look at my alma mater.”
“She’d love that, Mal. She talked nothing but Notre Dame the whole way down.”
“Is she still hoping for a softball scholarship?”
“She’s determined.”
Rose, who was forming dough strips into tight spirals for the cinnamon rolls, said, “She’s like you. When she sets her mind to something, she makes it happen.”
The phone in the hallway rang. Mal got up.
“Sit down, I’ll answer it,” Rose said.
Mal kept moving. “You’ll get the phone all sticky.” In the hallway, he answered with a cheery “Good morning.” Then: “Yes, she is. Just a moment.” He put the receiver to his chest. “For you, Jo.”
“Is it Cork?”
“No, but it’s a man.” He handed her the phone and went back to the kitchen.
It was Ben Jacoby. His voice sounded showered and shaved and sparkling. Jo still had sleep in her eyes.
“Ben? How did you know I was here?”
“Dina Willner.”
Dina. The woman working with Cork to solve the murder of Ben’s brother. It made sense.
“I’m sorry about the bomb scare, but I understand they got the bastards.”
“Yes.”
“That’s wonderful. Look, I’m sorry to be calling so early. I have some good news. I talked with a friend of mine in the admissions office at Northwestern. If you and Jenny are available today, he can arrange a private tour of the campus.”
“Today?” she said.
“Unless you have other plans. I’m sure he’d be willing to schedule anytime. I just wasn’t certain how long you’d be staying.”
“Today would be fine. Thank you, Ben.”
“Also, I was wondering if you might be free for a drink tonight.”
“I don’t think so.”
“A glass of wine and half an hour of your time.”
“It’s not a good idea, Ben.”
“I understand, but…” He fell silent, and Jo didn’t know if he was gathering himself for another attempt or had given up. “Look, there are things I need to say to you.”
She moved into the front room, distant from the kitchen.
“Like what?”
“Give me half an hour.”
“You’ll have to do better than that.”
“I want to tell you why I left.”
“That’s not important to me now.”
“It might be, if you knew. One drink. One glass of wine. One last time. Please.”
She considered a long time before replying. “All right.”
“I’ll pick you up. Seven?”
“Seven is fine, but I’ll meet you there.”
“Deal.”
He gave her the name of a restaurant on Green Bay Road, and he gave her his cell phone number, just in case.
“Ben?” Rose said when Jo came back to the table.
“Jacoby. I told you about him last night. The brother of the man who was killed.”
“That’s right. Your old law school buddy.”
Although they’d shared many confidences, Jo had never told her sister about Ben Jacoby, and as far as Rose and Mal knew, they’d simply been acquainted in law school. At some point, Jo intended to tell Rose the whole story, but not at the moment.
“He’s pulled some strings to get Jenny a tour of Northwestern today.”
“That’s great,” Rose said.
“He also asked me out for a drink.”
“We’ll be glad to watch the children,” Mal offered.
“Thanks.”
She reached for her coffee. Although she’d put Ben Jacoby behind her long ago, his sudden departure from her life had been a nagging mystery for twenty years. She cradled her cup in both palms and carefully sipped the strong French roast amid the deep quiet of the dead birds.
29
THEY ALL SAT in Cork’s office and for a long time said nothing, just drank t
he good coffee Dina Willner had brought, and sifted through their own, silent thoughts.
“We won’t know for a while if the rifle we found at the farmhouse is the same one that fired the rounds at the Tibodeau cabin,” Simon Rutledge finally said. “So we need to assume this isn’t just some goofball who wants to scare you and is using the situation.”
“Anybody ever tell you, Simon, that you’ve got a real knack for stating the bleeding obvious,” Ed Larson said.
Cork knew the tension in the room was the result of tired people once again having to step into the front lines feeling as if they’d gained no ground.
“The phone records will tell us where the call came from,” he said.
“It came from nowhere that’ll be of any help to us, I can tell you that right now,” Larson said.
He took off his gold wire-rims and massaged the bridge of his long nose. Rutledge tapped the desktop with his fingertips as if sending out Morse code. Dina Willner stirred a white plastic spoon in her coffee. Cork, who’d hardly slept, sat with a notepad in his lap and read over and over again what he’d written about the voice on the phone the night before.
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 graduated 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.