“Officially, she’s listed in guarded condition. They got her hooked up to all kinds of monitors, but she’ll be fine.”
“Fine?” Charlie Annala came from Marsha’s room. He didn’t appear to be any happier with Cork this morning than he’d been last night. “Because of that bullet, she may never be able to have kids. We may never have kids. You call that fine?” He wore the same clothing as the night before. He hadn’t shaved, and from his smell it was clear he hadn’t showered, either. The skin seemed to hang on his face like heavy dough, and his bloodshot eyes looked fractured. “And the hell of it is, nobody can tell me why.”
“Sometimes, Charlie, just being a cop is reason enough for people to hate you.” Frank put a hand on his shoulder. “In the sixties, seventies, they called us pigs. It’s not a job that gets a lot of respect. I told Marsha it wouldn’t be easy, but it was what she wanted to do. It was always what she wanted to do.” Frank gave Charlie a gentle pat. “It can be tough, being in love with a cop.”
“Is she allowed visitors?” Cork asked.
“One at a time,” Frank said.
“Mind if I go in?”
Charlie opened his mouth, about to object, but Frank said, “Sure. Keep it short, though, okay?”
The curtain was partially drawn. Cork walked to the end of the bed. An IV needle plugged into Marsha’s right forearm fed a clear liquid into her body. She was hooked to a heart monitor and a machine that tracked her respiration as well. She lay with her head deeply imbedded in a pillow, the skin of her cheeks a bloodless white. Even so, she managed a smile when she saw Cork.
“Hi,” she said.
“How are you feeling?”
She beckoned him nearer. He walked along the side and took the hand she offered.
“Drugged,” she said. “Not feeling much.” She squeezed his hand. “Thanks.”
“Any time.”
She shifted a little, tried to rise, but gave up. “The investigation?”
Cork looked out the window, which faced east. The hospital was on a small rise at the edge of town, and Iron Lake was visible beyond a line of birch trees that were like white scratches against the blue water.
“We’re getting somewhere,” he said. “We’ve got shell casings, and I’m sure we’ll get a bullet for ballistics. We’ve got tire tracks, too.”
“A suspect?”
“We’re working on that.”
“Eli and Lucy?”
“They weren’t anywhere near the cabin last night.”
She nodded faintly. “I’ve been thinking. You and me in our uniforms, in bad light, we probably don’t look all that different. I think somebody knew you’d answer that call.”
“I’ve been thinking that, too,” Cork said. “We’ll get him, Marsha.”
“ Him? A woman called in the complaint.”
She was a good, smart cop. Even in her drugged state, she’d been putting the pieces together.
“Him, her, them. We’re going to do our jobs and we’re going to get them.”
“You better.” She smiled weakly and gave his fingers another squeeze.
“Rest,” he said.
She nodded, closed her eyes, and let go of his hand.
It was clear to everyone-even Marsha, full of drugs-that Cork was the one the sniper had meant to take out. As he drove away from the hospital with the sunlight sliding off his windshield, he thought about the question Simon Rutledge had posed: Who wants you dead?
They’d talked about it for a bit at the Tibodeau cabin, gone over a few possibilities. Only one seemed plausible. The raid on the meth lab outside Yellow Lake had gone down in July, just two weeks after Cork took over as sheriff. He’d had very little to do with the investigation, but the bust resulted in a tragic afternoon for a family of criminals. Two men, brothers, Lydell and Axel Cramer, were inside an old Airstream trailer parked next to their rural home when Cork’s people arrived and pounded on the door. The chemicals used to make methamphetamine were volatile. It was dangerous business. The two brothers had panicked. There was an explosion, and flames engulfed the trailer. One man stumbled out, his clothing on fire. Cy Borkmann wrestled him down and rolled him in the grass until the flames were extinguished. The man was Lydell Cramer. His little brother Axel never made it out. Lydell was airlifted to St. Joseph’s Hospital in St. Paul, where he awaited trial while recovering from third-degree burns over most of his body. He didn’t talk much, but when he did it was all about getting even with “the pig-fucking cops” who’d killed his brother.
They’d kicked around the idea of Lydell Cramer and decided it was worth looking into.
Patsy, who was on duty in Dispatch, radioed Cork and told him Jo had requested he call her at her office. Instead of calling, he drove straight over.
The Aurora Professional Building was a newer, single-story brick construction on the west side of town. Cork pulled into the lot and went inside. He passed the offices of David Spender, DDS, and Francis Kennilworth, CPA. He came to Jo’s office and went inside. The anteroom was empty, and the door to Jo’s inner office was closed. A sign sat propped on the desk: BACK IN 5 MINUTES. HAVE A SEAT. Which probably meant that Jo’s secretary had gone for coffee, and Jo was with a client. Cork was just about to sit down and wait when the inner office door swung open and a man stepped out. Cork had met him only once before, and he hadn’t liked him.
Edward Jacoby was the kind of guy who smiled broadly and often but without a trace of goodwill. It was hard to know what was really behind that flash of teeth, but as it was, Jacoby’s smile reminded Cork of a wound that showed white bone. Jacoby was in his early thirties, good-looking in a dark way. He had thick black hair, heavy-lidded eyes, the shadow of a beard across his jaw. He was small, but with a large upper body and thick neck, a man who worked out seriously.
When they shook hands, Jacoby’s grip, like his smile, was not about being cordial. A class ring dwarfed the knuckle on his right pinkie. The pinkie of his left hand sported a chunk of gold set with a diamond. Cork had always thought a pinkie an odd finger on which to wear a ring, especially for a man.
“Good to see you again, Sheriff,” Jacoby said.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Jacoby magnanimously waved off Cork’s concern. “Not at all. I was just leaving. Heard you had some trouble last night. Everything okay?”
“Under control.”
“I’m sure it is.” Jacoby eyed him with a shade of concern. “Say, you look like you could use a good night’s sleep. Want some advice? Melatonin before you go to bed. It’s one of those hormones older people’s bodies don’t regulate very well.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
Jacoby reached back and squeezed Jo’s hand. “Always a pleasure, Counselor. Give me a call-you have my cell phone number, right?-after you’ve spoken with the RBC. I’m staying at the Four Seasons. You should have my number there, too. If you don’t get me, just leave a message. Ciao,” he said, and left.
Inside Jo’s office with the door closed, Cork said, “I’ve met rabid badgers I liked better.”
“You don’t have to like him.” Jo picked up a document and scanned it.
Cork sat down at her desk and began to rub the back of his neck, which had developed a slight crick. “Do you?”
“I’ve dealt with him for six months now. I’m almost used to him.”
Starlight Enterprises, the company that employed Jacoby, provided management for casinos all over the lower Midwest and was eager to expand into Minnesota. Jacoby had been working hard for the past half year to make the Iron Lake Ojibwe one of the company’s clients. Because Jo had often represented the interests of the rez and had worked on the casino from its inception, Oliver Bledsoe, who headed the tribal legal affairs office, had retained her to handle the negotiations. The Reservation Business Committee, which oversaw all financial dealings the rez conducted as an entity, had initially rejected the idea. The casino was just about to lose its fourth manager in as many years, however, and several members of the RBC had become vocal advocates for using Starlight to supply consistent, qualified management. They’d finally authorized Jo to come up with a contract that the RBC
