“I might.” Cork stood at the counter, full in the sunlight. He could tell the day was going to be a warm one. “George, I really think the sheriff ought to know about Rennie Decouteau.”
LeDuc pushed his coffee away for good. “No offense meant here, Cork, but the sheriff hasn’t exactly been Wonder Woman in taking care of things lately.”
“She’s had a lot to take care of. Look, George, what is it precisely you want me to accomplish?”
“We want to know who killed the Kingbirds. We want to know where Lonnie Thunder is. We want to know who beat up Rennie Decouteau. And we want to know who burned down the Blessings’ place.”
“What about who killed Buck Reinhardt?”
“We don’t care about Buck. There are more than a few Shinnobs would give a medal to the guy who shot him.” LeDuc stood up, preparing to leave. “I’m thinking hiring you is what might be called a convergence of common interests. I’d guess the sheriff wouldn’t mind at all if she knew you were working the rez. I know you got a rock in your shoe name of Lonnie Thunder that you’d be happy to get rid of. And the council’s concerned that if we don’t get some answers soon, we’ll have scared people, red and white, hauling out their hunting rifles and looking to shoot something other than whitetails.”
“A lot of what you’re asking is what I’ve been doing anyway, George. So what’s the five grand for?”
“Anything you find out, you come to us with it first. We decide what the authorities know. The truth is, there’s a lot of concern about how all this is going to affect the casino. We don’t want folks staying away because they hear there’s some kind of Indian war going on.”
“So a lot of this comes down to worrying about money.”
LeDuc nodded at the check lying on the table. “Is that going to be enough? If you need more, don’t be shy about saying so.”
Cork shrugged. “What’s a nice coffin cost these days?”
Cork found Enos Minot and Ari Ostrowsky standing at the edge of the square of char and ash that had been the Blessing house. Minot was one of Marsha Dross’s deputies. Ostrowsky was a volunteer fireman. Together, they were the Tamarack County Fire Investigation Unit, an entity Cork had created when he was sheriff. Both men had completed training with the National Fire Academy, the Minnesota State Fire Marshal, and the Minnesota BCA. They were both small and complemented each other well. Enos was laid-back and thoughtful. Ari was like a sheepdog, running around the scene trying to shepherd all the disparate elements into a cohesive and understandable whole. They loved their job.
Cork parked his Bronco on the road and walked toward the two men, who were conferring over clipboards.
“Enos, Ari,” he greeted them.
“Hey, Cork,” Ari said with an eager and affable grin. “What brings you out here?”
“Working for the Iron Lake Ojibwe, Ari. This is the rez, and they’re concerned. You guys got any idea what happened here?”
Enos shook his head. He was mostly bald, and in the warm, late-morning sunlight, his bare scalp glistened with a thin sheen of sweat. “This will be a tough one, Cork. The structure’s almost totally destroyed. Gonna be a bear trying to pinpoint the origin of the fire. If we just had some wall left standing…” He shook his head again.
Ari, who wore a Minnesota Twins cap, waved off his partner’s concern. “We’ll get to the bottom of it once we’re able to move in there and start sifting. Still too many hot spots.”
“Any way to tell the time the fire started?” Cork asked.
Enos nodded. “When we interviewed Ms. Blessing, she indicated she returned from the casino about four thirty A.M. The place was still burning but the walls had already collapsed. At most, we think, the fire started a couple hours earlier.”
“So, around two thirty?”
“That’s in the ballpark,” Ari said.
“Was Fanny the one who reported it?”
“Yeah. Called from a neighbor’s house a couple of miles down the road.”
“How was she?”
Enos ran his hand over the top of his head, then wiped the sweat on his pants leg. “By the time we got here and had a chance to interview her, she’d calmed down. I heard that earlier she was pretty hysterical.”
“Know where she is?”
“Went to stay with a relative. A cousin, I think. I’ve got the name and address if you want it.”
“Thanks, we’ll see. Has her son been around?”
“Tom?” Enos pointed toward the old gas station across the road. Parked in the shade of a willow on the east side of the derelict structure was Tom Blessing’s Silverado. “He’s been there watching us most of the morning. We interviewed him. He claimed he was at his girlfriend’s house all night. Sheriff’s going to follow up on that.”
Ari bent and picked up a charred piece of wood that blackened his fingers. “Nobody even noticed. The yin and the yang of this beautiful isolation.”
“I’m going to talk to Tom,” Cork said. “You guys sticking around for a while?”
“Yeah. We haven’t been able to get to the heart of things yet,” Enos said. “And the investigator for the insurance company’s on his way up from Duluth. Want to be here when he arrives.”
“Thanks, guys.”
“You betcha, Cork,” Ari said. The men turned their attention back to their clipboards.
Cork headed toward the old derelict gas station across the road. It looked much the same as it had when the photographer from National Geographic had immortalized it in the pages of that publication. Though the accompanying article had been about the problems of the rez, to Cork the old gas station was a different kind of symbol. He saw something admirable in it, something that spoke of tenacity, of endurance in the face of neglect and all the other elements that worked to break it down. In a way, it was like the spirit of the Ojibwe.
In the shade of the willow, Tom Blessing lowered his window.
“ Boozhoo, Tom,” Cork said in greeting.
“Waubishash,” Blessing said, reiterating the name he’d taken as one of the Red Boyz. He wore sunglasses and stared at Cork from behind the big black lenses.
“I’m sorry about your mother’s house.”
“Not as sorry as she is,” Blessing said.
“I heard about Rennie Decouteau. How’s he doing?”
“His name is Kaybayosay. And he’s been better.”
“I heard the Red Boyz are considering a response.”
The dark lenses of Blessing’s sunglasses reflected the burned-down house. “News to me. The Red Boyz got nothing on their minds but being law-abiding citizens.”
“Any idea who beat up Decouteau?”
“I told you, his name is Kaybayosay.”
“Fine. Any idea who messed him up?”
“Same piece of shit who did this, don’t you think? Came looking for me here, didn’t find me, took it out on my mother’s house, then grabbed Kaybayosay and took it out on him.”
Cork had to admit it seemed like a reasonable read of the incidents. “Look, Tom-”
“Waubishash.”
“As hard as it’s going to be to restrain yourself and the Red Boyz, nothing’s gained by going off half-cocked. Let the sheriff’s people do their work. They’ll get to the bottom of things.”
Blessing gave a derisive laugh. “Right.”
“How long you figure on staying here?”
“Longer’n you, I imagine.” Blessing crossed his arms and went back to staring across the road.
Blessing was right. There wasn’t anything more for Cork to do there. He went back to his Bronco and left.
Yellow Lake was fifteen miles southwest of Aurora. It was only slightly smaller than the county seat and had its own police force. The police shared a building with the volunteer fire department, which was located on a corner across the street from a lakefront park. The view was lovely: green grass; blue water; dark pines; and a sky full of clouds, like angels’ breath on a cold morning.
Dave Reinhardt was seated at his desk, leaning over an opened manila folder, head bowed. He wore his khaki
