uniform. When Cork came in from off the street, Reinhardt jerked upright, as if he’d been napping, and he quickly slid a desk drawer closed.
“Paperwork used to put me to sleep, too, Dave. That and late nights.” Cork walked across the little office and into the reek of whiskey.
Reinhardt picked up a Bic pen that had been lying on the papers in the open folder. He began tapping the desktop with the point of the pen. “What can I do for you, Cork?”
“For starters, you can stop trying to appease your father.”
“I don’t have the slightest idea what that’s supposed to mean.”
“No? You have any idea what the word ‘Ojibwe’ means?”
“Like I give a flying fuck.”
“Loosely translated, it means to pucker up. Now, a lot of Shinnobs accept the theory that the name came from the way the Ojibwe sew their moccasins, with a little pucker to the stitch.”
“Is this going somewhere?”
“There’s another theory. This one holds that the Ojibwe got their name because they used to roast their enemies slowly over a fire until they puckered up. The point is this, Dave. Any more Shinnob houses get burned down, any more Shinnobs get worked over, I’ll tell the Red Boyz who to look up. And I just might tell them about the old way of dealing with an enemy, if they don’t already know.”
“You’re talking riddles I got no answer for, O’Connor.”
Cork leaned his hands on the desk and bent toward Reinhardt. “Dave, don’t become Buck. With all due respect, those are shoes not worth filling.”
Reinhardt’s eyes were webs of red lines. The booze and lack of sleep, Cork figured. “Who do you think you are, O’Connor, passing judgment on my father?”
“I knew him my whole life, Dave. I don’t like speaking ill of the dead, but that man’s ghost needs to be put to rest. And no matter how much you drink, you’re not going to resurrect him with a whiskey bottle.”
“Get out of here.”
“Marsha Dross isn’t stupid. She’s going to figure you out. Me you can ignore. Marsha and her badge, they’ve got you trumped six ways from Sunday. Start using your head, Dave, before somebody gets hurt.”
Cork walked back into the beautiful day, leaving Reinhardt alone in his office, plagued by a bad hangover and a badly misplaced sense of duty.
THIRTY-TWO
Lucinda Kingbird knew the man who stood on her porch in the shade of the early afternoon, although she could not remember his name. There was a title that went with it, something military. He had been at Alejandro’s home after she discovered the bodies that horrible Sunday morning.
“Yes?” She held Misty to her shoulder, gently patting to bring up a burp. She did not open the screen door.
“Ms. Kingbird, I’m Captain Ed Larson, from the sheriff’s department. We met the morning your son was killed.”
“I remember.”
“I’d like to speak with your husband. Is he home?”
“No.”
“I stopped by his shop, but it was closed. Do you know where he is?”
“He’s away.”
“Away? Out of town, you mean?”
“I think so, yes.”
“You think so?” The policeman looked puzzled. “When did he leave?”
“Last night.”
“What time?”
“I do not know. I was sleeping.”
“Do you have any idea where your husband was last night around ten thirty?”
“Why are you asking these questions?”
“Ms. Kingbird, last night at approximately ten thirty, Buck Reinhardt was murdered.”
“ Madre de Dios,” Lucinda said involuntarily. She looked at the policeman. “You are here because you think Will did this thing?”
“We don’t know who did it, Ms. Kingbird. As part of our investigation, we need to know the whereabouts of anyone who might have reason to have wanted Mr. Reinhardt dead. Do you see?”
“Yes. You think that because people say this Buck Reinhardt killed my Alejandro and Rayette that we would want him dead. That is ridiculous.”
“Nonetheless, Ms. Kingbird, we need to check. So, you have no idea where your husband was at ten thirty last night?”
“We buried my son and daughter-in-law yesterday. It was a very hard day for us. We were tired. I went to bed here. My husband, I suspect, went to bed at his shop.”
“And then left town without telling you?” When Lucinda didn’t reply, he went on, “Do you expect your husband home soon?”
“Later today perhaps. Maybe tomorrow. How was this man killed?”
“He was shot in the parking lot of a bar. A high-caliber rifle was used. It would save your husband and me a lot of trouble if you’d have him give me a call when he returns.”
He pulled a card from his wallet and held it out. Lucinda opened the screen door and took it.
“How’s the baby doing?” the policeman asked, finally smiling.
“She is fine and beautiful,” Lucinda replied, forcing a smile in return.
She watched the policeman leave, then she closed the door and dressed Misty for a trip outside. She went to the bedroom, opened the top dresser drawer, and from the small cedar box took the extra set of keys for the Gun Sight.
By the time she reached Will’s shop, Misty was asleep in her car seat. Lucinda lifted her out carefully and the baby didn’t wake. She punched in the code to disengage the alarm, then opened the back room. She hurried to a tall rifle case that stood against the west wall and used one of the keys to unlock it. When she opened the door, she was confronted with a rack of what she knew were heavy-caliber rifles, her husband’s private collection. There was an empty slot where a rifle was missing. Lucinda thought about the three weapons she’d seen laid out on Will’s work table a couple of days before, and she realized the Dragunov was gone.
“Oh, Will, Will,” she whispered, her heart full of despair. “What have you done?”
THIRTY-THREE
T he procedure to repair Stevie???s nose was scheduled for one P.M. in one of the hospital’s day-surgery rooms. Both Cork and Jo were there to see him wheeled in. It was, Dr. Barron had assured them, a rather quick and simple procedure. The nose would be rebroken and set correctly. Stephen wouldn’t feel a thing, and his face would be just fine afterward, eventually showing no sign that his nose had ever been damaged. Stevie hadn’t seemed to mind the idea. What was most important to him was another day off from school.
Cork walked with Jo to the waiting area after they rolled Stevie away.
“Are you okay here by yourself?” he asked.
“I told you I would be. Go do whatever it is you have to do.”
She wasn’t angry with him, which was a little unusual. Earlier, when he’d told her he had something important to do and asked if she would mind waiting alone for Stevie’s procedure to be finished, he’d expected her to respond coolly at best. Instead she’d nodded thoughtfully and replied, “It’s about the Kingbird and Reinhardt
