Rhiannon goes no farther than us.”
“It will give you peace of mind?”
“It will.”
“Consider it done,” she said and kissed him.
His cell phone beckoned from the pocket of his jacket, which hung on the back of one of Rainy’s chairs. He said, “I’d better take that.” He left the bed and, naked, danced across the cold cabin floor. He checked caller ID. The call was coming from his house on Gooseberry Lane. It turned out to be Jenny.
“You better come home, Dad.”
“What’s up?”
“The sheriff’s people are here. They have a warrant to search our house.”
CHAPTER 23
It was early enough that the media hadn’t yet roused themselves for the day, and when Cork turned onto Gooseberry Lane, he saw no television vans or reporters. A few of his neighbors were out, standing on their lawns, watching the sheriff’s people and agents of the BCA moving in and out of his house. The driveway was blocked by a Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department cruiser and a dark blue sedan with state plates, and the garage door had been raised. Jenny’s Subaru, which normally would have been in the garage, was parked on the street. Cork pulled up behind it and got out. Agent Phillip Holter and Captain Ed Larson came from the house and met him on the porch steps.
“What’s going on?” Cork asked, keeping his voice low, though he wanted to scream the question. The sun was up, the sky clear and bright, but the morning was still cold enough that his breath huffed out visibly, like blasts of steam.
“The arrow that killed Jubal Little,” Holter replied. “Your prints are all over it. And only your prints.”
“I put my hand around that arrow, Agent Holter. Jubal insisted that I see if it might easily be pushed through or pulled out.”
“When the sheriff’s people got there, the arrow was still in him,” Holter said.
“Of course it was. I had no intention of actually moving it. It was a hunting arrow, for Christ’s sake. You have any idea how badly I would have torn him up if I’d tried? And what’s with the search warrant? If you wanted to go looking through my house, I’d have been happy to let you in.”
Larson said quietly, reasonably, “We need to go by the book, Cork. For your sake as well as ours.”
Holter said, “Mind coming with me to the garage?”
Cork followed him through the wide opening where the garage door had been lifted. It was a two-car structure, which Cork kept clean and well organized. On the north wall hung all his lawn and gardening tools. On the south, he’d mounted large hooks where the O’Connors hung their bicycles when not in use. Along the east wall, he’d created a work area, with a bench and long table and good, bright shop light. Hand tools hung from Peg-Board above the table, and to the right stood a shelving unit where he kept his power tools and supplies.
At the moment, one of the agent’s team was boxing some materials from the shelves, but he paused when Cork and the others entered.
Holter said, “Take a break, Greg,” and nodded for him to leave.
Holter walked to the worktable and picked up a section of what looked to be a long, slender dowel. He rolled it between his fingers, then held it up for Cork to look at.
“The beginning of an arrow?” he said.
“I make my own. But you already know that.”
“Do you make them all the same? With the same pattern of fletching?”
“Yes. It’s a way to identify my arrow from others that might be shot during a hunt.”
“The arrow that killed Jubal Little was exactly like all the arrows in the hip quiver you wore that day. The same fletching.”
“What of it?”
“One of yours?”
“Like one of mine,” Cork said.
“Exactly like one of yours,” Holter said. “Yet when Captain Larson here talked with you at the department immediately following Jubal Little’s death, you never mentioned that fact.”
“I knew Ed was smart enough to figure it out eventually.”
“The arrow that killed the man identified as William Graham Chester, that was exactly like one of your arrows, too. Tell me, O’Connor, how is it that someone else could have shot an arrow you made? Or one exactly like it.”
“My guess is that someone stole it. Or they made it in exactly the way I make mine.”
“Stole it? Just came in and took it? You don’t lock your doors?”
“Agent Holter, I don’t know anyone in Aurora who locks their doors. Could I see that warrant? What exactly is it that you’re looking for?”
“I’d like to see that warrant, too.” A tall man with a long ponytail and dressed in a jean jacket and white shirt and blue jeans walked into the garage. He had eyes the color of chocolate brownies and a voice that spoke its words as slow and rich as maple syrup. This was Leon Papakee, Cork’s attorney. Like Cork, he was what Indians sometimes called a “blood,” a man of mixed heritage. Leon’s Indian heritage was Meskwaki, out of Iowa.
“Thanks for coming, Leon,” Cork said.
“Captain Larson, Agent Holter,” Papakee greeted the officers. “Could I see the warrant, please? And where’s Sheriff Dross?”
“Inside,” Larson replied, nodding toward the house. “I’ll get the warrant.” He left the garage through the side door and headed to the house.
“I haven’t seen you in a while, Phil,” Papakee said casually. “How have you been?”
“Busy, Leon,” Holter replied, just as easily.
“You two know each other?” Cork asked.
“We crossed swords once before,” Papakee said. “The Louis Santee case, down in Granite Falls, couple of years ago. So, is the miscreant business booming, Phil?”
“Economy’s down, Leon. Always drives the crime rate up.”
“Think Jubal Little was killed because of the poor economy?”
“At this point, Leon, your speculation is as good as mine.”
“My speculation is that my client had nothing to do with the recent deaths at Trickster’s Point, and that your presence here is entirely unnecessary.”
Before Holter could reply, Larson returned with the warrant and handed it to Papakee, who read it carefully.
“I’d like to talk with my client in private. All right?”
“Sure,” Holter said with a magnanimous air.
They walked out of the garage and into the backyard. Trixie, the O’Connors’ mutt, was lying in the sun near her doghouse. She roused herself when she saw the two men and trotted toward Cork, her tail wagging like a crazy metronome. She came between the men, and both Cork and Papakee leaned down to pet her.
“What do you know about Holter?” Cork asked.
“Ambitious as they come. By the book, but if he’s got it in for you, he’s like a bronc rider, and he’ll stay on you till you break. The warrant’s pretty specific,” Papakee said. “They’re taking any tools and materials that might relate to the making of arrows. That’s understandable. But they’re also taking your computers and printers. And they’re looking for some flyers advertising your P.I. business. Any idea why?”
“Not a clue, Leon. I had those flyers printed several years ago, when I first started the business. I still print a few on my own now and then, but I can’t imagine what they could possibly want with them.”
“Do you have any left?”
“A few maybe, somewhere around my office. The document’s still on my computer, too.”
“Okay. Let’s see if we can get to the bottom of this.”
