“Reservation Business Committee.”
“But it’s been Jo who’s dealt with him mostly, right?” Larson said. “Have you talked with her, Cork?”
“Some. About all she could offer was that he was probably a skirt chaser.” Cork rubbed his eyes, which were so tired they seemed full of sand. “Fourteen stab wounds, castration, and drugs. Cigarette butts with lipstick. Could it be we’re dealing with a woman? Considering all the drugs, maybe a woman in an altered state?”
“What about an angry husband?” Larson threw in. “Maybe he followed them to Mercy Falls?”
Rutledge said, “I’ve requested the phone records for his room at the Four Seasons. Also his cell phone records since he arrived in Aurora. That might tell us who he’s been seeing here for pleasure.”
“The casino’s something we should take a hard look at, though,” Cork said. “Starlight’s not a popular notion with everyone on the rez.”
“Unpopular enough for someone to kill Jacoby over it?”
“Jo doesn’t think so.”
“What about you?”
What he thought was that, in the end, the rez was simply a community of people, and people-white, red, brown, black, yellow-were all subject to the same human weaknesses, more or less. He would like to have believed that the heritage of the Anishinaabeg, the culture and its values, made them strong enough to resist the temptations that accompanied the new wealth the casino brought, but he knew it was wishful thinking.
“I honestly don’t know,” he finally said. “Let’s do a background check on Jacoby, make sure he didn’t simply bring trouble with him when he came.”
“Here’s something that’s kind of interesting we found in his wallet,” Larson said.
He handed Cork a business card. The logo was the Hollywood sign of legend, the one perched atop the Hollywood Hills. Beneath was printed Blue Smoke Productions with Edward Jacoby listed as a producer and an address on Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles. No telephone number.
“Jacoby made movies?”
“Or wanted people to think he did.”
“Women?”
“He certainly seemed to like them.”
Cork handed it back. “Something more to check on.” He addressed Rutledge. “How’re we coming on the rez shooting?”
“My guy in St. Paul went out to St. Joseph’s Hospital first thing this morning and talked with Lydell Cramer. Says Cramer was so full of shit, his eyeballs were brown. Cramer claimed that although he was happy to hear about your difficulties, he had nothing to do with them.”
Cork nodded. “Cramer would have trouble just figuring how to put butter on bread. I don’t think he could pull off a hit like this.”
“Let me finish,” Rutledge said. “My guy does a routine check of the visitors Cramer’s had since incarceration. Only one: A sister. Address is in Carlton County. She visited Cramer the day before the sniper attack on the rez.”
“Could be just a coincidence,” Cork said.
“Could be. But I think it’s worth checking out. Carlton County’s only an hour south, so I’m going down today to have a talk with her.”
“All right. Anything from the lab on the shell casings we found?”
“They haven’t run them yet for markings, but they’ve identified them as oversized Remingtons. Hundred and fifty grain. Could have come from almost anywhere. The shooter could even have packed the loads himself. We’ll check out the local hunting and sporting-goods stores, but unless we get very lucky, I’m not hoping for much.”
“What about the tires?” Cork said.
“Better luck there. They’re Goodyear Wrangler MT/Rs. High-end off-road tires, almost new. If they came from around here, we have a good chance at finding out who bought them. I’ve got one of my team on that, but I’d like to give him some help. Can you spare anyone?”
“I’ll swing Deputy Pender your way. He can be abrasive but he’s also thorough,” Cork said.
“Two odd occurrences in two days.” Larson raised his eyebrows. “Any way they might be related?”
Rutledge shook his head. “I don’t see anything that would connect them. One shows a lot of planning, the other has the look of impulse. Of course, at this point, I suppose anything is possible.” He eyed Cork. “I imagine you’ve been racking your brain pretty hard. Anything rattle loose?”
“Not yet,” he said.
“All right, then.”
Rutledge stood up and Larson followed him out the door.
Cork sat for a while, trying to muster some energy. Beyond the window of his office, the gray rain continued to fall. Across the street was a small park. All summer, the Lion’s Club had raised money for new playground equipment and had spent several days volunteering their own time to install it, heavy plastic in bright colors. The playground was deserted. Beyond the park rose the white steeple of Zion Lutheran Church, almost lost in the rain.
Cork went out in the common area to pour himself some coffee. Two men stood on the other side of the security window that separated the waiting area from the contact desk. Deputy Pender was listening to them and nodding. When he became aware that Cork was behind him, he said, “Just a moment, folks,” and turned to Cork. “Sheriff, there are some people here to see you. They say their name is Jacoby.”
11
He seated the two men in his office. The elder man had white hair, a healthy shock of it that looked freshly barbered. He was tanned, in good condition, and dressed in a dark blue suit and red tie, as if he’d come to chair a board meeting. His eyes were like olive pits, hard and dark. If there was sadness in him, they didn’t show it.
“Louis Jacoby,” he’d said in the common area when he shook Cork’s hand. “Edward’s father. We spoke on the phone.”
He’d introduced the second man as his son Ben. Ben remained quiet as his father talked.
“You arrived sooner than I’d expected,” Cork said when he sat at his desk.
“I have a private jet, Sheriff O’Connor. Tell me what happened to Eddie.”
Cork explained the events of the preceding night and where the investigation stood. “I have some questions I’d like to ask.”
“Later,” the old man said with a wave of his hand. “I want to see my son.”
“That’s not a good idea, Mr. Jacoby.”
“I’m sure he’s right, Dad,” Ben Jacoby said. He appeared to be roughly Cork’s age, maybe fifty. There was a lot of his father visible in his features, but his eyes were different, not so dark or so hard.
“I want to see my son.” Jacoby didn’t raise his voice in the least, but his tone was cold and sharp, cutting off any objection.
Still, Ben tried again. “Dad-”
“I’ve told you what I want. I want to see Eddie.”
Ben sat back and gave Cork a look that asked for help.
“I can’t prevent you from seeing your son, but the autopsy’s only just been completed. If you could wait-”
“Now,” the old man said.
“I don’t understand-”
“I’m not asking you to understand, Sheriff. I’m telling you to show me my boy.”
Cork gave up. “All right.”
He took the Pathfinder. They followed in a rented black DeVille driven by a man they called Tony.
In a few minutes, Cork pulled up in front of Nelson’s Mortuary on Pine Street. It was a grand old structure with a lovely wraparound front porch. It had once been a two-story home and was still one of the nicest buildings in town. When the Jacobys met Cork in the drive, Lou Jacoby stood in the rain, looking the place over dourly.
