“To live in a small town and like it, you have to appreciate routine.”
“Routine. There are days when I’d sell my soul for a little of that.” The sentiment seemed sincere.
The main lodge at the Quetico Inn was a grand log construction that stood on the shore of Iron Lake a couple of miles south of town. Cork pulled up to the front entrance and put the Pathfinder in park. Jacoby reached for the door handle.
“I’d like to talk more with your family,” Cork said.
“We’ll be in town a couple of days.” He gave the handle a pull, opened the door, and stepped out. He tossed Cork a bemused look. “Nancy Jo McKenzie. Who would’ve thought it? Good afternoon, Sheriff.”
He meant to get home for dinner as Jo had asked, but when he returned to his office, he found the department besieged by the media, and he arranged for a press conference at the courthouse at five o’clock. He contacted Simon Rutledge, who agreed to be there, but Rutledge was delayed and the conference began twenty minutes late. Cork had prepared an official statement that included the first public announcement of the identity of the murdered man, and he dispensed the statement to all the reporters. News cameras had also been sent by network affiliates in Duluth and the Twin Cities. Simon Rutledge deferred to Cork on most questions, and Cork answered honestly what he could, indicating that evidence had been gathered and that they had leads which he declined to go into.
After the press conference, he met with Rutledge and Larson in his office. They didn’t feel either of the investigations had made much headway.
“I’m expecting to have a fax of Jacoby’s phone records by tomorrow. I’m hoping that’ll give us some direction,” Rutledge said.
Larson chimed in. “In the meantime, we’ve pulled prints from his room at the Four Seasons. The linen gets changed daily, and it appears he didn’t sleep in his bed last night, but we’ve taken the bedspread and maybe we’ll get something from that-hair samples, for example, that match those from the SUV.”
“How about the cigarette butts?”
“Still being analyzed,” Rutledge said, with a note of apology.
Cork knew that the resources of the state BCA crime lab were in great demand, and whatever was sent from Aurora would have to wait its turn.
“One thing, though,” Larson said. “When I talked with the Four Seasons staff, they told me that in the past Jacoby stayed for only two or three days. This time, he’d been there more than a week.”
“And this time,” Cork said, “the RBC is getting ready to vote on a contract proposal for Starlight’s services.”
“A lot of heavy lobbying on Jacoby’s part?” Rutledge said.
“We should find out. I’ll head out to the rez first thing tomorrow and talk to LeDuc and some of the other members of the RBC,” Cork said.
“Another thing to think about is Jacoby’s libido,” Larson said. “I talked to the staff at the Boundary Waters Room.” He was speaking of the restaurant at the Four Seasons. “Jacoby ate late, usually after a couple of drinks at the bar, then he generally left the inn. He sometimes came back with company.”
“He got lucky?”
“Or he was the kind who didn’t want to be alone, even if it cost him.”
“I talked with Newsome,” Larson said. Then, for Rutledge’s benefit he added, “The night bartender at the Four Seasons. Newsome said Jacoby had asked him once where a guy with cash could find himself a little company.”
“What did Newsome tell him?” Cork asked.
“Claims he said he didn’t know.”
“How hard did you lean on him?”
Larson said, “There are a lot of people to talk to, Cork.”
“I know there are, Ed.” He took a moment, shifted his thinking to the incident on the rez. “Did your man or Pender come up with anything on those Goodyear tires?”
“Nothing. They’ll widen their area of inquiry tomorrow.”
“How about the ammo?”
“Nothing there, either. But we’ll keep on that, too.”
“Simon, anything from your talk with Lydell Cramer’s sister?”
“I never got to her. She lives on a farm. The road’s gated and locked. I wanted to get back here for the press conference, so I’ll try again tomorrow, talk to the local cops, see what they can tell me.”
They ended their meeting. As he was leaving, Larson said quietly to Cork, “How’re you doing?”
“Tired. I imagine you are, too. But if you’re worrying about my mental state, don’t. And by the way, I have an appointment to see Faith Gray tomorrow.”
“I wasn’t worried, Cork,” Larson said. “Just concerned.”
13
Cork had called to say he wouldn’t be home for dinner. Jo wasn’t angry. She understood his situation. But she wasn’t happy, either. The children helped with dishes, then turned to their homework.
Jo went into her office at the back of the house to do some work of her own. She was going over the file of Amanda Horton when the phone rang.
“I was hoping you would answer.” The voice was low and certain, and she knew it instantly. “I need to see you.”
“What for?”
“To talk.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“Please. Just to talk.”
“We can talk on the phone.”
“There are things you need to know. For your own good. Please.”
She closed her eyes and knew even as she made her decision that it held all the potential for disaster. “All right. My office in the Aurora Professional Building. In fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you.”
She went to the living room, where the children sat among their scattered books and notebooks and pencils.
“I have to go to my office for a while. You guys okay?”
“Sure, Mom,” Jenny said. “A client?”
“Yes.” The lie felt like something piercing her heart.
The rain had ended in the afternoon, but a dreary wetness lingered. It was after seven, the sky a dismal gray that was sliding into early dark. The radio in her Camry was on, tuned to NPR, All Things Considered, but she wasn’t listening. She turned onto Oak Street, pulled to the curb, and stopped half a block from her office. She sat with her hands tight on the steering wheel, staring through the windshield at an old tennis shoe abandoned in the street. It looked like a small animal cringing in the beam of her headlights.
She closed her eyes and whispered, “Christ, what am I doing?”
She heard the car approaching, the whish of the tires on wet pavement. A black Cadillac passed and half a block farther turned into the parking lot of the Aurora Professional Building. She took a deep breath and followed.
When she parked beside the Cadillac, he stepped out.
“This way,” she said, and went to a side door where she used her key.
The hallway was quiet and dimly lit, but from somewhere she couldn’t see came the sound of a buffer going over a floor.
“Cleaning staff,” she said, more to herself than to him.
She led the way to her office, unlocked the door, stood aside to let him pass. Closing the door behind her,
