dead man on my hands. I need you to cut out the bullshit and help me here. Whose name did you give him?”
Newsome looked pained that Cork didn’t believe him. “Sheriff, I-”
“Augie, do I have to remind you about the incident in Yellow Lake?”
“All right. I gave him one name and that was a few months ago. Krisane Olsen.”
“Where’s she working these days?”
“She hangs out at the casino.”
“One name, last year, that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“He never asked again?”
“He asked. I played dumb.”
“Why?”
“Talk to Krisane, you’ll understand.”
“All right, Augie. Thanks.”
“Guys like him, Sheriff, when they end up with their balls cut off, it’s not hard to figure why.”
Cork gave him a puzzled look.
“Talk to Krisane.”
Augie Newsome walked down the bar to where a man in a Minnesota Twins T-shirt had just sat down on a stool.
The Chippewa Grand Casino was a blaze of lights among the pine trees a quarter mile south of the town limits just off State Highway 1. Before the Iron Lake Ojibwe purchased the land and built the casino a few years earlier, the area had been a county park. The lot was packed with cars when Cork arrived. Even in the worst winter weather or in the black hours of morning when the rest of the county slept, the casino lot was never less than half full. That so many people felt compelled to empty their pockets, blithely or in desperation, had always baffled Cork. He’d been among the most skeptical when the casino had first been proposed, and while he knew that its success was a blessing both to the Anishinaabeg and to the economy of Tamarack County, there was something about the enterprise that felt like wolves feeding on sheep.
He found Krisane Olsen sitting at the bar, smoking a cigarette, a glass of red wine on a napkin in front of her. She chatted with the bartender, Daniel Medina, a Shinnob from Leech Lake. Krisane wore a shiny lime-green dress with a hemline that barely covered her ass. There was gold, or more likely imitation gold, around her neck and wrists and dangling in big hoops from her earlobes. She was a small woman, nicely built, with cranberry- colored hair and a face done brightly to mask her fatigue. Days, she worked as a dog groomer. Nights, she worked even harder.
Cork had changed out of his uniform before leaving his office, put on a blue flannel shirt, brown cords, a yellow windbreaker. When he wanted information, the uniform often presented a barrier. People would talk to Cork, but they clammed up in the official presence of the sheriff.
“Evening, Krisane.” He took the stool beside her.
“Oh Jesus.” She sent a cloud of cigarette smoke heavenward.
“What’s she drinking, Dan?” Cork asked.
“Merlot.”
Cork pulled out his wallet. “Give her another on me and then give us some space, okay?”
“Sure thing, Cork.”
“What do you want?” Krisane said.
“Information, that’s all.”
“Right.”
“Know a guy named Eddie Jacoby?”
“Never heard of him.”
“A little shorter than me, dark hair, nice physique. From Chicago. Wears a gold ring on both of his pinkies.”
“Never laid eyes on him.”
Medina brought the glass of merlot. Cork laid a ten on the bar, told him to keep the change.
When they were alone again, he said, “I’ve always been square with you, Kris. I know how it is when you’re a single parent trying to make ends meet, and as long as you’ve done business quietly and safely and no one complained, I haven’t bothered you. Isn’t that right?”
“Whatever,” Krisane said. She ashed her cigarette in a star-shaped tray.
“This is the deal. You play straight with me now or I’ll arrange to have an undercover vice officer follow every move you make.”
“You’d do that?”
“I just said I would.”
“I’ve got a kid to worry about.”
“Right now your biggest worry is me. Understand?” He turned on his stool and faced her directly. “Did you ever hook up with Edward Jacoby?”
She stubbed out her cigarette, dug out a pack of Salems from the small beaded purse she carried, and fished out another smoke.
“Well?”
She lit the cigarette and exhaled with a sigh. “Only once. Four months ago.”
“Only once? He didn’t look you up again?”
“He came looking all right. I didn’t want to have anything to do with him.”
“Why?”
“The guy was psycho. He liked to hurt people. Women, anyway.”
“What did he do?”
“Come on, Sheriff.”
“I need to know.”
She rubbed her thigh nervously with her free hand. “He was into a rape thing. He wanted me to fight him- you know, struggle. But he got rough for real. I tried to stop him for real. He just beat me up and did what he wanted. When he was done, he threw the money on the floor. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“Why didn’t you come to the department and make a complaint?”
She gave him a withering look.
“Anything like that ever happens again, Kris, you come to me directly. Okay?”
She was twenty-seven years old. Cork figured that by the time she was forty, the dye would ruin her hair, the smoking would make her voice like the growl of a bad engine, and the hard life would burn her out, leave her with no more substance than the ash at the end of her cigarette.
“All right,” she said.
“Where were you last night?”
“Here. Danny’ll tell you.” She nodded toward the bartender, who was laughing with a man farther down the bar.
“You were here all night?”
“I left at ten.”
“Alone?”
She hesitated a moment. “No.”
“But not with Jacoby.”
“No way. You can ask Danny about that, too. He knows who Jacoby is.”
“What time did you go home?”
“Around one.”
“I may have to talk to the john you were with.”
“Jesus, Cork.”
“I didn’t say it was for sure. But you’d better know who he was, or how to find out who he was.”
“He had a room at the hotel here. I can give you the number.”
“All right.”
