have no control. She knew she would never act on what she felt, but it still frightened her.
She studied her husband, sleeping restlessly beside her. There had been rough periods in their marriage, but they were in the past. And the truth was, she loved Cork, as much for all he’d committed to working through with her and forgiving as for all that had been effortless and good between them.
He stirred, moaned softly. She lifted herself, leaned to him, and gently kissed his lips. Although she knew his sleep was troubled, for a moment in his dreaming he smiled.
16
First thing in the morning, before the day watch came on, Cork met with Ed Larson and Simon Rutledge so they would have time to alter duty assignments for the deputies if necessary. Cork related his conversation with Krisane Olsen and suggested it would be a good idea to interview the other women in Tamarack County who were known to take money, even occasionally, for sex. He and Larson came up with the list, and Larson said he’d see to it. Rutledge expected the records for Eddie Jacoby’s cell phone any moment. He hoped they might offer more leads. Cork wanted to talk with the Jacoby family, find out if Eddie might have said anything to them that would be enlightening about his activities in Aurora. Rutledge thought he would try again to interview Lydell Cramer’s sister. The possibility of Cramer being involved in the rez shooting was thin, but until they got more lab results there weren’t any other threads to follow. They agreed to stay in touch and to meet again around noon.
The overcast of the day before was gone, and the morning was bright and crisp as Cork drove to the Quetico Inn. For the last quarter mile, the road ran alongside the resort’s Jack Nicklaus-designed golf course, where the grass sparkled with dew. All the holes appeared to be empty, but Cork spotted a lone figure jogging in the green apron between the thirteenth fairway and the road. He recognized Tony, Lou Jacoby’s driver. He passed, slowed, pulled over, and stopped. As the man approached the Pathfinder, Cork got out to meet him.
“Good morning, Sheriff,” he said brightly. His face was flushed and his long black hair was damp with sweat, but he seemed barely winded. He wore tight black Lycra pants and a light-blue windbreaker. “Paying a call on the Jacoby family?” He glanced toward the lodge in the distance, then down at his sports watch. “You’ll find Lou eating breakfast. He has breakfast every day sharply at nine. Ben’s probably with him. Or playing golf.” Now Cork could hear very definitely the Spanish accent he thought he’d caught the day before.
“Golf?” Cork said, thinking the man’s brother had just died.
Tony smiled. “It’s a strange family, Sheriff.”
“I didn’t get your full name.”
“Tony Salguero.”
“You do something for the Jacobys besides chauffeur?”
“I almost never chauffeur. Mostly I’m a pilot.”
“You flew the Jacobys out here?”
“Yes.” He rubbed his thighs vigorously. “My muscles are getting a little stiff, Sheriff. Do you mind if I return to my run?”
“Maybe you could help clear up a couple of things first. You got here awfully fast yesterday. Lou must’ve called you right away.”
“He did. I was sailing. I got the call on my boat.”
“Sailing where?”
“I was returning from an outing to Mackinac Island.”
“And you still made it back to Chicago to fly the Jacobys?”
“I had docked at a marina in Kenosha, Wisconsin, for the night. When Lou called, I arranged for a helicopter to O’Hare where we keep the jet.”
“Couldn’t he have used a different pilot?”
“He prefers me. And I told him I could get him here.”
“When Eddie Jacoby came out, did you fly him?”
“Not usually. That was for his business, so his company took care of that.”
“Commercial flights?”
He shrugged. “I guess so.”
“What about this last time?”
“I flew him. He asked me as a favor. I don’t know why this time was different. But I told him he was on his own coming home. I would be sailing.”
That probably answered the question of how Edward Jacoby had come by the drugs in his SUV. He’d brought them with him.
“Look, Sheriff, if I don’t start running again, I’ll pull something. Okay?”
“ ’Preciate your time.”
“By the way,” he said as he stretched down, grabbed his calves, and put his forehead against his shins, “when you get to the lodge, you’re in for a surprise.” He came up smiling enigmatically and took off at a run.
Cork parked in the lot and went into the main lodge. The Quetico Inn was on the national register of historic buildings. It had been constructed in 1928 by a consortium of celebrities that included, among others, Babe Ruth, and was intended to be a getaway for the rich and famous. The Depression pretty much quashed that idea, but the beauty and integrity of the lodge had been maintained, and during the crazy economic boom of the 1990s, the resort had been expanded into a conference center that included tennis courts, the golf course, an Olympic-size indoor pool, a marina, and a restaurant with the best wood roast in all the north country.
The restaurant, a large, sunny room with a million-dollar view of Iron Lake, had few diners. It was Friday morning; on Saturday, however, and again on Sunday, the place would be packed. The Jacobys sat at a table near one of the windows overlooking the lake. They weren’t alone. A woman sat with them, listening intently to Lou Jacoby as he talked. When Cork approached, Jacoby looked up, and the talking ceased. A moment of cold silence, then Ben Jacoby spoke up.
“Sheriff, won’t you join us?”
From the residue on the elder Jacoby’s plate, Cork guessed he’d had the renowned eggs Benedict. Ben Jacoby had a bowl, nearly empty now, of fresh fruit and yogurt. The woman had eaten oatmeal. They all were drinking coffee.
Cork took the chair on the empty side of the table. The sun was at his back, and his upper body cast a shadow over the white tablecloth.
“Dina, this is Sheriff Cork O’Connor,” Ben Jacoby said to the woman. “Sheriff, Dina Willner.”
The woman, who was seated to the right of Cork, extended her hand. “How do you do?”
Her eyes were green and smart in a face that was easy to look at. She had brown hair with highlights, cut sensibly short. She was slender and probably stood no more than five feet three or four, but Cork felt an undeniable power in her the moment he shook her hand.
“Fine, thanks,” Cork said.
“Would you like something to eat?” Ben Jacoby said.
“I’ve had breakfast, thanks.”
“How about coffee?”
The woman said, “You look like you could use some.”
“You look only half-awake yourself,” Cork replied.
“Red-eye from Chicago last night. I drove up from the Twin Cities this morning. Just got here. I’m a little shy on sleep.”
“Dina is a consultant on security issues. I’ve asked her here to give you a hand with your investigation of Eddie’s death.”
“A hand?”
The waiter returned. He was young and blond, with a healthy blush to his cheeks. He wore a name tag that read Jan and below that Finland . For years, the Quetico Inn had hired staff from all over the world to help during high season. He asked, in English that sounded very British, if everything was to their liking and whether Cork would care to order something.
