color of pearl. “I’ve been looking at this. Death was the result of a stab wound directly to the heart.”
“Yes,” Larson said.
“And it appeared that Eddie put up no struggle, right?”
“That’s right. High blood alcohol content in his blood and traces of Ecstasy. He was probably pretty high.”
“Hmmmm,” she said.
“What is it?” Larson asked.
“Eddie Jacoby was in terrific physical condition. All the Jacobys are. Even drunk, even high on Ecstasy, even surprised, he’d fight, believe me. Unless…”
She put a finger to her lips and the men waited.
“The very first knife wound was the fatal one.”
Larson thought it over. “That would require a lot of luck on the assailant’s part.”
“Wouldn’t it,” she said.
“Or someone who knew where to stick the knife, knew what would kill a man instantly.” He rolled that over in his mind. “Maybe somebody put more thought into this than it might appear at first glance.”
The men looked at one another, then at Dina.
“Of course, it could be a jealous husband, as you’ve speculated,” she said. “But he’d have to be one cold, calculating son of a bitch with more restraint than most jealous husbands, in my experience, are capable of.”
Larson nodded slowly. “So scratch jealous husband.”
She waited a moment, then offered, “According to the autopsy, the wounds on the body came from a long, slender blade approximately seven inches in length,” she said.
“Like a fillet knife,” Larson suggested.
“Or a stiletto,” she said. “So. An isolated rendezvous, prints wiped clean, a postmortem castration. I think we can scratch hysterical woman, even a lucky hysterical woman.”
“For the moment, let’s assume that Jacoby brought his own drugs and his murder had nothing to do with that,” Cork said. “He’d been working to secure a contract with the RBC. It’s a controversial issue on the rez.” He paused as he realized something, and he looked at Dina. “You already decided this was about Starlight. That’s why you wanted to go with me to the rez.”
“Given everything we know at the moment, it seemed the best prospect,” she replied.
Larson said, “What about those cigarette butts and his need for female companionship? Are we going to ignore that?”
“Maybe he was lured to Mercy Falls,” Dina said.
Larson nodded. “It would be good to know if he was seen with anybody that night. I’ll check his hotel again and the bars in town. Maybe somebody remembers something.”
“Sounds good,” Cork said. He moved on to the other investigation. “Anything more on the shooting, Simon?”
Rutledge shook his head. “We blanked on the tires. But I’ve been thinking. It’s possible we’re dealing with somebody who has a military background. A lot of strategy in the planning and setup. A good position to shoot from. The hardware to do the job. An escape route chosen to keep the shooter away from traffic at the cabin.”
Cork said, “What about the shell casings he left behind? Not great planning there.”
“I don’t know. That is puzzling. It’s as if the shooter was distracted from his mission.”
“The shooter may not have been alone,” Cork said. “The woman who imitated Lucy Tibodeau on the phone may have been with him. Maybe she panicked, and that was the distraction.”
“I think we’d do well to look for someone with a good knowledge of the Iron Lake Reservation who has a military background and a grudge against you, Cork,” Rutledge said. “Do you know anyone who fits that description?”
“I could name a few Shinnobs who were Vietnam vets and weren’t happy when I arrested them, but I can’t imagine any of them wanting to kill me for it.”
“What about a hunter rather than a soldier?” Dina said. “From what I understand reading the incident report, the sniper was two hundred and fifty, maybe three hundred yards from his target. That’s not a difficult distance for a good hunter, especially one with a reasonable rifle and scope. I would imagine hunters in this area are quite used to having to adjust for upslope and downslope shots. And they probably have a good understanding of where to position themselves for maximum effect. Plus,” she went on, “I think there’s a fundamental problem with the military scenario.”
“What’s that?”
“Again, just from what I understand reading the report, the sheriff saw a flash of light off the rifle, maybe from the scope, maybe a plate on the rifle stock. A trained sniper would never let that happen. The scope would be hooded and any metal on the stock that might reflect light would be covered. It also seems to me that a trained sniper would have chosen a position on the west side of the hollow, in the shadow of the hill behind the cabin where sunlight in his eyes or on his weapon wouldn’t have been an issue.”
“A hunter,” Rutledge said, and gave a slight nod. “The problem there is that this is a county full of hunters.”
She tilted her head. “That is a problem.”
There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Cork said.
It was the dispatcher Patsy Gilman. “I’ve got the flowers, Cork. I’m heading to the hospital.”
“I’ll be right with you.”
“I’ll wait,” she said, and closed the door as she left.
The department had taken up a collection to buy flowers for Marsha Dross. Patsy wanted to deliver them before she had to report for her shift at three o’clock that afternoon. Cork had asked to go along.
He took his copy of Jacoby’s cell phone records. “After the hospital, I’ll head out to the rez and have a talk with the members of the RBC.”
“I’d still like to petition mildly that I come with you,” Dina said.
Cork shook his head. “People on the rez will be reluctant to talk to me as it is. With you along, they wouldn’t say a word.”
“If you’re going rural, Cork,” Ed Larson said, “wear your vest.”
Cork wasn’t sure he would. He didn’t want to sit down and talk with people if it appeared that he was dressed for battle. And this trip to the rez would be different from the one he’d made with Marsha Dross. This time, no one knew he was coming.
18
The town of Allouette was the political and social center of the Iron Lake Reservation. That didn’t mean there was much to it. A grid of a dozen streets, several still not fully paved. A new community center that housed the tribal offices and a health center. A Mobil gas station and garage owned by Les Standing. The Nanaboozhoo Cafe. And George LeDuc’s store.
LeDuc’s was a small general store in a clapboard building with scratched wood floors. The shelves held a little of everything, from bread to Band-Aids to bait and tackle. It was also the post office for the rez.
When Cork stepped in, LeDuc was behind the counter.
“Boozhoo,” LeDuc called out in greeting.
“Boozhoo,” Cork called back. “Good to see you, George.” He walked to the counter where LeDuc was preparing the day’s mail for pickup.
“Good to see you, too. Still alive.” LeDuc grinned. The lines of his face deepened, but there was a vigor in his dark eyes much younger than his seventy years. “How’s your deputy?”
“She’ll be fine.”
“Everyone on the rez is talking about that shooting.”
“Anything come up I ought to know about?”
