In the office, with the door closed, Will Fineday sat down at an old desk that was covered with the sports section of several newspapers. He didn’t bother to clear them away.
“What do you want?” Fineday said. “Someone complain I water down the whiskey?”
Cork hadn’t been invited to sit, and although there was an empty chair, he remained standing.
“The name Eddie Jacoby mean anything to you?”
“The guy who got himself killed at Mercy Falls, right?”
“You ever see him out here?”
“Can’t recall.”
“A pain-in-the-ass white man, Will. You’d recall.”
“Then I guess I never saw him.”
“Somebody called him from here several times, from your pay phone.”
“The pay phone’s outside. I don’t see who calls.”
“How’d Lizzie’s face get bruised?”
“Like she said, she fell.”
“Bullshit. You hit her?”
“I never hit Lizzie. And I’d kill anyone who did.”
Cork knew this was true. Will Fineday’s wife had died young, and the man had raised his daughter alone. He’d made mistakes, but hitting Lizzie hadn’t been one of them. Although Fineday had a harsh face, his heart, at least where his daughter was concerned, was something else. Cork had accused him only in the hope of jarring something loose.
“Stone hit her?”
Cork was referring to a man with whom Lizzie was known to keep company. They slept together-everyone knew it-but no one thought of it as love. Stone wasn’t that kind of man.
“Like I said, if he hit her, he’d be dead.”
Cork thought about Lizzie’s weakness for getting high and about the drugs that had been found in Jacoby’s SUV. “Did Eddie Jacoby hit her?”
“I didn’t kill that man, if that’s where you’re headed. I didn’t even know him.”
“Mind if I talk to Lizzie?”
“Yeah. In fact,” Fineday said, pushing himself up, “you’ve done all the talking you’re gonna do here. I don’t want you bothering Lizzie or my customers. You got a warrant or something, fine. Otherwise, I want you out.”
“Bother your customers?” Cork laughed. “Hell, Will, nothing short of a bazooka’s going to bother them.”
Fineday went ahead of him out the office door and put himself between Cork and Lizzie. Cork thanked him for his time, gave Lizzie a nod, and started out.
Just as he reached the exit, someone gave a high squeal behind him and said, “The other white meat.”
Cork kept right on walking, glad for the feel of the Kevlar against his back.
19
Cork had called early in the afternoon to tell Jo he’d be late and not to hold dinner for him. She didn’t feel up to making anything when she got home. When she suggested to the children that they all eat at Johnny’s Pinewood Broiler, she got no argument.
Jo was fond of the Broiler, of how it was the center of much that went on in the community. A big bulletin board hung near the entrance, crowded with notices of local events. Everyone knew everyone else and warm hellos were thrown across the dining room. The aroma always made her mouth water the moment she stepped in, the smell of grease on the griddle, of deep-fry.
They took a booth near a front window overlooking Center Street. After they ordered, Jo and Jenny talked about college applications while Annie helped Stevie with the maze and puzzles on the children’s place mat. Several people stopped by to tell Jo how awful it was, what had happened on the rez, and to ask did Cork have a clue who was responsible.
They were near the end of the meal. The waitress was clearing their dishes when Ben Jacoby appeared at the table looking tremendously pleased to see them.
“Hello, Jo. What a nice surprise.”
She wasn’t sure it was.
“I drove by with your husband yesterday. Smelled delicious. I wanted to stop in before I left. Is this your family?”
She introduced the children. “This is Mr. Jacoby.”
“How do you do?” he said, addressing them all at once with a charming smile. He studied Stevie’s place mat. “Looks like you solved everything. Good for you.”
“Annie helped.”
“That was nice of her.” He turned to Jenny. “I understand you’re interested in Northwestern. That’s my alma mater.”
“Really?” Jenny’s eyes danced.
“My son’s a senior there this year.”
“Sweet,” Jenny said.
“Sweet?”
“She means way cool,” Jo interpreted.
“I’d be happy to talk to you, tell you anything you want to know. The only problem is that I’m leaving first thing in the morning.”
“Oh.” Jenny’s disappointment showed. Then she brightened. “We’re having pie at home. Maybe you could join us?”
“I’m sure Mr. Jacoby has other pressing matters,” Jo said.
“Actually, no. I’d love some pie. That is, if it’s all right with you.”
She wasn’t pleased, but there didn’t seem an easy way out.
“All right,” she said, reaching for her purse.
“I’ll just follow in my car,” Ben suggested. “How’s that?”
He sat at the kitchen table with Jenny. Jo made coffee while Annie dished up the apple pie, which, she explained, she’d made herself from a recipe her aunt Rose had given her. Ben declared it delicious, the best he’d ever tasted. Annie blushed deeply under the compliment.
Stevie went out to play, and Ben told Jenny all about Northwestern. She asked about the writing program.
“I’m not familiar with it,” he said. “You want to be a writer?”
“Doesn’t everybody?” She laughed.
“Who are your favorite authors?”
“Anais Nin, Virginia Woolf, Louise Erdrich. And I absolutely love To Kill a Mockingbird.”
“Doesn’t everybody?” It was his turn to laugh. “Do you know Tillie Olsen?”
“Should I?”
“Read Tell Me a Riddle. I think you’ll find it to your liking. Have you ever visited Northwestern, toured the campus?”
“No, but Mom and I have been talking about it.”
“I’d be glad to show you around sometime. If you and your mom decide to come down.”
“Really? That would be terrific.”
Ben looked at Annie. “And you, I’ve heard, are an athlete. Softball, right?”
“That’s my favorite, but I like all sports.”
“Notre Dame fan?”
“Go Irish.”
