To anyone who knew Marsha, her house was a pretty fair reflection of the woman. Neat, uncluttered. Needlework hung framed on the walls, an art form that had been a favorite of her mother. A few lush plants, just enough to make the rooms comfortable. Finished floors with hand-loomed rugs. It was a nice place, but given her upcoming marriage, Cork could understand why she’d sell.
“Go on back,” Frank said when he returned. “She’d love to see you.”
Marsha’s room was full of sunlight that made her face bright. Her hair was brushed, and she appeared to have put on a bit of makeup. She wore a clean white T-shirt and had the covers tucked around her below that. She was sitting up, her back propped against a pillow. She smiled when Cork walked in.
“You’re looking better,” he said.
“I wish I could say the same for you.”
“Last couple of days have been a little rough.”
A small white wicker chair had been placed next to the bed for visitors, and Cork sat down.
“We got him,” he said.
“I know. Patsy called. What she couldn’t tell me was why he did it.”
“He died without saying directly, but I’m almost certain it began as a hit.”
“Who hired him?”
“We’re working on that.”
She registered no emotion. She was in bed, recovering from a wound that had nearly killed her, that had jeopardized her hope of ever giving birth to a child; yet, here she was, accepting with a simple nod that Cork still had no idea who had ordered the attack or why. He wondered if it was because she understood that knowing wouldn’t change her situation, or because she believed that eventually what was hidden would be revealed, that Cork would find the answers. Maybe it was both, because Marsha was strong and she believed in her work and in her colleagues.
“Doctor says in six weeks I can be back on duty.”
“What’s Charlie think of that?”
“Charlie’s decided that he’d rather have a wife who’s in a different profession. We’ve called off the wedding.”
“I’m sorry, Marsha.”
“It would have been an issue eventually. Better to deal with it now. You look beat. You should go home, Sheriff.”
“I’ll keep you in the loop, I promise.”
He stood up and Marsha put her hand over his on the bedspread. “Going into the Boundary Waters after Stone, that was a stand-up thing to do.”
“Thanks.”
Frank was waiting at the front door to let him out.
“She told me about Charlie,” Cork said.
“She’s strong,” Frank replied. “In every way. She’ll be fine. And Charlie? Truth is, I never thought he was the right guy for her anyway. Thanks for stopping by.”
Cork shook Frank’s hand, then headed out into the sunshine of that fine fall day. The screen door creaked on its hinges, and a moment later he heard the soft slap of wood on wood as it closed behind him.
He finally went home. Upstairs, he tugged off his clothes, stepped into the shower, and stood for a long time hoping the hot water would melt all the tension in his muscles. While the water ran, he considered the situation as it now stood, sifting through what he knew for an understanding of what he didn’t.
The shooting at the Tibodeau cabin was a hit, arranged by some guy. According to Lizzie Fineday, Stone hadn’t been any more specific than that. Some guy. Moose LaRusse? Who was doing it for Lydell Cramer or Cramer’s sister? Then why hadn’t Stone referred to LaRusse as a Shinnob, more common among the Ojibwe? And so far, was there any substantial evidence linking Moose LaRusse or Lydell Cramer directly to Stone? The connection was certainly possible but yet to be proven.
Who else had a connection with Stone?
Eddie Jacoby.
Okay, Cork thought as the water started to parch his skin, suppose it was Jacoby behind the hit. Why? Generally speaking, murder, when it was planned, was either for vengeance or gain. Had he done something to Jacoby to warrant his hatred? He barely knew the man. So what about gain? Was there something in Cork’s death that would benefit Jacoby? Did Cork stand in the way of Jacoby’s scheming to get a contract for Starlight? He couldn’t think how. What could Jacoby possibly gain by killing him? Cork had nothing. Jacoby came from a family that had everything.
He stepped out of the shower and toweled off, then went to the sink, intending to lather up and shave his two-day bristle. He opened the medicine cabinet and a jar tumbled out, which he managed to catch before it hit the floor. It was the Noxzema Jo used every night to cleanse her face, a simple object, but as he held it in the palm of his hand he felt a solid and profound connection with the woman he loved. He seemed to be at the bottom of a deep emptiness and wanted nothing more at that moment than to have Jo there beside him. He took a deep breath and put the Noxzema back.
He reached for his razor but stopped.
He realized there was something he had that one of the Jacobys wanted, but it wasn’t Eddie.
Ben Jacoby wanted Jo.
Hadn’t he felt it the night Jacoby sat at his kitchen table? Hadn’t he seen it in Jacoby’s eyes whenever he looked at her?
Cork hesitated. Was this crazy thinking? Was this lonely, jealous, tired, crazy thinking?
He tried to slow himself, to consider it carefully, step by step. Stone had been hired to kill him. Eddie Jacoby had a relationship with Stone that included dealings of a potentially criminal nature, so arranging a hit was not out of the question. Ben Jacoby was responsible for getting his half brother hired by Starlight. Had he been planning this for some time, plotting to use Eddie’s presence in Aurora to set up the hit? Was he capable of such a cold, calculated act? Hell, who exactly were these Jacobys?
“Grabowski Confidential Investigations.”
Boomer Grabowski spoke words the way a rock crusher spit out gravel.
“Boomer, it’s Cork O’Connor.”
“Again?”
After Boomer and Cork worked together as cops in Chicago, Cork left the force to move to Aurora. A few years later, Boomer had taken an early medical retirement because of an accident that left him with a leg that was next to useless, and he had opened his own private cop firm. A lot of time had lapsed without the two men talking, then a few months ago Cork had called Boomer for some help with a situation that was tied to Chicago. Now he was calling again.
“What kind of mess you in this time?” Boomer said.
“I need you to check on some Chicago people for me, Boomer.”
“It’s what I do.”
“It’s a family. Jacoby’s the name. I’m most interested in Benjamin Jacoby and his half brother Edward Jacoby. Eddie was murdered here a few days ago. We still don’t know who the perp is or the motive.” Cork filled him in on the details, then gave him the addresses for all the Jacobys, including the father, Lou.
“Money,” Grabowski said when he heard where they lived. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything and everything. Where’d the money come from, where does it go. Connections. These are people used to manipulating the world to their advantage, Boomer.”
“They think they’re bad dudes, huh? So I should be careful?” He gave a callous laugh. “You want dirt?”
“If that’s what comes up.”
“Always comes up with money. When do you need it?”
“An hour ago.”
“Done.”
Boomer hung up without a good-bye.
