Sandy.”
“What are they?” Burns said.
“There were six passengers on that plane. Maybe it was about one of them.”
“Which one?”
“Got me.” He reached for one of the coasters on the coffee table, put it in front of him, and set his beer down. “I’ve been thinking, what do we know about the people on that plane? With the exception of my wife, they were all Indian. So maybe it’s something about being Indian. They were all tribal leaders. Anybody who knows tribal politics understands how contentious it can be. So maybe it was that. They were on their way to a conference in Seattle where a number of difficult topics related to mutual rez problems were going to be discussed and some resolutions hashed out. Maybe that was it. Or maybe someone just had a grudge against one of them and acted on it. I could go on.”
“How do we figure out which it is?”
“Mostly we ask questions and try to eliminate possibilities.” Cork reached out and picked up his beer, but he didn’t drink. “One of the things that’s clear is this: Whoever is behind it knew about the charter flight, about Sandy, and put together a pretty damn good plan to impersonate him. So that’s a place to start. Becca, do you know who arranged the flight?”
“No.”
“Would it be in his records?”
“I’m sure it would be. He was meticulous.”
“I’d like to check his home office. And can you give me access to his office at the regional airport down there?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. Tomorrow I’ll drive to Rice Lake and have a look.” Cork drank from the beer that had begun to warm in his hand. “Now, there’s something else we need to discuss, and this is a little scary.”
Burns said, “Steve Stilwell.”
“That’s right. I think we need to assume the worst. Someone took him out of the picture.”
“They killed him?” Becca said.
“That would be my guess.”
“Isn’t it possible they just bought his silence?”
“Then he’d have stuck around and lied to you, told you he didn’t find anything. And buying his silence is risky. He might decide to talk a blue streak to authorities later. I think he found something or he was getting close to finding something and they killed him. Which means they know you’re looking into things.”
“And that you’re helping?”
“Maybe.”
“Who’s they? And should we be worried for our safety, too?”
“At the moment we don’t know who these people are. I can’t imagine that they’re going to kill us outright. Too suspicious. If they decide to act, they’ll figure a way, like they did with the plane, to get rid of us and make it look like it wasn’t murder.”
“Like what?” Burns said.
“How do you heat this house? Natural gas?”
“Yes.”
“Then a gas explosion. Or a drained brake line on your car. Or carbon monoxide poisoning while you sleep. For guys who know what they’re doing-and it sure as hell looks as if they do-the list is probably endless.”
The women shot a glance at each other and the eyes of one mirrored the concern in those of the other.
“What do we do?” Burns asked.
“Whoever we’re dealing with probably won’t take any action until they believe we’ve found something that’ll make the right people listen. In the meantime, I’m guessing that I’ll be the guy they dog.”
“Cork, we didn’t mean to get you involved this way,” Burns said.
“No? What way did you have in mind?” He smiled briefly, then he said, “I lost someone I loved, too. And if there’s a human hand responsible, I’ve got to know. Stilwell operated out of Duluth, right, Liz?”
She nodded. “He’s got an office in Canal Park.”
“You know where he lived?”
“I can find out. Just a minute.” She got up and vanished down the white tunnel of the hallway toward the den.
Becca stared into the Pepsi in her glass. The ice cubes had melted. She spoke without looking at Cork. “My husband was murdered, wasn’t he?”
“I think he was probably dead before that plane lifted off from the airport in Rice Lake.”
“I figured he was somewhere in those mountains in Wyoming. But his body is probably closer to home, don’t you think?” Still she couldn’t look at him.
“Yes, that’s what I think.”
“Do you think…” She bowed her head, as if immeasurably weary. “Do you think you can find him?”
“I don’t know. I’ll try.”
Finally she looked at him, and he saw in her dark eyes a sad determination. “I want to know what happened. No matter how terrible, I want to know.”
“I understand,” he said.
She got up, walked to one of the long windows, and stared at the angry lake.
Liz Burns returned with a slip of paper on which she’d written Stilwell’s office and home addresses. She also brought a small handgun, a North American Arms. 25 Guardian.
“I had a stalker once, a client who developed an unhealthy attachment to me. I bought this for protection.”
“Know how to use it?” Cork asked.
“I fired at the range a few times after I got it. But that was a while ago.”
“I’d visit the range again,” Cork said. He looked toward Becca Bodine, who was still at the window, staring at the lake. “Becca, do you have anything to protect yourself, should it come to that?”
She spoke with her back to him. “Sandy was a hunter. We have a cabinet full of rifles.”
“And you know how to shoot?”
“Yes.” She turned toward him, and her eyes were as turbulent as the lake behind her. “And I’d love the chance to prove it.”
TWENTY-TWO
Canal Park was a thriving commercial district that had once been mostly warehouses and junkyards. Its name came from the cut of the shipping canal through which the great ore boats and other freighters traveled to reach the deep harbor. The old maritime buildings had been refurbished and remodeled and had become home to restaurants and boutiques and offices and lofts. Stilwell’s office was in a building whose first floor housed a number of small shops and a funky little diner. The sign on the diner door said the soup that day was mulligatawny, and when Cork walked past, the tantalizing aroma of curry powder and ginger tried to seduce him. He passed a small bookstore and a souvenir shop, both nearly empty, and took the elevator to the third floor, which was totally deserted. The door to Stilwell’s office was locked. Cork tried to peer through a long pane of translucent glass, but all he could see on the other side was bright sunlight and the dark suggestions of furnishings. The door had two locks: a dead bolt and a knob lock, each of simple pin-and-cylinder design. He pulled a pair of tight leather gloves from the outside pockets of his jacket and tugged them on. From the inside pocket of the jacket, he pulled a small leather case that contained a set of lock picks. He tried raking the dead bolt first but got nowhere. Then he used a pick and tension wrench and after a couple of minutes managed to slide the dead bolt. He quickly sprang the knob lock and slipped inside the office.
Cork stood for a moment, taking in the place. It was a one-man operation: a large desk with a computer monitor, phone, and desk calendar; two tan, five-drawer file cabinets; on the wall, a framed aerial photograph of
