Rutledge sat on the sill of an open window, relaxed, with his legs crossed. He wore faded jeans, a white shirt under a navy cardigan, and New Balance walking shoes. He looked like a college professor about to address his class, pleased with what he was going to present.
“You remember the night Reinhardt was killed, after we finished at the Buzz Saw, I made a rather late visit to his wife, Elise.”
“I remember,” Cork said. He recalled the joking speculation that Rutledge had more than business on his mind.
“I figured she was bitter already and dealing with a good deal of grief over the death of her daughter, and once she learned about her husband’s faithless behavior she’d probably added anger to the mix. It seemed to me a volatile combination, one that might drive a person to do something as extreme as murder. Call it a hunch.”
“A hunch?” Dross laughed. “Come on, Simon, you put it together like a chemical formula.”
Rutledge smiled and went on. “When we interviewed her earlier, she told us she usually didn’t go to bed until well after midnight, when the booze finally put her under. She was up when I got there, and as a matter of fact, had a drink in her hand.”
“A little surprised to see you, I imagine,” Cork said.
“Absolutely. But you know me, Cork. Utterly charming. She invited me in, offered me a drink, which I accepted, and we had a little chitchat about this and that, during which I mostly sympathized with her situation. She was pretty well lubricated and I steered the conversation toward the killing. I assured her we’d get the shooter. All we had to do was locate the rifle that had been used, and I was sure that wouldn’t be too difficult since we had an expended cartridge, which would give us plenty to go on. Unless-I added this as a dramatic afterthought-the shooter had the presence of mind to get rid of the weapon. Right away, I could see a kind of desperate realization in her eyes, which she tried to cover by undoing the top button of her blouse.”
“And did her action distract you, Agent Rutledge?” Dross asked.
“A lesser man maybe. Me, I simply bid her good night and drove away. Or appeared to drive away. A couple of hundred yards down the road, I killed the headlights, parked, and hoofed it back to the Reinhardt place, which I intended to keep under surveillance all night if need be. Wasn’t necessary. Within twenty minutes, Ms. Reinhardt comes out of the house, stumbles down to the lake, and throws something in. After the lights finally go out inside, I wade into that cold water and come up with a very nice-looking Weatherby Mark Five. I took it to the BCA lab in Bemidji to have them check for a match against any impressed action marks on the shell we found at the crime scene. We got the results this morning. The rifle Elise Reinhardt threw into the lake is the same weapon that killed her husband.”
“Ed Larson is out there right now with a warrant for her arrest,” the sheriff said, finishing the story. “We thought you’d want to know.”
“Thanks.”
“Some cases,” Rutledge said, “you know what the truth is but you’re never able to accumulate the evidence to prove it. But every once in a while, it gets handed to you on a platter.”
“But some cases you’re never sure what the truth is,” Dross said. “Any headway tracking down Lonnie Thunder, Cork?”
“I hate to admit it, Marsha, but I’m giving up the search for Thunder. As nearly as I can tell, he’s gone from the reservation, gone for good.”
“Do you still think he was responsible for killing the Kingbirds?”
“No.”
“Nor do I,” the sheriff said. “I’m with Ed Larson on this one. I think it was a drug hit. We’ll keep working with the DEA, but we may never know the truth of what happened out there. I hate leaving the case open. I’m sure the Ojibwe will have a lot to say about that. I think what we do now is focus on shutting down the Red Boyz operation.”
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Cork said. “I get the feeling they’re already disbanding and that some of the older men will be taking them under their wings. In the end, I think good things will come out of this.”
“There’s something else I think you ought to know,” Dross said. “We’re holding Cal Richards and Dave Reinhardt pending charges of arson.”
“How’d that happen?”
“Richards got drunk at the Buzz Saw last night, started spouting stuff about beating up one of the Red Boyz and burning out another. Talk about dumb. Seneca Peterson called us. When we brought him in for questioning he buckled in ten minutes. Claimed to be proud of what he’d done. Dropped the dime on Dave Reinhardt while he was at it.”
“Reinhardt, now there’s a shame. Never thought he was a bad guy,” Rutledge said.
“His old man really screwed with his head,” Cork said. “Have you picked him up yet?”
Dross nodded. “He’s all lawyered up, but he’s also feeling pretty bad since we told him it was Elise who killed his father. I’m thinking that after it eats on him awhile, he’ll talk.” She sat back in her chair and took a deep breath. “I’m hoping things in Tamarack County quiet down now. The last week has shot the budget to hell. And I could use a good night’s sleep.”
“Me, I’m heading home,” Rutledge said, pushing away from the windowsill. “Always a pleasure working with you folks.”
“How’d your son do in the track meet yesterday?” Cork asked as Rutledge headed for the door.
“Like I told him last night on the phone, losing builds character. I’m just proud he was out there trying.” He turned with a smile and headed out the door.
In the quiet after Rutledge had gone, Dross turned her chair and looked out the window at the park across the street. “It’s been a tough week, Cork. There were times I wished to God I wasn’t the sheriff.”
“I suspect there’ll be a lot more of those before you retire.”
She swung around and faced him. “Thanks for all your help. You put a lot on the line when you didn’t have to.”
“I’d say, ‘Any time,’ except Jo would kill me.” Cork turned and walked to the door. “Get some rest, Sheriff,” he said over his shoulder. “You deserve it.”
FORTY-FOUR
The baby’s cry pulled Lucinda from her husband’s arms. She went to see to Misty. The phone rang and she heard Will answer. She changed the baby’s diaper and put her in a new outfit, little Oshkosh overalls that had been a gift from one of the families who’d come to the visitation for Rayette and Alejandro. When she came into the living room with the baby in her arms, she found Will standing at the picture window, gazing out at the beautiful Sunday morning. He turned to her and looked happy.
“What is it?” she asked.
“That was Cork O’Connor on the phone. The sheriff is arresting Elise Reinhardt for killing her husband.”
“They’re sure it was her?”
“Cork says there’s proof. I told him I was afraid it had been Uly, because of the missing Dragunov and all. He told me he thought it might have been Uly, too. He figured we’d be relieved.”
“Oh, Will.” She felt a flood of relief, of gratitude, of happiness.
“That still doesn’t answer the question of why Uly took the rifle,” Will said.
“You can ask him yourself.” She nodded toward the road, visible through the window, where she saw Uly walking from town, carrying the overnight bag he’d taken to Darrell Gallagher’s house.
At the driveway Uly stopped for a minute, staring back toward Aurora.
“Sometimes he looks so lost it breaks my heart,” Lucinda said.
“At that age, Luci, everybody’s lost.” Will put his arm around her shoulders. “Tell me an age we aren’t.” He strode to the front door and called out, “Uly, could we talk to you?”
Uly dragged his feet up the steps like a man mounting the gallows.
Lucinda put the baby on the floor and sat down with her. She had Misty’s pink rubber pig in her hand, which squeaked whenever she squeezed. She made the pig squeak and Misty smiled and tried to reach for the toy.
