Heaven's Keep

by William Kent Krueger

  “No, which isn’t unusual. He usually touches base only when he has a question or when he has something significant to give me.”

  “Okay. So maybe we can assume that, before he disappeared, he hadn’t found anything he felt ready to share with you. You say he disappeared after he visited Sandy’s office at the Rice Lake airport?”

  “Yes.”

  “So maybe he found something there.”

  “He called me,” Becca said. “From Sandy’s hangar. He told me he wanted to check Sandy’s home office and he asked if I had a VCR at my place.”

  “Did he say why he wanted the VCR?”

  “No.”

  “Did he go to your house?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t there.” She saw Cork’s questioning look. “These days I spend a lot of my time at my sister’s home near Hayward. It’s hard being alone, raising a son. I try to be around family whenever I can.”

  “I understand,” Cork said. “So he called your cell?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you hear from him again?”

  “No.”

  “What time did he call?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe nine o’clock.”

  “P.M.?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you have no idea if he went to your house?”

  She shook her head. “But I told him where I keep a key hidden so he could let himself in.”

  “A VCR,” Cork said. He scratched his neck and thought a moment. “He had a copy of this surveillance tape, right?”

  “Yes. He said he’d watched it several times, but he never mentioned anything about seeing what you saw.”

  Cork rolled all this around for a moment and still didn’t know what it meant. He looked at Becca. “Was there any reason someone might have wanted your husband dead?”

  She seemed taken aback. “Sandy? No.”

  “Take a minute to think about it. Did he have enemies? Did he have associates that you didn’t particularly care for, guys who maybe scared you a little? Were there clients in his charter business that he seemed circumspect about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Cork shrugged. “A pilot flies his own plane, he can carry any cargo, human or otherwise, that will bring him a profit.”

  “You mean like drugs,” she said coldly.

  “Anything that needs to be carried under the radar.”

  “Sandy wouldn’t do that.”

  “It may be that someone killed him, Becca. If that’s true, there has to be a reason.”

  “Not his business,” she said.

  “All right. What about his personal life? He was a recovering alcoholic. Anything there we need to think about?”

  “I told you, he stopped drinking years ago.”

  “No skeletons in the closet?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t need to answer so fast.”

  “You don’t need to accuse him.”

  “Easy, Becca,” Burns said. “He’s just asking questions.”

  “I don’t like his questions.”

  “Or is it that you don’t like the answers?” Cork said.

  “You’re a real son of a bitch, you know that?” Becca said.

  “What is it you’re not telling me?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “That doesn’t get us anywhere.”

  She glared at him. He sipped his beer and waited.

  She sat back and looked away. “Most of his business was flying Indians to powwows and other gatherings around the country. But a while back he flew a job for some Canadians, across the border. Afterward he was—I don’t know . . . quiet. Maybe scared. He didn’t talk about it, but I wondered.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A couple of years. The business wasn’t doing well.”

  “Any dealings with them since?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Any speculation about the nature of what it was that he was paid to transport?”

  “No.”

  “Any names?”

  “No.”

  “Where did your husband keep his records?”

  “Two places. His office in our home and his office at his hangar at the Rice Lake Regional Airport.”

  “You continue to keep his office at the airport?”

  “Yes. Sandy had a yearly lease, and because of the FAA investigation and the lawsuit, it’s just been easier for me to leave everything as it was.”

  “Has anyone handled the records since the plane disappeared?”

  “The FAA investigators made copies of a lot of things.”

  Burns said, “And the attorneys for all the plaintiffs in the lawsuit. The originals should all still be there.”

  “Okay,” Cork said. He sipped his beer. “There are other possibilities to consider. Most don’t have to do with 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 i
n 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 Duluth; a healthy-looking rubber tree near the window; behind the desk, a deluxe computer chair in black micro-suede, and in front of the desk, a matching chair for clients. Cork walked to the desk and checked the calendar, which turned out to be of the Far Side variety. The page that was showing—a cartoon with a couple of lions and an idiot hunter—was outdated by nearly a week. Cork flipped back through the dates and saw quickly that Stilwell didn’t use the calendar to track appointments. He checked the desk drawers, then went to the file cabinets, which were locked. He used his pick set again. Carefully he went through each drawer and found nothing of interest. He pulled a couple of client files, just to get a feel for how well Stilwell documented his work, and was impressed. It was clear that the man kept good records during an investigation. In the top drawer of the second cabinet, he found a folder marked “Bodine, C.,” and he lifted it out. Inside were copies of expenses related to the investigation: an airline ticket to Casper, a hotel bill, a car rental receipt, restaurant tabs, records of phone calls, times, charges. Stilwell kept meticulous track of everything he’d spent on his client’s nickel. But there were no other papers, no notes, nothing related to the substance of the investigation itself. Cork looked through the other drawers and found nothing else that seemed relevant.

  He closed and locked the cabinets, then went to the desk, booted the computer, and found, as he suspected he would, that he needed a password to access the files. He turned the computer off.

  He sat awhile in Stilwell’s chair, staring out the window at the charcoal-colored brick of the building across the street.

  In his own investigations, he was prone to keep copious records. He logged in his interviews—names, dates, times, salient observations that fell outside the interview material—and filed this information with the notes he made of the interview itself. He jotted down related thoughts, useful telephone numbers, potential sources. He kept maps, floor plans, photographs, sketches, anything that would help him in his visual recall or his conjecture. If he went solely on the basis of what was in the file for the Bodine investigation, he’d be inclined to believe that the only information of importance to Stilwell was the cost of doing business. From what he’d learned in his calls to colleagues who knew Stilwell and from what he’d seen in the files for Stilwell’s other clients, that didn’t ring true.

  Downstairs Cork went into the diner and sat at the counter. The place was hopping, and it took a moment for a waitress to come his way.

  “Coffee,” he said. “Black.”

  When she poured it, he asked, “You work here most days?”

  “Most,” she said. She was maybe thirty, a lot of lipstick, eyeliner. Blond, probably from a bottle. She started to walk away.

  “Know Steve Stilwell?” he asked. “PI with an office upstairs?”

  She turned back. “Who’s asking?”

  “A friend. Haven’t seen him in a while. He’s got a heart condition, and I’m a little worried.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “He comes in almost every morning. Always eats a heart attack breakfast. I haven’t seen him lately.”

  “Anybody else here might have seen him?”

  “I’m here as much as anyone.”

  “Anybody been asking about him?”

  “No. At least nobody’s asked me.”

  “Thanks.”

  He drank his coffee and took the opportunity to scan the building parking lot, where his Bronco sat. He figured that if Stilwell’s investigation had, indeed, alarmed interested parties and they’d been shadowing Burns and Bodine, they were likely to be onto him, too. All he spotted in the parking lot were empty cars and tourist types and nobody looking his way. He dropped three bucks for his coffee and a tip and took off.

  Stilwell’s home address was a small bungalow in a nice residen
tial neighborhood on a steep hill. The street ran between stately trees leafed with new green. It sloped sharply toward Lake Superior, which sparkled at the end of the corridor like a wall built of sapphires. Stilwell took nice care of his place. The yard grass was cut, and on either side of the walk leading up to the front porch, strips of earth had been turned and prepared for planting, though it was too early in the North Country to put in most varieties of flowers, still plenty of time for a killing frost.

  Cork mounted the steps, entered the shadow of the overhang, and tried the door. The curtains inside were drawn across the windows. He left the porch and followed a flagstone walk around to the backyard. A huge red maple shaded three-quarters of the area. In the sunny northwest corner, Stilwell had put in a raised garden created out of railroad ties. The soil of the garden was clear of weeds, and a layer of compost had already been spread. The man was conscientious and clearly into his yard.

  The back door stood at the top of a short flight of steps. The storm door wasn’t secured, but the inner door was locked. Once again, Cork made use of his lock picks and was quickly inside. Which was good, because the moment he closed the door behind him, he saw, through the window, a woman leave the house next door and head toward her garage, carrying a plastic garbage bag.

  He found himself in a narrow entryway. One side was lined with hooks, from which hung coats of varying degree of warmth. Below them were a pair of boots caked with dried mud, a pair of Adidas, and a pair of rubber galoshes. Beyond the entryway lay the kitchen, where everything was clean, not even a single dirty dish or utensil in the sink. Cork checked the refrigerator. Nicely stocked. He went into the dining room and then to the living room beyond. The woodwork of the bungalow had been wonderfully preserved and the wood floors finished with caramel-color stain under a coat of strong urethane. The furniture and the area rugs had been chosen to accent the rich color of all that beautiful woodwork. Meticulous, Cork thought again.

  Then he spotted the birdcage near the front window. He walked to it and stared at the canary lying dead on the bottom. The seed feeder looked full, but on closer examination, Cork realized it held only feathery, empty husks. The water cup was completely dry. It appeared as if the bird had succumbed to either hunger or thirst or both.