* * *
Larson watched Cork approach on foot. “I thought you were up there.” He pointed toward the hilltop.
Cork said, “I walked down the other side and around the hill.”
“You needed the exercise?” came a voice behind him.
Cork smiled and turned as BCA agent Simon Rutledge stepped from the cabin.
Rutledge spoke like Jimmy Stewart, with a little catch in his throat and a naively honest tone that you had to love. He was in his midforties, an unimposing man with thinning red hair and a hopelessly boyish smile, but his appearance and demeanor belied a tough spirit. Cork had watched Rutledge question suspects. He never browbeat, never bullied. He offered them his sympathy, bestowed on them his neighborly smile, opened his arms to them, and, after he got their trust, almost always got their confession. Simon Rutledge was so good that whenever he interviewed a suspect, other agents referred to it as “Simonizing.”
“How’s it hanging, Cork?” Rutledge said. The two men shook hands.
“I’ve had better days.”
“Bet you have. Where you been?”
Cork nodded toward the hilltop. “Our shooter left the back way. I found tire tracks at the bridge over Tick Creek on County Twenty-three. They’ll photograph well, and I’ll bet if we’re careful we can get a good cast made.”
“Mack,” Rutledge called to one of his BCA evidence team who was digging in the ground in front of the Tibodeau cabin. He gave the agent directions to the bridge over Tick Creek. “Check out the tire tracks . . .” He glanced at Cork.
“East side, south shoulder.”
“You heard him. Get good photos, and I’ll be there in a bit to help with casting.”
“On my way.” Mack put his shovel down and headed for his state car.
“You take a look at the cabin?” Cork asked Rutledge.
“Yeah. But I know Ed did a good job on it, so I wasn’t expecting much. I was just thinking of going up top to have a look where our shooter camped out. You see anything while you were up there?”
“I didn’t look hard. Mostly I was thinking.”
“Wondering who wants you dead?” Rutledge flashed a slightly diminished version of his smile but it still produced dimples. “I had a talk with Ed, and he’s got a point about you being the target. You need to be thinking seriously about who’d want you in their gun sight.”
“Any time you bust someone, deep down they want to bust you back,” Cork said.
“Not everybody’s got the balls for that. The question for you is who does?”
Two of Cork’s deputies were helping the BCA people dig in front of the cabin. They put a shovelful into a metal sieve, sifted, tossed out rocks and other detritus, then repeated the process. They were looking for the round that hit Marsha Dross. Cork hoped they’d find it and that it would prove good for a ballistics analysis.
Rutledge walked to his car, an unremarkable blue Cavalier, and brought back an evidence bag that held the two shell casings Cork had found the night before. “Remington .357, packed with a hundred fifty grains, I’d say. Probably fired from something like a Savage One-ten. That would be my firearm of choice, anyway.”
“Why? That’s a game rifle,” Cork said.
“With a good scope, one of those babies could make Barney Fife into an effective assassin. And up here, a Savage One-ten is as common as a snowmobile. Wouldn’t raise any eyebrows like a more sophisticated sniper weapon might.”
“You’re saying it could be anyone,” Cork said.
“Those tracks you found at the bridge might help narrow things a bit.” Rutledge looked at Cork wistfully. “So?”
“So what?”
“Who wants you dead?”
6
CORK DROVE THE Pathfinder back to Aurora and parked in the lot of the community hospital. He checked at the reception desk, then walked to Intensive Care, where Marsha Dross had been moved. It was breakfast time for the patients, and the smell of institutional food that filled the hallways reminded Cork that he hadn’t eaten that morning. He should have been hungry, but he wasn’t.
He found Frank Dross sitting in a chair outside Marsha’s room. Marsha’s father, a widower, was a retired cop from Rochester, Minnesota. Like his daughter, he was tall and not what you would call good looking. He had a long nose, gray eyes, and gray hair neatly parted on the right side. He wore a black knit shirt and tan Haggar slacks with an expandable waist that was, in fact, expanded over a small paunch. Cork had met him several times and liked the man.
Dross stood. “Sheriff.” He shook Cork’s hand.
“How’re you doing, Frank?”
“Better, now that I know Marsha’s out of danger. They tell me you saved her life.”
Saved her life? Maybe he’d kept her from dying in the dirt in front of the Tibodeau cabin, but he’d also been responsible, in a way, for the bullet that put her there.
“Do you know why yet?” Frank asked.
“We’re working on that. How is she this morning?”
“Officially, she’s listed in guarded condition. They got her hooked up to all kinds of monitors, but she’ll be fine.”
“Fine?” Charlie Annala came from Marsha’s room. He didn’t appear to be any happier with Cork this morning than he’d been last night. “Because of that bullet, she may never be able to have kids. We may never have kids. You call that fine?” He wore the same clothing as the night before. He hadn’t shaved, and from his smell it was clear he hadn’t showered, either. The skin seemed to hang on his face like heavy dough, and his bloodshot eyes looked fractured. “And the hell of it is, nobody can tell me why.”
“Sometimes, Charlie, just being a cop is reason enough for people to hate you.” Frank put a hand on his shoulder. “In the sixties, seventies, they called us pigs. It’s not a job that gets a lot of respect. I told Marsha it wouldn’t be easy, but it was what she wanted to do. It was always what she wanted to do.” Frank gave Charlie a gentle pat. “It can be tough, being in love with a cop.”
“Is she allowed visitors?” Cork asked.
“One at a time,” Frank said.
“Mind if I go in?”
Charlie opened his mouth, about to object, but Frank said, “Sure. Keep it short, though, okay?”
The curtain was partially drawn. Cork walked to the end of the bed. An IV needle plugged into Marsha’s right forearm fed a clear liquid into her body. She was hooked to a heart monitor and a machine that tracked her respiration as well. She lay with her head deeply imbedded in a pillow, the skin of her cheeks a bloodless white. Even so, she managed a smile when she saw Cork.
“Hi,” she said.
“How are you feeling?”
She beckoned him nearer. He walked along the side and took the hand she offered.
“Drugged,” she said. “Not feeling much.” She squeezed his hand. “Thanks.”
“Any time.”
She shifted a little, tried to rise, but gave up. “The investigation?”
Cork looked out the window, which faced east. The hospital was on a small rise at the edge of town, and Iron Lake was visible beyond a line of birch trees that were like white scratches against the blue water.
“We’re getting somewhere,” he said. “We’ve got shell casings, and I’m sure we’ll get a bullet for ballistics. We’ve got tire tracks, too.”
“A suspect?”
“We’re working on that.”
“Eli and Lucy?”
“They weren’t anywhere near the cabin last night.”
She nodded faintly. “I’ve been thinking. You and me in our uniforms, in bad light, we probably don’t look all that different. I think somebody knew you’d answer that call.”
“I’ve been thinking that, too,” Cork said. “We’ll get him, Marsha.”
“Him? A woman called in the complaint.”
She was a good, smart cop. Even in her drugged state, she’d been putting the pieces together.
“Him, her, them. We’re going to do our jobs and we’re go
ing to get them.”
“You better.” She smiled weakly and gave his fingers another squeeze.
“Rest,” he said.
She nodded, closed her eyes, and let go of his hand.
* * *
It was clear to everyone—even Marsha, full of drugs—that Cork was the one the sniper had meant to take out. As he drove away from the hospital with the sunlight sliding off his windshield, he thought about the question Simon Rutledge had posed: Who wants you dead?
They’d talked about it for a bit at the Tibodeau cabin, gone over a few possibilities. Only one seemed plausible. The raid on the meth lab outside Yellow Lake had gone down in July, just two weeks after Cork took over as sheriff. He’d had very little to do with the investigation, but the bust resulted in a tragic afternoon for a family of criminals. Two men, brothers, Lydell and Axel Cramer, were inside an old Airstream trailer parked next to their rural home when Cork’s people arrived and pounded on the door. The chemicals used to make methamphetamine were volatile. It was dangerous business. The two brothers had panicked. There was an explosion, and flames engulfed the trailer. One man stumbled out, his clothing on fire. Cy Borkmann wrestled him down and rolled him in the grass until the flames were extinguished. The man was Lydell Cramer. His little brother Axel never made it out. Lydell was airlifted to St. Joseph’s Hospital in St. Paul, where he awaited trial while recovering from third-degree burns over most of his body. He didn’t talk much, but when he did it was all about getting even with “the pig-fucking cops” who’d killed his brother.
They’d kicked around the idea of Lydell Cramer and decided it was worth looking into.
Patsy, who was on duty in Dispatch, radioed Cork and told him Jo had requested he call her at her office. Instead of calling, he drove straight over.
The Aurora Professional Building was a newer, single-story brick construction on the west side of town. Cork pulled into the lot and went inside. He passed the offices of David Spender, DDS, and Francis Kennilworth, CPA. He came to Jo’s office and went inside. The anteroom was empty, and the door to Jo’s inner office was closed. A sign sat propped on the desk: BACK IN 5 MINUTES. HAVE A SEAT. Which probably meant that Jo’s secretary had gone for coffee, and Jo was with a client. Cork was just about to sit down and wait when the inner office door swung open and a man stepped out. Cork had met him only once before, and he hadn’t liked him.
Edward Jacoby was the kind of guy who smiled broadly and often but without a trace of goodwill. It was hard to know what was really behind that flash of teeth, but as it was, Jacoby’s smile reminded Cork of a wound that showed white bone. Jacoby was in his early thirties, good-looking in a dark way. He had thick black hair, heavy-lidded eyes, the shadow of a beard across his jaw. He was small, but with a large upper body and thick neck, a man who worked out seriously.
When they shook hands, Jacoby’s grip, like his smile, was not about being cordial. A class ring dwarfed the knuckle on his right pinkie. The pinkie of his left hand sported a chunk of gold set with a diamond. Cork had always thought a pinkie an odd finger on which to wear a ring, especially for a man.
“Good to see you again, Sheriff,” Jacoby said.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Jacoby magnanimously waved off Cork’s concern. “Not at all. I was just leaving. Heard you had some trouble last night. Everything okay?”
“Under control.”
“I’m sure it is.” Jacoby eyed him with a shade of concern. “Say, you look like you could use a good night’s sleep. Want some advice? Melatonin before you go to bed. It’s one of those hormones older people’s bodies don’t regulate very well.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
Jacoby reached back and squeezed Jo’s hand. “Always a pleasure, Counselor. Give me a call—you have my cell phone number, right?—after you’ve spoken with the RBC. I’m staying at the Four Seasons. You should have my number there, too. If you don’t get me, just leave a message. Ciao,” he said, and left.
Inside Jo’s office with the door closed, Cork said, “I’ve met rabid badgers I liked better.”
“You don’t have to like him.” Jo picked up a document and scanned it.
Cork sat down at her desk and began to rub the back of his neck, which had developed a slight crick. “Do you?”
“I’ve dealt with him for six months now. I’m almost used to him.”
Starlight Enterprises, the company that employed Jacoby, provided management for casinos all over the lower Midwest and was eager to expand into Minnesota. Jacoby had been working hard for the past half year to make the Iron Lake Ojibwe one of the company’s clients. Because Jo had often represented the interests of the rez and had worked on the casino from its inception, Oliver Bledsoe, who headed the tribal legal affairs office, had retained her to handle the negotiations. The Reservation Business Committee, which oversaw all financial dealings the rez conducted as an entity, had initially rejected the idea. The casino was just about to lose its fourth manager in as many years, however, and several members of the RBC had become vocal advocates for using Starlight to supply consistent, qualified management. They’d finally authorized Jo to come up with a contract that the RBC could put to a vote.
As light as a butterfly, she touched Cork’s wounded ear. “How are you doing?”
“Holding up.”
“You didn’t sleep much.”
“A lot on my mind.”
“You left this morning before the girls were up. They were disappointed they didn’t see you.”
“There were things I needed to do.”
She pressed her palm gently to his chest. “I understand, Cork, but they’re scared. Their father could have been killed last night.”
“I wasn’t.”
“And thank God for that. But they need some reassurance and it needs to come from you.”
When he’d agreed to step in again as sheriff, Cork had promised himself and Jo that, as much as possible, his job wouldn’t affect his family, especially the children. Deep down he knew it was a futile pledge. He was the son of a sheriff himself, and he understood what the job demanded. He’d said yes for the most selfish of reasons. He missed the badge. He missed the camaraderie that came with it, the challenge, the feeling that he was doing something that mattered. It was also satisfying to have the Board of Commissioners come to him, hat in hand, after the people of Tamarack County elected Arne Soderberg, a man as near to being a cop as a duck was to being an eagle. They’d screwed themselves royally, and they needed Cork. That felt good. Damn good. So he’d said yes knowing full well the sacrifices it would require of his family.
He took her hand and kissed it. “I’ll be home for dinner, promise. I’ll talk to them then. Was that all you wanted?”
“And this.” She kissed him softly. “Take care of yourself out there, cowboy.”
* * *
In the early afternoon, he drove out to Allouette on the Iron Lake Reservation to meet with the tribal council. Simon Rutledge followed in his state car.
Allouette was the largest of the communities on the reservation. Even so, there wasn’t a lot to it. From one end of town to the other was just over half a mile. A few years before, the housing had been mostly trailers and HUD homes in desperate need of repair, but lately things had improved considerably thanks to the Chippewa Grand Casino that was owned and operated by the Iron Lake Band of Ojibwe. Typically, the tribal council met in the new community center, which had been built with casino money. In addition to the large room where the tribal council gathered and where meetings open to the reservation at large were held, the center housed the offices of a number of tribal organizations, a health clinic, a day care center, and a gymnasium. Cork had spoken earlier in the day with George LeDuc, chairman of the tribal council, and had arranged to meet with that body to discuss the incident at the Tibodeau cabin.
In 1953, Congress passed Public Law 280, which allowed responsibility for law enforcement on Minnesota Indian reservations
to be transferred from federal jurisdiction to the state, if that’s what the enrolled members wanted. The Iron Lake Ojibwe had chosen to be policed by the state’s local authority, which was the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department. As sheriff and as a man part Ojibwe, Cork had always tried to be a judicious presence on the rez. For the most part, he’d succeeded. But this time he was bringing Simon Rutledge of the BCA with him, and he wasn’t hopeful about how well that would go over.
Seven of the eight members of the council had managed to be there and were waiting in the meeting room. Seated at the conference table with George LeDuc were Judy Bruneau, Albert Boshey, Roy Stillday, Edgar Gillespie, Heidi Baudette, and Thomas Whitefeather.
“Anin,” Cork said as he entered, offering the traditional Ojibwe greeting.
He shook hands with LeDuc and the others and introduced Simon Rutledge all around. When everyone was seated again, he explained what had occurred at the Tibodeau cabin the night before. He also explained why Rutledge would be in charge of the investigation. He was pretty sure they’d all heard about the shooting—heard some version of what had gone down, anyway—but it was impossible to tell from their faces, which showed little expression. They simply nodded now and then as he spoke. He’d been to lots of meetings on the rez, tribal council and otherwise. When there were only Ojibwe—or Shinnobs, as they often referred to themselves—present, discussions were almost always heated, with long digressions and references to obscure relatives and old incidents that had little if any bearing on the issue at hand. With Rutledge there, an outsider and a white law officer to boot, the council’s silence didn’t surprise Cork in the least.
When he was finished, there was a long silence, then George LeDuc spoke. In the dark, LeDuc might have been mistaken for a bear, an old bear, because he was seventy and huge. Although his long hair was streaked with silver, he still had a powerful look and feel about him. Only two years before, he’d fathered a child with his third wife, Francie. He and Cork had been friends for a lot of years.
“First of all,” LeDuc said in a gentle growl, “we’re all real sorry about Marsha Dross. We sure hope she’ll be fine.” He paused a long time, looking implacably at Cork. “As for that chunk of ear you’re missing, well . . .” He glanced at the woman on the far side of the conference table. “Heidi, there, told me a little while ago she thinks a few scars on a man is sexy, so maybe it’ll prove a blessing in the end.” He almost smiled. “We’ll do everything we can to help Agent Rutledge with his investigation.”
The William Kent Krueger Collection 2 Page 39
