Rutledge picked it up from there. “Jacoby had some receipts from the Four Seasons Lodge in his wallet. While Ed and his people finished at the scene, I dropped by and spoke with the lodge staff. Jacoby was staying there. He was a big tipper, flamboyant guy, and it wasn’t unusual for him to be seen returning to his cabin at night in the company of a woman.”
“Description?” Cork said.
“Not any particular woman anyone could describe. But we’ll do more checking. Also we’ll try to put together a complete history of his activities prior to his death.”
“We’ll be going over his room as soon as we leave here,” Larson said. “See what turns up there.”
“The drugs in the SUV,” Cork said. “How’d he get those? Did he bring them with him? Risk a search of his luggage or person at airport security? Or did he buy them here?”
Rutledge nodded thoughtfully. “The castration might point toward a drug connection. Not uncommon to see something like that in drug deals gone bad. It could be the drugs were the reason he was at Mercy Falls.”
“Anyone around here would know we patrol the park,” Cork said.
Larson made a note on his pad. “Still worth checking out.”
“Jacoby worked for Starlight. Casino management, right?” Rutledge said.
“That’s right. He’s made half a dozen trips over the last six months trying to convince the Iron Lake Ojibwe to become clients. The RBC is going to vote on it pretty soon.”
“RBC?”
“Reservation Business Committee.”
“But it’s been Jo who’s dealt with him mostly, right?” Larson said. “Have you talked with her, Cork?”
“Some. About all she could offer was that he was probably a skirt chaser.” Cork rubbed his eyes, which were so tired they seemed full of sand. “Fourteen stab wounds, castration, and drugs. Cigarette butts with lipstick. Could it be we’re dealing with a woman? Considering all the drugs, maybe a woman in an altered state?”
“What about an angry husband?” Larson threw in. “Maybe he followed them to Mercy Falls?”
Rutledge said, “I’ve requested the phone records for his room at the Four Seasons. Also his cell phone records since he arrived in Aurora. That might tell us who he’s been seeing here for pleasure.”
“The casino’s something we should take a hard look at, though,” Cork said. “Starlight’s not a popular notion with everyone on the rez.”
“Unpopular enough for someone to kill Jacoby over it?”
“Jo doesn’t think so.”
“What about you?”
What he thought was that, in the end, the rez was simply a community of people, and people—white, red, brown, black, yellow—were all subject to the same human weaknesses, more or less. He would like to have believed that the heritage of the Anishinaabeg, the culture and its values, made them strong enough to resist the temptations that accompanied the new wealth the casino brought, but he knew it was wishful thinking.
“I honestly don’t know,” he finally said. “Let’s do a background check on Jacoby, make sure he didn’t simply bring trouble with him when he came.”
“Here’s something that’s kind of interesting we found in his wallet,” Larson said.
He handed Cork a business card. The logo was the Hollywood sign of legend, the one perched atop the Hollywood Hills. Beneath was printed Blue Smoke Productions with Edward Jacoby listed as a producer and an address on Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles. No telephone number.
“Jacoby made movies?”
“Or wanted people to think he did.”
“Women?”
“He certainly seemed to like them.”
Cork handed it back. “Something more to check on.” He addressed Rutledge. “How’re we coming on the rez shooting?”
“My guy in St. Paul went out to St. Joseph’s Hospital first thing this morning and talked with Lydell Cramer. Says Cramer was so full of shit, his eyeballs were brown. Cramer claimed that although he was happy to hear about your difficulties, he had nothing to do with them.”
Cork nodded. “Cramer would have trouble just figuring how to put butter on bread. I don’t think he could pull off a hit like this.”
“Let me finish,” Rutledge said. “My guy does a routine check of the visitors Cramer’s had since incarceration. Only one: A sister. Address is in Carlton County. She visited Cramer the day before the sniper attack on the rez.”
“Could be just a coincidence,” Cork said.
“Could be. But I think it’s worth checking out. Carlton County’s only an hour south, so I’m going down today to have a talk with her.”
“All right. Anything from the lab on the shell casings we found?”
“They haven’t run them yet for markings, but they’ve identified them as oversized Remingtons. Hundred and fifty grain. Could have come from almost anywhere. The shooter could even have packed the loads himself. We’ll check out the local hunting and sporting-goods stores, but unless we get very lucky, I’m not hoping for much.”
“What about the tires?” Cork said.
“Better luck there. They’re Goodyear Wrangler MT/Rs. High-end off-road tires, almost new. If they came from around here, we have a good chance at finding out who bought them. I’ve got one of my team on that, but I’d like to give him some help. Can you spare anyone?”
“I’ll swing Deputy Pender your way. He can be abrasive but he’s also thorough,” Cork said.
“Two odd occurrences in two days.” Larson raised his eyebrows. “Any way they might be related?”
Rutledge shook his head. “I don’t see anything that would connect them. One shows a lot of planning, the other has the look of impulse. Of course, at this point, I suppose anything is possible.” He eyed Cork. “I imagine you’ve been racking your brain pretty hard. Anything rattle loose?”
“Not yet,” he said.
“All right, then.”
Rutledge stood up and Larson followed him out the door.
Cork sat for a while, trying to muster some energy. Beyond the window of his office, the gray rain continued to fall. Across the street was a small park. All summer, the Lion’s Club had raised money for new playground equipment and had spent several days volunteering their own time to install it, heavy plastic in bright colors. The playground was deserted. Beyond the park rose the white steeple of Zion Lutheran Church, almost lost in the rain.
Cork went out in the common area to pour himself some coffee. Two men stood on the other side of the security window that separated the waiting area from the contact desk. Deputy Pender was listening to them and nodding. When he became aware that Cork was behind him, he said, “Just a moment, folks,” and turned to Cork. “Sheriff, there are some people here to see you. They say their name is Jacoby.”
11
HE SEATED THE two men in his office. The elder man had white hair, a healthy shock of it that looked freshly barbered. He was tanned, in good condition, and dressed in a dark blue suit and red tie, as if he’d come to chair a board meeting. His eyes were like olive pits, hard and dark. If there was sadness in him, they didn’t show it.
“Louis Jacoby,” he’d said in the common area when he shook Cork’s hand. “Edward’s father. We spoke on the phone.”
He’d introduced the second man as his son Ben. Ben remained quiet as his father talked.
“You arrived sooner than I’d expected,” Cork said when he sat at his desk.
“I have a private jet, Sheriff O’Connor. Tell me what happened to Eddie.”
Cork explained the events of the preceding night and where the investigation stood. “I have some questions I’d like to ask.”
“Later,” the old man said with a wave of his hand. “I want to see my son.”
“That’s not a good idea, Mr. Jacoby.”
“I’m sure he’s right, Dad,” Ben Jacoby said. He appeared to be roughly Cork’s age, maybe fifty. There was a lot of his father visible in his features, but his eyes were different, not so dark or s
o hard.
“I want to see my son.” Jacoby didn’t raise his voice in the least, but his tone was cold and sharp, cutting off any objection.
Still, Ben tried again. “Dad—”
“I’ve told you what I want. I want to see Eddie.”
Ben sat back and gave Cork a look that asked for help.
“I can’t prevent you from seeing your son, but the autopsy’s only just been completed. If you could wait—”
“Now,” the old man said.
“I don’t understand—”
“I’m not asking you to understand, Sheriff. I’m telling you to show me my boy.”
Cork gave up. “All right.”
He took the Pathfinder. They followed in a rented black DeVille driven by a man they called Tony.
In a few minutes, Cork pulled up in front of Nelson’s Mortuary on Pine Street. It was a grand old structure with a lovely wraparound front porch. It had once been a two-story home and was still one of the nicest buildings in town. When the Jacobys met Cork in the drive, Lou Jacoby stood in the rain, looking the place over dourly.
“I thought we were going to the morgue,” he said.
“The morgue’s at the community hospital, and it isn’t set up for autopsies.”
For a long time, the mortician Sigurd Nelson had been the coroner in Tamarack County. That position didn’t exist anymore. Most of Cork’s officers had become deputy medical examiners qualified to certify death. The autopsies were now contracted to be done by Dr. Tom Conklin, a pathologist who’d retired to a home on Iron Lake. For years prior, he’d been with the Ramsey County ME’s office in St. Paul. He still used Sigurd’s facility.
Cork rang the bell and the mortician answered. He was a small man with a big belly and a bald head, in his early sixties. He greeted Cork, then glanced at the other people on the porch.
“These are the Jacobys, Sigurd. Family of the man Tom autopsied today. They’d like to see the body.”
“That’s not a good idea,” Nelson said. “Tom’s finished the autopsy, but he hasn’t repaired the body yet.”
“Is Tom downstairs?”
“No. He went out for a bite to eat. He was going to finish up when he came back.”
“We’ll come back,” Cork said.
“We’re here,” Jacoby said. “We’ll see him now.”
“Lou Jacoby,” Cork said by way of introduction. “Edward Jacoby’s father.”
Sigurd Nelson addressed the man firmly but civilly. “With all due respect, you don’t want to see your son’s body right now.”
“If you try telling me again what I want, I’ll shove one of your coffins up your ass. Take me to my boy.”
It wasn’t so much that Nelson was cowed by Jacoby. Cork figured he probably decided a man with that attitude and those manners deserved to get exactly what he asked for. The mortician allowed them inside. Ben Jacoby signaled for Tony to accompany them, and the tall driver followed.
Nelson led them down a hallway. He lived upstairs with his wife, Grace, but the first floor was all business and included a large room used for memorial services, several viewing rooms, and a display room for coffins. At the end of the hall, he opened a door and they followed down a flight of stairs to the basement, which was divided into a number of rooms, all with closed doors. Nelson went to the last room, swung the door wide, turned on the light.
“Wait here just a minute,” he said and disappeared inside. Shortly, Cork heard the flap of a sheet snapped open and the rustle of linen being arranged, then Nelson reappeared at the door. “All right.”
Cork had seen the room many times before. It always reminded him of a laboratory. The walls were sterile white, the floor shiny red tile. There were cabinets with glass fronts through which shelves of plastic jars and jugs and glass bottles were visible. In the middle of the room stood a white porcelain prep table. It was old. Cork knew most prep tables were stainless steel now. Near the table was a flush tank and a pump for the embalming fluids. Beneath the table, the red tile sloped to a large floor drain.
The body lay on the table fully covered by the sheet the mortician had just positioned. Dark stains spread slowly across the white fabric.
“It won’t be pleasant,” Nelson said.
Jacoby paid him no heed. He walked forward stiffly, reached out, and drew the sheet back from Eddie’s head. His son’s face was bloodless, chalk white, but relaxed as if he were only sleeping. Which might have been a perfectly acceptable sight had Edward Jacoby still had a whole head. In his autopsy, Tom Conklin had slit the skin along the back of Jacoby’s head from ear to ear, pulled the scalp forward over the face, opened up the skull as neatly as a tin can, and removed the brain.
“Oh God,” Ben Jacoby said, and looked away.
Cork had been present at a lot of autopsies, and the sight didn’t bother him. He figured it would be plenty to turn Lou Jacoby away, but the man surprised him. He drew the sheet back completely, exposing the raw, open, empty body cavity.
“Dad.” Ben reached to steady his father.
“Leave me be.” Jacoby stepped back, faltering. A tremor passed through him like a quake along a fault line. His hands shook and his jaw quivered. He squinted as if a bright light had struck his eyes, but he uttered not a word as he walked from the room.
The driver had not come in but had hung back, waiting in the corridor.
“Stay with him, Tony,” Ben said. He turned to Cork and Sigurd Nelson. “I’m sorry. He’s a man who gets his way.”
“We need to talk,” Cork said.
“How about not here,” Nelson suggested, and ushered them out.
In the hallway, Lou Jacoby stood staring down the basement corridor with its false light and its dead end. Tony leaned against a wall nearby. He appeared to be in excellent condition, with long black hair and an olive cast to his skin. He watched the elder Jacoby carefully, ready to help should he be needed.
“Take him to the hotel,” Ben said to him. “I’ll be along.”
Tony said gently and with a soft Spanish accent, “Let’s go, Lou.”
“I’m sure the sheriff has questions.”
“I’ll take care of them, Dad.”
Jacoby nodded. Despite all his earlier posturing, all his effort at control, he seemed suddenly weak and uncertain. He didn’t move toward the stairway until Tony urged him forward with a hand on his arm.
“We’ll be right up, Sigurd,” Cork said.
The mortician turned off the light in the prep room, closed the door, and left them alone.
“I have some questions about your brother, Mr. Jacoby.”
“Of course. And call me Ben.”
Jacoby was a handsome man, a little taller than Cork and, like his father, tanned and in good physical condition. He had his father’s thick hair. It was still mostly brown, but there was a hint of gray at the temples. His face was smooth, the bones prominent. When he spoke, it was with quiet authority, a man accustomed to being listened to, who didn’t need to flaunt his power. Sometimes the rich were like that, Cork had learned long ago. A profound sense of the responsibility that went along with wealth and position.
“Edward was here on business, is that correct?” Cork said.
“As far as I know, that’s the only reason he came to Aurora.”
“For Starlight Enterprises?”
“I assume so, yes.”
“What does he do for Starlight?”
“I’m not entirely certain, but a lot of it has to do with bringing in new business.”
“What do you do?”
“I run an investment firm with my father.”
“You and your father but not Eddie?”
“Eddie had other ideas about what he wanted to do with his life.”
“Did he talk about his visits to Aurora?”
“Eddie talked a lot. It was hard to know what to listen to, so I usually didn’t. In terms of his business here, there’s an attorney you ought to talk to. Eddie dealt with her a lot, I believe. Someone n
amed Jo O’Connor.” He stopped and gave Cork a quizzical look. “O’Connor?”
“My wife.”
“Convenient.”
Cork shrugged. “Small town.”
“I assume you’ve spoken with her.”
“I have.”
“Would you mind if I did also?”
“Why?”
“My father is a little numb at the moment, but he’ll be expecting answers soon. I’d like to be able to offer a few. Is there a reason I shouldn’t speak with her?”
“No,” Cork replied. “In fact, if you’d like, I’ll drive you there.”
“I could take a taxi.”
“Ben, this isn’t Chicago. We don’t have taxis. I’ll be happy to take you.”
Jo was busy with a client, and they waited a few minutes in the anteroom of her office. Her secretary, Fran Cooper, asked if they’d like something to drink. They both declined.
Jo’s door opened and Amanda Horton stepped out. Amanda was a transplant from Des Moines who, Cork knew, was trying to buy lake property currently tied up in probate.
“Hello, Cork,” she said.
“Afternoon, Amanda.”
She gave Ben Jacoby an appreciative look as she left.
Cork watched her go. When his eyes swung back, he found his wife standing in the doorway of her office, her eyes huge, her mouth open in an oval of surprise.
“Ben?”
“My God,” Jacoby replied with equal wonder. “Jo McKenzie.”
12
JACOBY ACCEPTED THE coffee she offered him and sat in one of the chairs available for clients.
Cork took the other client chair. “So,” he said. “Law school together.”
“My second year.” Jo put the coffee server back on the tray with the mugs she kept on hand, went behind the desk, and sat down.
“My last,” Jacoby said. “But you still practice, Jo.”
“You don’t?”
“I never did. I do investments.”
“In Chicago?”
“We’re in the Sears Tower.” He shook his head and smiled. “You look wonderful. You haven’t changed at all.”
“What are you doing here?” She furrowed her brow. “Jacoby. Eddie?”
The William Kent Krueger Collection 2 Page 42
