“Who hired him?”
“We’re working on that.”
She registered no emotion. She was in bed, recovering from a wound that had nearly killed her, that had jeopardized her hope of ever giving birth to a child; yet, here she was, accepting with a simple nod that Cork still had no idea who had ordered the attack or why. He wondered if it was because she understood that knowing wouldn’t change her situation, or because she believed that eventually what was hidden would be revealed, that Cork would find the answers. Maybe it was both, because Marsha was strong and she believed in her work and in her colleagues.
“Doctor says in six weeks I can be back on duty.”
“What’s Charlie think of that?”
“Charlie’s decided that he’d rather have a wife who’s in a different profession. We’ve called off the wedding.”
“I’m sorry, Marsha.”
“It would have been an issue eventually. Better to deal with it now. You look beat. You should go home, Sheriff.”
“I’ll keep you in the loop, I promise.”
He stood up and Marsha put her hand over his on the bedspread. “Going into the Boundary Waters after Stone, that was a stand-up thing to do.”
“Thanks.”
Frank was waiting at the front door to let him out.
“She told me about Charlie,” Cork said.
“She’s strong,” Frank replied. “In every way. She’ll be fine. And Charlie? Truth is, I never thought he was the right guy for her anyway. Thanks for stopping by.”
Cork shook Frank’s hand, then headed out into the sunshine of that fine fall day. The screen door creaked on its hinges, and a moment later he heard the soft slap of wood on wood as it closed behind him.
* * *
He finally went home. Upstairs, he tugged off his clothes, stepped into the shower, and stood for a long time hoping the hot water would melt all the tension in his muscles. While the water ran, he considered the situation as it now stood, sifting through what he knew for an understanding of what he didn’t.
The shooting at the Tibodeau cabin was a hit, arranged by some guy. According to Lizzie Fineday, Stone hadn’t been any more specific than that. Some guy. Moose LaRusse? Who was doing it for Lydell Cramer or Cramer’s sister? Then why hadn’t Stone referred to LaRusse as a Shinnob, more common among the Ojibwe? And so far, was there any substantial evidence linking Moose LaRusse or Lydell Cramer directly to Stone? The connection was certainly possible but yet to be proven.
Who else had a connection with Stone?
Eddie Jacoby.
Okay, Cork thought as the water started to parch his skin, suppose it was Jacoby behind the hit. Why? Generally speaking, murder, when it was planned, was either for vengeance or gain. Had he done something to Jacoby to warrant his hatred? He barely knew the man. So what about gain? Was there something in Cork’s death that would benefit Jacoby? Did Cork stand in the way of Jacoby’s scheming to get a contract for Starlight? He couldn’t think how. What could Jacoby possibly gain by killing him? Cork had nothing. Jacoby came from a family that had everything.
He stepped out of the shower and toweled off, then went to the sink, intending to lather up and shave his two-day bristle. He opened the medicine cabinet and a jar tumbled out, which he managed to catch before it hit the floor. It was the Noxzema Jo used every night to cleanse her face, a simple object, but as he held it in the palm of his hand he felt a solid and profound connection with the woman he loved. He seemed to be at the bottom of a deep emptiness and wanted nothing more at that moment than to have Jo there beside him. He took a deep breath and put the Noxzema back.
He reached for his razor but stopped.
He realized there was something he had that one of the Jacobys wanted, but it wasn’t Eddie.
Ben Jacoby wanted Jo.
Hadn’t he felt it the night Jacoby sat at his kitchen table? Hadn’t he seen it in Jacoby’s eyes whenever he looked at her?
Cork hesitated. Was this crazy thinking? Was this lonely, jealous, tired, crazy thinking?
He tried to slow himself, to consider it carefully, step by step. Stone had been hired to kill him. Eddie Jacoby had a relationship with Stone that included dealings of a potentially criminal nature, so arranging a hit was not out of the question. Ben Jacoby was responsible for getting his half brother hired by Starlight. Had he been planning this for some time, plotting to use Eddie’s presence in Aurora to set up the hit? Was he capable of such a cold, calculated act? Hell, who exactly were these Jacobys?
* * *
“Grabowski Confidential Investigations.”
Boomer Grabowski spoke words the way a rock crusher spit out gravel.
“Boomer, it’s Cork O’Connor.”
“Again?”
After Boomer and Cork worked together as cops in Chicago, Cork left the force to move to Aurora. A few years later, Boomer had taken an early medical retirement because of an accident that left him with a leg that was next to useless, and he had opened his own private cop firm. A lot of time had lapsed without the two men talking, then a few months ago Cork had called Boomer for some help with a situation that was tied to Chicago. Now he was calling again.
“What kind of mess you in this time?” Boomer said.
“I need you to check on some Chicago people for me, Boomer.”
“It’s what I do.”
“It’s a family. Jacoby’s the name. I’m most interested in Benjamin Jacoby and his half brother Edward Jacoby. Eddie was murdered here a few days ago. We still don’t know who the perp is or the motive.” Cork filled him in on the details, then gave him the addresses for all the Jacobys, including the father, Lou.
“Money,” Grabowski said when he heard where they lived. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything and everything. Where’d the money come from, where does it go. Connections. These are people used to manipulating the world to their advantage, Boomer.”
“They think they’re bad dudes, huh? So I should be careful?” He gave a callous laugh. “You want dirt?”
“If that’s what comes up.”
“Always comes up with money. When do you need it?”
“An hour ago.”
“Done.”
Boomer hung up without a good-bye.
Cork looked at the clock on the stand beside the bed. 1:15 P.M. More than three hours before his appointment with Faith Gray. He decided to lie down for a while, close his eyes, nap if he could. He set the alarm for four and stretched out on the bed.
An instant later, the telephone woke him. Cork rolled over, groped around on the nightstand.
It was Boomer on the line.
“You hit the jackpot, buddy.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Those Jacobys you’re interested in.”
“You have something already? I just called.”
“Four hours ago.”
Cork looked at the clock. It was ten after five. “What have you got?”
“I called Adam Gabriel. Remember him?”
“Sure. Nice guy, worked out of Central, last I heard.”
“He’s in the north burbs now, with Highland Park. Currently assigned to work with NORTAF.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Northern Illinois Major Crimes Task Force. Provides investigators for a number of northern communities. Gabriel says Eddie’s pretty well known to the local constabulary, although if you talk to them, they’ll swear his record is clean. He’s never been formally charged with anything, and the feeling Gabriel has is that it took a lot of family money to keep him out of trouble. Fat envelopes under the table to a badge in the right position. You know how that goes. Appears to be a family tradition with these Jacobys.”
“How so?”
“American branch began in the late teens. Guy name of Albert Jacoby comes over from somewhere in Europe, ends up in Chicago, associated with Jake Guzik.”
“Greasy Thumb Guzik? Capone’s financial wizard?”
&n
bsp; “The same. He never gets his hands soiled with the dirty work because he’s got a knack for handling finances. And not just for Capone. Made a lot of money for the mobsters, and made himself rich in the process. His only son, Lou, continues the family business but distances himself from the underworld, or so it appears. Does millions in legit transactions, but a lot of people in the know think he never completely severed those early, dirty ties. You know how it is. Even if a rat dresses in Armani, the stink of the sewer is still all over him. Cork, these Jacobys reek.”
“What about his son Ben?”
“I don’t get the sense of the old man’s ruthlessness, but they’re in business together and I can’t believe he’s not complicit. Does the apple ever fall far from the tree, buddy?”
“Any active investigations?”
“There have been from time to time but nothing at the moment, according to Gabriel.”
“Good work, Boomer.”
“All in knowing who to ask.”
“There’s someone else I want you to check on.”
“Your dime.”
“A security consultant out of Chicago. Her name’s Dina Willner.”
The sound at the other end may have been a cough or a quick, harsh laugh, or just a catch in Boomer’s gravelly voice. Then he said, “What’s Willner got to do with this?”
“The Jacobys brought her in to be sure Tamarack County’s bumbling law enforcement didn’t blow the investigation into Eddie’s murder. You sound like you know her.”
“Oh, yeah. I know Dina.”
“So tell me.”
“I’ll tell you what’s official, then I’ll tell you what I think, what a lot of us security consultants think.
“She’s good. And expensive. A thoroughbred background as far as law enforcement goes. Great record with the Bureau. Her client list probably reads like a who’s who of Chicago’s richest and most powerful families. Does very personal business for them.”
“Personal meaning?”
“Now we get into speculation. You had a chance to observe her in action?”
“I have.”
“Note anything unusual?”
“Like what?”
“That she could probably hold her own against a platoon of Navy SEALs.”
“I’ve seen enough to be glad she’s on our side.”
“Is she?”
“Cut to the chase, Boomer.”
“A lot of us in the business don’t even carry a piece. Word is, Dina Willner travels with an arsenal. I’m saying that consulting is a delicate word for what Dina does.”
“Which is?”
“Among other things, she’s probably not above doing a hit.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“I told you, speculation. She’s good, she’s discreet, and she works for only the best-positioned people, so she’s also protected. Ask a cop, and she’s clean as a whistle. Ask me, I’d say watch your back.”
“She saved my life, Boomer.”
“Bully for you. I don’t know what happened, but if I were you, I’d take a good look at the circumstance, make sure that it is what it seems.”
“You’ve been a big help, buddy.”
“Bill’s already in the mail. You need anything else, just holler.”
Cork swung his legs off the bed and stood up. He walked to the window. It was late afternoon. He’d missed his appointment with Faith Gray. That meant a mandatory suspension until Faith agreed to recommend he be permitted to resume his duties as sheriff, and in the meantime Ed Larson would be in charge of the department. Cork knew he’d fucked up, fucked up pretty major, but he had other concerns on his mind. So when, a few minutes later, he received a call from Larson informing him that, in accordance with departmental regulations, he had been relieved of duty pending psychological evaluation and a recommendation for reinstatement, he was not alarmed.
“Faith said she’d be willing to work you in tomorrow, Cork. Considering the circumstances, she’s been very understanding, but her hands are tied. It’s the regs.”
“I know, Ed. I’m okay with it.”
“Well, hell, there’s nothing to be done about it now. You might as well go back to sleep,” Larson advised. “Let me know what you arrange with Faith.”
“Anything new on the Jacoby murder?”
“Nothing so far.”
When he hung up, Cork had no intention of going back to sleep. He paced his room for a few minutes, going over questions in his mind. Then he reached for the phone.
“Dina? It’s Cork O’Connor.”
“I thought you were out for the count.”
She sounded a little groggy herself, as if he’d awakened her.
“I napped some. Got my second wind. Thought if you were still interested, I’d love to buy you that drink and steak I promised.”
“When?”
“Say, six-thirty? I’ll meet you in the bar there at the Quetico Inn.”
“It’s a date.” She sounded awake, and she sounded pleased.
44
THE DAY, WHICH began so well with Cork’s call that he was safe, was destined to end in a nightmare.
When she hung up the phone, Jo felt an enormous weight lifted from her, felt as if she were floating. Cork was out of the Boundary Waters, tired but alive. She gave a prayer of thanks, then called Mal’s cell phone. Rose answered, said that they were on the interstate halfway to South Bend. Jo told her the good news, declared that she felt like getting drunk, like celebrating, and proposed that she whip up a gourmet Italian dinner that night—spaghetti and meatballs, the one thing she knew for certain how to make. Rose sounded skeptical but agreed, and said to expect them between six and seven.
Most days in Aurora, she found an hour to slip away from her office and work out at the YMCA, but she hadn’t exercised at all since she’d come to Evanston. She knew she needed an outlet for all the energy that filled her now, so she put on a sports bra, a T-shirt, and her Reeboks, and stretched in the living room for fifteen minutes. After that, she doffed her blue warm-up suit and drove along Green Bay Road to Kenilworth, then east to Sheridan Road. She parked on a side street in front of a house decorated with jack-o’-lanterns and ghosts and witches in anticipation of Halloween. She locked her car and began a relaxing jog on the sidewalk heading north. The homes on the eastern side of Sheridan, huge affairs with vast grounds, sat with their backs against Lake Michigan. Those on the opposite side were still grand, but all the windows seemed like jealous eyes glaring at the greater splendor across the road. She passed Ben Jacoby’s house and kept running.
A long time ago, Jo had dreamed of being a part of this kind of wealth. Her desire had had little to do with money, but was instead a desperation to rise above the drab, unhappy existence that had been her adolescence. She’d driven herself to be the best at everything, to get into a first-rate law school, and for a while to be on the partner track of one of the top law firms in Chicago. It had been her great fortune, she believed, to marry a man of a different ambition, whose life had been rooted in a small town buried deep in the remarkable beauty of the Minnesota Northwoods. She’d never regretted abandoning the chance for a splendid estate on Sheridan Road in favor of the cozy house on Gooseberry Lane.
As she ran through the glorious morning light, through the deep shadows of trees on fire with autumn color, with the lake silver-blue in the distance, she knew absolutely that her life with Cork couldn’t have been more satisfying or full.
* * *
She spent the afternoon napping, catching up on the sleep she’d missed the night before worrying about Cork. At five-ten, she took the cylinder with Rae’s painting rolled inside and headed out. She stopped at a grocery store and picked up a few items she needed to make the spaghetti dinner, then went to Ben Jacoby’s home. She rang the bell, waited, and rang the bell again.
Phillip Jacoby opened the door. He smelled of alcohol.
“Ah, Ms. O’Connor. I was told to expect you.”
“Your fath
er’s not here?”
“He’s been delayed. He asked me to play host until he arrives.” He stood back and welcomed her inside with a deep bow and a sweep of his hand. “Would you like to wait on the veranda? That’s where I’ve been hanging out. It’s a lovely afternoon, warm for this time of year, don’t you think?”
He led her through the large dining room to the French doors that opened onto the veranda. The view was stunning, the long carpet of grass set with the blue swimming pool, the low hedge at the back of the property, the lake beyond. He offered her a chair at a white wicker table and she sat down. “May I get you something to drink? Myself, I’m having a martini. Several, actually.”
“No, thank you.”
“Oh, come on. How about a martini?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“A Coke at the very least. Dad would never forgive me if he thought I’d neglected you.”
“A Coke, then. Diet, if you have it.”
“Coming right up.” He walked a bit unsteadily toward the sliding door that opened onto the kitchen.
She took in the view, checked her watch, wondered how long Ben would be. A notebook lay open on the table, and on top of it a book facedown. A bookmark had been slipped between the pages near the end. She turned it so that she could read the spine. The Great Gatsby.
“For my American lit class,” Phillip said, returning from the kitchen. “A big bore, if you ask me.” He held a tumbler in one hand and a martini glass in the other. “Here you go. Diet, just as you asked.” He handed her the glass and sat down in a wicker chair. “Did you have a good time the other night?”
“Last night?”
“No, at my grandfather’s house, the night the stone pillar attacked my Jag.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been difficult for you.”
“If by difficult you mean humiliating, then yes, it was.”
She thought about pointing out that Ben had simply been worried about Phillip’s safety but decided it wasn’t her place to defend or explain the father to the son. She drank her Coke.
“You know, I have to give my old man credit. He knows how to choose his women.”
“I’m an old friend of your father, nothing more.”
The William Kent Krueger Collection 2 Page 63
