“No kidding?” I asked excitedly, although I had never heard of the Minnesota Deer Hunter’s Association or its art contest.
“When I wouldn’t sell it, a couple of backers put out a limited-edition print that made some money,” Orman added, warming to the subject. “Since then I’ve been selling paintings through the gallery in Duluth and another one in Minneapolis. I haven’t done badly with it, either.”
“Did you study art in school?”
“No, no nothing like that. It’s just something I picked up when I was with the Wisconsin HP. The watch commander was into it, and he encouraged me to sketch with charcoals and then he critiqued my work. He said it showed promise. But I didn’t get real serious about it until I moved back home.”
“How many paintings have you sold?”
“Seventeen in the past two years.”
“Is that good?” I asked stupidly.
“Yeah, it’s good. Better than most.”
“How long does it take to paint a canvas?”
“It usually takes me three, three and a half weeks to put something together. When I work, I work real fast and furious. I don’t have the luxury to sit down like an artist who works full time. I can’t paint every day. Sometimes I’ll go weeks without touching a brush. It depends on business. When the county is quiet, I paint. When it isn’t …
“You’d think painting would be a nice outlet, even therapy,” he continued. “You’d think I’d be able to come home, take off the gun and badge, and forget about what happened that day. Only it doesn’t work like that for me. I try to create these quiet worlds filled with loons swimming lazily under a full moon. But when the real world is noisy, it shows in my work; my paintings become loud, and the loons are frightened away. Lately it’s been getting worse. The breakdown of families, drugs, alcohol abuse, growing poverty—Kreel County isn’t Mayberry anymore. I haven’t painted in two months.”
“Ever think of doing it full time?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked sharply, but the sheriff knew what I was saying.
Just to be sure, I added, “Any damn fool can wear a badge and carry a gun, but how many can do what you do?”
“You don’t think I should be sheriff?”
“Do you?”
He didn’t answer.
“Why did you become sheriff?”
“Sense of duty, I suppose. I figure I owed it to my father. And my grandfather. It’s what they would have wanted.”
“My father was a businessman before he retired,” I told him. “One of the high muck-a-mucks. And I think he wanted me to follow in his footsteps. But he never said so. Instead, he encouraged me and my brother to do whatever we wanted. He only had two rules: Do the best that you can. And enjoy yourself.”
I gave Orman a few moments to reply. When he didn’t, I asked, “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“I acted like a fucking idiot back there, I know that. You don’t have to rub it in. You don’t need to give me speeches.” After a few more moments of silence, he added, “I was jealous”—as if that excused everything.
“Well, I’ve heard artists are supposed to be emotional.”
“Shut up, Taylor,” he told me.
I didn’t. “What’s next?” I asked.
“I’m not quitting just because some city boy doesn’t like how I run things.”
“I meant what do we do next about Michael.” “Oh.” Orman hesitated a moment, then announced, “King Koehn.”
“Oh, goody. Are you going to throw his chairs around, too?”
“Shut up, Taylor.”
This time I did.
twenty-five
Angel Johannson asked us to wait for a moment. “Fuck that,” Orman said. He pushed past Angel’s desk and strode purposefully to King’s closed office door. He opened it hard; if it had been locked, I have no doubt he would have kicked it open. I was beginning to suspect that the sheriff was wound way too tight for this line of work.
“I’ve been expecting you,” Koehn said evenly from behind his desk.
I was standing behind Orman. Angel was crowding in behind me. If her boss was calm, she decidedly was not.
“Should I call the police?” Angel asked. Orman looked at her and smiled, but there was no humor in his expression. Angel hesitated, then slowly went back to her desk.
With very little effort, the sheriff’s smile became a sneer. He planted himself in a chair in front of Koehn’s desk. “You were expecting me?” he asked, making the question sound like an accusation.
Koehn gestured with his thumb at the telephone. “Charlie Otterness called to tell me you were running amok; he’s probably calling everyone else in the county, too. I’m afraid you’re skating on very thin ice, my friend.”
“You’re not my friend,” Orman retorted.
“Yes, I am,” Koehn insisted. “I’m the one who got you your job, remember?”
Orman pulled the badge off his uniform shirt and tossed it violently on Koehn’s desk. “Fuck the job.”
Koehn stared at the badge for a moment and then glanced up at me. I thought the sheriff’s gesture was a little too theatrical, as well, but I remained silent.
“What is this shit?” King asked.
The sheriff flushed a deep crimson and sprang from his chair. He leaned on King’s desk. King pushed backward; the wheels on his chair carried him out of Orman’s reach.
“You’re this close,” Orman warned, holding his thumb and index finger a quarter inch apart.
I took a few cautious steps forward, wondering what was next, when Orman abruptly snapped upright. He turned his angry gaze on me, and for a moment I envisioned the picture of the white-tailed buck hanging in his office, scarcely believing this lunatic had painted it. Orman looked like he was working hard to rein in his anger. After a moment he barked at me, “I’d just as soon beat the shit outta him right now. But maybe you can talk to him.…” Orman glanced over his shoulder at King. “I’ll be waiting outside.” With that he stormed out of the office—but not before retrieving his badge and slipping it into his pocket.
“I think we might have made a mistake hiring Bobby,” Koehn told me once the sheriff was gone. I didn’t say if I agreed or not.
Koehn’s office was paneled with redwood and featured dozens of photographs, most of them pictures of King shaking hands with people I’ve never seen before. The desk was larger than it needed to be, and the rest of the furniture seemed expensive, although I noticed a small sticker on the base of a crystal lamp: FABRIQUE A TAIWAN.
“I know you,” he told me, recognizing me for the first time. “Last night at The Forks.”
I nodded.
“You did me a good turn,” King added. “I appreciate it.”
I nodded again.
“Who are you, anyway?”
I told him my name. I told him why I was with Sheriff Orman.
“That’s not right, is it?” he asked. “A PI working for the sheriff’s department.”
“It is a bit unconventional,” I admitted.
Koehn grimaced as he rocked from side to side in his swivel chair. “Things have been turning to shit over there for a while now. People complaining about this or that … He’s not his old man, not by a long shot. But Bobby’s my problem. What can I do for you?”
“Tell me about last night.”
“What’s to tell? It wasn’t the first public disturbance caused by my wife, that’s for sure.”
“She accused you of sleeping with Michael Bettich,” I reminded him.
“She’d accuse me of having an affair with Hillary Clinton if she thought people would believe her.”
“Is it true?”
“Sure, me and Hill are like that,” he said, crossing his fingers.
“Sidesplitting,” I told him.
Koehn frowned. “Everyone is so serious all of a sudden.”
“Homicide just doesn’t crack people up the way it used to.”
Koehn’s frown turned into a grin. At
last, someone he could talk to.
“Did you sleep with Michael?” I asked.
“No. But it wasn’t for lack of trying.”
“She led you along, then blew you off—is that how it worked?”
“No.” Koehn smiled. “Michael was up front about it from day one: No screwing around. She said she’d learned her lesson about sleeping with people she worked with.”
“But you hit on her anyway,” I suggested.
He held up his palms. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
I settled into the chair in front of King without asking permission. “The thing is, what you did or didn’t do doesn’t matter as much as what your wife thinks you did or didn’t do,” I told him.
King smiled like he’d had a lot of practice. “You think Eleanor did it?”
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I think Eleanor is delighted that Michael stole The Harbor from me; it gives her something to needle me with, and if Michael is killed, Eleanor’d lose her weapon.”
“Interesting relationship you have.”
“It has its ups and downs,” King admitted.
“Why stay married?” I asked.
“We love each other.”
For a moment I was convinced he was putting me on, but the smile on his face told me otherwise. The man was serious.
“Whatever works,” I said and changed subjects. “You sold The Harbor to Michael.”
“Common knowledge,” King said.
“Then you got pissed off when news of the casino leaked out.”
“I did.”
“You claimed she ripped you off.”
“Absolutely, she did.”
“And that made you angry.”
“Indeed.”
“And you vowed revenge.”
“Civilization is built on trust,” King answered, continuing to smile even as he rubbed his face. “Trust of your neighbors and business associates, trust of your government, trust of your police. Trust. You need trust. Trust is everything. Trust is essential. Without trust, what do you have?”
“Mistrust?” I suggested.
“You have chaos,” he told me.
“Ain’t that the truth,” I said.
“Mike betrayed my trust. I’m going to make her pay for it.”
I noticed the future tense.
“How are you going to do that?” I asked.
“Hey, that’s what lawyers are for.”
I flashed on Hunter Truman. These guys were made for each other.
“It was suggested that you and Michael are actually partners in The Harbor deal. That you put up the money for her to buy it.”
“Why would I do that?” King asked.
“So you can profit from the casino without alienating all the customers, employees, and business associates who are vehemently opposed to it—people who might boycott your other businesses.”
“That’s nonsense,” Koehn insisted. “Course, now that you mention it, it’s not a bad idea.”
“How much did Michael pay for The Harbor?” I asked.
“One hundred seventy. She got it cheap.”
“Who handled the loan?”
“No loan. She paid in cash.”
“Cash?”
“Actually, a cashiers check.”
“Where did she get the money?”
“It never occurred to me to ask.”
“It didn’t?”
“Hey, don’t ask, don’t tell. Besides, the check was good. What did I care where it came from? I was relieved to be unloading that white elephant.” King sighed dramatically. “Little did I know …”
“I’d like to see your business records,” I told him.
“Do you have a warrant?”
Of course I didn’t, and I wasn’t likely to get one.
“I don’t mind chatting with you off the record like this,” he added, still smiling. “But c’mon, Taylor. I’m not stupid.”
“Refusing to cooperate might make the sheriff angry,” I told him.
King thought that was pretty funny.
“I’m the guy who can have Bobby Orman fired with a phone call,” he reminded me.
“Did it work?” the sheriff asked when I joined him outside. He was leaning against his cruiser.
“Did what work?” I asked.
“Did I frighten King enough to get him to talk?”
That brought me up short. “Good cop–bad cop? You were playing fucking good cop–bad cop?”
The sheriff smiled his answer.
“What? You see that on NYPD Blue or something?”
The smile disappeared.
“All you succeeded in doing was to piss the man off. He’s probably on the phone getting you fired at this very minute.”
The reproach made the sheriff angry. He yanked open his car door and said, “Get in.” But I had seen enough. Way too much, in fact. I had only one more suspect on my list, and I didn’t want the sheriff bungling the interview.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I said more harshly than I should have. “I think you’re way over your head, Bobby.” I refused to call him Sheriff. “I think you should get the Wisconsin DCI up here right now, before you botch this investigation more than you already have.”
The sheriff was inside the car, gripping the steering wheel now.
“Are you finished?” he snapped.
“No, I’m not finished.” I was on a roll. “You could be the best investigator in America. You could be Anne Scalasi. It doesn’t matter. You should still hand off the case. You’re too emotionally involved. You shouldn’t be doing the things you’re doing.”
The sheriff was furious. I could actually hear his teeth grinding as I scolded him. And when I was finished, his mouth started moving like he had something to say. It took him a while to get it out.
“I love her,” he told me.
“That’s my whole point,” I told him.
“You love her, too.”
“I don’t even know her,” I admitted bluntly—probably for the first time.
But the sheriff hadn’t heard me. He was too busy slamming his car door, gunning the engine, and peeling out of Koehn’s parking lot, leaving a trail of exclamation points behind him.
twenty-six
“Hey, stranger.” Ginger greeted me when I entered The Height. “What can I get you?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Taylor, you look like you could use a drink.”
“I’m too tired to argue with you,” I sighed. “Okay, give me a scotch. A double. Neat. And I’ll want to eat the glass, too.”
“Coming up.”
Ginger set the drink in front of me, and I started to sip it.
“So, have you figured out who shot Michael, yet?” she asked.
“We expect an arrest within twenty-four hours.”
“Seriously?”
“No, that’s just the stock reply to that question. Listen, is there a cab or a bus I can catch to Saginau? I need to get my car.”
“We can give you a ride.”
I turned to find Ingrid standing directly behind me, her lustrous blond hair spilling over the shoulders of a heather-gray twill wrap dress with a sweeping skirt and a neckline just deep enough to stimulate the imagination. Lonnie Cavander, the blues-singing Ojibwa, was standing next to her, but I’ll be damned if I can remember what he was wearing.
“I don’t want to be any trouble,” I told her, desperate to keep my eyes above her chest.
“No trouble,” she said. “I have to head in to see my accountant. Lonnie’s coming to keep me company.”
Lonnie smiled and gave Ingrid’s shoulders a five-second massage.
My first thought was that two’s company, three’s a crowd. But I didn’t give in to it.
“I’d appreciate it,” I said.
“Thirty minutes?” Ingrid asked.
“I’m at your convenience.”
Ingrid smiled her breathtaking s
mile and left through the EMPLOYEES ONLY door. Lonnie followed close behind.
A half hour later the three of us were riding in Ingrid’s white 1997 Sebring convertible. She drove at only five miles per hour above the posted speed limit, but with the top down it seemed much faster. She wore black sunglasses, and to minimize the damage to her hair, she had wrapped a black scarf over her head, knotting it tightly beneath her chin. Lonnie Cavander sat next to her. I sat in back, leaning forward and turning my head to catch their conversation over the wind.
“Do you really expect an arrest within twenty-four hours?” Ingrid asked.
I flashed on Jimmy Johannson. “It’s possible,” I said.
“Who?” Lonnie asked.
“I really shouldn’t say,” I told him. “But I doubt anyone will be surprised.”
“Not King?” Ingrid asked.
“No, not King.”
We were halfway to Saginau. The county road dipped and turned and suddenly we were motoring past The Harbor.
“I still feel awfully guilty about all this,” Ingrid said.
“Guilty about what?” I asked.
“The Harbor.”
“What about it?”
Ingrid didn’t answer. Instead, she turned her head and looked at Lonnie. Her eyes weren’t visible behind the sunglasses. Lonnie shrugged.
“You think?” Ingrid asked.
Lonnie shrugged again.
“What?” I asked, intrigued by this silent passing of information.
Ingrid’s chest rose and fell with a sigh that I couldn’t hear over the wind.
“It’s my fault,” she said.
“What?” I leaned in close so I could hear better.
“I’m the one who told Michael about The Harbor,” Ingrid confessed. “I’m the one who told her the Ojibwa were buying the civic center across the highway.”
“You?”
Ingrid nodded.
“How did you find out?”
“I told her,” Lonnie said.
“Are you privy to the tribe’s business dealings?” I asked him.
“Carroll Stonetree is my uncle,” he told me.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“My mother’s brother.”
“He told you that the Ojibwa are building a new casino?”
Dearly Departed Page 23
