He put a hand on the top of Ned’s Cherokee, as if to hold it there until he was finished with his business. “What’s the trouble, Ned?”
“No trouble, Isaac. Just hoping I could talk to your brother.”
“What about?”
“Like I told Wes there, it’s something I’d rather keep between me and your brother.”
“Afternoon, Jewell,” Stokely said. He drilled her with his small dark pupils, then did the same to Dina. “I don’t believe I know you. I’m Isaac Stokely.”
“Donna Walport.”
“You ladies a part of whatever it is that concerns Calvin?”
“I’d like them there with me,” Ned said.
Stokely squinted at the constable. “Tell you what, Ned. You give me a good idea what this is all about, I might be more inclined to let you through.”
“All I can tell you is that it’s official business.”
“Got a court order of some kind?”
“I’d like to keep it a little friendlier than that if I can, Isaac.”
Stokely tapped the top of the vehicle while he considered its passengers. “Got to be honest with you, Ned. I haven’t heard anything from you that makes me feel compelled-or even inclined-to open the gate. All a little too vague for my tastes. The folks up here value their privacy highly, and it’s a big part of what they pay me for. You understand.”
“They won’t even know we’re here, Isaac. I guarantee it.”
“Uh-huh.” Stokely stood up straight and pulled a pack of Juicy Fruit from his shirt pocket. He took his time easing out a stick, undoing the silver wrapper, putting the gum into his mouth. He crumpled the wrapper and rolled it around in the middle of his palm.
“Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let Calvin know you’d like to talk to him, and I’ll suggest he stop by your office. How’s that?”
“I’d rather see him right now.”
“Take it or leave it, Ned.”
“Then I guess it’ll have to do.”
“Glad you understand. Folks.” He put his fingers to his brow in a lazy salute and stepped away.
Ned turned the Cherokee around and started back toward Bodine. “That got us exactly nowhere,” he said.
“Is there another way in?” Dina asked.
“Yes,” Jewell replied. “The same way Ren and Cork went. Impossible in the dark. What now?”
Ned turned a bend in the road, and when the trees hid them from the gate he pulled to the side. “Let me try Olafsson.” He punched in the number, waited, finally said, “It’s Ned Hodder again. I’ve got some information I think you’d like to hear. About the Max Miller killing. Give me a call when you can.” He closed the phone. “Voice mail still. Court should be done by now. Maybe he’s gone home for the day.”
Dina leaned toward them from the backseat. “Back there you said nothing like this has happened for twenty years. You were talking about Tom Messinger, right?”
“You know about Tom?”
“Jewell told me. And it occurs to me that there are similarities here.”
Ned glanced at Jewell, then turned back toward Dina, frowning as he worked the comment over in his head. “That was a long time ago. And Tom’s dead.”
“Humor me, okay? The murder took place after a wild party, is that right?”
“That’s always been the theory.”
“Maybe Tom Messinger didn’t leave the party alone. Maybe he wasn’t the only one in the car that night. Do you know if anyone ever bothered to find out?”
Ned shrugged. “He killed himself. He left a written confession. End of story, I suppose.”
“Who else was on that championship team?”
“I was,” Ned said.
“Besides you.”
“A lot of guys.”
“Any of them still live around here?”
“Del and Calvin,” Jewell leaped in. “They were the star running backs.”
“Were you at that after-banquet party, Ned?”
“Yes.”
“Were Del and Calvin there?”
“They wouldn’t have missed it.”
“Is it possible they were with Tom Messinger that night?”
“I suppose it’s possible. God, I’d love to ask them.”
Dina said, “You can’t get to Stokely right now, but Delmar Bell doesn’t live behind a gate.”
“Way out of my jurisdiction,” Ned said.
“So ask as a concerned citizen. Be interesting to see if he squirms.”
Ned’s cell phone chirped. He lifted it and looked at the LED readout. “It’s Olafsson.” He answered, “This is Hodder… Yeah, I see… Jesus…oh, Jesus…No, I’d rather talk to you in person. I’ll meet you at my office in half an hour… No, at my office. You won’t be sorry when you hear what I have to say.” He ended the call and sat a moment staring ahead. “Our deal’s off. Let’s go get Charlie and Ren. They need to tell Olafsson their story. And we won’t be talking to Delmar Bell.”
“Why not?” Jewell asked.
“Because this afternoon somebody shot him in his apartment behind Providence House. He’s dead.”
39
C harlie was sullen the whole way into Bodine. Ren sat beside her, quiet, too. Cork rode up front beside Jewell, who followed Hodder in her Blazer. Dina rode with the constable.
It was evening, daylight almost gone. When they crossed the bridge over the Copper River, Cork looked at the water below; its swift, roiling surface was mostly silver-blue, reflecting the sky. He thought of the river as a living thing. The surface was its skin; the pale streaks where boulders disturbed the flow were scars on that skin. He wondered what the river knew about the girl’s death but could not tell. His old friend Henry Meloux, the Ojibwe Mide, might be able to interpret the voice of the river and divine its secrets, but to Cork it spoke not at all.
They parked in front of the constable’s office on Harbor Avenue. Hodder unlocked the door, went inside, and turned on the lights. He disappeared through a door at the back where Cork saw the bars of a holding cell. He heard Hodder’s boots thumping down wooden stairs, and a moment later the sound of them returning. Hodder brought with him several folding chairs. Cobwebs hung between the legs. He set the chairs against the wall and opened them one by one, brushing at the cobwebs.
“Sorry,” he said. “I haven’t crowded this many people in here in a long time.”
Cork noted the furnishings were spare: a fine old wooden desk, a vintage rolling chair, a couple of tan metal file cabinets. On the wall next to the door was a bulletin board pinned with wanted posters, an emergency evacuation route, assorted flyers related to town events, and a photograph of Hodder standing on a dock holding up a lake salmon and grinning like an idiot. Framed certificates hung on the other walls. Occupying the space directly behind the constable’s desk was a print of Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party. Cork smiled broadly. The same print hung in his own office back in Aurora.
“Anybody want coffee?” Hodder asked. “Be glad to make a pot.”
Nobody responded and he let it go. He sat down and one by one the others followed suit. Charlie slumped in her chair with her arms clasped across her chest and a defiant look in her eyes.
“Introductions first,” Cork said. “I’m Corcoran O’Connor, Jewell’s cousin. I’m sheriff of Tamarack County, Minnesota.” He reached across the desk and shook Hodder’s hand.
When he’d heard about Bell’s murder, Cork knew he couldn’t sit on his hands in the shadows any longer. A girl was dead. Another kid was in the hospital. Someone was after Charlie. Ren might even be a target, too. Cork understood the risk of revealing himself to Hodder, but it was what he had to do. He’d find a way to deal with Jacoby; first he had to deal with this.
“Family reunion?” Hodder smiled at Dina.
“Not really, Ned,” Dina said. “I’m not related to the family at all. My real name is Dina Willner. I’m a security consultant.”
Hodder frowned. “Why the charade? What are you doin
g up here?”
“That’s a long story and doesn’t have anything to do with what’s going on,” Cork said. “But we’d be glad to help in any way we can.”
Hodder thought about it. “I guess I appreciate that.”
“Why don’t we start with Bell’s death,” Cork offered. “I can’t imagine it’s a coincidence, him killed just as Jewell and Dina start asking questions.”
“If Del was involved in the girl’s death, why kill him?” Hodder said. There was a coffee mug on his desk. He wrapped his hands around it and rolled it back and forth between them as if he were trying to sculpt it into a new shape.
“I never liked him,” Charlie said. “He was always looking at me.”
“At Providence House?” Jewell asked.
“Whenever he was at our place drinking with my dad. At Providence House he was just kind of around. He didn’t really talk to us or anything.”
“He was the one who told you about the shelter, right?” Dina said.
“Yeah. At first I wasn’t sure about it, because I knew he’d be there and I thought he was creepy, but he never bothered me.”
“What about the other kids?” Dina asked. “He ever bother them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ever see him talking to Sara?”
Charlie thought about it. “Maybe, but not like serious or anything.”
“You know who Calvin Stokely is, right?”
“Sure.”
“Did you ever see him at Providence House?”
“No.”
“Look, maybe we’re way off here,” Jewell said. “Maybe Del and Calvin had nothing to do with this.”
“Most murders involve people who know one another. Sara Wolf knew Delmar Bell,” Cork said, “and the connection through Stokely to the Copper River is hard to ignore. And we’re not trying to convict anybody yet, just looking at possibilities. But you know these guys, Jewell. What do you really think?”
“I hate to think what we’re thinking about anybody.”
“What about Stokely? Could he have killed Delmar Bell?” Dina said.
“Why would he?” Jewell replied.
“Maybe when Del saw us at Providence House, he panicked and Stokely was afraid he’d talk.”
Outside, dark had settled gently over Bodine. The flash of headlights crossed the windows and through the glass came the sigh of engines dying. A minute later Detective Sergeant Olafsson came in followed by a woman, a uniformed sheriff’s deputy. He paused and scanned the gathering in Hodder’s office.
“What’s this,” he said, “a town meeting?”
Hodder said, “You know Ren DuBois already. And Ms. Willner.”
“I thought it was Walport,” Olafsson said.
“Willner, actually,” Dina said. She pulled a business card from her pocket and offered it.
Olafsson studied the card. “Security consultant. What’s that exactly?”
“Among other things, I do private investigation.”
“She was with the FBI,” Ren said.
“That so?” Olafsson didn’t sound impressed.
“This is Jewell, Ren’s mother,” Hodder went on. “And Cork O’Connor, Jewell’s cousin. Also a sheriff in Minnesota.”
“Sheriff.” He shook Cork’s hand without enthusiasm. “Seems like we got plenty of help, eh?” He didn’t sound excited. His stern gaze settled on Charlie and he stepped toward her. “You must be Charlene Miller. I’m Detective Sergeant Olafsson.” He extended his hand.
The girl didn’t respond, didn’t even look up from the spot on the floor where she’d nailed her eyes, just sat with her arms folded across her chest and her lips cemented in a thin line. Olafsson drew back his hand.
Hodder stood up. “Have a seat, Terry.”
“Siddown,” Olafsson said. “I’m fine. All right, who’s going to lay it out for me?” He crossed his arms, as if mimicking Charlie’s obstinate gesture, and he stared at her, which did no good since she didn’t look at him. “Charlene?”
“I’m not saying anything,” she said under her breath.
“That so?” Olafsson swung his gaze to Ren. “How about you?”
The boy glanced at Charlie, who was locked so tight in herself, Cork doubted there was any key that would open her now. Ren looked to his mother, who nodded.
He told it in pieces, chunks of story broken by “mmm’s” and “uh’s.” In the end, however, a fairly complete narrative emerged including even the details that he’d probably rather not have Olafsson know, particularly that the kids were getting high at the old picnic shelter on Copper River when Stash saw the body. Olafsson listened, jotted notes, and stopped the boy only a couple of times to ask a point of clarification. Ren told Charlie’s story, too, of what happened at the trailer. Olafsson asked Charlie, “Is that correct?” The girl’s only reply was a silent nod.
Hodder stepped in to make the connections: Charlie and Sara Wolf and Providence House, Providence House and Delmar Bell, Bell and Calvin Stokely, Calvin Stokely and the cabin on the Copper River. And finally the speculation about Stokely, Bell, and the dead girl twenty years ago.
The detective put his notepad to his forehead and closed his eyes a moment. “Okay,” he said. “If these men killed the Wolf girl, and if they were willing to kill these other kids who saw the body in the river, why dump the body there in the first place? Why not just bury it?”
Cork asked, “Has the autopsy been done? Do you know the cause of death?”
“I haven’t had a chance to look at the report.” Then Olafsson added defensively, “I’ve been busy. A lot’s been going on.”
“Any way you can find out?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Maybe they didn’t dump her body. Maybe she wasn’t dead when she went into the river,” Cork explained.
The blond feathers that were Olafsson’s eyebrows dipped toward each other. “You think she went into the river on her own? What, tried to run or something? Drowned?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Huh.” Olafsson pulled a cell from inside his jacket and punched in a number. “This is Terry Olafsson. Give me Wayne Peterson… page him then. I’ll wait.” He kept the phone to his ear and eyed Charlie. “One thing nobody’s told me is where you went after you found your father dead. Did somebody hide you?”
Charlie stubbornly maintained her silence.
Olafsson spoke to Ren. “Do you know?”
“She didn’t tell me,” he replied quickly.
“Right,” Olafsson said. Then he spoke into the phone. “Yeah, Wayne, it’s Terry. Say, I haven’t had a chance to look at your preliminary autopsy report on the Wolf girl’s death. What’s your initial finding for cause of death? Uh-huh… Uh-huh… When will the analysis be complete? Uh-huh… Okay. Thanks, Wayne. ‘Preciate it.” He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his jacket. “Drowning, he says. Which would be consistent with falling into Lake Superior. We won’t know where she died until they’ve finished analyzing the water in her lungs.”
“Jesus, Terry,” Hodder said, rising from his chair. “You think all of these odd things are coincidental? Maybe in a city like Marquette, but not up here.”
“What do you want me to do?” Olafsson said.
Dina spoke up for the first time. “It would be interesting to talk to Calvin Stokely, don’t you think?”
Olafsson lifted his hands as if quieting a restless mob. “Everything you’ve told me that you believe connects Stokely to the girl’s death is pure speculation. I’m more than a little reluctant to barge into the Copper River Club without something a lot stronger.”
Olafsson’s cell phone rang, the ring tone playing a snippet of a tune vaguely familiar to Cork. As Olafsson pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, Hodder, who’d noticed Cork’s slightly furrowed brow, leaned over and whispered, “The Wolverine fight song.”
“Yeah?” Olafsson answered. He listened. “I see. I’d be interested in knowing if you find
anything that we can trace to Sara Wolf… All right. Keep me posted. Oh, Earl, have you got a TOD on Bell yet?” He looked up at the ceiling. “Killed between three-thirty and four? Thanks.” He put the phone away. “State police. I asked them to keep me informed during their investigation of Bell’s murder. They’ve been going through his place. They found Rohypnol. A lot of it.”
Rohypnol. The date rape drug.
“All right. I’ll go up there, talk to this Stokely.” Olafsson pointed to Hodder. “I want you with me.” To the deputy who’d come with him he said, “Stay here until I get back, Flo. I’d appreciate you folks sticking around, too. And, Ms. Miller,” he said to Charlie, “as of right now, you are in protective custody.”
“Meaning?” Jewell said.
“While I’m gone, Deputy Baylor here will make arrangements for Charlene to stay with the juvenile authorities in Marquette.”
“Is that really necessary?” Jewell shot back.
“Look, she’s a material witness to a murder, Ms. DuBois. In addition, if what you’re all telling me is true, then her safety’s an issue. What would you do if you were me?”
“I’m not going to juvie,” Charlie said.
“Charlene, I’m not giving you a choice here. Flo,” he said to the deputy, “she’s your responsibility.”
“Understood,” Baylor responded.
Dina said, “We couldn’t get past the front gate at the Copper River Club.”
“You didn’t have jurisdiction,” Olafsson replied.
“They’ve got money,” Dina said. “My experience is that money usually trumps everything but a court order.”
“We’ll try it friendly first.”
Dina shrugged. “Your call.”
40
F or a little while after that, the constable’s office felt like a tomb, with Charlie buried in it.
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