Red knife co-8

by William Kent Krueger

  “Predictable?”

  “That, too.”

  “You didn’t answer me. Do you think Buck did it?”

  She reached under the bar and brought up an opened pack of American Spirits and a Bic lighter. She tapped out a cigarette and reached for an ashtray. “The day after the murders, a couple of cops came in to talk to me. Captain Larson and a state cop.”

  “From the BCA, actually. Simon Rutledge.”

  “Yeah. Cute in a family-guy sort of way.” She lit the cigarette and blew smoke out of the side of her mouth, careful to keep it away from Cork. “They asked me about Buck, how drunk was he, was he belligerent, what time did he leave, did he say where he was going. They didn’t ask me the question you just did, do I think Buck killed the Kingbirds.”

  “What would you have said?”

  “I’d have told them no.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Buck’s predictable, too. Saturday nights he comes in, drinks three or four rounds of CC and ditch water.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  She gave a rich laugh. “That’s how he orders Canadian Club and soda. At ten thirty sharp he finds something to complain about, makes a big pronouncement that he’s going elsewhere to finish getting shit-faced, and he leaves. Always ten thirty sharp. Last Saturday he was worse than usual, carrying on with his racial slurs about the Ojibwe, so I shoved him out the door a little early.”

  “Any reason ten thirty is the witching hour?”

  “That’s when Brit gets off work.”

  “Brit? Would that be Brittany Young?”

  “Yeah.”

  Cork knew her, one of the women who served food and drink at the Buzz Saw. Tall, long blond hair, good figure. A way about her that suggested that if you tossed her a flirt, she’d catch it with a soft glove.

  “Something going on between her and Buck?” he asked.

  “I’m just telling you what I’ve observed.” She took a long draw on her cigarette and studied him. “I used to watch you in church, you know? When I was a kid.”

  “No kidding? Why?”

  “Jenny and I took First Communion together. I would try to imagine what it was like being the daughter of the sheriff. I thought it would be pretty exciting. But you’re not sheriff anymore, so I’m wondering what your interest in all this is.”

  “I promised some people that I would look into it.”

  She stared at him, and he remembered that when she was younger and still attended Mass, she seemed like one of those kids who had the mysteries of the faith all figured out and found them amusing.

  “I heard someone shot at you the other night,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  She shook her head. “Being your daughter would be too hard. Too much worry. Look, I’ll throw in one more observation. I don’t know if it’ll help you, but here it is. Brit’s put on weight lately, and it isn’t from overeating.”

  “Is she on the schedule today?”

  “Starts at five thirty.”

  Cork checked his watch. Quarter to four.

  Seneca straightened up and arched her back. “I’ve got a chapter to read before class tonight, and you’ve got a beer you’ve barely touched.”

  “One more question. You happen to know where she lives?”

  He caught Brittany Young polishing her nails. Her toenails. She came to the door walking on her bare heels, wads of Kleenex jammed between her toes. She wore a loose-fitting black T-shirt and gray sweats. She had a pink towel wrapped like a turban around her hair. She smelled clean, of some floral soap. She looked pissed when she opened the door, then she looked puzzled.

  “Yeah?”

  “Brittany, I’m Cork O’Connor.”

  “I know who you are. What do you want?”

  “Do you have a minute to talk?”

  “I’m in the middle of something.”

  “This won’t take long, and it might help a friend of yours.”

  “Who?”

  “Buck Reinhardt.”

  She thought it over, then stepped back and let him into her apartment.

  It was bare bones inside, thrift-store decor: a beat-up sofa, a beat-up love seat, a scratched coffee table, a standing lamp, all of it arranged on an oval braided rug the color of beef gravy, none of it matching. In the small dining area, which was separated from the tiny kitchen by a counter, was a cheap dinette set that had recently been painted white. The one item in the place that looked new and expensive was a television with a thirty-five-inch screen, situated on a stand so that anyone lounging on the old sofa would have a good view. The television was on-an Adam Sandler movie-but muted. A bottle of dark red nail polish stood on the coffee table.

  Brittany stayed on her heels all the way to the sofa where she plopped down and stared up dismally at Cork. She didn’t ask him to sit.

  “So how is it you think I can help Buck Reinhardt?” she asked.

  “Are you aware he’s the primary suspect in the Kingbird murders?”

  “How could he be? He was home when that happened.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I heard it around.”

  “Then maybe you heard around that it’s only a matter of time before that alibi collapses. Nobody’s buying it. The sheriff’s people never believed it for a second and they’re doing everything they can to break it. Pretty soon the whole truth’ll come out.”

  “Why should I care?”

  “Mind if I sit?”

  She pursed her lips and nodded toward the love seat. As Cork settled in, she bent and began removing the wads of tissue from between her toes.

  “Got a name for the baby yet?” Cork asked.

  She came up fast and stared at him with surprise.

  “Let me ask you another question,” Cork went on. “Does the Buzz Saw provide health coverage for its employees?”

  She eyed him warily. “No.”

  “Have you got health coverage?”

  “Yes. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Buck pay for it?”

  “Look, you need to leave,” she said, doing her best to sound incensed.

  Cork leaned toward her in a confidential way. “Brittany, I know that Buck was with you the night the Kingbirds were killed. If you come forward, it’s the best thing you could do to help him.”

  “Right.”

  “The sheriff’s people aren’t the only ones convinced that his alibi is a lie. He’s at the top of the Red Boyz’s hit list. If you don’t help clear his name, it could very well cost him his life.”

  She frowned and didn’t look convinced.

  “I’m not after Buck,” Cork said. “I’m after the man I believe is responsible for the Kingbird killings, and I think that’s Lonnie Thunder.”

  She started to speak but held back. Then a mean little gleam came into her eyes. “That’s not who Buck thinks did it.”

  “No? Who does he think?”

  “Elise.”

  “What makes him believe that?” Cork asked, trying to maintain a neutral response.

  “He has this shotgun, some kind of special thing. When he got home Saturday night-”

  “After he’d been here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What time did he leave?”

  “Midnight, maybe twelve thirty.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “So he gets home and Elise has this shotgun in the living room. Buck can tell it’s been fired. She claims she used it to scare off a cougar that had been sniffing around the place.”

  “Buck didn’t buy that?”

  “He says that ever since Kristi died, Elise has been crazy. Doesn’t sleep, drinks too much. He says sometimes she scares him.”

  “Scares Buck?”

  “That’s what he says.” She looked away, stared at the television where there was only movement, no sound. Her mouth went thin as a pin. “He was going to leave her, then Kristi died.”

  “Leave her? And marry you?”

  �
�A ring and a father for our baby, that’s what he promised.”

  Cork thought that as fathers went, Brittany could have done a lot better for her child than Buck Reinhardt. And as a husband, Buck was hardly a prize. But none of that was Cork’s business. He had what he came for and he stood up.

  “I’m going to be talking to the sheriff in a bit, Brittany. I’m going to tell her everything you’ve told me. It’ll clear Buck, but a lot of shit’s going to hit the fan.”

  She gave a brief bitter laugh. “Like that’s never happened with me before.”

  “The sheriff’s people will want to talk to you. If they were to ask, is there any way you can prove Buck was with you that night?”

  “Have ’em talk to Mrs. Schickle in apartment 113. She’s better than a damn watchdog. Never sleeps, sees everything.”

  “Thanks, Brittany. You’ve been a real help.”

  She went back to pulling tissue from between her toes. “I just hope to God Buck sees it that way.”

  On his way out, he stopped at apartment 113. Mrs. Schickle was indeed an all-seeing eye, and when Cork gave her his business card and explained that he was helping the sheriff’s department, she was only too happy to talk. He had the feeling that even if all he’d shown her in the way of authority was a bubble gum card she would just as eagerly have told him everything.

  Outside in the parking lot, Cork looked back at the building. It was an ugly box of tan brick three stories high, one of the new constructions on the west side of town that had been thrown up as Aurora continued to grow. It wasn’t the kind of place anybody lived permanently. Brittany Young probably saw it as a stop on her way to the sprawling house Buck Reinhardt had built on Skinner Lake. There was always the possibility that it might work out better for her than it had for either the current or the previous Mrs. Reinhardt, but Cork didn’t hold out much hope. Because Buck was the constant in the equation, the outcome, he suspected, was dismally predictable.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  When Elise Reinhardt opened the door, her hand held a small glass full of whiskey and her eyes held a look full of mean. Her gaze shot from the sheriff to Ed Larson, to Simon Rutledge, and finally to Cork.

  “We already gave to the widows and orphans fund,” she said.

  “Elise, I wonder if we can come in and go over a few things with you.” The sheriff was firm but not unpleasant.

  “Again?”

  “It’s important.”

  “I can see that from the backup you brought.” She stepped aside and waved them in. “Hell, let’s get this over with. I’ve got a steak to grill.”

  They came in and stood clustered in the living room. Though it wasn’t particularly dirty or cluttered, the place felt neglected. Flowers drooped in a vase on a table. The air in the room carried a distant unpleasant odor, like dirty socks.

  Elise crossed her arms. “Sit down if you want. I’d offer you something to drink, but that might encourage you to stay.”

  “We’ll get through this as quickly as we can, Elise,” Dross said. She didn’t sit. “The night the Kingbirds were killed, what time did Buck get home?”

  “I told you already. Told you a dozen times.”

  “Could you tell us again?”

  “It was maybe fifteen minutes after Cork left.”

  “What time would that have been?”

  “Nine fifty, give or take a couple of minutes.”

  “What were you doing when he got here?”

  “Exactly what I was doing when Cork left. Listening to music and drinking Macallan.” She held up her glass.

  “And after Buck got home, what did you do?”

  “Went to bed.”

  “Anything unusual occur that night?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “Once Cork was gone, you didn’t leave the house?”

  “Nope.”

  “And you’re positive about the time Buck came home?”

  “I am so fucking positive. And so fucking tired of being asked.”

  “Do you think Buck killed the Kingbirds, Elise? Is that why you’re lying?”

  She looked startled by the accusation. “I’m not lying.”

  “Elise, we have a witness, someone who’s willing to swear that Buck wasn’t here at ten. Or eleven. Or even midnight.”

  Elise gathered herself. “So, our word against his.”

  “Hers.”

  A slight disturbance ran across her face. “Whatever.”

  “We know where Buck was during that time, and it pretty much assures us that he didn’t kill the Kingbirds.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  “You think it makes no difference that you lied?”

  “Sue me.” She took a sip of the drink in her hand.

  Simon Rutledge said, “Mrs. Reinhardt, when we first interviewed you, you said you weren’t sorry Alexander Kingbird had been murdered.”

  “I’m still not. Like I told you before, he ran the Red Boyz. He’s hiding Lonnie Thunder. You ask me, all the Red Boyz need to be dealt with.”

  “By killing them? The way you killed the Kingbirds?”

  “Me?” She looked truly shaken.

  “When your husband came home, you had a shotgun in the living room, one that had recently been fired. We’ve been told your husband thinks you killed the Kingbirds.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “The woman he was with from ten thirty until midnight the night the Kingbirds were killed.”

  Elise blinked and put her drink down. “That son of a bitch. That goddamn son of a bitch.” She shook her head and huffed a sour little laugh. “All this time I thought he’d killed them, killed them for Kristi. I’d have lied my way into hell for him after that. But there he was, rutting with some whore instead.”

  “What were you doing with the shotgun?” Dross said.

  At first, Cork wasn’t sure Elise Reinhardt had heard the question. She seemed distant. He wondered if she was imagining Buck “rutting with some whore,” as she’d put it. Finally she focused on the sheriff. “I heard the dogs going crazy in the kennel out back. I thought maybe we had a bear nosing around and I got the shotgun. Turned out to be a cougar. I discharged the shotgun into the air and the thing ran off.”

  “Can you prove this?”

  Everyone waited. Elise seemed to enjoy the drama of the moment. At last she crooked a finger and said, “This way.”

  She led them through the maze of the house to a back door. Outside, the afternoon was waning. Sunlight shattered as it fell through the pines and it hit the ground in pieces. The day was still pleasantly warm. They followed Elise to a fenced-in area that included a kennel and a short run. A couple of gray bird dogs came bounding to greet her. They leaped up, put their paws on the fence, and shoved their noses between the mesh.

  “Good boys,” Elise said, and rubbed their muzzles. She walked down the fence line a few yards with the dogs pacing beside her eagerly. “Here.” She pointed toward the ground.

  The tracks lay at the center of a large patch of sunlight. They’d been made in the wet dirt around an outside spigot that jutted from the ground and had probably been put there to clean the kennels.

  Ed Larson, who’d been quiet so far, said, “Elise, how do we know these tracks were made that night?”

  “Never saw a cougar around here before.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “Tell you what, Mr. Smartypants. How about you make me prove it?”

  Dross said calmly, “Where’s the shotgun, Elise?”

  “Locked in the gun case.”

  “May we see it?”

  She looked exasperated. “Do you really think I killed the Kingbirds?”

  “If you didn’t, there’s no reason for us not to see the shotgun, is there?”

  She eyed them all as if she finally realized she was surrounded and outnumbered. “Come on.”

  She led them back to the house and once again through the maze of Buck Reinhardt’s random construction to a denlike
room hung with hunting trophies and with two large mahogany gun cases set against opposite walls. She dug in the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a small key ring. She unlocked one of the cases, reached in, and lifted out a shotgun, which she handed to Ed Larson.

  “Robar,” he said, with real admiration. “Nice piece.”

  “Buck had it custom built.”

  “Mind if we keep it awhile?”

  “Be my guest.”

  The cell phone in its leather case on Marsha Dross’s belt began to bleat. “Excuse me,” she said. She stepped away and answered, “Dross.” She listened, then said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She slipped the phone back into place and said to Elise, “You might want to come with me.”

  “Yeah? And why’s that?”

  “We just got a call, shots fired out on County Road Eighteen, Elise. It looks like Buck was the target.”

  “Did they hit him?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Would you care to come?”

  “If he was dead, maybe. Right now, I’d rather finish my drink.”

  By the time Dross, Larson, and Cork pulled their vehicles off the road and parked behind the deputy’s cruiser, it was dusk. Simon Rutledge hadn’t come with them. He’d asked Elise if she minded his staying so they could talk a little more. She’d agreed, but only if he had a drink with her. Rutledge had said he could live with that.

  On the far side of the road were two trucks from Reinhardt’s Tree Service. One was a big utility truck with a hydraulic bucket for trimming high branches. The other was Buck Reinhardt’s personal pickup, replete with the big rack of lights on top of the cab. Another vehicle was parked there as well, a cruiser from the Yellow Lake Police Department.

  Buck was talking with Deputy Cy Borkman, who was taking notes. Dave Reinhardt stood close by. Two men sat on the rear bumper of the bucket truck. One was Adrian Knowles, who wasn’t much more than a kid, though he had a wife and an infant son to support. The other was Cal Richards. Richards was smoking a cigarette. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up high enough to show most of the long green dragon tattoo on his right arm. Neither of the men bothered to stand up when Dross and the others arrived.