* * *
When Liam walked into the Sheriff’s Department in the basement of the county courthouse, Ruth Rustad gave him a warm, “Morning, Sheriff.”
Ruth was a civilian employee, taking care of clerical duties and responsible for arranging for the food to feed prisoners, when they had any, which they didn’t at the moment. She also sometimes acted as dispatcher. She was in her early forties and of a motherly nature. She often brought homemade cookies to work and offered them to folks who showed up at the department with troubles.
“Has Cy checked in?” Liam asked.
“He’s in the evidence room, finishing up with those bottles you asked him to dust for prints.”
“Where’s Joe?”
“Upstairs delivering some papers to the clerk of court.”
“I want to see him as soon as he’s back.”
“Fresh coffee’s in the pot, if you want some,” Ruth said.
Liam grabbed a mug decorated with an image of a troll, a popular item in an area settled heavily by Scandinavians, filled it, and went to the evidence room, where Deputy Borkman was bent over the cardboard box containing empty bottles of Four Roses.
“How’s it going?”
“Almost done.”
“In my office in ten.”
A few minutes later, Cy Borkman entered Liam’s office in the company of Joe Meese. Liam gestured to them to sit.
“What did you get on those bottles, Cy?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You mean no identifiable prints?”
“No prints at all. Weird, huh.”
Joe said, “How does a man drink whiskey without leaving any prints on the bottle?”
“Gloves?” Cy said.
“There were a dozen bottles,” Liam said. “Why would he put on gloves every time he drank?”
“Somebody wiped ’em clean?” Joe said.
“His prints were on the bottles at Lightning Strike,” Cy pointed out. “Why didn’t they wipe those clean?”
“He was alone at Lightning Strike,” Joe said.
Liam said, “You told me you found cigarette butts when you and Cy searched the area. Where are they, Joe?”
“In the evidence room.”
“Get ’em,” Liam said.
Joe came back with a small envelope on which he’d handwritten Butts/Lightning Strike/July 20, 1963. He gave the envelope to Liam, who opened it and emptied the contents onto his desk. There were four of them, all with lipstick stains on the filters.
“Where exactly did you find these?” Liam asked.
“Middle of the meadow, more or less.”
“Anything else?”
“We picked up some old, scattered trash, been out there awhile. I bagged that, too, if you want to see it. But those butts looked new.”
“Could’ve been anybody,” Cy said. “Tourist, maybe.”
“Maybe,” Liam said. But he had a pretty good idea that it wasn’t just anybody.
CHAPTER 23
Right after lunch, Cork, Jorge, and several of their friends threw together a sandlot baseball game at the diamond in Grant Park. Well into the third inning, Billy Downwind stormed across the field and came at Cork, who, because he was the only one with a proper glove, was playing first base. Billy shoved him hard to the ground.
Cork scrambled back to his feet. “What are you doing?”
“Your old man’s calling my uncle a liar.”
“What?”
“Chimooks lie, not Uncle Oscar.”
“What are you talking about?”
The game had stopped, and the other boys stood watching.
“Sam Winter Moon’s asking questions about my uncle, about that lighter he found. He’s saying your dad thinks Uncle Oscar lied about where he found it. My uncle’s not a liar.”
“My dad never said that.”
“Yeah? Then why’s Winter Moon saying so?”
“You must have heard wrong.”
“You calling me a liar now?”
“Did you know that your uncle and Big John didn’t like each other? They fought all the time.”
“Used to. Not anymore. Anyway, what’s that got to do with anything?”
“It’s something that’s got to be checked out.”
“Why?”
“It might be motive.”
“For what?”
Cork didn’t answer, but the implication dawned on Billy. “Your dad thinks Uncle Oscar might have killed Big John? That’s bullshit.”
“Like I said, it’s got to be checked out.”
“Screw you and your old man,” Billy said and gave Cork another hard shove.
“Fight!” yelled Colby Kogut, a big athletic kid who was on the pitcher’s mound.
But Cork had no intention of fighting, not over this. “Look, we can’t talk here. Let’s go somewhere else. I’ll explain, okay?” He turned to the other boys on the field. “Gotta go, guys.”
Jorge, who’d been up at the plate, dropped his bat, joined Cork and Billy, and the three boys walked away together.
“What about the game?” Colby shouted at their backs.
Cork lifted his hands in a gesture empty of any satisfactory reply, and they walked on.
They found a picnic table under a shady maple at the edge of Iron Lake. A hundred yards out on the water, a speedboat shot past pulling a young woman on skis. Farther out, a Sunfish sailboat sat idle in the breezeless afternoon, the limp white canvas of the sail mirrored perfectly in the water.
“So, explain,” Billy Downwind demanded.
Cork tried to think of a way to say it that wouldn’t be giving away too much, that wouldn’t be such a breach of the confidences that had been shared with him.
“My dad’s going after Duncan MacDermid, not your uncle, okay? But he’s got to check out every lead. It’s something I’ve heard him call ‘due diligence’.”
“MacDermid?” Billy squinted. “He thinks MacDermid killed Big John?”
Cork glanced at Jorge. “We heard something last night.”
“At my place,” Jorge said, and told Billy what had transpired there.
“Big John and the rich man’s wife?” Billy said, as if he thought it was impossible. “But what about my uncle and the lighter?”
“It’s a lead and my dad has to follow it up. But you gotta promise not to tell anyone any of this. Not until my dad’s had a chance to check it out.”
“Like hell. Uncle Oscar should know. And my mom.”
“Come on, Billy. Keep quiet for just a little while. Remember what Henry Meloux told us? These are crumbs we’re following. If we’re not careful, maybe somebody’ll kick those crumbs away.”
“What’s that mean?”
“If they know we’re after them, they’ll cover their tracks. You’ve gotta promise.”
For a few long moments, Billy Downwind’s eyes held on the lake, which had smoothed over after the passage of the speedboat and once again lay mirror smooth. He gave a single nod. “For a little while.” Then he said, “What do we do now?”
The three boys looked at each other, clueless, then Jorge said, “You keep saying that Big John’s spirit is hanging around.”
“So?” Billy said.
“Maybe we should just ask him what happened.”
“Yeah, right,” Billy scoffed. “How do you talk to the dead?”
Jorge said, “I have an idea.”
* * *
Liam parked in the gravel lot of Sam’s Place long after the lunch rush was past. Sam’s niece, Daisy Winter Moon, was at the serving window, and when she saw Liam approaching, she turned back inside and called to her uncle. She got a reply and called to Liam, “He’ll be right out, Sheriff.”
Sam came from the door of the Quonset hut and gestured for Liam to follow him. He walked to the picnic table on the grass near the dock, which folks who were boating used when they wanted to stop at Sam’s Place for a bite to eat. The afternoon was hot and still. At the moment, there were no boats o
n Iron Lake and the surface looked as blue and soft as a baby’s blanket.
“Did you find out anything on the rez?” Liam asked.
“Nothing,” Sam said. “But I’ve got to be honest, it wasn’t something I put my heart into. I don’t believe for a moment that Oscar Manydeeds had anything to do with his brother’s death.”
“Half brother. And with a history of going at it like a couple of rabid wolves.”
“Not since Big John got sober, Liam. I know Oscar can get crazy when he’s been drinking, but going far enough to do what you’re suggesting? I can’t see it.”
“Suppose, Sam, just suppose that something made Big John fall off the wagon, and he and Oscar were drinking together, like in the old days.” Liam shrugged as if the conclusion was obvious.
“I don’t buy it.”
“Big John was like a mountain on two legs, Sam. If someone hung him from that maple tree at Lightning Strike, it had to be someone every bit as big as him. The only man I know who fits that description is Oscar Manydeeds.”
Sam shook his head slowly. “Liam, you and I both did our share of killing in the war. You know how hard it was to kill a man at a distance. Think about what it takes to kill a man close up. And kin as well.”
“Some of the worst violence I ever saw when I was a cop in Chicago was among family members. Husbands killing wives, wives killing husbands. Parents killing children. And brother against brother? Hell, that goes all the way back to the Bible. Just because they were kin doesn’t mean Oscar Manydeeds couldn’t have done it.”
“And how about MacDermid?” Sam asked, hard bone in his voice now.
“I’ve got my sights on him, too.”
Sam looked long at Liam and finally said, “Sheriff, you better believe every Shinnob on the rez is watching you right now. Every step you take.”
It sounded as near to a threat as Liam had ever heard come from his friend.
* * *
It was late afternoon when Cork headed out with his collection book. This was the hardest part of delivering newspapers, trying to catch the subscribers and settle their bills. Mostly he tried to collect on weekends or evenings, when people might be home. If he was lucky, he got three-quarters of his customers without any problem. But there were those who seemed never to be home, or if they were, always had some excuse for putting him off, and he was forced to return again and again.
That afternoon his intent was to hit the businesses whose papers he delivered on his morning route, drop in during regular hours to catch the proprietors who hadn’t yet paid him. He was successful at the hardware store and Marv’s Men’s Clothing. He was approaching the Crooked Pine when he saw a Sheriff’s Department cruiser pull up and park in front of the establishment. Deputy Joe Meese got out.
“Hey, Cork, what’re you up to?” Joe said.
“Collecting for my paper route.”
“I know what that’s like. I delivered papers when I was your age.” Joe glanced at the Crooked Pine. “Ben Svenson still owe you something?”
“Three months’ worth. He always claims the register’s empty.”
“Well, let’s see what we can do about that.” Joe headed toward the front door.
“I can’t go in there,” Cork said.
Joe looked puzzled. “How do you collect?”
“I go around in back and knock until somebody answers.”
“Well, you’re not going around back today.”
As soon as Joe opened the door, the yeasty smell of beer poured out, a smell Cork wasn’t fond of. The joint was dark and empty. From the jukebox, Roy Orbison was crying over lost days on Blue Bayou. Ben Svenson had his back to the door, taking stock of the bottles shelved behind the bar. He turned as Joe and Cork approached. The butt end of a lit cheroot was jammed into the corner of his mouth. The smell of it assaulted Cork’s nose even above the stale odor of beer.
“A little early to be drinking, isn’t it, Joe?”
“Not here to drink, Ben. I’m thinking of running you in. Bilking a kid out of his rightful due.”
“Huh?”
“Cork says you owe him for three months’ paper delivery.”
“Three months?” Svenson removed the cigar butt from his mouth and scowled at Cork. “That can’t be right.”
“I’ve got it here, Mr. Svenson.” Cork held up his collection book.
“Three months.” Svenson shook his head as if in disbelief. “Well, if that’s what your book says. How much?”
Cork told him the amount, and the man popped open the register drawer and pulled out the cash.
“How about a tip with that?” Joe said. When Svenson gave him a surly look, the deputy said, “Has he ever missed a day?”
Svenson set his cigar butt on the bar, reached back into the till, and gave Cork an extra dollar. When Joe didn’t make a move to leave, Svenson said, “Are we done here?”
“Not yet.” Joe pulled a photograph from the breast pocket of his uniform. “Have you seen this girl?”
Svenson took the photo and studied it. “Yeah. She was hanging around outside, begging booze from some of my customers. I ran her off.”
“When was that?”
“Two, three weeks back, I guess.”
“Has she been round since?”
“Haven’t seen her.”
“If she does come back, will you let me or the sheriff know?”
“Sure. What’s she done?”
“Runaway. Her people are worried about her.”
“She looks Indian.”
“From Leech Lake.”
“Guess they start ’em drinking early there. Doesn’t surprise me.”
Joe put the photograph back in the pocket it had come from and said, “One more question. You told the sheriff that Big John had become a regular. Drank Four Roses.”
“Was hitting it pretty hard toward the end. You know Indians, once they get a taste.”
“Anybody else drink Four Roses pretty hard?”
“Not as a rule. Except MacDermid.”
“Duncan MacDermid?”
“He’s got a standing order for a couple of cases every other month. His preferred bourbon. He also makes a special order on occasion. As I understand it, he hands those bottles out to his mine supervisors and foremen as a kind of bonus. Been doing it for years.”
“When did he pick up his last cases?”
“Maybe three weeks ago.”
“And Big John just happened to drink the same brand?”
“He told me whatever was good enough for MacDermid was good enough for him. Pissing contest, I figured.”
The door opened and a couple of customers came in with the sunlight.
“Look, I got a business to run.” Svenson stuck the cigar butt back into the corner of his mouth. “And that kid shouldn’t be in here. We done?”
“So, he hands out booze to his supervisors and foremen, huh?” Joe gave his head a little shake. “Well, you know those miners, once they get a taste. Come on, Cork.”
Outside, Joe said, “Dumb Devil Dog.”
“Devil Dog?”
“It’s what they call Marines.”
“Mr. Svenson was a Marine?”
“Not was. He’d tell you once a Marine, always a Marine. Truth is, the only fighting that Devil Dog did in the war was with a typewriter. He was just a damn clerk. Spent his whole hitch shuffling papers in Yuma, Arizona. Headed home, Cork? Be glad to give you a lift.”
* * *
Liam was on the porch, sitting in the swing, smoking his pipe when Joe pulled up to the curb with Cork in tow. They got out and walked up to the house.
“How’d the collecting go?” Liam asked.
His son shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Still some deadbeats.”
“Ben Svenson isn’t one of them anymore,” Joe said with a laugh. “I made sure of that.”
Cork started inside and Liam said, “How about we toss the football after dinner?”
“I’m spending the night at Jorge’s,” his son
said. “I’m going over right after we eat. Mom told me it was all right.”
“Sure,” Liam said, feeling a little bite of disappointment.
Cork hesitated, seemed on the verge of saying something, and from the serious look on his face, something important, but in the end, he just swung the screen door wide and headed in.
Joe stood on the porch steps, silhouetted against a late afternoon sun. “Asked Svenson about the LaRose girl. He said she was hanging around outside the Crooked Pine two or three weeks back, trying to cadge drinks off the customers. He says he ran her off, hasn’t seen her since.”
“She might’ve wandered to Yellow Lake. Tomorrow, I want you to swing over there and ask around, okay?”
“Sure thing, Liam. You talk to Sam Winter Moon?”
“He didn’t find out anything useful and he wasn’t happy having to ask.”
“I think you’re barking up the wrong tree there. Me, I like MacDermid.”
The tobacco in his pipe was smoked to ash. Liam stood up and knocked the bowl clear on the porch railing. “I’ve been thinking I’ll make another visit to Glengarrow this evening.”
“You really believe you’ll get anything more out of MacDermid?”
“Probably not him. But he’s not the only one who lives there.”
A slow smile spread across the deputy’s face and he gave a little nod of approval.
Liam said, “See you tomorrow, Joe.”
* * *
They stood at the kitchen sink, Colleen washing the dishes, Liam drying. Cork had already gone away on his bike to spend the night with Jorge. Dilsey hadn’t returned since she’d left in a huff the evening before. The house was quiet and felt empty to Liam.
“What’s wrong?” Colleen asked. “You haven’t said two words since supper.”
“He’s growing up fast.”
“Cork?”
“Used to be when I suggested we toss the football he was all over that. Now…”
“It’s one night, Liam.”
“My father never tossed a football with me.”
Lightning Strike Page 12
