Mercy Falls

  The men waited for her to go on.

  “Stone.” She looked every bit as tired as Cork felt, but her brain still clicked along magnificently. “He’s the thread that ties together Lizzie Fineday and Edward Jacoby. We know he had a personal relationship with Lizzie, and Cork believes he had a business relationship with Jacoby. He was certainly a man capable of a brutal killing.”

  “Why would he kill Jacoby?”

  “He seemed like a man who didn’t need a lot of reason. It could be that his relationship with Jacoby had soured. Or maybe he didn’t like what Jacoby had done to Lizzie.”

  “She said the angel was a woman,” Rutledge pointed out.

  “She was drugged and beaten. I’m just saying it might be worth checking out.”

  Larson said, “I’ll have my people go over Jacoby’s SUV again, looking for any evidence that might link Stone to that vehicle.”

  “I think we should also have another talk with the working girls,” Rutledge suggested.

  Dina eyed Cork. “We still don’t know who asked Stone to do the hit. A favor for a friend, Lizzie said. Moose LaRusse?”

  “How’s Carl Berger doing?”

  “Alive, but not able to talk yet,” Rutledge said.

  For a lot of reasons, Cork was glad that the slug he’d fired into the man on the farm in Carlton County hadn’t killed him. “When he can talk, let’s squeeze him for answers.”

  Cork had listened to most of the discussion without comment. Partly because he wanted to take in carefully what was being said. Partly because he didn’t have anything to add. And partly because he was so tired, his brain felt like a chunk of cement.

  Larson said, “Cork, you need some sleep.”

  “I’m thinking about that. First, I’m going to take Meloux home. Then I’m going to take a bath. Then I’ll take a nap.”

  “Don’t forget, you’ve got a mandatory meeting with Faith Gray this afternoon at four. This one you can’t miss.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “What about Lizzie Fineday?” Rutledge asked.

  “Release her into her father’s custody,” Cork said.

  “You don’t think she’ll run?”

  “Look where it got her the first time. We should make it clear to Will that he’s responsible for her until the county attorney decides if he wants to charge her with anything.”

  They filed out of his office, but Dina stayed behind.

  “After that nap you say you’re going to take, I’d love to buy you a drink. Maybe even a steak,” she said.

  “I’ll do the buying. I owe you big-time.”

  “I won’t quibble with that.”

  “I think we should put the drink and steak on hold for today. You look like you could use a good rest, too.”

  “Me? I’m just getting my second wind.” She laughed lightly. “If you change your mind, just whistle.” She winked, turned, and sauntered from the room.

  Henry Meloux was waiting in the common area. His statement had been taken, he’d eaten, and now he was sitting in an office chair, his head lowered, his chin resting on his chest, sleeping. Cork touched his shoulder gently.

  “Henry, I’m taking you home.”

  Meloux blinked, then was wide awake and smiling. “Good,” he said. “I need to lay these old bones down for a while.” He got up from the chair.

  Cork said to Patsy, who was on Dispatch, “After I get Meloux back to his cabin, I’m going home. No calls unless it’s urgent, okay?”

  “Sure, Cork. Get some rest.”

  They’d managed to keep the media in the dark about the operation in the Boundary Waters. Larson and Rutledge were preparing an official statement that would be released that afternoon. There were still a lot of unanswered questions in Tamarack County, foremost among them who killed Eddie Jacoby, but for a little while Cork thought he could step back and take a rest. He was looking very much forward to closing his eyes for a few hours.

  Meloux nodded most of the way. When Cork pulled to the side of the road where the double-trunk birch marked the path to Crow Point, the old man roused himself and prepared to take his leave.

  “Let me walk with you a bit, Henry.”

  The woods were quiet that day, the air warm and full of the musty smell of fall. For a while, they walked without speaking, the only sound the dry rustle of fallen leaves under their feet. Meloux moved slowly and Cork couldn’t decide if it was weariness or simply that for Meloux there was almost never any need to hurry.

  “Stone,” Meloux finally said. “He was of the People in blood only. He did not understand the Anishinaabe spirit.” He shook his head. “He might have been a great warrior, but a warrior fights for honor and for others. Stone’s heart was too small. There was room only for him.”

  They reached Wine Creek, which was little more than a reddish iron-rich thread of water so late in the dry season. Meloux paused before crossing.

  “Stone is on the Path of Souls, but I think he still weighs on you, Corcoran O’Connor. Or is it something else?”

  “I can’t help thinking, Henry, that maybe if we’d all done something different, stepped in a long time ago, Stone might have ended up a different man.”

  “Probably. But better? He spent much time in Noopiming,” Meloux said. “This land can guide a man, young or old, to a peaceful place. Stone was like his name, blind, deaf, hard to the good he was offered here.” The old man took a long look at Cork. “I think there is something else.”

  “It’s not finished, Henry. Stone wasn’t at the heart of what’s been going on. There’s still so much I don’t know, don’t understand.”

  “I think you will,” the old man said. “You are like a snapping turtle that does not let go. It also helps that you have a thick shell.” He reached out and with his knuckles gave Cork a playful rap on his head.

  Cork smiled. “Migwech, Henry,” he said in thanks.

  “No,” the old man responded. “Thank you. You have given me one last good hunt to remember.”

  Meloux turned away, crossed the creek, and headed toward his sanctuary on Crow Point; to Walleye, who would be patiently waiting and would greet him eagerly; to a meal of wild rice and wild mushrooms; and finally to bed. That last part sounded so good, Cork wished he were going with the old Mide.

  But he knew he still had miles to go before he slept.

  Fucking miles.

  43

  MARSHA DROSS LIVED on Lomax Street, in a little white house with flower boxes on the front porch and green shutters on the windows. There was a For Sale sign on the lawn. Marsha and Charlie were planning to buy a home when they married, to start their life together in a new place large enough for a family. As soon as he returned to Aurora, Cork stopped by Marsha’s house. She’d been released while he was in the Boundary Waters, and he wanted to tell her firsthand where the situation stood.

  Her father opened the door. He wore a plain white shirt with gray slacks and black suspenders. He had on black socks, no shoes. A pair of black-rimmed reading glasses were nestled on the bridge of his broad nose. A folded paper, the Duluth News Tribune, was in his left hand. With his big free right hand, he waved Cork inside.

  “Thanks, Frank,” Cork said. “They told me at the department that Marsha had been released from the hospital. Is she here?”

  “In her bedroom. Heard you had a little excitement.”

  “A little. All right if I talk to her?”

  “Just let me make sure she’s awake and decent.”

  Frank went down the hallway.

  To anyone who knew Marsha, her house was a pretty fair reflection of the woman. Neat, uncluttered. Needlework hung framed on the walls, an art form that had been a favorite of her mother. A few lush plants, just enough to make the rooms comfortable. Finished floors with hand-loomed rugs. It was a nice place, but given her upcoming marriage, Cork could understand why she’d sell.

  “Go on back,” Frank said when he returned. “She’d love to see you.”

  Marsha’s
room was full of sunlight that made her face bright. Her hair was brushed, and she appeared to have put on a bit of makeup. She wore a clean white T-shirt and had the covers tucked around her below that. She was sitting up, her back propped against a pillow. She smiled when Cork walked in.

  “You’re looking better,” he said.

  “I wish I could say the same for you.”

  “Last couple of days have been a little rough.”

  A small white wicker chair had been placed next to the bed for visitors, and Cork sat down.

  “We got him,” he said.

  “I know. Patsy called. What she couldn’t tell me was why he did it.”

  “He died without saying directly, but I’m almost certain it began as a hit.”

  “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 Forc
e. 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?”

  “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.”