Iron Lake (29 page)

“Do you have any idea who they are?”

“Pretty sure.”

She waited. “Well?”

“I believe Harlan Lytton was the man who did the killing.”

“And the man he killed.”

“I think that was Joe John LeBeau.”

M
OLLY SCRAMBLED THROUGH THE WINDOW
of the bathroom in Lytton’s cabin, then turned and took the Winchester that was passed up to her. Cork climbed in after her, pulled a flashlight from his coat, and took back his rifle.

They moved to the big room. The beam of the flashlight showed nothing different from his earlier visit. He played the light along the walls, the furnishings, the floor with its big stain.

“Is that what I think it is?” Molly asked.

“This way.” Cork led her to Lytton’s darkroom, giving a wide berth to the crusty stain on the floor.

In the dark, he found the light string and switched on the bare, overhead bulb. He could see his breath.

“I’ve got to get some heat in here. I don’t know if the chemicals will work this cold. You can stay here.”

“Are you kidding? I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

She followed him into the big room. There were electric baseboard heaters set just warm enough to keep the cabin pipes from freezing. Cork turned them to high. Then he took logs and kindling from the woodbox next to the Ben Franklin stove and had a fire going in no time.

While the cabin warmed, Cork checked Lytton’s equipment and supplies. He found plenty of developer, paper, and wash. He tested the safelight and the enlarger.

“Where’d you learn this?” Molly asked.

“A buddy of mine was a police photographer when I was on the force in Chicago. I just hope I remember enough.”

When the cabin had warmed sufficiently, Cork laid out trays of developer, stop bath, fixer, and water. He took out the negatives and inserted the strip with the dead man into the negative carrier of the enlarger. He turned on the safelight and turned off the bare bulb. He focused the image from the enlarger until the negative that was like a trophy shot was clear on the bare easel, then he opened a package of photo paper and inserted a piece.

“Here goes.”

He switched on the enlarger lamp for fifteen seconds, took the print through the developer, stop bath, fixer, and wash. Using a squeegee, he wiped the excess water off the print and held it up carefully for a good look.

“You were right,” Molly said, a little hoarsely. “Harlan Lytton killed Joe John.”

In the enlargement, the satisfied look was quite clear on Harlan Lytton’s face as he stood with his foot on the body of Joe John LeBeau.

Cork repeated the process with the close-ups of Joe John. They were grisly images. From left. Right. Above. The head and body had been adjusted slightly with each shot.

“God.” Molly grimaced. “What was he doing?”

“I think Harlan was attempting art.”

A sharp snap from the other room made them both freeze. Cork picked up the Winchester from where Molly had propped it against the wall. He held a finger to his lips and stepped to the closed door of the darkroom. He gestured for Molly to switch off the safelight, then he carefully opened the door.

The darkness inside the cabin was profound. Cork crouched with the Winchester readied while he probed the dark with his eyes. Nothing moved. He could hear Molly’s shallow breathing directly at his back. Then he heard the crack of the floorboards near the potbelly stove as they expanded with the heat. He stood up.

“I think we should leave,” Molly suggested. “This place gives me the creeps.”

“I agree. But I want to make a few more prints first.”

Cork made enlargements of all the photos of Joe John’s murdered body. Then he did the same with the negatives of Hell Hanover, the judge, and the Minnesota Civilian Brigade. The brigade photos appeared to have been taken in a clearing somewhere surrounded by unbroken pine forest. Cork recognized a number of faces among the three or four dozen men in the ranks. Any of them were capable of breaking into Sam’s Place and working him over. Most were probably capable of murder as well. He’d been lucky to have come away with only bruised ribs. Luckier than Joe John had been.

Finally he slipped the negatives of the GameTech documents into the enlarger and took a look.

“Consultant contract?” Molly asked, peeking over his shoulder at the first image.

“It appears so. For Stu Grantham’s services as a property consultant.”

“But he’s head of the county board of commissioners.”

“That he is. And look who signed for GameTech,” Cork said, pointing to the flamboyant signature of Robert Parrant.

Cork scanned the other documents, all contracts for consulting services from various individuals in Tamarack County, including—for consulting on the issues of security—Wally Schanno. He made a print of Schanno’s contract, then he said, “Let’s get out of here. The smell of this stuff is making me sick.”

They were quiet a long time on the way back to Molly’s cabin. It was late and the roads were empty.

“Why?” Molly finally asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I thought Joe John was back. But he couldn’t have been, could he?”

“I’m pretty sure those pictures were taken months ago when Joe John disappeared. My guess is Harlan dumped the body somewhere. Probably in one of the bogs on his land. Nobody would go snooping there with Jack the Ripper roaming around loose. Then he crashed the truck somewhere else so there’d be no evidence of the murder.”

“Which brings us back to why.”

“I’m so tired right now I can’t think straight.” He pulled into Molly’s lane and parked in front of the cabin. “I need a cigarette and a beer. And I need a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow I’ll see what I can figure in the why department.”

“Where do you plan on sleeping?”

“Right now, I’d take a bed of nails if it were offered.”

“How about the left side of my mattress? It’s not a bed of nails, but it is a little lumpy.”

Cork smiled wearily. “Best offer I’ve had in ages.”

H
E WOKE WITH HER ARM OVER HIM
, her cheek against his back, and the warm morning smell of her all around him. He’d never slept with Molly before. Before, the bed had been a place of brief coming together and of leaving. It felt good to lie beside her with the early sun beyond the window and the cabin full of quiet. It was peaceful and healing to be with her and not be cut apart by guilt.

He lay very still, reluctant to move even the least bit, to do anything that would wake her. There was something protective in the way her arm lay over him, the way her breath warmed his back. Then he felt the light, deliberate touch of her lips on his shoulder.

“You awake?” she asked softly.

“Still dreaming,” he answered. “The sun’s up. I thought you had to be at the Pinewood Broiler early.”

She brushed a kiss across his back. “I called Johnny and told him I’d be late.”

“When?”

“An hour ago.”

“I didn’t feel you leave.”

“You were sleeping soundly.”

He kissed her hand. She made a pleased sound in her throat and snuggled more firmly against him. “Let’s stay in bed, Cork. Let’s stay here the whole day.”

“What’ll Johnny say?”

“Screw him. I’ve never once missed a day. I’ve never even been late.”

“Tempting,” Cork admitted.

“But?”

He didn’t reply. She drew away just a little.

“You’re going to stick your nose into things, aren’t you?” she said.

“Know what I’d like?” he said, trying to hold onto the brightness. “I’d like to take a shower with you, then fix you breakfast. It’s been a long time since I made breakfast for anyone but myself.”

“Cork, promise me something.”

“What?”

“You won’t do anything that’ll get you hurt.”

“I’m not what you’d call a brave man,” he assured her.

She sighed, her breath making the hair at the back of his neck shiver. “Maybe not, but you’re stubborn, and that’s just as bad.”

After they’d showered, Cork bounced downstairs ahead of Molly and made two telephone calls. He was just hanging up when she came down the stairs.

“Who’re you calling?” she asked.

“First I called the number on the GameTech letterhead.”

“And?”

“A recording. Leave your name and number and we’ll get back to you. So I called Ed Larson at the sheriff’s office. Asked him to track down an address for that number. He owes me a favor or two.” Cork stepped into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. “Perfect,” he said, taking out three leftover boiled potatoes. “Hash browns à la O’Connor. How’s that sound?”

“Delicious. I’ll get the coffee going.” Molly headed to the coffeemaker. “So what are you going to do?”

“Fry up a few potatoes, cut up some onion and green pepper, throw on a little—”

“I mean about Joe John.”

Cork pulled out the cutting board and a knife and began dicing the potatoes, skin and all. “I’ve been thinking about it. The only thing that makes sense is he was killed because he knew something about the brigade or about the casino or both. He cleaned the offices of Great North every night, so maybe he saw or heard or stumbled onto something he shouldn’t have. I’d guess, given what I know about the judge and Lytton, that the judge arranged to have Lytton take care of things.” Cork shrugged. “It’s all speculation. But one thing seems sure. Joe John was killed in cold blood.”

Cork took a small green pepper and an onion from the crisper and set them on the cutting board.

When the coffeemaker stopped dripping, Molly got a mug from the cupboard and filled it for Cork.

“Thanks,” he said. “Aren’t you going to have some?”

“I’ll fix a little herbal tea later.” She leaned her hip against the counter, crossed her arms, and looked sad. “It’s hard to believe. All of this is hard to believe in Aurora.”

“Happens everywhere,” Cork said. “Nature of the beast.
Ouch!”

“What?”

“Cut myself.” He jammed his finger into his mouth and sucked.

“Bad?”

“No.”

“Wash it off in the sink. I’ll finish cutting.”

Molly took the knife. Cork ran water over his finger and saw a small clean slice near his nail. He pressed it with his thumb and in a moment the bleeding had stopped.

“I’ll live.” He smiled. “But I could sure use a cigarette. Mind?”

“Go ahead.”

He plucked the pack from his shirt pocket. “You know,” he said apologetically, “you put up with a lot from me. Why?”

“I thought I made that clear last night.” She tossed him a smile over her shoulder.

Cork looked at the cigarettes. Impulsively he crumpled the pack and dropped it in the wastebasket under the sink.

Molly paused with the knife in her hand. “Is that for real?”

“There are a lot of things that will be different about me from now on. I promise.”

He moved behind her, and as he held her, his face against her hair that was still damp from the shower, he gazed out the window above the sink. He could see the cabins that lined the way down to the lake. They were old cabins, but sturdy. Molly’s father had built them himself not long after Molly was born and only a short time before his wife ran off and left him to raise the baby girl alone. Cork supposed the old man had done his best as a parent. But he had a reputation as a drinker, and the girl he raised had had a reputation for wildness.

“Do you ever think of fixing up the cabins, opening up this place again as a resort?” Cork asked.

“Almost never,” she said. “I like the solitude. And besides, it’s something I’d never want to tackle alone.”

“Maybe I could help,” Cork said.

She turned in his arms, turned to face him, and she looked up seriously into his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to run the place alone either.”

Cork gathered himself together and came as near as he’d ever come to saying he loved her. He said, “Maybe you wouldn’t have to.”

Molly kissed him and held him for a long time in the sunlight through her window.

“You know, you don’t have a Christmas tree yet,” he pointed out.

“I never get a tree,” she said, pulling away gently and turning back to the cutting board.

“Why not?”

“When I was a kid my father used to promise all kinds of things at Christmas. He never came through with anything. Christmas means mostly disappointment to me.”

“Let me finish those potatoes,” Cork said.

“Finish your coffee,” Molly told him. “I can see the general direction you were taking.”

Cork sipped from his mug. “Would you get a tree if we went together?”

“I’d consider it.” She looked out the window a moment. “But only if we made our own decorations. You know, popcorn and cranberries on strings, paper chains, that kind of thing. I don’t want all the commercial crap. Blinking lights and shiny ornaments and that stringy, glittery stuff.”

“Icicles?”

“Yeah, those.”

“Whatever you want,” he said. “Let’s get it today.”

“When?”

“As soon as you’re off work.”

“All right,” she agreed. “And tonight we’ll make decorations.”

The telephone rang. Cork answered. He listened a minute, said thanks, and hung up.

“So?” Molly asked. She placed the cast iron skillet on the stove over a medium flame and dropped in a bit of butter.

Cork sat back and sipped his coffee. It was black and strong and good. A cigarette would have made it perfect.

“Ed says the address is the judge’s house,” Cork told her. “Makes sense. The judge signed all the documents, and I don’t imagine, given the probable nature of the enterprise, that he operated out of his Great North offices. Too much chance of someone stumbling onto something.”

“But I thought you said his house had been searched thoroughly by Schanno and his men.”

“Maybe they missed something,” Cork said hopefully. “I don’t know if there’s a connection between this GameTech business and Joe John’s murder, but it might go a long way toward explaining the odd behavior of a certain county sheriff lately. Sometimes an investigation’s like pulling on the loose threads of a sweater. Grab the right one and the whole thing unravels.”

“Will you talk to Schanno?”

“If I don’t find anything at the judge’s house, I may have to fall back on the direct approach—with Wally or one of the other consultants.”

“What about St. Kawasaki and—what did you call it?—Lazarus?”

“I intend absolutely to have a talk with him. He’s got a lot to explain. Also, I need to pick up a cassette player so I can hear what those tapes have to tell me.”

“Busy day,” she noted. “Sure you’ll have time to hunt down a Christmas tree with me?”

Cork watched her at the counter in her red robe, with her damp red hair. He watched her carry the cutting board to the stove and he smiled at the way her thick red wool socks had bunched around her ankles. As she spilled the diced vegetables and potatoes into the hot skillet, he said to her, “I love you, Molly.”

But the sizzle from the skillet was loud and she didn’t seem to hear.