Mercy Falls (9 page)

H
E SEATED THE
two men in his office. The elder man had white hair, a healthy shock of it that looked freshly barbered. He was tanned, in good condition, and dressed in a dark blue suit and red tie, as if he’d come to chair a board meeting. His eyes were like olive pits, hard and dark. If there was sadness in him, they didn’t show it.

“Louis Jacoby,” he’d said in the common area when he shook Cork’s hand. “Edward’s father. We spoke on the phone.”

He’d introduced the second man as his son Ben. Ben remained quiet as his father talked.

“You arrived sooner than I’d expected,” Cork said when he sat at his desk.

“I have a private jet, Sheriff O’Connor. Tell me what happened to Eddie.”

Cork explained the events of the preceding night and where the investigation stood. “I have some questions I’d like to ask.”

“Later,” the old man said with a wave of his hand. “I want to see my son.”

“That’s not a good idea, Mr. Jacoby.”

“I’m sure he’s right, Dad,” Ben Jacoby said. He appeared to be roughly Cork’s age, maybe fifty. There was a lot of his father visible in his features, but his eyes were different, not so dark or so hard.

“I want to see my son.” Jacoby didn’t raise his voice in the least, but his tone was cold and sharp, cutting off any objection.

Still, Ben tried again. “Dad—”

“I’ve told you what I want. I want to see Eddie.”

Ben sat back and gave Cork a look that asked for help.

“I can’t prevent you from seeing your son, but the autopsy’s only just been completed. If you could wait—”

“Now,” the old man said.

“I don’t understand—”

“I’m not asking you to understand, Sheriff. I’m telling you to show me my boy.”

Cork gave up. “All right.”

He took the Pathfinder. They followed in a rented black DeVille driven by a man they called Tony.

In a few minutes, Cork pulled up in front of Nelson’s Mortuary on Pine Street. It was a grand old structure with a lovely wraparound front porch. It had once been a two-story home and was still one of the nicest buildings in town. When the Jacobys met Cork in the drive, Lou Jacoby stood in the rain, looking the place over dourly.

“I thought we were going to the morgue,” he said.

“The morgue’s at the community hospital, and it isn’t set up for autopsies.”

For a long time, the mortician Sigurd Nelson had been the coroner in Tamarack County. That position didn’t exist anymore. Most of Cork’s officers had become deputy medical examiners qualified to certify death. The autopsies were now contracted to be done by Dr. Tom Conklin, a pathologist who’d retired to a home on Iron Lake. For years prior, he’d been with the Ramsey County ME’s office in St. Paul. He still used Sigurd’s facility.

Cork rang the bell and the mortician answered. He was a small man with a big belly and a bald head, in his early sixties. He greeted Cork, then glanced at the other people on the porch.

“These are the Jacobys, Sigurd. Family of the man Tom autopsied today. They’d like to see the body.”

“That’s not a good idea,” Nelson said. “Tom’s finished the autopsy, but he hasn’t repaired the body yet.”

“Is Tom downstairs?”

“No. He went out for a bite to eat. He was going to finish up when he came back.”

“We’ll come back,” Cork said.

“We’re here,” Jacoby said. “We’ll see him now.”

“Lou Jacoby,” Cork said by way of introduction. “Edward Jacoby’s father.”

Sigurd Nelson addressed the man firmly but civilly. “With all due respect, you don’t want to see your son’s body right now.”

“If you try telling me again what I want, I’ll shove one of your coffins up your ass. Take me to my boy.”

It wasn’t so much that Nelson was cowed by Jacoby. Cork figured he probably decided a man with that attitude and those manners deserved to get exactly what he asked for. The mortician allowed them inside. Ben Jacoby signaled for Tony to accompany them, and the tall driver followed.

Nelson led them down a hallway. He lived upstairs with his wife, Grace, but the first floor was all business and included a large room used for memorial services, several viewing rooms, and a display room for coffins. At the end of the hall, he opened a door and they followed down a flight of stairs to the basement, which was divided into a number of rooms, all with closed doors. Nelson went to the last room, swung the door wide, turned on the light.

“Wait here just a minute,” he said and disappeared inside. Shortly, Cork heard the flap of a sheet snapped open and the rustle of linen being arranged, then Nelson reappeared at the door. “All right.”

Cork had seen the room many times before. It always reminded him of a laboratory. The walls were sterile white, the floor shiny red tile. There were cabinets with glass fronts through which shelves of plastic jars and jugs and glass bottles were visible. In the middle of the room stood a white porcelain prep table. It was old. Cork knew most prep tables were stainless steel now. Near the table was a flush tank and a pump for the embalming fluids. Beneath the table, the red tile sloped to a large floor drain.

The body lay on the table fully covered by the sheet the mortician had just positioned. Dark stains spread slowly across the white fabric.

“It won’t be pleasant,” Nelson said.

Jacoby paid him no heed. He walked forward stiffly, reached out, and drew the sheet back from Eddie’s head. His son’s face was bloodless, chalk white, but relaxed as if he were only sleeping. Which might have been a perfectly acceptable sight had Edward Jacoby still had a whole head. In his autopsy, Tom Conklin had slit the skin along the back of Jacoby’s head from ear to ear, pulled the scalp forward over the face, opened up the skull as neatly as a tin can, and removed the brain.

“Oh God,” Ben Jacoby said, and looked away.

Cork had been present at a lot of autopsies, and the sight didn’t bother him. He figured it would be plenty to turn Lou Jacoby away, but the man surprised him. He drew the sheet back completely, exposing the raw, open, empty body cavity.

“Dad.” Ben reached to steady his father.

“Leave me be.” Jacoby stepped back, faltering. A tremor passed through him like a quake along a fault line. His hands shook and his jaw quivered. He squinted as if a bright light had struck his eyes, but he uttered not a word as he walked from the room.

The driver had not come in but had hung back, waiting in the corridor.

“Stay with him, Tony,” Ben said. He turned to Cork and Sigurd Nelson. “I’m sorry. He’s a man who gets his way.”

“We need to talk,” Cork said.

“How about not here,” Nelson suggested, and ushered them out.

In the hallway, Lou Jacoby stood staring down the basement corridor with its false light and its dead end. Tony leaned against a wall nearby. He appeared to be in excellent condition, with long black hair and an olive cast to his skin. He watched the elder Jacoby carefully, ready to help should he be needed.

“Take him to the hotel,” Ben said to him. “I’ll be along.”

Tony said gently and with a soft Spanish accent, “Let’s go, Lou.”

“I’m sure the sheriff has questions.”

“I’ll take care of them, Dad.”

Jacoby nodded. Despite all his earlier posturing, all his effort at control, he seemed suddenly weak and uncertain. He didn’t move toward the stairway until Tony urged him forward with a hand on his arm.

“We’ll be right up, Sigurd,” Cork said.

The mortician turned off the light in the prep room, closed the door, and left them alone.

“I have some questions about your brother, Mr. Jacoby.”

“Of course. And call me Ben.”

Jacoby was a handsome man, a little taller than Cork and, like his father, tanned and in good physical condition. He had his father’s thick hair. It was still mostly brown, but there was a hint of gray at the temples. His face was smooth, the bones prominent. When he spoke, it was with quiet authority, a man accustomed to being listened to, who didn’t need to flaunt his power. Sometimes the rich were like that, Cork had learned long ago. A profound sense of the responsibility that went along with wealth and position.

“Edward was here on business, is that correct?” Cork said.

“As far as I know, that’s the only reason he came to Aurora.”

“For Starlight Enterprises?”

“I assume so, yes.”

“What does he do for Starlight?”

“I’m not entirely certain, but a lot of it has to do with bringing in new business.”

“What do you do?”

“I run an investment firm with my father.”

“You and your father but not Eddie?”

“Eddie had other ideas about what he wanted to do with his life.”

“Did he talk about his visits to Aurora?”

“Eddie talked a lot. It was hard to know what to listen to, so I usually didn’t. In terms of his business here, there’s an attorney you ought to talk to. Eddie dealt with her a lot, I believe. Someone named Jo O’Connor.” He stopped and gave Cork a quizzical look. “O’Connor?”

“My wife.”

“Convenient.”

Cork shrugged. “Small town.”

“I assume you’ve spoken with her.”

“I have.”

“Would you mind if I did also?”

“Why?”

“My father is a little numb at the moment, but he’ll be expecting answers soon. I’d like to be able to offer a few. Is there a reason I shouldn’t speak with her?”

“No,” Cork replied. “In fact, if you’d like, I’ll drive you there.”

“I could take a taxi.”

“Ben, this isn’t Chicago. We don’t have taxis. I’ll be happy to take you.”

Jo was busy with a client, and they waited a few minutes in the anteroom of her office. Her secretary, Fran Cooper, asked if they’d like something to drink. They both declined.

Jo’s door opened and Amanda Horton stepped out. Amanda was a transplant from Des Moines who, Cork knew, was trying to buy lake property currently tied up in probate.

“Hello, Cork,” she said.

“Afternoon, Amanda.”

She gave Ben Jacoby an appreciative look as she left.

Cork watched her go. When his eyes swung back, he found his wife standing in the doorway of her office, her eyes huge, her mouth open in an oval of surprise.

“Ben?”

“My God,” Jacoby replied with equal wonder. “Jo McKenzie.”

J
ACOBY ACCEPTED THE
coffee she offered him and sat in one of the chairs available for clients.

Cork took the other client chair. “So,” he said. “Law school together.”

“My second year.” Jo put the coffee server back on the tray with the mugs she kept on hand, went behind the desk, and sat down.

“My last,” Jacoby said. “But you still practice, Jo.”

“You don’t?”

“I never did. I do investments.”

“In Chicago?”

“We’re in the Sears Tower.” He shook his head and smiled. “You look wonderful. You haven’t changed at all.”

“What are you doing here?” She furrowed her brow. “Jacoby. Eddie?”

“He was my brother. My half brother.”

She folded her hands on her desk, then unfolded them. “I never made the connection. I’m sorry, Ben.”

Jacoby looked at his coffee mug but didn’t take a sip. “No reason you should be. You and I, we knew one another a very long time ago. And Jacoby’s not that unusual a surname.”

“I mean I’m sorry about Eddie.”

“Ah, yes. You dealt with him, with the business he had here?”

“That’s right.”

“Then maybe you can help me.”

“In what way?”

“Before Eddie left for Aurora, he told me this visit would be different, that I’d understand when he got back. I got a call from him yesterday, late in the afternoon. He said he was going to celebrate. He sounded as if he was already two sheets to the wind, so I didn’t know how much more celebrating he planned on doing. I wonder if you have any idea what that might have been about? Business?”

Cork looked at her, too.

Jo chewed on her lower lip, something she only did when she was very nervous. “It’s possible. He’d been working for months to get the Iron Lake Ojibwe as clients for his company. He presented me with the contract yesterday. The RBC won’t vote on it for a while, but they’re certainly favorably disposed at the moment. So maybe that was it.”

Jacoby thought it over and nodded slightly. “Maybe. Nothing Eddie touched ever turned out right. I think he was in trouble with Starlight and needed this casino deal.” He glanced at Cork. “Does that help you at all?”

“We’ll be looking into the possibility that his murder is related to his stay in Aurora, certainly, but is it possible this was something tied to his life in Chicago?”

“You mean somebody came out here to kill him?” The skepticism in his voice was obvious.

“I’m just asking are you aware of any circumstances in his life that ought to be considered.”

“Did you know Eddie at all?”

“I’d met him a couple of times.”

“Did he strike you as a gentle soul?”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d just answer my question.”

“Look, Eddie and trouble were old friends, but I’m not aware of anything at the moment that I would connect with this. I can easily believe, however, that while he was here he pissed off somebody enough to want him dead.”

Cork was making notations in a small notepad he kept in his shirt pocket. While he wrote, Jacoby turned suddenly toward Jo.

“Kids?” he asked.

Jo hesitated. “Three.”

“I have a son. His name’s Phillip. He’s in his senior year at Northwestern.” He waited, as if expecting Jo to reply in kind.

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Cork finally said, “We have two girls and a boy. Jenny’s a senior in high school. Annie’s a sophomore. Our son Stephen is in second grade.”

Jacoby spoke toward Jo. “Sounds like a nice family.”

“We think it is,” Cork replied. “Interesting that your son’s at Northwestern. That’s Jenny’s first choice for college.”

“She couldn’t choose better as far as I’m concerned. It’s my undergraduate alma mater.” He set his coffee mug on Jo’s desk. “Sheriff, do you need anything more from me right now? I’d like to go to the hotel and check on my father.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Quetico Inn.”

“I’ll take you there.”

The two men stood up, and Jo after them. Jacoby reached across her desk and warmly took her hand. “It’s good to see you again, Jo. I’m just sorry it couldn’t have been under more pleasant circumstances.”

“I’m sorry, too, Ben.” She drew her hand back, and addressed Cork. “Will you be home for dinner?”

“I’ll try.”

“I’d like you there. For the kids.”

“Like I said, I’ll try.” He kissed her briefly and followed Jacoby out the door.

In the Pathfinder, as Cork pulled out of the parking lot of the Aurora Professional Building, Jacoby said, “Do you believe in synchronicity, Sheriff?”

Cork made a left onto Alder Street and headed toward the lake. “If that’s anything like coincidence, no.”

“I prefer to think of it as the convergence of circumstances for a particular purpose.” He looked out the window. They were passing the old firehouse that had been converted into a suite of chic offices. “Nice town,” he said, and sounded as if he meant it. “Aurora. The goddess of dawn.”

Cork said, “What kind of man was your brother?”

Jacoby looked at him. “You’ll get a prejudiced answer.”

“I’ll work around the prejudice.”

“He was the kind of man I’d rather have working for Starlight than for me.”

“Why?”

“He had a style I strongly disagreed with. What’s that wonderful smell?”

“It’s Thursday, barbecued rib night at the Broiler.”

Jacoby smiled vaguely. “What was last night?”

“Homemade meat loaf and gravy.”

Jacoby gave his head a faint shake. “Must be comforting.”

“To live in a small town and like it, you have to appreciate routine.”

“Routine. There are days when I’d sell my soul for a little of that.” The sentiment seemed sincere.

The main lodge at the Quetico Inn was a grand log construction that stood on the shore of Iron Lake a couple of miles south of town. Cork pulled up to the front entrance and put the Pathfinder in park. Jacoby reached for the door handle.

“I’d like to talk more with your family,” Cork said.

“We’ll be in town a couple of days.” He gave the handle a pull, opened the door, and stepped out. He tossed Cork a bemused look. “Nancy Jo McKenzie. Who would’ve thought it? Good afternoon, Sheriff.”

He meant to get home for dinner as Jo had asked, but when he returned to his office, he found the department besieged by the media, and he arranged for a press conference at the courthouse at five o’clock. He contacted Simon Rutledge, who agreed to be there, but Rutledge was delayed and the conference began twenty minutes late. Cork had prepared an official statement that included the first public announcement of the identity of the murdered man, and he dispensed the statement to all the reporters. News cameras had also been sent by network affiliates in Duluth and the Twin Cities. Simon Rutledge deferred to Cork on most questions, and Cork answered honestly what he could, indicating that evidence had been gathered and that they had leads which he declined to go into.

After the press conference, he met with Rutledge and Larson in his office. They didn’t feel either of the investigations had made much headway.

“I’m expecting to have a fax of Jacoby’s phone records by tomorrow. I’m hoping that’ll give us some direction,” Rutledge said.

Larson chimed in. “In the meantime, we’ve pulled prints from his room at the Four Seasons. The linen gets changed daily, and it appears he didn’t sleep in his bed last night, but we’ve taken the bedspread and maybe we’ll get something from that—hair samples, for example, that match those from the SUV.”

“How about the cigarette butts?”

“Still being analyzed,” Rutledge said, with a note of apology.

Cork knew that the resources of the state BCA crime lab were in great demand, and whatever was sent from Aurora would have to wait its turn.

“One thing, though,” Larson said. “When I talked with the Four Seasons staff, they told me that in the past Jacoby stayed for only two or three days. This time, he’d been there more than a week.”

“And this time,” Cork said, “the RBC is getting ready to vote on a contract proposal for Starlight’s services.”

“A lot of heavy lobbying on Jacoby’s part?” Rutledge said.

“We should find out. I’ll head out to the rez first thing tomorrow and talk to LeDuc and some of the other members of the RBC,” Cork said.

“Another thing to think about is Jacoby’s libido,” Larson said. “I talked to the staff at the Boundary Waters Room.” He was speaking of the restaurant at the Four Seasons. “Jacoby ate late, usually after a couple of drinks at the bar, then he generally left the inn. He sometimes came back with company.”

“He got lucky?”

“Or he was the kind who didn’t want to be alone, even if it cost him.”

“I talked with Newsome,” Larson said. Then, for Rutledge’s benefit he added, “The night bartender at the Four Seasons. Newsome said Jacoby had asked him once where a guy with cash could find himself a little company.”

“What did Newsome tell him?” Cork asked.

“Claims he said he didn’t know.”

“How hard did you lean on him?”

Larson said, “There are a lot of people to talk to, Cork.”

“I know there are, Ed.” He took a moment, shifted his thinking to the incident on the rez. “Did your man or Pender come up with anything on those Goodyear tires?”

“Nothing. They’ll widen their area of inquiry tomorrow.”

“How about the ammo?”

“Nothing there, either. But we’ll keep on that, too.”

“Simon, anything from your talk with Lydell Cramer’s sister?”

“I never got to her. She lives on a farm. The road’s gated and locked. I wanted to get back here for the press conference, so I’ll try again tomorrow, talk to the local cops, see what they can tell me.”

They ended their meeting. As he was leaving, Larson said quietly to Cork, “How’re you doing?”

“Tired. I imagine you are, too. But if you’re worrying about my mental state, don’t. And by the way, I have an appointment to see Faith Gray tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t worried, Cork,” Larson said. “Just concerned.”