Iron Lake

37

CORK MADE HIS WAY THROUGH THE SNOW, up the long slope of the judge’s estate. The broken pane on the side door had been covered with a bit of plywood that Cork easily pried loose. He reached in, unlocked the door, stepped inside. The cans he’d knocked over the night Russell Blackwater died still lay strewn across the kitchen floor. The smell of rotting garbage had grown worse. Cork made his way back to the judge’s study, where all the evidence of what the shotgun had done to the judge’s head still remained splattered on the map behind the desk, brownish now, more like mud than rivers of red. Cork started with the desk. He checked the telephone, a complicated thing with lots of buttons. Beside two of the buttons numbers were listed, one of which belonged to GameTech. He checked the drawers but found nothing that seemed relevant. He went through the judge’s mahogany secretary and came up blank there, too. He removed the books from the shelves, as Schanno had done, and, probably like Schanno, found nothing.

Including the bathroom, there were seven rooms on the first floor. Cork went through them all. If the judge kept any GameTech-related documents at his home, they weren’t downstairs. Cork headed up to the second floor. As he reached the top of the landing, he heard the front door open and quietly close. A shadow passed through a bar of sunlight across the floor, but he couldn’t see the figure who’d cast it. Carefully, he descended the stairway. From the kitchen came the squeak of a hinge like that of a little mouse. Cork crossed the bare wood floor, hoping the complaint of an old board wouldn’t give him away. He hadn’t thought to bring his Winchester, so he picked up a black metal sculpture of a perched hawk and cradled the heavy piece in his hand as he edged toward the kitchen doorway.

Hannah Mueller screamed as she stepped from the kitchen and saw Cork with the heavy black hawk drawn back ready to strike.

“Christ, Hannah, I’m sorry.” Cork let his hand drop immediately.

“Sheriff O’Connor!” the woman said breathlessly. Her eyes were huge with fright.

“It’s all right, Hannah. I didn’t know it was you.”

Hannah Mueller was a woman about forty, small, heavy, with dull gray-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and bound with a rubber band. She had a plain face, and in her blue eyes was an innocence much younger than her forty years, for Hannah was mildly retarded. She wore blue jeans and a blue work shirt and sneakers. She carried a mop and a bucket.

“I came to clean,” she said, as if she needed to defend her presence. “Mr. Parrant called me and said it was okay for me to clean. I didn’t clean my regular days.”

“That’s fine, Hannah,” Cork assured her. “That’s just fine.”

Hannah looked at him, her gaze full of question.

“I’m investigating, Hannah.”

“Oh,” Hannah said, as if that explained it just fine. She looked past Cork toward the hallway that led to the judge’s study. “I heard it’s bad.”

“It’s not pleasant,” Cork acknowledged. “Hannah, what are your regular days?”

“Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Sometimes I clean on Sunday if the judge has a party or something. He leaves me a note.”

“He doesn’t speak with you?”

“I don’t ever see him. He’s always gone.”

Cork looked at his watch. “You always come at nine?”

“Nine.” Hannah nodded. “Always at nine.”

“And the judge is always gone.”

“Always gone.” Hannah nodded.

“What if you needed to talk to him? Could you call him?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“At the numbers.”

“What numbers?”

Hannah reached into her back pocket and drew out an old leather wallet with a nicely tooled design. She extracted a worn piece of paper and handed it to Cork. Two telephone numbers were written on the paper. Beside one Hannah had noted “Monday & Friday.” Beside the other she’d written, “Wensday.” The “Wensday” number was preceded by the digit 1. Long distance, same area code as Aurora.

“Wait just a minute, Hannah.” Cork put the hawk back on its stand, stepped to the phone near the stairs, and dialed the Monday/Friday number.

“Good morning. Great North. How may I direct your call?”

Cork smiled. “Joyce. Cork O’Connor.”

“Yes, Cork. Hi.”

“Could I ask you a question?”

“You can. Doesn’t mean I can answer it.”

“Did the judge work at Great North on Wednesdays?”

“No. For the last year or so Wednesday has been his day off.”

“Thanks, Joyce. You’re wonderful.”

“Tell Albert that.”

Cork hung up. He tried the Wednesday number. The phone rang and rang, but no one answered. He called Ed Larson and asked for one last favor. Could he track down a long distance number?

“I have to wait for someone to call me back,” he explained to Hannah, who’d stood patiently, mop and bucket in hand, while he called.

“Sure, okay,” she shrugged. She looked again, not with great enthusiasm, toward the back hallway.

“You don’t have to do that, Hannah,” Cork said.

“It’s Christmas,” she explained. “The money.”

“Then let me do it,” Cork offered.

“No.” She shook her head vigorously, her dull ponytail swishing across her blue collar. “It wouldn’t be right. Mr. Parrant said he’d pay me.”

“Mr. Parrant doesn’t have to know.”

“It wouldn’t be right,” she insisted. She looked at Cork gratefully. “But it’s sure nice of you to offer, Sheriff.”

“At least let me help.”

“No. It’s my job.”

The phone rang. Cork picked it up. He listened. “Just a minute. Let me write this down.” There was a notepad by the phone but nothing to write with. Cork checked his pockets for a pen, then glanced at Hannah, who’d put down her bucket and was holding out to him a stubby pencil that looked as if the point had been sharpened with a knife. Cork smiled gratefully. He wrote down the address, thanked Ed, and hung up.

“Thanks, Hannah.”

“You’re welcome.” She picked up her bucket, took a deep breath, and started toward the back room.

It seemed to Cork the good people were always cleaning up the messes.

Not surprisingly, the address of the Wednesday number was in Duluth. It fit. As Cork made the two-hour drive to the port city on Lake Superior, he thought about the judge making the same trip once a week, retrieving GameTech mail from the post office box, and sitting in an anonymous office somewhere taking care of business. Cork wasn’t exactly sure what the business was, but the more he’d learned the more certain he was that it was a less than honorable enterprise.

He found the address near the harbor bridge. A small office building—square, red brick—that had probably once been busy when the ore ships ran regularly, but it looked as if it was mostly abandoned now. A big sign in one of the first-floor windows advertised office space for rent. Parked in front was a white van that had “Mosely Remodeling” printed on the sides. The directory just inside the front door had as many gaps as a Minnesota street had potholes. GameTech didn’t appear at all.

From somewhere above came the whine of a power saw. It lasted a few seconds, then stopped, but was repeated as Cork started up the stairway. The stairs were gritty from the sand and dirt tracked in on the bottom of snowy shoes and boots. Cork climbed to the second floor and walked down the hallway, which was uncarpeted brown tile long in need of a good waxing. Only a few of the office doors carried logos on their translucent glass, and fewer still seemed currently occupied. Cork heard a phone ring in an office somewhere ahead and the laughter of a woman involved in one side of the conversation that followed.

The address Ed Larson had given him was Suite 214. There was nothing on the door to indicate that it was the office of GameTech. The light was off inside, the door locked.

From above him the sudden cry of the saw came again. It drowned the sound of the woman on the phone for a couple of seconds, then stopped. Something—a severed board?—clunked onto the floor almost directly over Cork’s head. A few moments later the pounding of a hammer began.

Cork considered the locked door. The phone rang again down the hallway. The woman’s voice and laughter followed. She sounded as if she enjoyed her job. The hammering stopped. The saw took up its drowning whine.

Cork went back outside to his Bronco parked behind the van on the street, hauled out the ice spud, returned to Suite 214, and the next time the saw blade howled, punched out a chunk of glass from a corner of the window in the door. He reached inside and undid the lock.

The room was dark and he opened the blinds. The office had a nice view of the northeast. Beyond the bridge and the harbor opening, the ice of Lake Superior stretched away under the morning sun like the great salt flats of Utah. Cork took a good look at the office. It was small, one room, not a suite at all. The walls were bare. The carpet was beige, and either new or so little used as to still look new. There was a desk near the windows, an L-shaped affair with a computer and printer on the long part of the L. A white three-drawer filing cabinet sat in one corner, exactly the same kind of cabinet that had been in Schanno’s office.

Cork checked the filing cabinet. The top drawer was marked “GameTech” and held a number of hanging files: Budget, Finance, Lease Agreements, Personnel, Taxes. He lifted Personnel. Inside he found folders labeled with many familiar names and containing the originals of the documents that had appeared among the negatives he’d found at Lytton’s. Next he pulled Lease Agreements. The file contained contracts signed by Russell Blackwater for the lease on a monthly basis of gaming equipment. He set the file on the desk beside the other.

The middle drawer was labeled “Vendors,” and each hanging file was designated with the name of a company. Cork pulled the file for a company called Polaris Gaming and found invoices for the purchase of a variety of gaming equipment. He began checking the invoices against the prices on the lease agreements signed by Blackwater. After Polaris Gaming, he checked the files of two other vendors.

The last drawer, unmarked, held a single file: Partnership Agreement. The document had been prepared by the judge, and although it was long and involved, as Cork scanned it, he understood exactly what it was about.

As he stood hunched over the partnership document, the saw cut out above him, and in the abrupt stillness that followed, Cork heard a slight rustle at his back. He turned and found himself confronting the cold determination in Hell Hanover’s pale blue eyes.

Flanking Hanover on either side were Al Lamarck and Bo Peterson, two men Cork recognized from the pictures of the ranks of the Minnesota Civilian Brigade.

“I don’t suppose you’re here to invite me to go Christmas caroling,” Cork said.

Hanover carefully drew off his black stocking cap. In the light from the window, his bald head shone like an ivory doorknob. The left corner of his mouth twitched as if a smile had been stillborn.

“When you first started sticking your nose into all this, O’Connor,” Hanover said, “I told the men to discourage you. It didn’t work.”

Cork glanced at Lamarck and Peterson. They’d unzipped their leather coats. Both wore .45s, military issue, holstered on their hips. Cork wondered if either of them had been present at Sam’s Place the night he’d been jumped.

Hanover limped forward on his artificial leg and studied the documents Cork had spread out on the desk. “When you persisted,” he went on, “I decided to let you go ahead, figuring that at worst you’d hit the same dead ends we had. On the other hand, it was possible you just might lead us to where we all wanted to be.”

“And let me guess where that is,” Cork offered. “At the source for funding the weapons stockpile for the brigade.”

Hanover moved around the desk to the computer and turned it on. He studied the screen and said, “What is it you think we’re all about, O’Connor?”

“I could guess all day, Helm. Why don’t you save us both a lot of time and just lay it out for me.”

Hanover hit the keys as he talked. “Do you remember your American history? Remember why the farmers took up rifles at Lexington and Concord? They were fed up being governed by a distant tyranny, living under laws made by men who had no idea or interest in what those farmers’ lives were all about.” He grew quiet a moment as he studied something he’d found on the computer. “Here in America, we’re right back where we started. You think those fat bastards in Washington, those lawyers, have any idea what it’s like to lose your job to an Indian because of affirmative action?”

“Or lose your business because some damn owl lives in the trees you got a lease to cut,” Bo Peterson added angrily.

“The goverment governs,” Hanover went on, “with the consent of the people. But what happens, O’Connor, when the people no longer give consent? And what happens when those in power refuse to acknowledge the people’s dissent?”

“The Minnesota Civilian Brigade,” Cork guessed.

“And the Viper Militia and the Freeman and the Posse Comitatus. All this is only a beginning. A prelude. We’re in touch with others like us all across the country. It’s coming. Lexington and Concord all over again. And we’re going to be ready.”

Hanover stepped away from the computer and looked more carefully at the documents on the desk.

“If you’d like, I’ll explain everything to you, Helm,” Cork offered.

“It would be interesting,” Hanover replied, “to find out just how much you know.”

Cork moved, and Lamarck and Peterson tensed, ready to spring. He held his hands up to show he meant no harm.

“Most of it’s pretty simple. GameTech supplies the Chippewa Grand Casino with all of its gaming equipment. GameTech purchases the equipment from a number of companies, then leases to the casino. If you compare the cost of leasing with the outright purchase price, you’ll see that within a very short time the casino has paid out far more to GameTech than the machines would ever be worth. Over several years, it could amount to millions. Quite a carrot to dangle in front of you wasn’t it, Helm?”

“What do you mean?”

“The judge was a son of a bitch. Power hungry. When he cut his own political throat, he started looking for other avenues. My guess is that Harlan Lytton was his connection with the brigade, and he offered you a partnership in GameTech, a continuing source of substantial income to finance arms for the brigade. In return, he wanted to wear a uniform and be saluted by men like Bo and Al, here.”

“Like we’d ever salute that old prick,” Lamarck scoffed.

“He wanted to share command, Helm?” Cork guessed. “That was part of the bargain?”

“Share?” Hell Hanover nearly spit. “The bastard wanted it all. He was a pain in the ass.”

“So you eliminated him.”

Hanover appeared to be truly confounded. “What are you talking about?”

“What I don’t understand,” Cork went on, “is why you killed him before you knew where he kept all the paperwork.”

“Are you crazy, O’Connor? What the hell are you talking about, killed the judge? He killed himself. The old shit was riddled with cancer. Everybody knows that.” Hanover stared at him, still looking puzzled.

From the hallway beyond the door came the thud of boots.

“Set’er up there, Roy,” a man said. “We can pull down those ceiling tiles and get to the ducts from here. Blueprints say there’s a junction up above.”

Hanover exchanged a look of concern with his men. His blue eyes shot to the broken glass on the door.

“Let me ask you a question, Helm,” Cork ventured, speaking quietly, as if for the benefit of the men of the brigade. “Were you thinking of killing me?”

“I’m still thinking of it,” Helm said.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Why? If you were me.”

“Those men out there, for one thing. Witnesses. Loose ends. Unless you intend to kill a lot of innocent people, too.”

“Sometimes innocent people have to die,” Hanover said.

“There’s no reason to kill me. Or them. Especially if it’s true you didn’t kill the judge.”

“I wouldn’t have minded killing him, but I didn’t.”

“What I’m saying is that on paper you’ve committed no crime. The partnership agreement seems valid enough. So do the equipment leases. It looks like the judge took care of taxes and anything else that might have brought GameTech under too much scrutiny. So far everything’s legal. Except for the military hardware hanging on the hips of your honor guard there.”

Lamarck and Peterson automatically glanced down at their weapons.

“Why don’t you call it a day, Helm,” Cork suggested.

Hanover’s mouth was thin and tight, as if a razor had been drawn across his face in a bloodless cut. “We’ll lose GameTech. You’ll see to that.”

“You were going to lose it anyway. The judge’s untimely death did that, not me. Too many people looking too closely at things. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been somebody else. Cut your losses, Helm. This isn’t Lexington and Concord yet.”

From the hallway came the snap of a stepladder locking into place, followed by the scrape of its aluminum legs on tile. “Get Luther on the walkietalkie, tell him we’ll be down here a while. We’ll let him know when we hit the junction.”

“What’re we gonna do?” Lamarck asked.

“Leave now, Helm. There’ll be other battles for the brigade,” Cork offered judiciously.

Peterson said, “We gotta do something, Helm.”

Hanover’s eyes were frozen on Cork. His bare scalp glistened. Finally he nodded, once. “Another day, O’Connor.” He settled the black stocking cap on his head and moved from the desk limping toward the door. “Come on, let’s go.”

When the men had gone, Cork gathered the documents from the desk. As he took a last look at the GameTech office, he noticed an indentation in the carpeting next to the file cabinet. He knelt and looked at it carefully. It was just the right size and shape for the cabinet that had held the files Wally Schanno burned.

Wally and Arletta Schanno lived just outside Aurora in a nice one-story rambler painted blue with gray shutters on the windows. The back of the lot ran along the east side of a small pond surrounded by red pines. In the front yard stood a couple of crab apple trees that were beautiful in the spring when the branches were full of blossoms. Arletta Schanno was famous in Tamarack County for her crab apple jelly.

Arletta answered the door, greeting Cork with a warm smile. “Sheriff O’Connor. What a nice surprise. Won’t you come in?”

“Thanks, Arletta.” Cork stepped in, tugging off his heavy gloves. “Is your husband home?”

“In here, Cork.” Schanno’s voice came from the living room.

“Let me take your coat,” Arletta said. “And could I offer you coffee?”

“Thanks, no,” Cork replied.

He handed her his coat and she hung it carefully in the closet of the entryway.

“Come on in, Cork,” Schanno called to him.

Cork walked to the living room. It was a pleasant room with a flowered sofa and matching love seat and a big leather easy chair, where Schanno sat in a robe with his bandaged leg up on an ottoman. A glass-topped coffee table was situated between the sofa and love seat, a small white vase full of silk daisies in the center and several issues of Smithsonian magazine fanned out carefully beside it. Proudly displayed on the mantel above a pale brick fireplace were framed high-school graduation photographs of the Schannos’ two daughters. Between the photos sat a beautiful old Seth Thomas clock. A decorated Christmas tree—a big Scotch pine—took up one corner of the room. A large console occupied another, but the television in it was off. Schanno took off his glasses and closed a book on his lap. Cork saw he’d been reading from the Bible. Revised Standard Version.

“Taking good care of him?” Cork asked Arletta, who’d followed him in.

“He’s difficult.” She smiled and shook her head hopelessly. “Could I offer you coffee?”

“You already did,” Schanno reminded her gently.

For a moment a look of distress and then sadness came over Arletta’s pretty face.

“That’s a nice tree you have there,” Cork put in quickly.

She brightened immediately. “The girls like them big. Do you have children, Sheriff?”

“Three,” Cork replied. She’d taught two of them, Jenny and Annie, when they passed through her third grade class at Aurora Elementary. He’d sat in conferences with Arletta many times.

“Then you know. Christmas is such an important time for children.”

“I wonder if I could speak with your husband alone, Arletta.”

“Why, certainly. I’ve got things to do myself.” She started away, but turned back suddenly. “May I get you a cup of coffee or anything before I go?”

“No thank you,” Cork said.

Arletta left, humming softly to herself.

“Have a seat,” Schanno said.

Cork sat on the flowered sofa.

“This a friendly visit or official?” Schanno asked.

“They told me at the department that you were home, nursing that leg,” Cork said. “I’ve got to have some answers, Wally.”

Schanno settled back. “Sounds official.”

Cork leaned toward him. “Tell me about GameTech.”

“GameTech?” Schanno gave him a blank look.

“You heard me. GameTech.”

Schanno shrugged. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“What is GameTech?”

Arletta passed in the hallway, heading from the kitchen toward the back of the house. She was singing softly in a fine voice, “Sleigh bells ring, are you listening . . .”

“Just a company I do some security consulting for.”

“Security consulting? What exactly does that involve?”

Schanno gave him a hard, impatient look. “What the hell do you think it involves?”

“Building security?” Cork offered. “Personnel checks. That kind of thing?”

“Yes, that kind of thing.”

“Who hired you?”

“What’s all this about, Cork?”

“Who hired you, Wally?” Cork pressed him.

“How do you know about GameTech?” Schanno countered angrily.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m not going to play games with you.”

“Not a game, Wally. People are dead.” Cork kept his voice low because of Arletta, but there was an explosive tension in his words. “You’re a security consultant for GameTech. Stu Grantham, head of the board of supervisors, is a real estate consultant. Mark Hawras, the BIA man out of this district, is consultant on Indian affairs. And Sigurd Nelson, of all people, is a personnel consultant. I could go on. It’s a long list. If you were me, what would you think? Wally, did you burn those files to cover your ass, or maybe to cover somebody else’s?”

Schanno’s long hands gripped the arms of his chair, making deep indentations in the leather. “There was nothing in those files that had to do with GameTech. I give you my word.”

“Hell, Wally, right now your word carries about as much weight with me as a rabbit turd. What’s GameTech all about?”

“GameTech is perfectly legal,” Schanno insisted.

“Then why are you so jumpy? Why won’t you tell me who hired you? What is it that’s making you so nervous if everything’s so legal? Come on, Wally, what’s going on with GameTech? Is GameTech why all these men are dead?”

Wally’s right fist came down on the arm of his chair. “I told you, GameTech’s got nothing to do with anything that’s happened!”

“You keep talking, Wally, but I don’t hear any answers. What are you hiding? What are you so afraid of?”

Schanno gave Cork a fierce glare with his hard gray eyes. His long jaw worked, but he didn’t say a word. He breathed through his nose, deep and fast, and the air moved in and out in angry little whistles.

“All right,” Cork told him coolly, “I’ll tell you what I know, then I’ll tell you what I suspect. Then if I don’t get something more out of you, I’ll give a call to a reporter I know on the St. Paul Pioneer Press. We’ll see how you like it with your name in headlines.”

Cork stood up and walked to the Christmas tree. It was nicely done. Lots of colored bulbs. Garlands. Icicles. Ornaments that looked old and probably conjured memories for the Schannos of Christmases past. More pleasant Christmases than this one, for sure.

“I checked out the GameTech office in Duluth,” Cork told him. “Checked it out this morning. A one-room office in an old building, Wally. No warehouse. No machines, no parts. Just one room. You were doing building security for a company that has one room. And personnel checks? As near as I could tell the only personnel on the GameTech payroll are all consultants like you, paid pretty well for doing nothing. Am I right?”

Schanno looked down at his bandaged leg and didn’t appear to have anything to say yet.

“Ernie Meloux adds the GameTech logo to all the gaming equipment at the casino. He doesn’t know why. Just does what he’s told. The judge bought gaming equipment and leased it to the casino through GameTech. Didn’t even bother to launder the process much. Had the companies ship the equipment straight to the casino, where Ernie added the logo. The lease agreements I saw and the invoices for the equipment made it pretty clear that GameTech’s making a fortune off the arrangement. A nice pool of money for the judge to draw on. And what for? I’d guess that if he didn’t have dirt on somebody, he simply bought them. You and Sigurd Nelson and Stu Grantham and the others. And no one really gets hurt in the end, right? Sure, a little money’s siphoned from all that cash the Indians are raking in. But with so much, who’s to miss it? And the beauty of it is that it’s all perfectly legal. Am I right, Wally? Your hands are clean, aren’t they?”

Schanno’s anger had drained away. His already gaunt face seemed to have caved in. He closed his eyes.

Cork walked to him and leaned close. “But the judge had you by the balls, didn’t he, Wally? You and the others. Maybe you wouldn’t go to jail over it, but if people knew about you and GameTech, an otherwise sterling reputation would be sorely tarnished. A hard way for a man to end his career, eh, Wally?” Cork stood upright. “The night Blackwater shot you, he wasn’t after me. He was after that file you showed me. He was at the judge’s because it was the judge who had been blackmailing him, Wally. And you were there for the same reason, weren’t you? Looking for anything that might implicate you in all this. It didn’t have anything to do with trying to get the truth. Why in God’s name would you ever let yourself get into that kind of bind?”

Schanno turned his head, following the music of Arletta’s singing in the back room. “She’ll only get worse,” he said quietly. “Eventually she’ll require constant care. On a sheriff’s salary, all I could afford is some damn nursing home or institution. I figured the money would let me keep her here somehow, where she’s been happy. Where we’ve been happy.” He listened a minute more, then looked back at Cork. “I couldn’t stand the thought of her somewhere where no one really cared. Do you understand?”

Sure, he understood. But people were dead. And that made a difference. He walked back to the Christmas tree.

“Did the judge ever ask anything of you?” Cork said.

“What do you mean?”

“Anything you thought about twice, anything that ran against your grain?”

“You mean illegal?” Schanno sounded incensed at the idea.

“For God sake, Wally, the man was giving you money under the table. He wasn’t Santa Claus.”

“No,” Wally said, anger again putting a hard edge to his voice.

“What about Joe John LeBeau?”

“What about him?”

“How carefully did you investigate his disappearance?”

“Joe John was a man with a history of drinking and running off. His truck reeked of whiskey. I didn’t spend much time on it at all. Would you?” His eyes narrowed on Cork. “Why?”

Cork went to his coat hanging in the closet. He took out the prints he’d made at Lytton’s. “Take a look at these.”

Schanno lifted his reading glasses from where he’d set them on the gold-leafed Bible in his lap and slipped them on. He spent a couple of minutes looking carefully at the photographs. Finally he turned his face up toward Cork. He looked broken. “I didn’t know. I swear to you, Cork, I didn’t know.”

“I’ll ask again, Wally. Those files you burned. Did you do it to cover your own ass? Did you do it to cover for someone else?”

“No,” Schanno insisted earnestly. “I did it because what was in those files would only bring shame to a lot of decent people. God as my witness, nothing I burned was anything like this.” He nodded toward the photos. “I guess you found the negatives. I’d’ve looked for them myself except for this bum leg. Where in heaven’s name did you find them?”

“About as far from heaven as you can get, Wally.” He reached for the prints; Schanno seemed reluctant to give them over.

“I should keep them,” he said.

“What for?”

“I’ll need to reopen Joe John’s case.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Cork pulled the prints away.

“What are you going to do, Cork?”

“I’ll know that when I’ve finally dug down to the bottom of this whole pile of shit.”

“Maybe it all went down just like it seems,” Schanno said with faint hope. “Blackwater really did kill the judge and Lytton because of blackmail.”

“That theory almost ties everything together nicely, but not quite.”

“What’s left?”

“Two things. First, the judge had a partner. Hell Hanover. I’m pretty sure GameTech is the source of the money the brigade’s been getting. I’ve got documents and photographs I’ll turn over to you later. I don’t care about you and GameTech, Wally. But I want the brigade taken care of.”

“And the other thing?”

“The boy,” Cork said. “Paul LeBeau. He saw something at the judge’s house that scared him into hiding. I want to know what.”

“You’ll have to find him first. I couldn’t.”

“I think I know who can.” Cork stood a moment, looking down at Schanno who seemed to have shriveled in just the few minutes that Cork had been there.

“Did I really do anything so wrong?” Schanno asked, his face sunk deep into hopelessness.

“You stopped looking for the truth, Wally. But I’d guess that’s a sin we’ve all been guilty of.” He turned toward the entryway. “I’ll be in touch.”

He paused at the front door before leaving. He listened to Arletta still singing somewhere in a back room. There was a joyfulness in her voice that carried beautifully the feel of what the season was supposed to be all about. Cork opened the door and stepped outside wondering if Arletta had any idea what awaited her beyond that season.