Mercy Falls

9

Jo was sleeping soundly, and Cork hated to wake her. For a little while, he sat in a chair in the corner, a maple rocker they’d bought when Jenny was a baby. Over the years, they’d taken turns rocking one child or another back to sleep during long nights of illness or restlessness or bad dreams, and Cork had often drifted off himself with a small body nestled against his chest. He hadn’t always been the father he wanted to be, but somehow his children had clung to their love for him, and he felt blessed. Blessed, too, with Jo, although they’d had their problems. The point was, he thought, looking at his wife’s face half lost in her pillow, to do your best as a man-father, husband, sheriff-and hope that your mistakes weren’t fatal and they would be forgiven.

He moved to the bed, sat down beside Jo, and touched her shoulder gently.

She made an effort to roll over. “You’re back?”

“Just for a bit.”

Her eyes struggled to stay open. “Who was it?”

When he’d left, all he knew was that there appeared to have been a homicide at the overlook for Mercy Falls. He had told her to go back to sleep.

“You awake?” he asked now.

“Almost.”

“I need you awake for this.”

His tone brought her eyes fully open. “What is it?”

“I have to ask you a couple of questions.”

She sat up, her back against the headboard, her blond hair a little wild. She pulled the covers up to keep warm. “Go ahead.”

“How well do you know Edward Jacoby?”

“I’ve met with him half a dozen times over the past few months. Why?”

“How much do you know about him personally?”

“Almost nothing. What’s going on, Cork?”

“The homicide at Mercy Falls. It was Jacoby.”

“Oh my God.”

The mist had developed into a steady rain that ran down the windowpanes. Outside, the street lamp on the curb pushed a yellow light through the window, and shadows from the streaked glass lay over the whole room like gray stains.

“Jo, do you have any contact information we can use to notify someone?”

“Downstairs in my office.”

She threw back the covers. She wore a sleep shirt, her usual attire in bed. This one was black. She went barefoot ahead of Cork.

Downstairs, she turned on the light in the office she maintained at home, sat down at her desk, and reached for her Rolodex.

“Do you know who did it?” she asked.

“No.”

“Any idea why?”

“No.” Cork sat in the chair Jo’s clients used. “Do you want to know how?”

Jo glanced up, her blue eyes guarded. “Do I?”

“Pretty brutal.”

“Then no.” She flipped a couple of cards on the Rolodex, then looked across the desk at him. “All right. How?”

“Multiple stab wounds. And he was castrated.”

“Oh Jesus.”

“Still had his wallet with him, stuffed with cash, so robbery doesn’t seem a likely reason. Did he ever say anything to you, Jo, that might be helpful here?”

“Like what?”

“There’s a lot of feeling on the rez that runs both ways about Starlight taking over management of the casino.”

“Cork, you can’t think somebody on the rez would do this. Over a business issue?”

“I don’t know, Jo. That’s why I’m asking questions.”

She found the card she was looking for and took it off the Rolodex.

“All right,” Cork said. “What about his personal life?”

“I don’t know much.”

“Married?”

“I believe so.”

“Happily?”

“I have no idea.”

“Does he gamble?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has he ever talked about people here, what he might do when he’s not meeting with you?”

“Not really, but…”

“What?”

“I have my suspicions.” She sat back. “He had a pretty high opinion of himself, and he appeared to have a libido the size of Jupiter.”

“Yeah? Why do you say that?”

“He hit on me every time we met.”

Now Cork sat back. “You never told me.”

“It wasn’t important. I dealt with it.”

“You think he messed around?”

“I think he was the type.”

“He ever mention any names?”

“Not to me. Here.” She leaned across the desk and handed him the card. It contained Jacoby’s office number, his cell phone number, the number for his home phone and a mailing address at Starlight Enterprises in Elmhurst, Illinois.

“Mind if I keep this?”

“No, go ahead.” She studied him with concern. “You look so tired. Any chance you can lie down for a while?”

“I’m going to the office.”

“At least let me fix you some breakfast.”

He shook his head and stood up. “I’ll hit the Broiler when it opens. You go on back to bed.”

“There’s no way I can sleep now.” She came around the desk and took him in her arms. “Marsha, you, now this. What’s going on, Cork? Didn’t we leave Chicago to get away from this kind of thing?”

He took her in his arms and savored the feel, the only solid hold he had on anything at the moment. “Damned if I know, Jo, but I’m doing my best to find out.”

He waited until 7:00 A.M. to make the call to Jacoby’s home phone. After five rings, the line went to voice messaging, Jacoby’s own oily voice saying he and Gabriella weren’t home, leave a message.

Cork did, asking Ms. Jacoby to call him as soon as possible. It concerned her husband.

He stepped out of his office. The day shift had checked in, and the deputies were waiting for him in the briefing area. He gave them the lowdown on Mercy Falls, told them about a few changes to the duty roster, and reminded them to wear their vests.

At eight, he tried Jacoby’s number again. This time someone answered, a woman with a slight Latino accent. Puerto Rican, maybe.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to speak with Ms. Jacoby, please.”

“She is not here.” Her is came out ees.

“Do you know how I might reach her?”

“Who is this?”

“Sheriff Corcoran O’Connor. I’m calling from Aurora, Minnesota.”

“Mrs. Jacoby is gone. She will be back tomorrow.”

“Does she have a cell phone number?”

“I can’t give that out.”

“Who am I speaking to?”

“I’m Carmelita.”

“Carmelita, this is an emergency.”

Carmelita breathed a couple of times before replying, “Mr. Edward?”

“Yes. Mr. Edward.”

“Sometheen happen?”

“I need to speak to his wife.”

She paused again, again considering. “Just a moment.” Her end of the line went quiet. Then: “She is on a boat on the lake. I do not know if you can reach her. Her cell phone number is…” Cork wrote it down. Then she said, “His father. You should call him.”

“His name?”

“Mr. Louis Jacoby. You want his telephone number?”

“Thank you.”

He tried the cell phone that belonged to the dead man’s wife, but it was “currently unavailable.” He punched in the number Carmelita had given him for the father. It was the same area code as Edward Jacoby’s home phone. The call was picked up on the first ring.

“Jacoby residence.” A man’s voice, modulated and proper.

“I’d like to speak with Louis Jacoby, please. This is Sheriff Corcoran O’Connor.”

“Just one moment, please.” The elegance of his voice seemed to lend a formality to the silence that followed. Half a minute later: “May I ask what this is in regard to, sir?”

“His son Edward.”

A very proper silence again, then: “This is Lou Jacoby. What is it, Sheriff?”

“Mr. Jacoby, I’m calling from Aurora, Minnesota. It’s about Edward.”

“What’s he done now?”

“It’s not that, sir. I’m sorry, but I have some very bad news. Are you alone?”

“Just tell me, Sheriff.”

“There’s no way for this to be easy. The body of your son was discovered this morning in a park not far from here.”

“His body? ”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Jacoby, your son is dead.”

Cork hated delivering this kind of news and hated doing it in this way.

“How?” Jacoby finally managed to ask.

“At the moment, we’re treating it as a homicide.”

“Somebody killed my son?” It was not a question but a hard reality settling in.

A silence that was only emptiness filled the line.

Then Jacoby rasped, “Eddie, Eddie. You stupid little shit.”