“Ah,” Meloux said and nodded. “You want me to return your firearms.”
“No, that’s not it. What I want is for you to help Stephen understand if I don’t come back.”
“What is there to understand? You have seen the road you must walk and you will walk it. Long ago, your own father walked a road out of your life. Did you understand?”
“Yes. But it hurt like hell.”
“I did not say it would be easy for Stephen.”
“ Migwech, Henry.”
“I have done nothing yet,” the old Mide said. “Stay a bit and we will smoke and send to the spirits our wish that you return.”
After he left Meloux, Cork drove a series of logging roads that took him eventually to Allouette, the main town on the Iron Lake Reservation. He pulled up in front of the Mocha Moose, the coffee shop owned by Sarah LeDuc, and went inside. The sound of Bill Miller’s Indian flute came from the CD player on a shelf near the back. There weren’t many customers, and Cork knew most of them. Normally he’d have received a good welcome, but there was a decidedly chilly current in the place that was blowing in his direction. Sarah stood behind the counter with her back to Cork.
“ Boozhoo, Sarah,” he said.
She turned with a smile of greeting on her face, but when she saw who it was, the smiled dropped like a shot bird.
“Could I talk to you for a minute?”
“I’m kind of busy right now,” she said.
“It’s important.”
“Wouldn’t have anything to do with you working for the woman whose husband killed George?”
Word had spread quickly. It didn’t surprise him. On the rez telegraph, information seemed to move at the speed of light.
“Sarah, listen to me-”
“Look, not all of us are millionaires. The money from that lawsuit, it’ll go a long way to helping us out since we don’t have George.”
“Sarah, will you just listen for a minute?”
“I don’t understand you, Cork. Why would you help these people? Why would you want to hurt our case?”
“What if I could prove to you that Clinton Bodine wasn’t drinking? What if I could prove to you that he wasn’t even flying that plane when it disappeared?”
“I’d say you were a liar or a magician.”
“Sarah, I’m almost certain he was killed before his plane took off to pick up George and Jo. He wasn’t even on the plane. Or if he was, he was stuffed in the luggage compartment and in no condition to complain.”
“You’re serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“So…” She squinted, trying to put together in a few seconds what had taken Cork a couple of days to understand. “So, what exactly is going on?”
“I don’t know. I’m trying to find out, and maybe you can help.”
“How?”
“Did George talk to you about the National Congress of American Indians in Seattle?”
“Of course. George talked to me about everything.”
“He and Jo were working on a report that had to do with gaming regulations.”
“Yeah, I read it.”
“Was there anything remarkably controversial or threatening in the report?”
“Not at all. It came down to recommending an oversight group. George had pushed for it because he was concerned that if we didn’t regulate ourselves the government would be more than willing to step in and do it for us. A couple of months ago some of the people organizing this year’s congress contacted me and asked if George kept a copy of the report in his files. I found it and sent it along. It’s supposed to be on the agenda this November.”
“Jo told me that George asked her to fly with him to Seattle. Did he arrange for Bodine to fly them?”
She thought a moment. “I think it was one of the Wyoming people. But honestly, Cork, that was so long ago I couldn’t say for sure.”
“That’s okay.”
“But, you know,” she said, “I believe it had some connection with powwows. I don’t remember how exactly, just that George mentioned it.”
Cork mulled it over. “Bodine’s wife said he often flew groups to powwows around the country. It was a big part of his business.”
“Does this help?”
“Everything we learn helps.”
A thought came to her, and her face looked deeply troubled. “If Clinton Bodine wasn’t flying that plane, who was?”
“That’s one of the things I’m trying to find out. And I think I’m on the right track. Somebody tried to kill me yesterday.”
“Cork, no!”
“Oh, yeah.”
He told her what he’d been doing for the last forty-eight hours.
At the end, she looked stricken. “That poor woman. She lost her husband, too, and all these months I’ve been thinking such horrible things about him. I’ve been steeling myself for this lawsuit, trying not to see her as someone I should feel any pity for. But she’s just like me, isn’t she?”
“Pretty much. I think you’d like her if you got to know her.”
She put both hands on the counter, and her dark eyes were aflame. “What can I do to help?”
Cork loved her for that, loved how quickly her ice had turned to fire. It was part of what George LeDuc had loved about her, too.
“If you think of anything, call me. Use my cell number.” He gave her one of his cards. “I’m going to Wyoming today to ask some questions out there.”
“You be careful.”
“I will.”
“And you’ll let me know what you find out?”
“You can bank on it.”
He turned to leave but was stopped by the fragile hope in Sarah’s next words. “Cork, if what we believed isn’t true, is it possible-”
He spun and cut her off. “No. They’re dead, Sarah. That’s the one thing in all this that is true. They’re dead.”
She nodded and looked down at the wood floor. Cork left her that way.
THIRTY
Cork stopped at the house and checked Jo’s computer. He located the file that contained the report she’d prepared for the National Congress of American Indians. He scanned it quickly and could see nothing particularly threatening about it.
When he arrived at the Four Seasons, he found Parmer waiting. They took his rented Navigator and headed back to Duluth, where Parmer’s private jet was being readied for their departure.
“I got a call while you were gone,” Parmer said. “From the people I asked to look into Fortrell. We’re heading into stormy weather here, Cork.”
“We’re already in it, Hugh. What about Fortrell?”
“The money for a lot of Fortrell’s investments, and probably for the Realm-McCrae casino project, comes from loans secured from the Western Continental Bank of Denver. Western Continental is a legitimate investment bank, but it’s also known to be a funnel for money from investors hiding behind the veil of foreign private banks. PBs they’re called in financial circles. The chief value of PBs is the confidentiality of their services. They operate outside the constraints of banks in this country and are able to handle money for their clients with great secrecy. Because they’re banks, they can move large amounts in ways that individuals can’t. They’re the perfect mechanism for laundering.
“As nearly as my people can tell, the money for the loan came from a PB in Aruba, the Antilles Investment Bank. There are a number of PBs that operate out of that island, and many are suspected of being favored by the mob. The Antilles Investment Bank is one of them.”
“Okay, let me get this straight. You’re telling me that, in the end, the money trail for building that casino leads back to organized crime?”
“I can’t say for sure, but it certainly seems like a reasonable speculation.”
“Doesn’t anybody check on these things?”
Parmer shook his head. “There’s so much development going on that unless something raises a red flag, nobody notices. Now a casino is probably a little different. It might get more scrutiny. But my guess is that all it would take to be certain nobody asks the wrong questions would be plenty of green delivered to the right hands. Happens all the time. And even if questions are raised, we go back to the beauty of the veil of the PB. Who’s to say for certain where the money came from?”