“Why would there be any connection?”
She turned back to him. “Because of Cecil LaPointe.”
Cork said, “I’ve been wondering if LaPointe might have something to do with the dog and with what happened to Marlee Daychild, but Evelyn Carter? I mean, if LaPointe wanted revenge, why not just go after her husband?”
“Okay, consider this. To a man in prison, what’s the most important thing in life?”
“Not getting a shiv stuck in him, I suppose. Or anything else stuck in him, for that matter.”
“Ask me, and I’d say it’s his freedom. The one thing you absolutely give up in prison is your freedom.”
“Okay, go on,” Cork said.
“What was the most important thing in the Judge’s life?”
“I give up,” Cork said.
“His wife. Without her around, he’s helpless. The way things are looking for him right now, in very short order, he’ll be in a nursing home, probably a locked memory unit, with no real say left in his life. About as near to prison as you can get without being behind bars. Or at least that’s how I’d look at it.”
“So how does Dexter fit in?”
“Ray Jay Wakemup’s been clean and sober for two years. If what his sister told me yesterday is true, Dexter was his best friend, maybe his only friend. Dexter was also his anchor. Without that anchor, odds are that Ray Jay’ll drift again right back into using. And here’s the kicker. Think about Sullivan Becker.”
“Becker? He’s in Florida and . . .” Cork stopped, because he saw exactly where Dross was going.
This is what they both knew about Sullivan Becker. After he’d prosecuted Cecil LaPointe for the murder of Karyn Bowen, a trial that he’d made sure got lots of media coverage, Becker had been offered a position by the district attorney for Dade County, Florida, who was an old law classmate of Becker’s. Becker was an avid sailor. In Minnesota, he’d kept a small sailboat in the marina on Iron Lake and had a larger boat, a thirty-foot Hunter, moored in the marina at Grand Marais on Lake Superior. Summers, he sailed every weekend. He raced in regattas. He’d leaped at the opportunity to moor his practice and his sailboat in Florida’s sunny clime, and over the years, until his retirement, he’d made a good name for himself taking on the Cuban mafia.
Two years ago, after all hell broke loose with Ray Jay Wakemup’s accusation that Becker and Judge Ralph Carter and the Tamarack County sheriff had withheld important information that might have cast doubt on Cecil LaPointe’s guilt, Becker had escaped the media by taking to the sea. He’d issued statements, but always electronically. He didn’t return to Dade County until the media fire was finally smothered by LaPointe’s continued insistence on his own guilt.
Then, late last summer, while Becker was jogging-another passion, but meant mostly to keep himself in shape for sailing-he’d been the victim of a hit-and-run. He’d survived, but in the accident, both legs had been crushed, and both had been amputated. Sullivan Becker would probably never sail-or run-again. Although no suspect ever surfaced, the prevailing sentiment was that it was payback by the Cuban mafia for all the damage Becker had inflicted over all those years.
Cork said, “They took Becker’s legs, took what was most important to him, that’s what you’re getting at?”
“Bingo.”
“Didn’t kill him. Didn’t kill Ralph Carter. Didn’t kill Ray Jay Wakemup. Left them alive, but without whatever it is that would make their lives worth living.”
Dross said, “I’m guessing that if Roy Arneson or Harmon Wakemup were still alive, whoever’s behind this would have found a way to do the same to them.”
“It’s a stretch,” Cork said.
“But it would explain a lot.”
“That it would. So LaPointe is out for revenge?”
“Or someone is out to avenge him.”
“Who?”
“That’s what I’m going to try to find out. I called Stillwater Prison, and I’ve got permission to speak with Cecil LaPointe this afternoon.”
“Good luck. I tried two years ago, and he refused to talk to me.”
She picked up a book that had been lying facedown in front of her on the desk, and Cork saw that it was The Wisdom of White Eagle. “You’ve read this?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“What do you think?”
“I’m not big on the idea of channeling spirits. That said, it seems like a pretty good take on the spiritual journey. Very Indian.”
“Do you think the man who wrote this is capable of arranging the murder-if that’s what we’re dealing with-of Evelyn Carter?”
“I’d have a better idea of the answer to that if I could talk to LaPointe in person.”
“Which is why I want you to go with me down to Stillwater today.”
“You think he’ll be any more willing to talk now?”
She tapped the book. “If what he wrote in here isn’t bullshit, then he might talk to us, given what we’re dealing with up here.”
Cork thought about it. “And if he still refuses, I guess that would tell us something, too. What time do we leave?”
“I told the Stillwater people we’d be there at two.” Dross leaned toward him and studied his face. “Is that lipstick?”
“Grateful client.” Cork stood quickly, grabbed his coat, and said, “Pick me up at my place in an hour.”
CHAPTER 28
It was Monday morning. When Cork arrived home on Gooseberry Lane, he found Jenny in the kitchen with Waaboo, both of them eating oatmeal, Jenny a lot less messy in this endeavor than her son. Stephen was nowhere to be seen.
“The Land Rover and the Bearcat are gone. Did Stephen take them?” Cork asked, hanging his parka beside the kitchen door.
“Yes,” Jenny said.
“To school?”
“Good boy,” Jenny said to Waaboo, who’d managed to put a whole spoonful of the cereal in his mouth without spilling any of it. “Stephen didn’t go to school today.”
“No? Where is he?”
“Crow Point.”
“To see Annie.”
“Not exactly.”
“What then?”
“He’s going to do a sweat.”
“Today? In this cold?”
“That’s what he says.”
“And you let him go?”
“He’s my brother, Dad, not my son. I don’t try to tell him what to do.”
“Sorry.”
“He had what he believes was a vision last night, apparently a lot like the one Henry Meloux had. Stephen’s hoping a sweat might make things clear to him. Ooops!” Jenny wiped a big blob of oatmeal off the floor where Waaboo had dropped it.
Cork slipped his boots off, left them on the mat beside the door, and considered the information Jenny had just given him. Apparently, Stephen had been able to dream the vision Meloux had urged him to attempt. Cork was proud of his son, but he wished Stephen had discussed it with him before going out to Crow Point on his own. Just one more example of how his children were outgrowing their need for him, which made him feel old and extraneous.
“Did he tell you what the vision was?”
She nodded. “This morning before he left.”
“Mind sharing it?”
Jenny told him what Stephen had reported to her. Then she asked, “Are you going out there?”
He wished that were possible, wished he could be of some help to his son. But he had other obligations at the moment, pressing ones. “I’ll talk to him later. Right now, I’m heading down to the Twin Cities with Marsha Dross.”
“What for?”
“We’re going to visit Cecil LaPointe.”
“The Wisdom of White Eagle Cecil LaPointe?”
“That’s him.”
“Why?”
“Marsha thinks there may be some connection between LaPointe and both Evelyn Carter’s disappearance and what happened to Wakemup’s dog.”