William Krueger - Blood Hollow

“No.”

Jo glanced at Cork.

Cork spoke to Solemn. “If Arne’s thinking clearly, he knows there are three essentials in making a case. Motive, opportunity, and a physical connection with the crime.”

Jo said, “Let’s begin with motive. It’s no secret, Solemn, that you and Charlotte were seeing each other for a while last fall.”

“We broke up.”

“When?”

“Couple of weeks before Christmas.”

“Why?”

“You know.” He shrugged.

“I don’t know. Tell me about it.”

“We just broke up, that’s all.”

“Was it a mutual decision?”

“It was Charlotte’s idea.”

“Was she seeing somebody else?”

Solemn shot a dark look at her but said nothing.

“Who was she seeing?”

It was a few moments before he answered.

“I don’t know. Some married guy, I think.”

Jo and Cork exchanged a glance.

“Why do you think he was married?” Jo asked.

“She wouldn’t talk about him. Acted like it was some big secret thing nobody could know about. Married, I figured.”

“Okay. How did you feel about it when she broke up with you?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Motive, Solemn,” Cork said. “Jo’s trying to think like the sheriff so she can stay ahead of him. If he’s pegged you for Charlotte’s death, he has to have a motive. Scorned love is pretty classic.”

“I got over her. Long time ago.”

“Back then though,” Jo said. “How was it?”

“Hard. Okay? It was hard.”

“You loved her?” Jo asked.

“I was into her pretty heavy.”

“Charlotte’s death occurred following a New Year’s Eve party at Valhalla. Were you there?”

“Yeah.”

“Invited?”

“No. I heard about it. I showed up, had a few beers.”

“Did you see Charlotte?”

“Sure.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Yeah.”

“About what?”

“This. That. You know.”

“About the breakup?”

“Yeah. A little.”

“Was it a civil conversation?”

“What’s civil?”

“Like we’re having right now.”

“She didn’t ask me so many questions.”

“Did you raise your voice?”

“It was a loud party.”

“Did you threaten her?”

“I might have called her a bitch. Something like that.”

“Did you touch her?”

“I may have bumped into her. It was crowded.”

“You didn’t touch her in any other way?”

“I took hold of her arm. She pulled away. But that was it, swear to God. Why are you asking all this?”

“When Charlotte disappeared, did the sheriff’s people talk to you?”

“Yeah. They talked to everyone who was at the party.”

“Did you tell them what you told me?”

“Maybe I didn’t say anything about touching her.”

“My guess is that they’re talking with everyone again, this time a little more thoroughly, and I’ll bet if they didn’t know before about your interaction with Charlotte, they know now. I’m just making sure I know what they know. What happened after you argued?”

“I left.”

“What time was that?”

“Around eleven.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Benoit’s Bar. I had a couple more beers there, then took off.”

“They served you?” Cork said. “You’re underage.”

“Like they care.”

“Did anybody see you at the bar?” Jo said.

“Yeah, I could rustle up a few.”

“What time did you leave Benoit’s?”

“Few minutes before midnight. That stupid ball in Times Square hadn’t dropped yet.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Home.”

“Straight home?”

“Straight home.”

“You got there what time?”

“Twelve-fifteen maybe.”

“And then what?”

“Nothing. I crashed. Woke up around noon the next day.”

“Was Dot home with you?”

“No. It was New Year’s Eve. She was out partying with some guys on her crew. Then it snowed and she had a plow to drive. She poked her head in my room when she got home. Six, maybe seven A.M. ”

Jo glanced at Cork.

“What?” Solemn asked.

“Six hours when you were alone,” Cork said. “And nobody to vouch for your actions during that time.”

Solemn took a moment to put it together, then said, “Oh, shit.”

“Motive and opportunity,” Cork said. “But Arne’s got to have something more, something that connects you directly with Charlotte’s death.”

Jo said, “Let’s go find out what.”

Randy Gooding was working late. He seated Jo, Cork, and Solemn at one of the desks in the common area that the deputies used for interviews and for doing paperwork, then asked them to wait while he called the sheriff.

It was going on nine o’clock, and there wasn’t much action in the department. Marsha Dross was on the front desk. She’d smiled cordially and said hello, but she studiously avoided looking at them after that. Pender came in from patrol, saw them, smiled in a knowing way and whispered something to Gooding. Gooding scowled in return. Pender sauntered on by, whistling off-key, and headed toward the locker room.

Despite what Lyla Soderberg had said about her husband being done for the day, Arne showed up fifteen minutes later dressed in a charcoal three-piece, looking like a real estate broker prepared to close a million-dollar deal.

“Let’s do this in my office,” he said. Then to Gooding, “Go get the stuff.”

Gooding left and walked toward the back of the department, toward what Cork knew was the evidence room.

Cork got up and started into the sheriff’s office with Jo and Solemn. Soderberg put a hand on his chest and stopped him. “Not you. The kid’s got counsel. You have no business in there. You wait out here.”

Jo nodded to Cork, and gave him a don’t start anything look. She went into Soderberg’s office with Solemn, and the sheriff followed. Cork watched the door close. He caught Marsha Dross eyeing him. She turned quickly away.

“What’s up, Marsha?” He’d hired the deputy, the first woman to work as a law officer in Tamarack County. He crossed the room and stood near her.

“Not much, Cork. Quiet night, all things considered.” She tapped the front of a manila folder with the sharp tip of her pencil, making a constellation of dots.

“I mean in there.” He nodded toward the sheriff’s closed door.

“That’s department business, Cork. You know I can’t talk about it. Why don’t you get yourself a cup of coffee and relax.”

Cork wandered to the coffeemaker, a big Hamilton Beach. There was barely a cup left in the pot. He poured himself the last of it, strong-smelling stuff that had probably been on the burner for hours. Because he knew where all the supplies were, he set about making a fresh pot.

He was spooning Folgers into the filter when Randy Gooding returned carrying a brown cardboard box marked CHARLOTTE KANE #2731. Gooding glanced his way, then went into Soderberg’s office and closed the door behind him. Cork turned on the coffeemaker, picked up his disposable cup, and sipped from the bitter swill he’d poured earlier.

A few minutes later, a loud thump came from the wall of the sheriff’s office, knocking a framed photograph of Iron Lake off the wall. When the frame hit, glass shattered across the floor. The door to Soderberg’s office flew open, and Solemn burst out, his eyes gone wild. He slammed into the side of the nearest desk and sent papers flying. He turned in a frantic circle, looking like a scared young buffalo surrounded by hunters. Then he shot toward the security door.

“Stop him,” Soderberg shouted.

By then it was too late. Solemn was already beyond the waiting room and headed toward the sanctuary of the night outside.